*****
It was fine, high, clear Spring day at Versailles, if a little crisp still. The museum of the Palace made famous by the negotiations of the Armistice that ended World War I stood at the end of a long park-like alee, elaborate knot-gardens punctuating an immaculate lawn that was already a deep, lush green despite the earliness of the season. A beautiful, expansive, opulent thing to behold and a fine day on which to behold it. Tourists were already starting to queue for admission, impromptu and official guides competing for customers who would pay to hear the inside story on the decadence of the French nobility that had built the place.
It was a place for lovers as well as for aging tourists. Angela Morris, an American who had just acquired the “Morris” by marriage three days before and had to keep repeating it to herself still, walked arm in arm with her new husband through the gate and onto the paved walk for the long stroll to the buildings. Randy was looking at the scale of the place, his mouth agape, and occasionally he remarked on something, but she was overawed herself, and barely heard. She was a gardener, or at least hoped to be. Right now she had just a few plants on the small balcony of her tiny apartment in Manhattan, but one could hope, right? She was looking intently at the plants, their rich variety and thinking of all the work that an army of gardeners must have to do here all year long to keep it from running wild. It was as she was taking in these wonders that she saw the man and nearly tripped on the edge of a stone laid into the pavement of the walk.
He sat on a bench, just under a tree and behind the tree a thick hedge. He wore olive slacks and glossy black shoes, a black polo sweater buttoned all the way to the collar, and a dark wool coat that hung open and spilled onto the bench either side of him. He had dark hair with just a sprinkling of gray, an angular, rugged face, skin that was tanned but smooth, and eyes that flashed something that simply held her attention like nothing she’d ever seen before. He was not especially handsome, she would remember thinking later and to her dismay, somewhat often. There was just something intensely sensual, or maybe “powerful” was the word, or maybe he was just interesting. He had immaculate nails, elegant hands, the lines of his shoulders were broad and his waist slim, his clothes perfect. “Interesting? Captivating,” she thought, and the latter word prompted a brief flash of fantasy that made her feel very warm in the chill air. She found herself staring at him, the eyes smiled back and tiny lines formed at their corners. Embarrassed, she looked at the rest of his face, saw the perfect white teeth smiling at her, and she turned quickly away, toward Randy. “Stupid girl,” she scolded herself, “probably a real jerk French guy.” She squeezed her new husband’s arm harder to reassure herself. She walked along for thirty paces trying to listen to Randy’s observations on the architecture of the garden, but in the end, she turned back for a final look, unable to resist. He was there, and the image would haunt her for the rest of her honeymoon.
David Allen had also spotted the man, but he didn’t stare. He leaned against the back side of a tree on the far side of the lawn, out of sight but keeping a watch nonetheless. The man was definitely something interesting, in a professional way, of course. Allen had seen him walk to the bench and sit down. Only one kind of man with that walk, if you knew what to look for. He opened his phone, made a quick call, and replaced it in the pocket.
Moments later he saw Patrick Ripley round the corner and walk straight toward the man he’d just been warned about. At the same time Jones emerged from a walkway to Allen’s right and took up a position on a nearby bench, flashing a camera and unfolding a map of the site. He looked like a tourist to Allen, who was shocked as he turned back to Ripley only to see that he’d stopped to talk to the man on the bench. “What the . . .” he mumbled, and then Ripley sat down.
“Well, Colonel, you’ve been busy since I saw you last.”
“As have you Patrick, as have you. By the way we’ve got company I think. Big guy over there across the lawn, trying to hide behind a tree. And another one, I think, just sat down on a bench about another twenty yards south of him. Should we move?”
Ripley gave a casual glance, and returned his gaze to his new friend. “Nothing to worry about Colonel. The guy by the tree is Allen, the guy on the bench is the mysterious Mr. Jones from Langley. I’m sure you’re anxious to meet them both, but I expect you to give them some serious razzing for being picked up so easily by a relative, err, amateur, if that doesn’t offend you too much.”
“Not at all. I’m just a poor, dumb fighter pilot trying to get along in a strange game. Amateur suits me just fine. But the day wears on Mr. Ripley, the day wears on, and I have places to be. Did you have any luck getting what I need?
