*****
It was still quite dark at four when David Allen strolled into the tiny café where Jones had been waiting for the better part of two hours. The latter had napped, head in hands, for perhaps a total of fifteen minutes, he thought. Allen looked way too fresh for four in the morning, and Jones snarled at him as he reached the table and sat down.
“Never know when you’ll get to sleep again,” the eyes were alight still, the joke hit home, Jones regretted every minute he’d been awake on the flight from Washington, and he snarled yet again.
Allen waved at the man behind the counter, a greasy-looking type, and said simply “Two coffees,” in sloppy French. Then to Ripley: “what did you find on your quest, my leader?” The smile just made Jones madder.
“Nothing, you shit, and quit the damned smile thing. I think our big fish has swum away.”
“Well, Ripley has provided the tools of the trade, as it were,” and at this he patted his jacked under his left arm. “When we’ve shocked you back into semi-consciousness we’ll go and see whether he has or not.”
This perked Jones up just a little, and the coffees came a moment later. Allen slid his across the table without even looking at it. “Both for you, my liege,” he said, still with the casual smirk. “Drink up, quick now, and we’ll let the caffeine do its work while we walk back to this guy’s apartment.”
Jones was annoyed, he was supposed to be the boss, after all. But Allen was right, he needed the jolt, and he needed to accomplish something tonight if he didn’t want this whole trip to have been a waste of his time. No fun going back to Langley without a notch of some kind in his . . .what? “Well, never mind what,” he said to himself. He loaded sugar and cream into the first cup and drank the strong Parisian brew as quickly as he could get it down. Ten minutes later both men were out on the street walking briskly north to the apartment building they wanted.
Almost there, and at a dark place along the sidewalk Allen reached into his now-open coat and produced one of the big, silenced, 10 mm automatics, handing it to Jones. Cold and professional now, Jones, cleared the chamber, slipped the magazine out to check it was full, drew the slide back again and let if slide forward again, slow and quiet, chambering a round. He left the safety off.
As luck would have it, the two rounded the corner onto the correct block just a few seconds before Ibrahim, a hundred yards east, almost did the same coming in the opposite direction. The few seconds made all the difference.
It was dark behind the Arab, lighter to the south and west, so Ibrahim, not completely exposed, saw the two Americans first and quickly retreated the two steps back around his corner, into the lee of the last building on the block. His heart was pounding, there was a dry, coppery taste in his mouth, and adrenalin shot through him as an involuntary impulse that said “run” made his legs tremble. He would note later with some disgust that the “run” command seemed to have been in French rather than Arabic. He mastered himself, breathing deep and quiet, resolved to wait just a moment before he would have to flee for his life, or not. He listened for the sound of running footsteps, but heard none. The night was quiet, dawn just an hour away. He chanced a quick look around the corner, stooping to near the street level so whatever showed of him would not be where someone would expect to see. The two were there, but they were walking slowly to the apartment building, not hurrying to catch him. He retreated around the corner to think for a moment.
It gave him pleasure that his instincts and training had been right. He’d left the apartment with his bag just before 1 a.m., headed for Germany as a first stop, perhaps further once he was clear of France. Whatever was going on, he was not going to risk his own neck, not yet, not until he understood the problem and could weigh in his own mind whether it was time to spend himself or not. It was at the train station that he’d finally relaxed enough to think. He bought the ticket, Paris to Cologne, but for the ten o’clock train instead of the earlier one at five. He had time, he reasoned. Out of his apartment, with his papers all in his possession, everything ready for a quick and anonymous leave-taking, he could still be useful gathering information. If anything happened at all. It was still possible that his team would deal with the General cleanly, that nothing really strange was happening to his network. In that case he could quietly resume his work. In the other case, well, the ticket would be there in his pocket and he could be well away in good time.
He cursed himself again as he stood there now for not having been prepared enough for this defeat. It was dark, but he’d seen enough of the two men to be pretty sure of what they were. As a matter of operational security he’d never kept a weapon or any explosive of any kind at the apartment, and he’d come back with a small packet of plastique, hoping to booby trap the apartment, just in case, a parting gesture at his adversary whoever that was. As it was the device he’d quickly fashioned with it lay useless in his bag. He would not be able to kill the men. He knew what he needed to know now: his network was blown, it was time to leave. He lowered himself to a prone position against the edge of the building for one last look, and gingerly crept forward far enough to look around the corner.
Jones and Allen were at the door, Jones to the right while Allen worked the lock. They swarmed through the door in what Ibrahim could clearly recognize as a sound tactical formation, weapons up, covering the rooms. He could imagine them clearing the bedroom now, closets, bathroom, finding nothing. He was pleased at their failure, glad that they’d be frustrated. He lay still and watched.
In the apartment both Americans lowered their weapons and exchanged a look that said “Shit.” Jones inclined his head toward the door and Allen walked over to close it quietly, locking it from the inside. They drew the inner drapes and turned on the lights. With a wave they started searching, Jones in the bedroom, Allen in the living room and kitchen.
