Another Day, Another Jackal

by Lex Lander

  Nixon was too much of a gentleman to tell Sheryl she was only his second choice, so he said, ‘I told you. I like your style.’

  ‘Swell, I’m flattered. Where do we go from here?’

  ‘Does that mean you accept my offer?’

  ‘You cannot be serious, as McEnroe would say.’ She grinned then, sheepishly, almost girlish. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be flippant. As for your offer, just to prove how grateful I am, I’m going to give up smoking - here and now.’ And she stubbed the last inch of cigarette in her saucer.

  ‘Well done.’

  Nixon raised a forefinger and a waiter cruised up, the same one who had picked up Sheryl’s cigarette. ‘Can I get you something, Mr Nixon?’ he enquired. He was part-Maori, impeccably turned out with manners to match.

  ‘The young lady and I have something to celebrate, Mikey. Bring me a bottle of that Dom Perignon I had the other day.’

  ‘Right-o, sir.’ Mikey withdrew.

  ‘Before we get down to the detail, there are two things we must settle: first of all, this organisation, unlike Greenpeace, will be undercover. We may publicise its objectives and achievements, but only anonymously. Its personnel - you included - must remain incognito. Do I need to explain why?’

  ‘You do not.’

  He gave a satisfied nod, as if she had just passed a little test. ‘The other thing is the name of the organisation. It will be yours, lock, stock, and barrel, so to you the honour of baptism. Ah …’ As Mikey approached with the Dom in a silver bucket, Nixon clapped his hands. ‘Here’s something to baptise it with.’

  The ritual of inspection of the label, uncorking, and pouring done, they raised their glasses and clinked.

  ‘I expect you need time to think of a name,’ he said, his glass still extended. ‘It doesn’t matter. There’s no hurry.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Mr Nixon. I’ve known for years what I would call it if ever the opportunity and the means to set up my own pressure group arose.’

  ‘Good. Call me Eddie, by the way.’ He cocked two quizzical eyebrows, never having mastered the technique of raising one singly. ‘So what’s it to be?’

  ‘How do you like Greenwar?’

  Three

  * * *

  ‘The President is ready for you, Monsieur le Ministre.’

  De Charette wiped clammy palms on his trousers, patted his seriously-receding grey hair, and rose from the straight-back chair that was designed to inflict discomfort. Even after six months in office he hadn’t learned to quell the rush of nerves that accompanied every presidential summons. He buttoned his jacket. He straightened his red and white spotted tie, ensuring that the knot was correctly aligned between the points of his collar. Now he was ready. He lifted the slim leather attaché case that had been a present from his wife. His initials were gold embossed into the front - H de C - an embellishment he would have preferred to forgo.

  The usher, dignified in his frock coat, escorted de Charette to the door of the Salon des Ordonnances. He rapped twice on the door then stood aside to let the Minister pass through.

  In the Salon the afternoon autumn sun was streaming through the tall south-facing windows, casting rhomboids of light on the uncarpeted areas of gleaming floorboard. The limes and beeches across the garden, keepers of the presidential privacy, were tall enough to obscure the buildings of the Grand Palais and the Petit Palais. Though the trees were still in full leaf, the green was fading to yellow and their daily increasing alopecia kept the gardeners on their toes maintaining the pristine look of the lawns. At the desk that was positioned in the centre of the room sat today’s ADC, Lieutenant-Colonel Marin. He had booked the Foreign Affairs Minister for three o’clock, but JC was running late as always.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur le Ministre,’ Marin said respectfully, rising. Like most soldiers he held all politicians in disdain but woe betide his career if he ever let slip the veil of servility.

  ‘How are you, Marin?’ the Foreign Minister said with a stiff smile.

  ‘Very well, thank you.’

  The ADC side-stepped to the mirrored double doors on the left of the salon. He tapped discreetly on the right-hand panel, using the knuckle of his forefinger.

  ‘Entrez,’ came a voice from within, indistinct but recognisably that of President Jacques Chirac.

  De Charette swallowed, a vain attempt to lubricate a mouth that was suddenly dry despite the two cafés grandes he had consumed during his thirty-five minute wait. Marin stood aside, gave what seemed like a patronising nod. A moment later the Minister was inside the President’s private study, the door whispering shut behind him.

  ‘Assieds-toi, mon cher Hervé,’ the President said without raising his noble nose from the papers scattered before him on his custom-made reproduction Louis XV desk.

  The Foreign Minister sat, knees together, nervous as a schoolboy summoned to his principal’s study to answer for a breach of school rules. He placed the attaché case precisely across his thighs. Again he checked for hairs out of place. Tugged at the lobe of the left of his rather oversized ears. Tried to relax. Impossible.

