Arto gently cleaned the dirt from his spade before placing it in the back pocket of his worn jeans. Oh well, I guess I might as well get this over with he said to himself, rising up, brushing off the dirt off his pants.
Eyeing Rebecca appreciatively, Arto missed nothing in his head-to-toe gaze, ending with a slight smile—albeit missing a few teeth. “Bonjour. What may I do for you on this fine day?” he said to them in greeting.
The inspector nodded to him. “I assume you are Mr. Arto Juneas, formally of the Paris Gendarme?
A look of surprise spread over Arto’s face. These strangers not only knew his name but his former occupation. “Why, yes sir, I am,” Arto said in reply. “I take it that you are no ordinary tourists?”
The inspector smiled in response. “No, we are not, Arto.”
“Then would you allow a kind old man to guess your occupations? It’s a little game I play to humor myself.” He waited until they nodded in agreement before he walked around both of them in order to gain their full profile.
He required a second walk around for Rebecca.
“From your conservative dress, the obvious mismatch of this beautiful woman by your side, and the weapon’s bulge in your sport coat, I would say you are both police officers. Am I right?” he said, slapping his hand against his thigh knowing his assumption was correct by the inspector’s expression of surprise. “I still take pride in being able to deduct a person’s profession or skill. Now, you must be responding to my description of the Irishman and American who passed through here yesterday evening.”
The inspector nodded. “Yes, I would have regarded the message we received lightly, but when I was told it was from you, the great Arto Juneas, I knew this had to be reliable information. Allow me to begin the introductions. I am Inspector Jacko, and this is Sergeant Lenine. Both of us represent Interpol.”
Inspector Jacko looked away shyly for a moment before continuing, “Mr. Arto, you probably do not remember me but…”
Arto stopped him with a wave of his hand. “I remember you. Yes, I never forget a face.” He tugged at the whiskers on his chin, a smile spreading across his face in acknowledgement. “Didn’t I save your ass twice in the late ‘70s when you were a beat walker like myself? Yes, it was you, wasn’t it?” Not waiting for a response, he proceeded. “The first time you slipped on a patch of ice and shot yourself in the ass with your pistol. You would have bled to death if it were not for me. The other time you...
“That’s enough, Mr. Arto. No need to reminisce with stories from our past,” Inspector Jacko said, obviously not wanting to expose his past deeds in front of a subordinate. He looked over at Rebecca, his crimson face revealing his embarrassment.
Arto laughed aloud so hard that he even startled himself. “I can’tbelieve they promoted you to inspector—one for Interpol at that. Are they desperate for people? Maybe I should come back.” An even heartier laugh followed. “I could be in charge of the whole damn force by now—don’t you think?” He elbowed the inspector in his ribs, enjoying his own barbs for all they were worth.
Rebecca took the cue from Arto, unable to contain her own laughter, eyeing the inspector and covering her mouth. “I’m sorry, inspector; it was just the way he worded it.
“All right, Mrs. Lenine, please contain yourself. We have a job to perform,” the inspector said, extracting a note pad from his suit jacket, hopefully signaling a change in the direction of the conversation.
The inspector continued. “I was hoping you could provide us with additional information about the two suspects that passed through here yesterday, Mr. Arto.”
“Yes, yes, by all means. Where are my manners? Let us go inside where I will prepare us a light lunch. We can discuss the two foreigners of yesterday and maybe my possible reemployment; yes?” he said, winking at Rebecca.
Limping back into his house with his arm around Rebecca’s waist, he led her along the uneven brick path, secretly hoping she would trip so he would have to catch her.
“Quickly now, Miss, let’s get into the house before I have to rescue him again. Maybe this time from drowning in the canal!”
Aboard the “Jacob”
The newly purchased case of wine was now missing three of its brethren as Jim and Dan hunched over the dining table along with a block of farmer’s cheese and the remnants of what was, at one time, a half-meter-long crusty baguette.
