*****
At precisely 6:13 there came a quiet knock on the hotel room door. There was a delay of perhaps fifteen seconds, and then another knock, this one louder. The men in the hall looked at one another for another fifteen seconds, and spoke quietly in French. Finally, they turned to the sleepy hotel desk clerk beyond the last man in their group, a few feet down the hall, and beckoned him forward.
The clerk was annoyed and frightened by the policemen. His hotel was small, his job dull, but it was quiet and he made enough money, and he mostly slept through this night shift. To a man of more ambition, or personality, this might have been exciting. But this clerk only wanted to be rid of the police, and of whoever had brought them here. Obviously it must be the American who had come in last night; this was his room after all.
He produced the key and reached for the door, but a grip like iron took him by the wrist, and he turned to the face in semi-panic. The policeman had hard, cold eyes, but he held his finger to his lips first, then held out his hand palm up, and mouthed “the key”. The clerk handed it over and stepped back from the door, and began to inch his way further back down the hallway.
The key went into the lock, and the big policeman lifted his left hand, his forefinger making the shape of a pistol with index finger and thumb. The other five men drew weapons from their holsters and waited. Left handed again the lead man drew his own gun, turned the lock with his right, and burst into the room. The others flooded in behind him, or at least three of them did: there was not room for the rest, who remained in the hall. Four 9mm pistols swept the room, three converging on the bed, the fourth trained on the closed bathroom door. The bed was empty, and there was no sound.
Another hand signal and the four men separated as much as they could in the small room, while one quietly grasped the bathroom door. The leader held up five fingers, and began to count them down. At the last the man at the door hauled it open, ducking quickly behind it in the hopes that if anyone fired he would not be hit by his own people or whoever was inside. He held his breath, but only for a split second. No shots, no sound at all, and then just the sighs of men relaxing and the squeak of their equipment belts. The room was empty, the American was gone.
The leader produced a small radio from the belt at the small of his back, made the report, and then held the speaker well away from his ear as the screaming began to come back in reply.
Ripley drove up in the parking lot outside the run-down Holiday Inn at 0630 as he'd agreed with Cameron, now accompanied by Jones and Allen who’d wandered into the Embassy just as he was preparing to leave. He was amazed by what he saw. Apart from the four Paris Police vehicles, this was the perfect place for a man like Cameron to have gone to ground. It was off the beaten path, far enough from Orly airport to be un-interesting to the average tourist or transiting passenger. There were only a few cars in the lot apart from the police; the place had to be nearly empty. It had been a good choice, but that was moot now, and Cameron was taken. He was wondering what had gone wrong when the phone on his hip began to vibrate. Still watching the front of the hotel, a feeling of deep depression starting to take hold, he opened it and said simply, “Yes?”
“Have you read Seven Pillars of Freedom lately?” asked a familiar voice.
“Colonel?” Ripley replied, in shock. “But where . . .”
“I got itchy, so I moved,” Cameron said simply. “You don’t sound so good, Patrick.”
“But how . . .what . . .” Ripley stumbled on, not sure what to do first. “Did you know the cops were coming? How did you know, how did you . . .”
“So they’re there, are they?” Cameron said, and a laugh came over the line. “Well, that’s a good lesson, follow your gut. You have something to write on, Patrick?”
“Yeah, sure, hold one,” he produced a small notebook from the inside pocket of his coat. “Ready, Colonel.”
“OK, do you know the Aérodrome de Toussus-le-Noble, southwest of Paris? It’s 6 kilometers south-southwest of Versailles. Do you have a map?”
“Yeah, just a minute.” He thumped Jones on the shoulder to get his attention, and pointed at the glove compartment, mouthing “MAP”. Jones went to work, and had the map open in half a minute.
Ripley started the car and drove slowly past the hotel parking lot, turning left at the end of the lane, and left again, headed toward the entrance to Orly. Allen fell in behind in the rented minivan.
“Right, Colonel, we’re looking for it. How the hell did you get there?”
“I’m not really there, actually, but I’ve been there. Nice, quiet place with just the right equipment, as it were. Right now I’m in an alley about a mile further west of there. Have you found it yet?”
Ripley looked at Jones, who pointed to the map and held it over so the other could see. He noted the highway loop around southern Paris, easy enough, and he knew how to get to Versailles of course. He made a right at the next intersection to head south toward the motorway.
“Found it, Colonel, on our way. What do you have in mind?”
“Nothing fancy, but perhaps a little unexpected. Meet me at the Palais Versailles in the gardens near the entrance gate at around eight this morning. That should give you plenty of time. Did you bring paperwork for me?”
Ripley shook his head, amazed again. Who is this guy, anyway? “I have the goods, Colonel. But how . . .”
“Not now, Ripley, I’ll tell you when we meet. Before you come, there’s something else I need.” He told him, and finished with “See you about eight, don’t be late, the weather won’t hold all day.”
“But . . .” Ripley started to say, but the line was dead. He thought briefly of calling back, but he was actually embarrassed that the amateur Colonel had managed to evade capture when the professionals had thought they were ahead of the game, so he thought better of it. He looked at Jones.
“Who the hell is this guy, anyway?”
“Can’t tell you all of it,” Jones replied, “I don’t know the guy at all myself, never met him, only the file. He’s something, though, and the DDO has a special interest in him. How much time did you spend with him yesterday, what did you think?”
“Almost 6 hours, counting the aikido class.” Ripley eased the car up to 120 kilometers per hour on the expressway, Allen was several car lengths back, keeping up. “Interesting guy, really. Very fit for his age, sharp eye for detail, can handle himself when he needs to. Doesn’t miss much. Was he trained at the Farm?”
Jones hesitated to consider, and decided he could tell a little. “No, not a bit. As a matter of fact, he hasn’t been trained at all, not by us at least. He’s still an active-duty officer in the Air Force, and he flies a desk for the last twelve years. No intelligence experience at all. Amazing, isn’t it?”
Ripley pursed his lips and was silent. “So what’s he doing out here in Indian Country? He didn’t really expect an answer, but his mind was working it through, not very successfully.
“I’ll let him tell you when we get where we’re going.”
“Fine, but first we have another errand to do.” Ripley dialed his phone again, and when it answered, he began simply with “Viper . . .”