“I did indeed, although I still think it’s a little strange.”
Ripley reached into his coat pocket and passed an envelope across. Inside Cameron found a new US passport, a driver’s license, three Visa cards, and an FAA Airline Transport Pilot’s license, all in the name of Michael Joseph Callan, age 45, of Louisville, Kentucky USA.
“Excellent,” Cameron said, looking up, “this’ll do just fine. Is there an APB out on me yet, or whatever the French would call such a thing?”
“Sort of.” Ripley leaned back on the bench and looked up at the crystal-blue sky, closing his eyes. “I couldn’t do much about the credit card stuff, so those are busted and you can’t use them again without being tracked. I’ll take them off your hands and get rid of them at the embassy shredder later today. I was, however, able to make some mischief,” which provoked a broad smile and a pause as Ripley continued to let the morning sun warm his face. “I hacked the French Immigration agency’s database and replaced your passport photo with that of some old guy’s face. Managed to get into the systems at three of your hotels as well, gave them a retouch with the same face. Last hotel didn’t have a computer system that we could locate, so that’s a wildcard. I meant to ask you: “did you have to show your passport at all of them?”
“I never actually checked in at one of them, just booked it over the phone when I noticed someone following me into town the other day.” Cameron stopped and looked confused, finally looking at his watch and then back at Ripley. “Christ Ripley. What day is it anyway? What’s it been, three nights or four?”
“Four. No, wait, three. I guess I’m a little lost, too. Anyway, tell me again what happens next.”
“We’re going to Amman, Jordan, and from there by road into Saudi Arabia from the North. But first, today, I fly Fahd and family from this little airport to England. Tomorrow or the next day we hop to Amman on something, British Airways or Air Jordan, whatever’s convenient. Fahd has transportation set up once we get there.”
“And you can just do that? Fly to England?”
Cameron smiled. “Fighter pilots are not really dumb, Ripley. I just say that so people will think I’m dumb.”
“I didn’t mean . . .”
“I’m just kidding, kid. It’s easy, really. Most military pilots have an FAA license of some kind, I have the airline thing from back in 1990 when I was thinking of getting out and going to fly for one of the big guys. Didn’t though, obviously. Anyway, I’ve flown these single engine airplanes with clubs and stuff for years. Rented one here in Europe about four years ago for a quick hop with my wife, wasn’t sure how that would work with a US license here, but it was no problem. Even better, everybody owns American light airplanes, Pipers, Cessnas, even some Mooneys, so it’s no big deal with the airplane and being familiar enough to fly it. I own a Mooney myself, outright, a 1978, a real classic. Anyway, the trick in our case is finding a big enough airplane, a six seater, which is not all that common for single engine airplanes. Only Bonanzas and Saratogas out there, really. Bonanzas are faster, that’s what I wanted . . .” Cameron noticed Ripley was starting to look a little bored with this. “Okay, getting to the point since I can see you’re not an airplane kind of guy, the airport here has a Piper Saratoga for rent, Fahd’s c
ousin from the Saudi Embassy has rented it, I’m the embassy pilot, and I’m flying this VIP family to England for a few days’ shopping.” Cameron sat back to wait for the reply, very satisfied with himself.
Ripley looked a little sick. He was thinking of his first parachute jump, cooped up in the back of a loud, bucking, pitching, dark hulk of a C-130, about to puke his guts out. He never really liked the flying part. The parachuting, though, now that was safety. Nothing to break, and if it did, well, you had your reserve chute right there. The idea of Cameron and the Saudis in some teeny weenie airplane with a lawnmower engine and a prop chugging across the English Channel turned him green.
“And since it’s within the EU, the General and his wife and all won’t need to show anything in the way of papers, either leaving here or entering the UK . . .not bad for a fighter pilot, Colonel, not bad at all.”
“Exactly. You don’t look so good, Patrick. At any rate, Fahd’s cousin has already phoned ahead to his consular counterpart in London, they’ll have new papers ready when we get there, day after tomorrow at the latest.”