The signs of a hasty departure were easy to see. The question was whether there was anything left of value. What Jones wanted, he thought, was a picture. They had two aliases, he figured all he’d get from anything in print was a repeat of those or a third one. But a picture to go with any name, now that would be useful. He quickly sorted through the drawers of a small desk, nothing at all, empty. He went next to the dresser, clothes, a junk drawer with odd change. He pocketed a business card in Arabic, a dry cleaning receipt, nothing else. Next the bed, which he turned over gently, not disturbing the sheets, and searched the underside of the mattress and top of the box spring. Nothing, and he replaced the mattress. Looking under the bed, he saw that the underlining of the springs was intact, no cuts or anything else that would indicate something had been hidden inside. He checked his watch—four-thirty. Time running short. He stood and returned to the middle of the small room, thinking. Clearly, this guy was smart enough, “clean” enough, that he would not have deliberately hidden anything here and then forgotten to take it with him. So if there was anything, it’d be something he left by accident, lost maybe, and forgot about long ago. Where? He scanned the room again, his gaze coming back to the dresser. Moving quickly now he opened the bottom drawer, found some jeans, two other pairs of pants. He quickly searched all the pockets, nothing. Running out of options. He went back to the closet; there was not much left hanging, on the floor was a laundry basket with dirty clothes inside. He started searching pockets again, shirts, pants, everything. The fifth garment yielded it up—a photo, man and woman, both Middle Eastern-looking, in color. It was small, and he was amazed at the carelessness of having your photo taken with a woman in one of those novelty booths like at a carnival. Had to be recent. “Well, everybody messes up sometime,” Jones reflected. He checked the rest of the pockets, finding nothing, and he turned as Allen came into the bedroom.
“Anything?” both asked at once?
“Photo,” Jones said as the other shook his head. “OK, let’s get out of here. This guy’s long gone, but we can see if we match a name to this face.”
The lights went off, they opened the door and closed it again quietly, and walked quickly back in the direction they’d come.
Ibrahim watched, wondering “am I blown, or am I not?” He could not, of course, return to the apartment. So he was at least a little blown. But what to do next? Run, or try to see what else might happen? He had only a moment to decide in the growing grayness of a Paris dawn. He chose, and rising to his feet in a nimble, liquid movement, he looked around the corner, verified that the two men were nearly two blocks ahead of him, and stepped out to follow them. He would stay far enough behind to insure he had an un-winnable head start if they turned and gave chase. He hoped it would be close enough to see where they went, perhaps who had ruined his Paris operation, and if he was lucky, who he would kill in retribution.
XV. Paris/London
His eyes hurt, dry and red from lack of sleep, but at least the light in the office was not the harsh fluorescent to be found in most of the headquarters building. He sipped the lukewarm coffee again, nearly spat in disgust before turning again to the papers on the desk.
He had three dead Middle Eastern men and one who would lose his right leg at the knee, all armed, in a Paris hotel at two o’clock in the morning. He presumed they’d been killed by the American agent he’d followed from the airport, but what were they doing there? The room was registered in the name of one Fahd al-Auda, Saudi passport, and family, but had been paid for with the credit card of what looked like another American, Paul Cameron, although he had yet to confirm his nationality. He’d had people working on any other credit card use by this man since three o’clock, they’d have to turn up something pretty soon—the man had to be somewhere else in Paris. Immigration was checking to see when such a man might have entered the country and where, and the photo might come from that angle if they found him at all. In any case, that would sort itself out, too. The question remained: who were the four men coming to kill, the Saudi, the American agent, or this Cameron, or someone else? Had to be the Saudi, but what was the connection between the agent and Cameron then? And where was the Saudi and the family?
LaPlante rubbed his eyes again, he was really too tired to work effectively, he thought. The phone rang, and he answered the speaker button. “LaPlante.”
“Detective inspector,” said one of his underlings who he’d rousted out of bed, what was it, an hour ago? “There are men named Paul Cameron registered at three other hotels in the Paris area, but none of the credit cards matches the one used at the murder scene. All three hotels are in the tourist area within a few blocks of the river. I’ve sent officers to each of them to see if they copied his passport page as the law requires, but you know many of the smaller hoteliers do not . . .”
“Yes, I know, but it’s worth a try. How long ago did your men leave?”
“Only five minutes ago. I should think we’ll know something, whether we’ve been lucky or not, in the next twenty minutes or so. Also, we did find an ATM cash withdrawal made with the credit card used at the crime scene, two days ago, near the Louvre. One of the hotels is two blocks away. That is at least a clue to the right neighborhood.”
“What about immigration?” LaPlante asked. This was taking too long.
“We finally got someone on the phone only about 30 minutes ago, and it will take them another 30 minutes or so to get their staff into the office to begin the database queries on Cameron and the Saudi.”
