by James Lepore
“You never told me that that body was connected to this case.”
“I didn’t see the need. We needed your help to clean something up, as you have needed ours from time to time. There was no need to know, Charles, but now there is:”
It was true that Mustafa had more than once been helpful, not so much inside Saudi Arabia, where covert ops were virtually unheard of, but in other Arab states, where, as the second in line to the Saudi Interior Minister, his influence was great. There was a barely perceptible edge to Mustafa’s voice, but nevertheless an edge. He needed this favor, and to grant it would not merely square the game. It would, Raimondi’s instincts told him, put the old general in his debt. Such markers were the prized possessions of the intelligence world.
“Yes,” Raimondi said, with what he felt was just the right note of hesitation in his voice, “so be it. But Mustafa, I want Laurence and Nolan in French hands. Speak to them and then call me. I will have people nearby who will take them from you. Your people must then disappear.”
“You have my word, Charles. We have been friends a long time. What is the uncle’s name and address?”
~15~
NORMANDY, JANUARY 5, 2004
Pat, Catherine, and Daniel Peletier sat in the living room of Daniel’s hundred-year-old farmhouse on a bluff overlooking the English Channel. Daniel had lit a fire in the room’s rough stone fireplace. Its crackling was a counterpoint to the muted but steady roar of waves crashing over the rocky shoreline some seventy-five feet below at the foot of the cliff on which the house stood, like a small fortress of weathered stone and timber. A local cheese, creamy and studded with roughly-ground black pepper, sat on a plate on the coffee table next to a bottle of Armagnac.
“You have been quiet, Uncle;” said Catherine, placing her snifter on the table before her. Peletier—his mane of white hair swept carelessly back from a broad and handsome brow, his nose large and aquiline, his blue eyes piercing, looking more like an aging literary lion or a brilliant scientist than the retired officer that he was—had asked a question or two but otherwise refrained during dinner from discussing the subject on the forefront of all of their minds. They had dined on pot-au-feu—beef and vegetables stewed for hours over a low flame. That, a local bread, and a bottle of good Burgundy were devoured hungrily by all three, but especially by Pat and Catherine, who had eaten leftover rattatouille for breakfast and nothing since.
“Yes, ma petite. Now that we have eaten, we will talk. I am very sorry for the loss of your grandson, Monsieur Nolan.” Pat and Catherine had related the events leading up to their arrival only an hour or so before, culminating in their fruitless search for the flower girl on the streets of Lisieux.
“Thank you,” Pat replied, nodding in the old man’s direction.
“Tomorrow I will send the sisters a small check and ask them to remember the child in their prayers:”
Pat looked down at his hands, folded in his lap. He and Catherine had visited the baby’s grave before leaving Lisieux and laid flowers on the small headstone. But the idea of a donation had not occurred to him and he felt ashamed. Inordinately so, he realized, as it was a small enough failure under the circumstances. It paled, for example, in comparison to his dragging Lorrie to die in the jungles of Paraguay and his breaking Megan’s heart by ignoring her as a child.
“Thank you, Uncle,” said Catherine. “We were planning on doing the same:”
“Bon, a small sum will bring many prayers:”
Pat, taken slightly aback by the swiftness and matter-of-factness of Catherine’s lie, looked at her intently. “I don’t know that there’s much to talk about,” he said, collecting himself. “Tomorrow we will return to Paris to speak with Monsieur Duval. You said yourself that French law enforcement is not looking for us:”
“I said that French law enforcement—officially—does not appear to be looking for you,” Daniel replied. “But someone is. Someone who has tried to kidnap you, Monsieur Nolan, and who has killed Madame Jeritza. Someone who uses people like Ahmed bin-Shalib in the field. Someone who appears to have the support, shall we say, of Charles Raimondi, ostensibly the Foreign Office’s liaison with the DST, possibly DST himself.”
“Who? Who is this someone?”
“Let us review. Geneviève LeGrand, whom I know personally and believe to be a person of integrity, calls Catherine in and puts her exclusively to work on finding Megan Nolan, who is believed to have faked her suicide in furtherance of a terrorist plot inside France in conspiracy with her alleged lover, one Rahman al-Zahra. According to Raimondi, they are believed to have worked together on the bombings in Casablanca in May. A picture of Megan is produced, but not one of al-Zahra. Am I correct so far, ma petite?”
