by Paul Clark
*****
The morning was not beginning as pleasantly at the downtown office of the French National Police, where Renee LaPlante was drinking lukewarm coffee made by another policeman, guaranteed to be awful on its best day and doing much worse than that today. He spat a mouthful back in the cup and stared at it for a moment, but, reasoning that this was all there would be for at least another hour, he scrunched up his face and took a long pull, swallowing hard.
His assistant grinned at his boss’ grimace but suppressed a laugh. Strewn on the table between them were passport facsimiles of various people, five of the Saudi family who’d had their hotel room shot to shreds overnight, and at least four copies of the American, Mr. Cameron. The fifth hotel, the one that had been raided at just after six this morning, had no photos at all, and the poor night clerk was now cooling his heels in a holding cell for failing to make the copies as the law required.
One problem was this Cameron character, and of course the fact that they knew where nobody was at the moment. All the pictures of the American were the same, the old, lined face with the big ears. But none of the hotel clerks they’d talked to could remember having seen this man at all, not in their hotels. They had still not spoken with the day clerks, of course, that might have to wait another hour or two, but they were waking people up all over town so it would not be much longer than that. Left to run its course the business day would take care of it eventually when these people came on duty and were “escorted’ downtown by the policemen stationed in their hotel lobbies this very minute. No, the odd thing was that nobody remembered the older American, nor really any American at all. Sure, they recalled copying the passport, but not this face, not this man. Trouble was, they could not put any kind of memory, or face, on the man that might have handed in the passport. The story was the same at all four hotels. It was as if some kind of ghost was loose in Paris. That wasn't good, it was beginning to look very much like the stolen passport, and a dead end.
LaPlante took another sip of the bitter, tepid coffee and leaned back in his chair. He was becoming obsessed with the American and the Saudi family, he realized, but that was not really the important thing, was it? The American was tied up in this somehow, whoever he was, but the key point was that a hit squad of four Arab men had gone to the Hotel du Vieux Saule with the clear intent to commit a murder. The obvious intended victims were the Saudi family who were registered at the hotel, although the clerk that had checked them in was now dead and no help with a description. Even more interesting, the Arab hit team was itself dead or nearly so. LaPlante thus came to the obvious conclusion that someone had just completed a rather successful counter-terror or counter-intelligence operation in his fair city, right under his nose, and he had not a clue who to pin that on.
“Well, not quite no clue,” he said aloud, which drew the attention of Jean Luc across the table.
“What was that, sir?”
“I was just saying that we’re missing the point with the American and the Saudi. We need to find them, Jean Luc, but what about the bigger picture? What I’ve just concluded is someone is running a counter-terror operation in Paris, and a damned successful one at that, even if they have made a mess.” Another thought occurred to him, this one not as pleasant. His job was counter-terrorism, and it might not look real good to his superiors that the Arab cell existed at all, let alone that someone else had to take it down for him. He decided not to mention this to Jean Luc. Instead he said, “So, Jean Luc, who is running this operation in Paris? It must be the Americans, possibly the British, but I think Americans.”
“Why are you so sure, sir?”
“The only information we have points to them, and we have no British connection at all. We have at least the name of this Cameron character, even though we don’t like his face as an operative. And an American Passport from their embassy that matches all of these..." he gestured at the table. "There are the two men I followed out of the airport last night at midnight, and their plane was a private charter from the US, that I have already checked. By the way, I hope you have inquired of the immigration people for their names and passport photos. Also, the videos from the immigration hall at De Gaulle? Good. One of those men went into the Hotel du Vieux Saule only a few minutes before I saw the four Arabs storm the place. I saw him. Jean Luc, what do you think of a single shooter in a hotel room taking down all four Arabs, unhurt himself, in the space of less than a minute?”