“Anything else on the Saudi?” LaPlante looked nervously at his watch: 5:30, three and a half hours since the crime went down. “But who’s the criminal, the dead men or the guys that killed them?” he mused.
“ . . .Embassy does not open until nine-thirty, and the people we could reach in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs told me personally that there is absolutely no hope of the Saudis there responding to any calls for assistance before opening time. They don’t get up in the middle of the night, the man said.”
“What Embassy did you say,” LaPlante countered, trying to keep up.
“Saudi Embassy, sir, we were talking about this Al-Auda man.
“Right, right. What about other hotels for him?”
“Nothing yet.”
“American Embassy?”
“Foreign Affairs is trying to get someone to call me, it’s been . . .” there was a pause, “twenty minutes since I last spoke with our people, nothing yet.”
LaPlante sighed. This trail was getting cold fast. The man he’d followed was a professional, he would know how to disappear and would certainly do so if not tracked down fast. Three and a half hours—he was probably already gone. His best bets were the Saudi and the Cameron fellow, and they were not looking like good bets either.
“Sir?”
“What?” LaPlante almost yelled into the phone, he was irritable, frustrated, and having trouble concentrating.
“Sir, I said the American embassy is on the line. Do you want me to handle it and report back, or do you want to talk with them?”
“Oh, sorry Jean Luc, sorry, I must have drifted off. Put them through to me, and stay on the line and listen in please.”
“One moment sir.”
The line clicked twice, and a voice said in very good French, “Hello? This is the American Embassy in Paris, consular section, calling for a Mister LaPlante of the FNP.”
“This is Inspector LaPlante. I am looking for an American I think, named Paul Cameron, whose hotel room was the scene of a multiple murder in Paris at two this morning. Can you tell me if this man has registered with the embassy, do you know if he is in France?
“I can check that for you Inspector, just a moment.” There was a delay of perhaps twenty seconds, and then, “Inspector, Mr. Cameron has not checked in with us. Do you have his passport number by any chance? Our database is large and there are quite a few passports with that name in it. Do you have the middle initial, perhaps?”
“No, I don’t have the number or the initial, I was hoping you could help me with either or both. I need to find this man, he” . . .Renee paused, reconsidering what he was about to say, “he is probably in extreme danger, we believe a group of Middle Eastern terrorists tried to kill him tonight.”
The voice reverted to English, more urgent now. “Do you speak English, Inspector?”
LaPlante could hear a keyboard in the background, and he answered, “not well, I’m afraid.”
“Back to French, then. I’m just doing a few checks, Inspector, trying to see if any of these Camerons are outside of the US now according to our records. Did you say whether you’ve been able to verify his entry into France through your own immigration systems yet?”
“Not yet, but we’re working on it. I appreciate your help,” and LaPlante waited, drumming his fingers on the table.
Another minute marched by, then the American said, “Inspector, as you can imagine the American Embassy is anxious to assist you with any matter that involves an American citizen in France, particularly if there is a threat to that individual or to broader American interests. Unfortunately, I cannot confirm that anyone named Paul Cameron is likely in France today, that any has left the US in the last month. However, if it is any help, there is a report here that is now two months old of a stolen passport in that name. The Passport has been cancelled and a new one has not yet been issued according to our computerized system. That Mr. Cameron could not have left the US with that passport, but it may be, Inspector, that you’re onto someone using this stolen passport to enter France.”
LaPlante was wide awake now. “Can you send us the passport photo page, number, and the rest? Fax or email will work for me. This is very important as you can imagine.”
“Yes, I’ll do that, we are happy to assist and will look forward to collaborating with you to locate the stolen passport, if that is what you find. But for security reasons I can only send them to an address we have on file here for a known account in the FNP. Do you know how to access that address, inspector??
??
“Yes, I do,” LaPlante was getting a good feeling. This might be the break he was looking for. “Please send it now. Before we hang up, can you give me your Paris number in case I need more assistance today?”
The man read off the number, and the two hung up. LaPlante was still considering the possibilities of the credit card having been stolen along with the passport, which would be a nice connection, when Jean Luc walked in with a printed page.
On the page was a facsimile of the familiar American passport, tourist variety, with a clear photo. Renee automatically fell into his comfortable semi-trance, looking partly at the photo and staring through it into empty air, his mind sifting information, trying to connect this photo with any face he knew. Nothing. He was sure he’d never seen the man before. The face that stared up at him was deeply lined, grey hair almost white, dark eyes, large ears, and a defeated, yellowish look. An old, tired man, not the kind of man who would be likely to be involved in this kind of business so far from home. Probably a dead end. He laid the page on the desk with what little else he had and laid his head in his hands. The clock outside chimed the quarter hour. Jean Luc went back to his phone to bother the immigration people.
Across town at the American Embassy, Patrick Ripley rocked back in his chair and looked at his phone, smiling, before returning to work on his computer, noting the time was 0545. He’d let the Colonel sleep an extra 30 minutes.