“Yes, Uncle, you are correct:”
“You are further told, Catherine, that the Saudis have initiated this investigation, since it was they who had been tracking al-Zahra and Nolan. Further, however, that no Saudis were involved in the case in France, that it was you, and you alone, with DST as backup, who was working the case. Two men carrying Saudi Secret Police identification then accost Monsieur Nolan and you intervene, killing one as the other escapes. You become suspicious and arrange, through Raimondi, for a raid on an empty house where Miss Nolan supposedly can be found. You watch as one of Monsieur Nolan’s assailant’s—identified as a known terrorist—along with three other armed Arab men, appear at the house and leave empty-handed. Can this be a deeply covert DST operation? I think not. I have spoken again to my source in Europol. Al-Zahra is completely unknown to them, as is Megan Nolan. And a terrorist plot involving them afoot in France? My source was shocked that something of that enormity could be happening without Europol knowing. It is hard and fast European Union law that they be advised of all such investigations. Even the DST would not keep such information from the Hague. Raimondi, you are thinking, is up to no good, in league, it seems, with terrorists:”
Pat watched as Daniel rose slowly after this speech and went to the fireplace, where he added logs and probed with a claw-handled iron poker until he was satisfied with the blaze. His thick cardigan sweater and corduroy pants did not hang loosely on a frame that Pat could see was at one time thickly muscled and still now at the age of seventy-two retained much of its strength and vitality. He replaced the poker in its stand and walked around the room until he was standing behind Catherine’s chair. He rested a hand on his niece’s shoulder. Without turning to look at him, Catherine placed one of hers on top of it.
“You look well, ma petite;” he said.
“Thank you, Uncle:”
“Quite beautiful and happy.”
“Uncle ...”
“Yes, of course ... Tell me, what do you know of Charles Raimondi?”
“He is an arrogant fool:”
“Do you know him personally?”
“The first time I met him he asked me to be his mistress:”
“And you refused, of course:”
“Of course:”
“Good. We are done with arrogant fools, are we not?”
“Uncle ...”
“Yes, I know, I say whatever comes to mind. But I am old and do not have the time you have. The luxury of holding my tongue. Well, let us continue. Let us assume the incredible then, that Raimondi is acting on his own. Perhaps under threat of blackmail. Or perhaps for money. That for whatever reason he is aiding either the Saudis or an unidentified terror organization in the tracking and capture of Megan Nolan. Why? Why do these people want her so badly? Do you have any idea, Monsieur Nolan?”
“No;” he answered, feeling exposed and again ashamed. It was his daughter, after all, that they were so coolly discussing in connection with all this death and destruction. ”But I can’t say I’m surprised. Megan has a way of infuriating people, especially men. It looks like she made the ultimate enemy. She’s not a terrorist, though. That’s not possible:”
“And you, Catherine. What do you think?” asked Daniel.
“I think Patrick underes
timates his daughter. I think Megan has stumbled onto something. Something that has marked her for death. I think the fake suicide was brilliant, even though it failed. And then there is the trail she has left that only her father could follow. I don’t know what she is thinking, what has led her to this, but I agree, she is not a terrorist. And she wants her father to find her.”
Another lifeline, thought Pat, another caress to ease my pain. Watching Daniel circle back to the coffee table, he put these thoughts away to savor later. The old man lifted the bottle of Armagnac and, with a certain flourish, refilled all three glasses. He’s enjoying this, Pat thought. He’s bappy to be back in the game. And why not? How lonely must it be for a vigorous man to be stuck up here at the end of the world with nothing to do?
“There is more;” said Daniel, still standing and now facing Pat and Catherine. “I have been online and on the telephone since you called last night to say you were coming. Raimondi claimed that one of the Casa bombers survived and implicated Miss Nolan and al-Zahra. There was one surviving suicide bomber in Casablanca. He never talked, though of course the Moroccans tried. He was executed a few months later. There may indeed be an al-Zahra, however. No one has any details about him, but one or two very bright people think he may be the mastermind of the Casablanca bombings and of others as well. The United States embassy bombings in Tanzania and Kenya and possibly the USS Cole:”
“Why?” Catherine asked.
“Bin-Shalib, the man who got away in the park, was thought to be involved, on the ground, in all three. But bin-Shalib is a follower, not a leader or a thinker. He would have to have had orders from someone. All three bombings seem to have had the same pattern: calls from airplanes, which are virtually untraceable, to operatives on the ground, recruitment of locals through a madrassa or hot mosque, the same type of explosives; and the use of suicide bombers as opposed to remote-controlled bombs. One agent in America heard the Falcon mentioned in celebratory phone conversations after the Casa bombings.”
“The Falcon?”
“The Falcon of Andalus was an Islamic ruler of Spain in the eighth century. At the time, the Muslims ruled over the entire Iberian Peninsula, including Portugal and parts of southern France. It was the Golden Age of Islam. The Falcon is legendary among some Muslims today, especially the radicals, the killers. His name is a rallying cry.”
“They want to return to the Golden Age;” Pat said.
“Yes,” Daniel replied, “to rule again in Spain and all over Europe. They believe it is their birthright:”
“So how are they linking al-Zahra to the Falcon and the bombings?” Catherine asked.
“Abdur-Rahman al-Zahra was the full name of the Falcon of Andalus.” Silence followed this statement. In it, Pat could hear the crackling of the fire, the rattling of a loose shutter in the wind, and, beyond that, the muted roar of the sea.
“That can’t be his real name,” Pat said abruptly. “Who is he?”