  The room was dimly lit; though the three tall windows were open notwithstanding the late afternoon chill, the louvered shutters were locked in the half-closed position, letting in only narrow strips of sunlight, the cooing of wood pigeons, and the subdued rumble of traffic in the Avenue de Marigny. On account of the gloom the President was working under a desk lamp, its glow reflected on his balding crown. He was jacketless and his shirt cuffs were folded back, his tie loosened. De Charette spotted a pair of cufflinks in one of a trio of identical octagonal glass ashtrays.

  As he waited the Foreign Minister looked around. Access to the President’s study, once occupied by Charles de Gaulle and other less exalted leaders, was still something of a novelty. It was an elegant room with furnishings to match: from the genuine Louis XV table on which stood a genuine Louis XIV clock, to the Savonnerie carpet, which had left the loom in 1615. The desk, made to Chirac’s own specification, was the only non-antique in the room.

  Abruptly, as was his wont, the President looked up, an impatient frown on his naturally stern features, as if de Charette’s presence was an intrusion. Unlike Prime Minister Alain Juppé and other members of the Cabinet, the President did not shake hands at every meeting.

  ‘Alors,’ he said, blue eyes flashing over the half-moon glasses. ‘Give me your report.’

  ‘Monsieur le Président.’

  De Charette flipped the locks of his attaché case and extracted a bound report. It was over two hundred pages long and dealt with the political stance of the Pacific-rim nations in response to the planned resumption of nuclear tests. On the cover was embossed in blood-red TOP SECRET - EXECUTIVE CIRCULATION ONLY. Ministers used to joke that it was written in real blood. The joke had eventually ceased to amuse and only the most thick-skinned perpetuated it.

  De Charette stood the case upright beside his chair, rose and laid the report on the President’s blotting pad, where it could be opened without effort.

  ‘You think I have time to read all this,’ the President said testily, flicking a dismissive hand at the document.

  De Charette remained standing like a junior officer being carpeted by his CO.

  ‘The summary covers ten pages only, Monsieur le Président.’

  The President made a vexed sound at the back of his throat. ‘Give me a brief verbal résumé.’ Adding, as an afterthought, ‘If you are capable of brevity, that is.’

  The implied insult caused the Foreign Minister’s eyes to narrow but he was growing used to the President’s putdowns. They were not reserved exclusively for him.

  ‘Bien entendu, Monsieur le Président.’

  ‘And sit down, Bon Dieu, sit down.’

  A flustered de Charette resumed his seat.

  ‘The attitude of the United States is well-documented …’ he began, and went on to amplify it, followed by a discourse on the ‘attitudes’ of Russia, Japan, China, Indonesia, the Phili
ppines, Australia and New Zealand. ‘Quant aux Nouvelles-Zéelandais …’

  ‘Ah yes,’ the President murmured, making a tent of his fingers. ‘ Our friends the Kee-wees. For a little country they make a big noise, n’est pas?’

  The Foreign Minister nodded energetically. Of all the Pacific Rim countries, New Zealand had the least clout diplomatically so far as France was concerned, yet was the most vociferous in condemning the forthcoming tests. As if the bolshie tactics of Prime Minister Jim Bolger and his cabinet were not enough, the Greenpeace movement there was stirring up a cyclone of protest via the media and threatening all kinds of measures to disrupt the tests. Then there were those disturbing rumours …

  ‘Rumours?’ The President’s ears pricked up. ‘What rumours? Explain - in plain language not politician’s bullshit.’

  ‘Monsieur le Président.’ De Charette’s voice emerged as a squeak.

  The President indicated the jug of iced Evian water that reposed on a tray within arm’s reach, replenished hourly.

  ‘Help yourself,’ he said resignedly.

  De Charette needed no second invitation. He slopped water into one of the four tall tumblers on the tray and almost hurled half the contents down his throat.

  ‘Merci, Monsieur le President,’ he said, gasping. He composed himself swiftly under the President’s flinty gaze. ‘The rumours … as you might expect, they concern Greenpeace. Our Embassy has reported that two of their key members have defected to form a breakaway movement, about which as yet we have no information. Their objectives are believed to be identical to those of Greenpeace but their methods will be more along the lines of the Basque separatists.’

  The President’s shrug was expressive. All his shrugs were expressive - this one represented a yawn.