Pouring himself yet another generous helping of the Bordeaux, Dan scanned the NATO ordinance map spread along the length of the dining saloon table. The ordinance maps were a remnant left over from previous wars, providing precise topography details down to every stream, ridge, road, and hill, originally to be used for artillery strikes in the event of war, now used by tourists on holiday.
Dan lifted his glass in a toast to Jim. “I must say this vintage is an excellent one, my friend. Chalk one up for you.”
Jim simply nodded, having selected it earlier in the day from a two-hundred-year-old family owned winery.
Dan applied small metal calibers to the map, measuring off the distance on the ordinance map. “If we can keep our present pace and make close to forty kilometers per day, we should be able to approach our target by Tuesday night.”
Jim shook his head. “I think you should slow down on the wine, because you’re making a slight miscalculation with choosing Tuesday. There’s no damn way we can cover 350 kilometers by Tuesday. Do the math. Three days at forty kilometers per day still equals 120 kilometers. We’re still short by 130 kilometers.
“Damn, you’re good. Yes, it does add up. I see your math skills are still strong. Your father always said you were a smart one. Those private schools really paid off.” Dan held up his glass of wine to the light as if he were a professional vintner, looking at its clarity, the pause planned. “Okay, we are now entering phase two of my schedule.
Jim opened his mouth to protest.
Dan raised his hand to silence him. “What you are not aware of is that I have already arranged for a mid-sized truck to meet us just a few kilometers from the German border. The person driving that truck will be one of my relatives with an affiliation from my early IRA days. He will stay with the barge as our guest while we drive the truck to your father’s farm in Weimar.”
“How come you didn’t mention anything about this earlier? I should have been consulted?”
“Jim, I did it for your own safety. The less you knew up to this point the better. If caught, you would have nothing to disclose to the police or anyone else. And, I also did it for my own safety. These are my contacts, my family. I will not endanger them. But most of all I wanted to maintain a vacation aura about us until we cleared the majority of towns along our water route. It is just something from my bag of tricks I learned in the old days; protect your friends and try to throw as many obstacles in the path to make the hounds lose the scent.”
“It is my turn to bow to the master, for you know how to run an operation—a thorough one at that.”
Forte Locks, Burgundy, France
The lunch Arto promised was more of a processed food banquet with smoked meats and cheeses along with a local bakery’s assorted breads. The French are famous for their farmer’s lunches, and this was no exception.
With the meal now complete, Arto cleaned the plates of his guests, scrapping the leftovers into a bin for recycling into his garden.
“Enough business talk. Would you be so kind as to provide me with the plain truth?” Arto said. “So my Irishman and American sound like the ones you are looking for, ah?” He looked to both for confirmation before deciding to proceed. “Good. Then I see my eye for suspicious characters is still in working order.” Arto paused a few seconds. “Is there a reward included? My pension doesn’t buy what it used to anymore with inflation and all.”
The inspector avoided eye contact with Arto. “Sorry, Arto, you will just have to accept the humble gratitude of your former employer as thanks.”
“Yes, yes, the humble gratitude speech.But it does no
t pay the bills—does it, inspector? Arto replied angrily. “I was kind enough to invite you into my home and provide you with a lot of solid information for which I receive nothing but your humble thanks.” Arto turned and spat on the kitchen’s cobblestone floor in disgust.
“I think it is time for us to go, Mrs. Lenine,” the Inspector said, seeing how agitated Arto had become. “Again, thank you for your information, Arto, and good luck in your position here.”
Inspector Jacko made an effort to shake Arto’s hand, but Arto turned away with his arms folded in disgust.
“Adieu, Arto,” the Inspector said.
Arto slowly turned to face the inspector, a smile creeping across his face. “But inspector, you forgot to ask me one important question. Do you want to know which way they were going through the locks? Or how about the destination they inquired about?”