Jean Luc thought about this. He was a bit of a sycophant, so he was parsing two answers, the one he thought might be right and the one he thought his boss wanted to hear. Content as he decided that happily, in this case, those answers were the same, he said “in my opinion, sir, it would be unlikely. Even in the dark, with the advantage of night vision goggles on his side, the single shooter would draw the others’ fire with his muzzle flashes pretty quickly. It’s not impossible, but I think it would have been more likely that there was a second shooter. All the dead men were double-tapped professionally, excellent placement of the groups. That last man through the door was clearly shot in the knee for sport or malice,” Jean Luc could see his boss was liking where he was headed, “a skillful shot by someone, I would guess, who no longer felt threatened. I think there was a second shooter, sir, I’d bet my mistress on it.” He grinned as he finished this.
LaPlante nodded, thinking first of Jean Luc’s mistress and wishing there could be such a bet, then of his own Vivienne, whom he had not seen in three days, and then of the problem at hand. “I wonder if the second shooter was the other American from the plane, or someone else? He would have had to come straight here while I was following . . .” His face went blank as he remembered something, and he looked at the pile of papers and photos on the table. “Jean Luc, do we have something here from the Hotel Agora in St. Germaine?”
“I think so, sir, just a minute,” as he shuffled through a pile. “Here it is. The Saudi, Al-Auda, was registered there until the night before last, had been there about a week. Wait a minute—he never checked out according to this!”
LaPlante picked up the phone and dialed, saying “I was there, Jean Luc, I was there. The man I followed from the airport went there first last night, and when he was out front, or nearly so, he took a call I think. Then he turned and headed for . . .Hello? This is LaPlante. Send two cars and four officers to the Hotel Agora in the St Germaine district, quickly. Call me when they get there to tell me what they find, and tell them to be careful. There are armed men about who will shoot people if they are surprised.” He hung up. “We came straight to Hotel du Vieux Saule from that hotel, Jean Luc. Now, what do we have on the Arabs?”
“Not much but bodies, and the fourth, who isn’t talking yet. No wallets or ID on them, they were trained it would seem.”
“Either that, or the shooters took whatever they had,” LaPlante said to the ceiling. He was beginning to dislike this American team. Very selfish. "What about their clothes, Jean Luc, and shoes? Any tags, anything?”
“Nothing. Weapons were French, probably purchased locally. Shoes were all local, and cheap, mostly imports from Asia with standard French labels. They did have silencers, which is unusual and a little worrisome.”
“Yes, worrisome. Well, at least they are not going to be killing anyone anytime soon, thanks to our Americans. Jean Luc, I think we need to speak with the DGSE, share what we have on this Arab group with them. You handle that. I’m going to telephone a friend at the Foreign Ministry and let him know that I suspect the Americans are running something here in Paris and making a mess. You let me know what the DGSE plans to do.”
“Yes, sir,” and Jean Luc left to find his desk and a phone.
There it was again, that funny feeling LaPlante sometimes got, a tickle in his memory that he could not quite place, just like he’d had on the street yesterday afternoon. “Wait a minute,” he said aloud. “That was not far from the Hotel du Vieux Saule!” He
leapt up and walked quickly down the hall to the dispatch room where a large map of Paris hung on the wall, backlit and glowing. He found the intersection where he’d felt funny, traced a route to the hotel, and frowned. It was six blocks away. Not close enough, or too close to be a coincidence? That was the trouble with this feeling—it would bother him no end, and he might never sort out what it meant. There was something there, though, he knew it, and this time he was sure it would come to him in its own time. He could feel this one coming closer, bubbling up to fit with what he already knew, all he needed to do was keep looking at the evidence he had, keep digging for more, and his memory would eventually put it all together. He made a private bet with himself, looked at his watch, and said quietly, “by noon, I will have it.” He walked back down the hall to his office to place his Foreign Ministry call. After that, he would take a taxi home to his apartment for a change of clothes, a real cup of coffee, and a shower. Perhaps a call and visit to Vivienne before he returned to the office would clear his thinking. He sighed. It would be another long day.