“Who the hell are you, anyway, Colonel?” Ripley said from nowhere. “How’d you get mixed up in all this, and how the hell did you get so good at it? Gives me the creeps.”
Cameron threw his head back and laughed, a deep, rolling belly laugh that lasted the better part of half a minute. When he finally regained himself, he turned his gaze to Ripley again, the broad, perfect smile was there, the smile lines at the corner of the eyes were there, but the eyes themselves were bright, hard, dangerous. It was a look Ripley knew well from long experience, a look he respected, a look he would not under-estimate at any time.
“I think I’ll leave the story to Jones, if he wants to tell it Patrick. Maybe I’ll come back to Paris next Fall with Elizabeth and buy you dinner and a bottle of wine, maybe then I can tell you myself. Meantime, let’s just leave it that fighter pilots are rarely if ever very stupid, most are way above average, some are downright scary-dangerous smart, and all of them are very, very fast learners. Doesn’t matter if they’re American or not I don’t think. You run across a guy that you know is or was a fighter pilot for a big chunk of his life, mind your wives and daughters, Patrick, and don’t underestimate the guy. He’ll kill you if that’s the way of things, you make sure you kill him first if that’s the way of things. I like you, son, so stay sharp.”
“Yessir,” Ripley said automatically, suddenly an Army Sergeant again talking to his Colonel. “Uhh, I mean, thanks, Colonel.” He thought for a moment. “Will you need anything in Amman, like, for the trip into Saudi?”
“Glad you reminded me. We, err, might need to tool up a bit, so to speak. I was thinking a couple of handheld GPSs, maybe a set of those NVGs like you had the other night, compass, a couple of tactical radios if someone can spare ‘em, maybe a satellite phone, spare batteries for everything, a pack or something to haul it all in?”
Now it was Ripley’s turn for the belly laugh. “You would be in the scary-dangerous category, Colonel, good thing I have neither wives nor daughters. What, no guns?”
“Thought about that, but I think not. I’ve never been to Jordan, don’t know what it’d be like to get caught with guns, and I’m pretty sure crossing into Saudi with any would be a real pain in the ass. Besides, I kinda think Fahd will be taking care of that if he thinks there’s a need. I gather his tribe and kin are more or less Kings in that part of the country, figuratively speaking of course.”
“Right. What about some muscle then? I think Jones came over with orders from the DDO to make sure you stay . . .well, that you stay healthy. Allen, too, for that matter.”
Cameron considered this, glancing across at the two men across the park. They were quite invisible, really, nobody else was taking any notice of them at all.
“Hadn’t really thought of that until now, but they might just come in handy. Can you get them there? I can’t take them in the Saratoga, we’re full. They’ll need visas to get into Saudi, Fahd’s handling mine . . .?”
“We can get them there, Colonel, leave it with me. You have my number on your cell, and it’ll be safe to use once you get to London. Call me when you know when you’re going, flight numbers and the like, and we’ll set up a meet in Amman. The Company will take care of getting them where they need to be.”
“Great.” Cameron got up. “Well, Patrick, all’s settled then and I think I should be going. It’s a fine day for flying, but there’s a storm in the Irish Sea that’ll put England in the crapper for weather by later this afternoon, and I hate doing this in these little airplanes in lousy weather. Hard on the passengers.” He could see Ripley turning a little green again. “I’ll call you later this evening from London, or as soon as we have our papers and flights arranged.”
“Fine, Colonel. Sir, it’s been a real good ride working with you.” Ripley held out his hand.
“Me too, Patrick,” Cameron shook it warmly. “Take care, son. Hope to see you in the Fall for that dinner and a good bottle. Find a date, have a life. My wife will drive you nuts otherwise.”
With a last pat on the shoulder, Cameron strode off in that liquid walk, leaving Ripley with the feeling of having made a lifetime friend. Reminded him of the “Old Man,” his Colonel and brigade commander in 10th Mountain. He watched Cameron walk over to Jones and introduce himself to the shocked man from Langley, and then the same with Allen, finally spinning on his heel and gliding away like a swift boat on a glassy pond. He sat down on the bench again, wondering if it was too late to get into the Air Force and become a fighter pilot.