Inspector Jacko feigned surprise to Rebecca before confronting Arto. “I cannot believe you, Arto,” he stammered, “a former policeman soliciting money for information. This is not only unprofessional behavior but also highway robbery.”
Arto resumed brushing aside the remnants from lunch. “Yes, it is a shame what society has done to us poor, hungry, retired policemen.”
Inspector Jacko lowered his voice in whispering to Rebecca, “Do you have a hundred Euro….
Overhearing the meager request, Arto relished his being in control of the situation. “No, not a hundred, let’s make it more like two hundred,” he said. “For I am just a humble lockkeeper.”
“That’s highway robbery. I will not pay it.” the inspector responded.
Returning to his sink, Arto tended to the dishes, laughing aloud at their obvious predicament. “I guess if you both split up with one going east and the other west, you will eventually run into the people you seek.”
“Damn you, Arto,” Inspector Jacko stammered once more, shaking his fist at Arto before turning to face Rebecca. “Mrs. Lenine, could you lend me two hundred Euro’s until we get back to the office so I can pay this lowlife of a man.”
Arto smiled as he watched their reflection in one of his cooking pans hanging over the sink.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MI-6 HQ – LONDON
The executive offices of MI-6 were anything but traditional. From the Chippendale desk to the extravagant use of imported American oak panels and brilliantly waxed cherry wood floors. The expensive yet tastefully decorated offices were intentionally meant to convey an impression of greatness and power, to intimidate all that entered. It usually had the desired effect on anyone exiting the elevator, overwhelming them with old world English charm.
Of course, the most elaborate office happened to belong to the Director of MI-6, Sir Robert John.
Besides the heavy use of expensive woods, the director’s office contained a museum quality assortment of antique weaponry, each a gift from various heads of state that were aware of his passion. This, along with six oil-on-canvas paintings of his predecessors and one of Winston Churchill, hung about the room.
Presently seated around the director’s cherry wood oval conference table were Rufus Sneed, Head of the Northern Ireland Office; General Anthony Parker, Head of the Special Air Service (SAS); and their various administrative underlings, totaling ten in all.
Sir Robert John stood up from his desk to address them. “Gentlemen, I am glad each of you could accommodate me on such short notice. As my executive assistant, Mr. Hopkins, briefed you earlier, we evidently have a terrorist who has come back to roost.”
A wide screen television displayed a grainy, thirty-year-old black-and-white photo for all to view.
“His name is Daniel Flaherty.”
“Next picture, Hopkins,” Sir Robert barked to his assistant operating the screen’s remote. “Mr. Flaherty blew up the Mayflower Hotel, pictured here after the bombing,” walking up to the screen before standing no more than a meter from its base and using his index finger to point out the dead bodies one by one: “killing ten of our Ulster allies.”
“Next picture, please.” A white brick with the name of an arm’s manufacturer appeared on the screen.
“He used Czech made Semtex smuggled in through his Libyan connection. Next picture.”
A middle-aged, paunchy male, photographed from a distance, flashed on the screen. “This is Omar Seri, someone whom we are all very familiar with, the former Libyan Deputy Intelligence Officer, and Mr. Flaherty’s primary source of explosives.”
Sir Robert leaned over, his fists resting comfortably on the conference table. “Now for the good news; he has resurfaced with an ex-US Navy SEAL by the name of James Dieter just outside of Paris, this information originating from a transmission we monitored between a canal lockkeeper and the main Interpol offices. Since the last message we have refocused additional assets in the area to monitor future transmissions.”
“Gentlemen, now is the time to rid the world of this type of bastard,” he said, pounding his hand on the table for full effect. “What I require, General Parker, is a small team, say only three or four of our SAS lads, to visit the area of the last known transmission and pick up the trail and start the hunt for this bastard.”
“What about his American partner, sir?” General Parker inquired, squirming in his seat at the prospect of his people going into action. “The Americans won’t take too kindly to us offing one of their own.”
