Disappearance (A Mystery and Espionage Thriller)

by Niv Kaplan

"Looking forward to Friday," Nadav said somewhat spuriously as he wriggled into the Beetle.

  "We'll have a blast," Eitan said cheerfully, waving at them. Sarah waved back as she maneuvered her car onto the main road and sped away.

  CHAPTER 29

  Kumar entered the Metro at Avenue Kleber. He took the number six train toward Nation, switched trains at Charles De Gaulle Etoile, taking the number one train toward Chateau De Vincennes, and got off at the Hotel De Ville Station where he hurried up the steps, exiting in front of City Hall to a miserably wet autumn day.

  A group of young children were daring a flock of doves to draw near, offering them breadcrumbs, and then chasing them across the square. Kumar flicked up his umbrella and rushed with the crowds. He crossed over the Seine at Pont D'arcole toward Notre Dame, abruptly changing direction, walking along the river on Quai Aux Fleurs. Then he headed across the river again toward the picturesque St. Louis Island, stopping briefly over the water to check his flanks. He needed to be absolutely sure he was not being followed.

  An accordion player with long hair and green sneakers sat in the rain across from him playing a tune from Evita which Kumar had just recently seen in New York. "...Don't cry for me Argentina, the truth is I never left you..." He hummed along while surveying the area. Finally satisfied, he walked over to the musician, dropped a silver French franc into his accordion case and crossed the little green bridge to the island.

  He considered having a cup of tea at the Brasserie De L'ile St. Louis, situated just beyond the bridge, but a group of motor bikes were huddled around the tavern and the bikers were all inside taking refuge from the rain. He passed on the idea and blended in with a crowd of tourists, walking the narrow Rue St. Louis En L'ile. At Pont Sully he crossed the Seine a third time. Doubling back through St. Germaine, he passed in front of Notre Dame, and was back at Quai Aux Fleurs, this time ducking into Rue Chaoinesse, a small street that led back toward the Notre Dame gardens.

  The street was narrow and long with solid rows of buildings on both sides and no cross streets. Kumar stopped and waited for ten minutes to see if anyone would follow. Two policemen and several tourists walked by but no one looked suspicious.

  Kumar walked on slowly, nearing his destination. The street curved between the colorful apartment buildings, each its own style and expression. Through the rainy mist he could see the steel balconies decorated with flowers enclosing a mixed array of windows, some square, some rectangular, some curved. The entrances were also of mixed architecture; some were bolted with wooden gates, some with steel, and others had iron grids which revealed the inner courtyards. He thought of his native country and how clean and aesthetically correct Paris was in comparison.

  The street curved again and he found himself passing a police station, eyeing a policeman who stood guard at the entrance. Another French peculiarity, he thought - guarding your own police station. Who would have thought it necessary? Most criminals would rather keep away. Then it occurred to him that public places such as police stations were perfect targets for sabotage. So maybe the French did have a point.

  He saw the building two blocks past the police station. The street had curved twice more and was at the point of merging with a larger street that ran perpendicular. The courtyard was the next to last before the two streets merged. He stopped again and surveyed the place. The stone entrance to the courtyard was barred by two heavy wooden gates, one of which was open. Green ferns encompassed the gate, plunging almost to the stone sidewalk. Above the gate, partially concealed, he could see a sign for a restaurant. He walked through the gate to the brick paved inner courtyard. Two large rectangular windows, ornate with red and purple flowers, and two smaller arched windows looked into the square from above. To the side, beneath the rectangular windows, was the entrance next to eight postal boxes with no names. Kumar slipped in and climbed two floors in the dark, not bothering to look for the stairway light switch. He knocked six times on one of two doors at that level and was immediately ushered in.