“No one knows,” Daniel answered. “If he exists, he could be the most dangerous kind of terrorist. The kind with a respected above-ground identity, a wealthy businessman for example, whose affairs take him routinely to all the world’s capitals. He could be a Saudi prince. There are some five thousand of them. He could be an Egyptian diplomat, or a scholar at a think tank. With such cover, a terrorist mastermind could do great harm and never be detected:”
“So this is who is looking for Megan?”
“Who can say for sure? But it seems quite possible. I know you have been careful, but from now on you must make extreme caution the byword of your life. You are almost certainly being hunted, Monsieur Nolan, by the worst kind of killers:”
“Who think I will lead them to Megan:”
“Yes.”
“What do you suggest we do?”
“Stay here for now. It appears that no one has followed you:”
“But Raimondi will soon turn in this direction,” said Catherine. “It might seem too obvious a place to hide, but surely he will have a look:”
“Yes, exactement, and we will be waiting for them:”
“Uncle, no!”
“Yes, ma petite:”
“You mean set a trap of some kind?” said Pat. “No, we’ll leave in the morning. I rather be a running target.” He looked again at uncle and niece and knew that all three of them were thinking of the beheading of the American reporter in Karachi apparently orchestrated by al-Zahra and carried out by bin-Shalib. The salivating beasts in the room.
“We are not cowards in France, Monsieur Nolan,” said Daniel, “despite what some Americans are saying. And we have not forgotten your sacrifices. We are only a few miles here from Omaha Beach and Utah Beach and the cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer.”
“Pat is right, Uncle;” said Catherine. “We must leave early tomorrow. We will take some food and clothes and head for Paris:”
“And if these terrorists arrive here after you leave? Do you think they will be kind to me?”
“You must leave, too,” said Catherine.
“You mean run and hide?”
“Yes, precisely.”
“Are you prepared to abandon Monsieur Nolan and come with me?”
“No, of course not:”
“Such a simple matter.”
“Yes.”
Pat watched as Daniel and Catherine stared at each other for a long moment, a moment in which even a stranger could see their eyes doing all the communicating that had to be done.
“My heart is in play as well; said Daniel finally.”You are the last of my blood. Perhaps I will stay and distract Raimondi’s people, whoever they are. Perhaps I will come with you. I have contacts in Paris. We will decide tomorrow.”
Pat and Catherine exchanged a swift glance. There was no way, their eyes said, they were letting Daniel stay here alone.
“I will retire,” said Daniel, finishing his drink and then rising.“Tomorrow I will go into the village very early. There are people in the area who will give us an early warning of approaching strangers and I dare not use the phone:”
“Good night;” said Pat.
“Bonne nuit, Monsieur Nolan:”
“One last thing,” said Catherine.
“Yes, ma petite:”
“I gave your private cell phone number to a young man who is helping us. His name is Doro. I do not know the last name:”
“How is he helping?”
“He is trying to locate Megan Nolan. He is a gypsy and there is reason to believe that she is in hiding with a gypsy clan:”
“Bon,” said Daniel, nodding and flashing a short-lived but very charming smile. “An unlikely ally, but nevertheless an ally. Bon. Bonne nuit, chérie.”
“Bonne nuit, oncle.”
Pat and Catherine watched as Daniel left the room, then turned their attention to the fire. Pat sipped his Armagnac, then, setting his glass aside, watched Catherine’s slender hands caressing her snifter as she brought it to her lips, her long lashes hooding her half closed eyes. He noticed, for the first time, the strength of her features, seeing in them the bones and the vigor of Daniel Peletier and, he imagined, her father. Twice during their long talk with Daniel she had somehow known he had been brought down, and twice she had, with her touch light, lifted his spirits.
“Let’s go outside, out back,” Catherine said, setting her glass down. “The sky has cleared and there’s a wonderful view of the sea.”
The sound of the still unseen sea crashing below them increased steadily as Pat followed Catherine along a flagstone path that led to a wide patio at the edge of the bluff. Crossing it they came to a waist-high stone wall, beyond which was a seemingly vertical drop to the rocks and surf below. To the right he could see a natural stone arch, high and gracefully curving like the door to a great cathedral. The water that made it over the rocks directly below sprayed through the arch and into what looked like a small cove just beyond it. The lowering sky had indeed begun to clear, permitting sight here and there of bright moonlight, or the prom
ise of bright moonlight, behind high, swiftly moving clouds.
“That is Smuggler’s Cove,” said Catherine. “At least I called it that as a child. At low tide there is a small beach. My father taught me to shoot down there when I was twelve. Do you know guns, Patrick? Can you shoot?”
“No, but I can learn:”
“Tomorrow morning the tide will be out. I will take you down there and show you the handling of one or two of Uncle Daniel’s collection. You can choose one to bring with you to Paris:”
“How do you get down there?”
“There is a path that winds down the cliff. It starts there, where the stone wall ends:”
“Fine. Good. Très bien. I will learn to shoot ... Catherine?”