“Well, if our Irishman has this American as a traveling companion, I would say he is guilty by association. Wouldn’t you agree, General?” Sir Robert replied.
“Loud and clear, Sir Robert,” knowing from experience that Sir Robert just signed the men’s death warrants. “Sir Robert, stop me if I am off base, but as I see it, we can have the operation done cleanly in a matter of days. If I may, I would like to provide some details of what a typical operation of this magnitude will look like.”
Sir Robert nodded.
“As you are aware, we always keep a Special Air Services team on alert 24/7 for situations that could potentially arise. I can have a four-man SAS team on the ground in the Forte Locks area less than a few hours from the word go. They will travel incognito with civilian clothes and go via the Chunnel. Once our team is on the ground, we can expect to interrogate the owner of the home where the transmission took place and pursue our leads from there. The team leader for this operation will be Commander Robinson, who is a veteran of the Irish troubles and the Iraq War. He has over 17 years experience performing this type of nasty work for us.
Sir Robert nodded once more. “Thank you, General, I will expect a progress update as the operation unfolds.”
“Yes, Sir Robert, can do. I will personally see to it and contact your assistant, Mr. Hopkins, with the requisite information,” the General replied.
“Excellent. And another thing, General,” Sir Robert said. “This IRA rogue is a scoundrel who evidently is very good at what he does.”
“Sir Robert, I don’t think there will be a problem with Commander Robinson. He actually lived in the Iraq desert for two months. He survived by living off the land similar to our old Eighth Army “Desert Rats.” Between the U.S. Navy SEALs and his SAS team, they pinpointed a majority of the Iraq communication positions for air bombardments. He is ideal for this type of operation. He actually relishes it.”
Sir Robert casually extracted a cigar from his desktop humidor, cutting one end with a modified 7.62 mm bullet before lighting it. “Well, the American traveling with Flaherty is an ex-U.S. Navy SEAL, also a veteran of the Iraq War. Hopefully he didn’t work together with your Commander Robinson, or this operation will be shot from the start, eh, General? Thank you all. This meeting is now adjourned,” he said, casually dismissing them with a wave of his cigar.
Special Air Services (SAS) Training Facility, Herefordshire England
For years, the British Government found it necessary to maintain a Special Air Service (SAS) commando team on alert 24/7, used primarily as a small quick-response team. They stood ready to deal with
any type of worldwide conflict. SAS teams participated extensively in the Irish troubles and Iraq/Afghanistan Wars, responsible for damage so heavy that it was once compared to an Army division.
They are also known to work silently in most countries with or without the host country’s knowledge.
Seemingly a relic left over from the Cold War period, they now seem to dovetail nicely with the recent rise in worldwide terrorism.
COMMANDER ROBINSON EYED his twelve recruits as they prepared to jump off a cinder-block retaining wall used to simulate parachute landings.
“You are supposed to be professionals,” he bellowed.
At 38, Commander Robinson was the “old man” of his SAS troop. Most of his own graduating class had already moved on to command positions in brigade or battalion levels years before. He would have nothing to do with a desk job. Commander Robinson preferred the field. At the end of the day, he wanted dirt in his nails to prove he put in a full day’s work.
“Don’t be a bunch of boot-licking sissies,” he yelled. “Stop your bitching and jump off the goddamn platform. Christ sake, it’s only four meters to the ground. The way you are complaining you would think it was a hundred damn meters.” The Commander picked up his MP5 submachine gun, inserting a full clip, slamming it into place with pure military efficiency.
“You would not have a problem if the damn aircraft were on fire now, would you?” he shouted.
One of the recruits unwisely decided to reply, a gangly boy of possibly 19. Every class had a recruit who thought they spoke for the rest. “But, sir, with our full backpack weighing close to 30 kilos,” the recruit stammered, “we could break an ankle or a leg jumping from this height, sir. Is this legal, sir? Could we just practice the tuck and roll without the heavy pack, sir?”
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