  There were three men in the small apartment. Kumar knew two of them. One was French. Alain Briole, the team's contact in France. He was a handsome fellow, well-built, medium height, fair hair, and piercing green eyes. The second was Schultz, a stubby, no-nonsense German, with an extremely broad neck, enormous shoulders, and a massive pair of arms. His clean shaven head and somewhat distorted features gave him a perpetual menacing look which, along with his ill-tempered manner, made most people feel uneasy around him.

  He was the team leader; at least as far Kumar was concerned, since he had never met the entire team. Schultz had always presented himself as the decision maker and no one had ever argued otherwise. Operational orders, classified messages, money transfers, briefings and debriefings were done through Schultz. Occasionally he would have people with him, but mostly he would meet Kumar alone. Schultz had proved to be reliable throughout.

  Lately however, there was reason for concern.

  "I'd like you to meet Herr Kollsmeyer," Schultz began, his English heavy with a German accent.

  The third man took a step forward offering his hand. He was almost a head taller than the rest of them, extremely thin with long blonde hair and a mustache. His bulging large blue eyes danced in their sockets nervously.

  "Clause has something he wants to share with you," Schultz said, eyeing his native countryman.

  They all sat down. Briole popped open four cans of Heineken beer and for the next half hour they listened intently to Kollsmeyer's encounter with the Mossad team in Copenhagen. When he finished, Kumar took out several photographs and showed it to the German who after careful review, felt confident that he recognized one of the people who had ambushed him.

  Kumar did not elaborate further on the man in the photographs.

  "Did you ever fully pay those fellows?" he asked.

  Kollsmeyer looked at Schultz uncomfortably. They had received full payment from Kumar's people and were supposed to distribute it to all parties involved.

  "The money is available in an Austrian bank account under their name," Schultz lied. "So far no one had shown up to claim it."

  "It's been more than three years, Schultz," Kumar said wearily. "You should have done something about it by now."

  "It's out of my hands," the German argued. "The account is in their name and once I transferred the money, I can no longer touch it."

  Kumar let it go. He knew Schultz was lying. None of it would have happened had he paid the Arabs promptly and so far, this had been the only hitch in their scheme. The Israelis had somehow tracked Kollsmeyer down and made him talk. Now they were making considerable headway and the greedy idiots were hoping to amend their errors with only part of the truth.

  He was willing to play along; just long enough to have them correct matters. Then they would have to pay.

  He signaled to Schultz, who in turn asked the two to leave. He spoke again when the two of them were alone.

  "Get rid of Kollsmeyer. He's a liability."

  Schultz nodded.

  "Could you assemble a team that will work in the US?" Kumar asked.

  Schultz nodded again.

  "I'd like to have a team, with you leading it, ready to move at a moment's notice no later than a week from today. We'll handle payments the usual way."

  The 'usual way' meant two graphite Samsonites of hard cash, one prior and one consequent to completing the mission, stuffed in a certain railroad station locker, somewhere along the train's route in the Swiss Alps. Schultz was the only one who knew the exact location and he personally made all pickups. The previous job netted him three quarters of a million US dollars, after which he had been kept on a retainer for over three years.

  "No more mistakes," Kumar said, content to let the issue slide for the moment. He would get the balance at his convenience.

  Schultz nodded a third time, accepting the terms. He could not afford to jeopardize their relationship. He had made a mistake underestimating Raul and his gang, but he meant to fix t
hat.

  Kollsmeyer would be sacrificed. That should make amends.

  -------

  Kumar was back at his hotel two hours after leaving Schultz. He was to meet Stana the following morning.

  It was tough to relax.

  He walked around the room for a while lost in thought then sat by the window and drifted. The son of a powerful New Delhi arms dealer, he was sent to Oxford at eighteen. A year after he graduated, while on a trip to Nepal, he was rushed back home to find that his father was murdered; a sour deal gone disastrous.

  He found himself taking over the family business, making quite a name for himself. Then his life was threatened by a rival dealer and his mother forced him to give up the business.

