The Phoenix Affair

by Paul Clark

  *****

  The counter-terror squad arrived noisily at five minutes after two, just as the shooting finished on the third floor. The team piled out, Olivier storming over to LaPlante. “Anything?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” LaPlante replied. He looked at the troopers, thinking “good, very good.”

  “I’ll lead, then, follow my last man and stay out of the way,” Olivier said. He motioned to his team, made two hand signals. The team formed up, two men went through the door and stopped to cover the lobby, two more dashed into the lobby, leapfrogged past them. They took up positions at the entrance to the bakery and under the reception desk’s counter. Nothing moved. The rest of the team and LaPlante walked in, looking around.

  LaPlante smelled it first: blood. He waked deliberately to the desk, then around it through the half door. The young man was dead, a pool of dark blood under him on the polished sandstone floor. He’d been shot twice in the chest.

  “Shit,” Olivier hissed from over his shoulder. “Any idea what floor these maniacs are on?” He gave two signals, and four men moved to the stairs and elevator. One gestured down the hall to the east, and Olivier acknowledged with a waive that sent him halfway to the end.

  “None,” said LaPlante. Then he looked at the desk above the dead man; there was both a book and a computer screen. Stepping carefully to avoid the blood and not spoil the crime scene, he took the book. One glance told him nobody had checked in after seven o’clock the previous evening. Many Americans earlier yesterday, but all apparently couples. A Saudi family the night before, or Arab at least. Al-Auda. That was a little odd, but Saudis often came to Europe. There was a note in the margin with another name: “Paul Cameron.” The light went on.

  “Third floor,” LaPlante said aloud, too loud. “Room 319. MOVE!”

  Olivier was quick, hand signals again, two men went up the stairs, another two had the elevator open. Another went down the hall, joined his partner, and together they ran to the end, made the right turn and disappeared. Olivier held up five fingers, ticked them down one by one, and at zero the elevator closed and went straight to the third floor.

  They could all smell the cordite when the door opened, the two men on the stairs arriving almost at the same time as the elevator. Now they moved slower. Olivier spoke into a microphone, quietly, requesting another squad and a crime scene unit. He motioned to the stair team, which scuttled down the hall to just short of the open doorway, low along the wall. The hall team rounded the corner at the far end, and saw Olivier’s signal. They took up positions ten feet away from 319. Across the hall, a door clicked briefly open, a head peeked out, and then abruptly closed.

  Otherwise it was quiet. Olivier cocked his head for a moment, listening. Then he stood up and walked casually down the hall and into the room, lowering his submachine gun. He was no longer worried.

  LaPlante was right behind him, what he saw was a mess. Three dead men, the hotel room a shambles. One man shot, moaning in pain on the floor. All the men were armed, bullet holes in the walls, furniture, all the beds, feathers everywhere. He shouted suddenly “BACK DOOR!”, turned and ran out. Olivier turned as well, the gun coming up. They rounded the corner and saw the “Sortie” sign over the door at the end of the hall. LaPlante ran harder. He burst through the door onto the fire escape landing, leaned over, looked down to the alley below. Nothing. “Shit,” was all he could say. He turned back into the hall and shoved Olivier aside. It was nine minutes after two; Rene LaPlante was three minutes too late.