The Phoenix Affair
Page 33
*****
It was cold now, especially snugged into the arched stone niche that surrounded the door. LaPlante had not planned on being out all night. But the man he’d followed did not seem to Renee to be what he wanted to appear to be. He was good at disguising his walk, his mannerisms, but LaPlante was good at this, and he thought the man reeked of “intelligence agent.” He’d used his phone already to confirm with his headquarters that no known French agent had arrived by private jet at De Gaulle tonight. “No ‘known’ agent,” he groused to himself for the third time. “Merde, those shits at headquarters. Everyone thinks they need to keep secrets.” Still, he didn’t think this man was French. He was nearly sure he was American: the shoes, Renee thought, were American. An American agent in Paris at this time of night, running all over town on the subway, was certainly interesting and worth a little discomfort. At least it wasn’t raining.
A look at his watch showed he’d been waiting for fifteen minutes, and he was on the point of crossing the street to quiz the desk clerk on the man who’d just entered the hotel, when he stopped and faded back into the deep shadow of the door. Four men were walking up the other side of the street, in his direction and that of the hotel. He could not really see four men, but they were talking, and he could hear them walking along in the near-silent night, no traffic to be heard anywhere. It was four, he was sure of that, and he willed his eyes to pierce the darkness. Nothing. “Probably a bunch of drunk teenagers,” he murmured under his breath. He continued to watch, knowing they would pass under the awning of the hotel and through the pool of light on the sidewalk outside the door. Then he would cross and begin his work.
They were there in another thirty seconds, but he was shocked when they turned abruptly, hurled open the door and piled through it. “What’s this?” Something was not right. Renee’s brain was in overdrive, sorting what he saw. “Shit,” he yelled aloud. He fumbled for his phone, dialed, and waited for an answer. On the third ring he couldn’t wait any longer and he began to walk briskly across the street for the door of the hotel. The four men, and there were definitely four, hadn’t been in a hurry, they’d stormed the door, like an attack of police or infantry. They were all dark-haired, certainly not fair-skinned at all, but he could not say more in the short glimpse and poor light. He was nearly across the street when the other end picked up.”
“FNP Headquarters.”
“This is LaPlante, Detective Inspector Renee LaPlante. I have an emergency and need an immediate counter-terrorist squad at,” he looked up at the address on the awning, and moved to the side into the shelter of the brick wall so he would not be seen from the lobby, “Number 6 rue de Picardi, the Hotel Vieux Saule. NOW!” He was yelling. He leaned to his left, peeking through the door. There was no clerk visible at the reception desk.
“Hold a moment Inspector,” the voice said blandly.
“Shit!” Renee said again. He hoped he was wrong, but his guts told him four Arabs had just entered this hotel to attack the American he’d just followed. And he was unarmed, as usual for the airport duty. No gun, nothing.
“Inspector, I have a team enroute. They should reach you in fifteen minutes.”
“Shit!” he yelled into the phone. “There may be dead people here in five minutes! Tell them to hurry, for God’s sake, and tell them to call me NOW on this number.” He read it, listened to the repeat, and hung up. Moments ticked by, the phone didn’t ring. “Go in?” he thought, “have a look around, maybe go up the stairs? See if the desk clerk is OK? Maybe this isn’t what I think and the clerk has just gone to the WC?” “No,” the other half of his brain replied. “I know what I saw, and I have no chance, unarmed, against those 4. If they finish in the hotel and come out through the lobby, they’ll finish me as well. I’ll wait.” He peered cautiously around the corner again. Nothing.
The phone rang and he nearly jumped out of his skin. “LaPlante,” he answered.
“Inspector, we are enroute to your location. What is the situation there?”
“Who is this?” LaPlante asked.
“Squad Leader Olivier, sir. What is the situation there?”
“Olivier, listen carefully. I am certain that four Arab men have just stormed this hotel, not more than fifteen minutes after a man I believe to be an American agent entered it. You must hurry. How long?”
“Eight minutes, sir, no more.”
“Make it three, or I’ll strangle you myself when you get here. Whatever is happening here, it will be over in eight minutes.” LaPlante could just make out a new roar from the vehicle. Olivier must be driving.
LaPlante could not believe it could take so long. He left the line open, peeked around the wall again into the lobby, again seeing nothing. He retreated, and leaned back to wait.