  He sold their share to their partners at a value that was enough to support the family comfortably for the rest of their lives, then gave an order to assassinate the rival dealer. His men accidentally killed one of the dealer's sons and his mother forced him to flee the country, arguing that she had lost enough and did not care to lose her only son.

  He bought his mother and two sisters a house in a London suburb and spent his time there at a two bedroom flat he rented near Piccadilly.

  A year after moving to London he had set up his own arms representation firm and was hauling ammunition to third world countries, when he was offered a hook-up with Stana's firm which financed larger and more elaborate arms deals. Stana had used Kumar's services for a few minor deals in the Middle East before involving him in what was to become one of the largest and potentially most lucrative deals in that region. Kumar became the project's coordinator, retaining his own company's identity but working full time for Stana.

  One of his very first tasks in the Matlock Portable Anti-Aircraft Missile project was to recruit a suitable laser manufacturer. Without a capable laser manufacturer the entire project would have been doomed from the start and they were getting nowhere with the major laser companies, who refused to join the project, not willing to invest without government backing, arguing they would never get authorization to export the missile once complete. There were export license issues, end-use issues, and various other complications that kept the companies away, even with the enormous profits that were anticipated.

  He finally focused on PhotonTek. His research revealed that PhotonTek was the one company hurt most by the landmark decision to award the laser rights to an anonymous doctor of Physics who claimed to have invented the technology some thirty years ago.

  He had closely followed Glass in his efforts to find investors. He studied the man carefully and made certain he fully understood his position before he made his move. Glass was no pushover, but he was desperate, so he made concessions and Kumar had him on the team in less than a month. By the time PhotonTek was back on track, with heavy financing from Stana, Glass was in their grasp for good.

  Kumar's next major feat, which had earned him a full pledge of confidence from his superiors, was swinging the pesky Mossad agent to work both sides of the fence.

  -------

  He met Stana for lunch at Victor Hugo Place, a mere ten minute walk from his hotel on Avenue Kleber, and not two minutes from the company's offices on Rue Boissiere. Both he and Stana were careful not to be seen together at the office building. Kumar was never officially an employee and his activities were isolated from the company's legitimate business.

  They sat outside at Bistro Romaine overlooking the busy Etoile with its colorful array of shops and assembly of water fountains spraying a wet mist in the direction of the wind. It was a bright sunny day, a complete reversal from the previous few days which had been gray and damp. The restaurant was full both inside and out where people sat beneath red sunshades delighted to be embracing the sun after a dreary week. The waiters and waitresses bounced around in their striped outfits taking orders and distributing generous looking plates.

  They ordered and Kumar briefed Stana on the developments in the US and on the previous day's meetings with Schultz.

  "How much do you think they truly know?" Stana asked in his meticulous fashion when Kumar had finished.

  "I think they're still fishing," Kumar said. "Kollsmeyer did give them a lead, but that's where it'll end. Glass will lead them nowhere. I'll see to that. Plus, I don't believe the Mossad is behind this. I checked with Hasson. He's got no indications of new sudden interest into this matter in his country. His former employers know better than to be getting back into this mess."

  "What about Langone and Matlock? Do they know about them?"

  "We have to assume they do, but this will only lead them to the same dead end. No one at Matlock is aware of any of this and Langone should be smart enough to watch his step. I'll see to that as well."

  "What if Glass cracks?"

  Kumar did not respond right away. He rolled another cluster of spaghetti around his fork, spinning it against his spoon, and gulped it down, wiping away the remaining sauce from around his lips with his tongue.

  "It'll never happen," he declared, "I know the man too well; too damn arrogant! He'll take it to his grave before he admits any of this to anyone."

  "Maybe he's already told them," Stana casually suggested. "His daughter has certainly been at his house a while."

  Kumar could not argue the point. He felt he knew Glass well enough. He knew his strengths and thought he knew his weaknesses. He could not fathom him exposing his involvement in his daughter's kidnapping, but it was theoretically possible.

  "I think you should pay him a visit," Stana said.

  "He should be here next week. I could take a crack at him before he meets with you."

  "No, I meant pay him a visit. At his home! Get to know the family."

  "Why, that may be rather awkward, don't you think?” Kumar said quickly, surprised.

  "None of them know you. Glass can invite you over for dinner as a business associate. Talk to them. See if you can detect anything amiss. Who knows, maybe you'll learn something."

  "Well, I guess it could be done," Kumar murmured partly to himself.

  "I'd also like you to check with our US associates and get a handle on how much of a threat this guy Eckert poses," Stana continued. "I don't like his involvement any more than I do Glass's other daughter or the boyfriend."

  Kumar nodded, a little dismayed at not having thought of all that himself. Those types of initiatives should have come from him. He despised being shown the way, especially the right way.

  Stana went on, seemingly unaware of his turmoil.

  "Glass is due here next Monday. I'd like you to visit him right after he returns. In fact, you should join our meeting here and casually invite yourself to his house in LA. Say you plan to be there anyway. I'll back the idea."

  "Anything else?" Kumar asked, being almost rude now that he had lost the initiative.

  "Yes," Stana said without losing a step, his gold rimmed spectacles dropping down his nose. "What are the odds of the sister and boyfriend working alone? They must have help somewhere. There may be others besides Eckert. Look into it. It'll be a shame if this sorry affair gets in the way, now that we're so close to reaching our goal."

  "We can be bolder than that and eliminate the problem now, without going into added expenses," Kumar remarked, hoping to gain back some initiative.

  "Not yet," Stana said holding up his a hand, looking around suspiciously to make sure they were not being overheard. He lowered his voice. "We may still be able to thwart this without the use of violence. We can't afford to upset Glass before we reach full production. He too may be expendable after that."

  Stana took a long swallow from his red wine, emptying his glass, then sat back. He was done. Kumar signaled the waiter and paid for the meal. It was the least he could do after such poor showing.

  "I've assembled a team just in case," he said as he and Stana walked slowly around the Etoile toward Rue Boissiere. "Schultz will lead it. They'll be on call to go to the States if we need them."

  "Why not use the locals?" Stana asked, conside
ring the expense.

  "I'd rather use Schultz and his people; more reliable. The locals tend to be erratic at times."

  "He doesn't seem too reliable paying up, does he?" Stana said mockingly.

  "I'll see to that." Kumar assured him. "Operationally, he's superior to anyone I've ever used."

  Stana tended to agree with Kumar on that point. Schultz had proven himself more than once in his service and he had never trusted the Americans.

  "What are the terms?" he asked, conceding to Kumar's choice.

  "That depends on the objective. A full hit would be half a million up front and another subsequently, plus expenses. Anything simpler would go according to his price tags."

  Stana did not want to know any more.

  "Keep me informed," he said turning the corner to his street, "I'll see you Monday."

  Kumar nodded and the two parted company in opposite directions.

  CHAPTER 30

  Sarah entered a rattling Peugeot taxi at Orly airport, settling in the back seat as it sped away. The driver had nodded energetically when she handed him the note with the hotel information prepared by her in advance, but he spoke no English and she wondered if he understood where she was headed.

  They reached the Peripherique twenty minutes later and as they joined with the busy freeway traffic she caught her first glimpse of Paris. Towers and ornate pillars of famous palaces and churches peaked at her from across the River Seine as the taxi weaved its way among the scampering blend of cars.

  They exited the Peripherique at Boulevard Maillot and submerged into the city driving west toward the Arc de Triomphe. Sarah felt seduced by the incredibly aesthetic form of buildings and streets that seemed like a stage backdrop of a play.

  For a moment she felt it wouldn't matter if they never reached the hotel. The boulevard was wide and spacious with tall trees and neatly trimmed bushes systematically dispersed on precisely cut grass, with colorful flower beds decorating its sides. The buildings radiated wealth and influence combined with centuries of concealed history fused into their gray walls and high arched windows.