  ‘Another terrorist faction? They will make threats, perhaps kidnap a leading politician or send some letter bombs. The world will go on turning. Who are the two renegades concerned? The Mills bitch and her boyfriend, I suppose … what was his name? You know who I mean - the one we expelled.’ The President clicked his fingers in annoyance at the unaccustomed memory lapse.

  ‘Nichols, Monsieur le Président.’

  ‘Ah yes. I suppose they are the ones.’

  ‘I am afraid their identities have not yet been released.’

  ‘No matter. What else do I need to know?’

  De Charette cleared his throat discreetly behind a clenched fist. ‘There is talk ... inside information from a disaffected Greenpeace member who recently fell out with the hierarchy. According to him, big money is behind the breakaway movement.’

  The President became marginally more alert. ‘How big is big?’

  ‘Very big. A figure of five hundred million francs was mentioned.’

  The President whistled, which was out of character. He twiddled with his gold fountain pen for the best part of a minute, his eyes faraway, looking blindly past de Charette.

  In the distance a car horn sounded. Beyond that the bustle of a mild autumn afternoon made scant intrusion on the presidential refuge.

  ‘Where is it coming from, this money? It wouldn’t surprise me if the New Zealand government was making a contribution.’

  ‘It is rumoured that the source of the funds is a billionaire businessman. Nothing is certain. Our man is still making enquiries, but these things take time. We are not popular in New Zealand. It is not easy, even to buy co-operation.’

  ‘Then spend more!’ Petty details did not interest the President, nor petty cash. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Not quite, Monsieur le Président. It is said that someone will be … ah, punished, in revenge for the tests.’ De Charette polished off the second half of his glass of Evian. ‘An important - a very important - public figure perhaps.’ He paused to let the President assimilate this.

  ‘The President of the Republic, for example?’ The President curled a derisive lip. ‘And what form is this … punishment to take?’

  De Charette shifted uncomfortably. ‘It is said it will be very severe indeed.’

  ‘Very severe indeed? You mean killed?’ He threw back his head and released an uninhibited guffaw. ‘You have been reading too many thrillers, my dear fellow. Environmental movements, however militant, do not assassinate heads of state.’ He arched a sardonic eyebrow at the lugubrious de Charette. ‘Not even French ones.’

  PART TWO

  NOVEMBER

  A Plot Without Gunpowder

  Four

  * * *

  It was a straightforward enough hit but for the bodyguards. If they were good at their job - and Lux had to proceed on that assumption - they would surround Vazquez, one at the front and back, one on each flank. Lux would have to take out at least one flanker first, before putting his man down.

  Lux had done his research. US Army tests conducted in 1959 had demonstrated that average reaction time among a group of trained soldiers when one of their number is downed unexpectedly by an unseen sniper, varied from 1.3 seconds for an unsilenced shot to 2.2 seconds for a silenced shot. A clear case in favour of a silenced gun, provided the degraded muzzle velocity didn’t compromise accuracy and killing power.

  For the M25 carbine this meant a range no greater than four hundred yards. The only suitable spot at the place of rendezvous was right on the range limit. It offered cover by way of a patch of scrub, about twenty feet of elevation, and a view of the Pacific. Not ideal, but it would do.

  Using the US Army tests as a benchmark, the two remaining bodyguards would have about two seconds in which to react. In two seconds, with the semi-automatic M25, a trained sniper could loose off a further three aimed shots, or six unaimed. Enough to be sure of at least disabling the bodyguards and/or taking out Vazquez himself. Worst case scenario he would be still unhurt but without protection. Probably running for cover by then, for the building.

  Guessing at where they would park the car, Lux calculated he would have maybe another two to three seconds to take the target out, say five shots. To an expert shooter like Lux this was adequate, even ample. He had originally toyed with the idea of using a sub-machine gun. Until he inspected the killing ground and paced out the range. At four hundred yards, the spread of fire would be so dispersed as to limit his chances of hitting one target, let alone all five. Not only that, but spraying gunfire wasn’t his style. He prided himself on precision, on economy. Five targets, two bullets each, no waste.

  By eight pm. he was settled in his eyrie, four hundred paces from the cabin driveway. It was a lonely place, desolate even, the nearest habitation being the ranch at Rancho Cepeda, half a mile away. But for the occasional gull’s cry, life was non-existent. If you didn’t count scorpions and king-size bugs, that was. The scrub made a satisfactory screen. From the driveway he would be invisible. He assembled the rifle and set it up on its bipod and monopod supports. He screwed the scope to the upper receiver and slotted a loaded magazine in place. Finally, he camouflaged the weapon with broken-off twigs of scrub.

  In his sleeping bag he passed a restless night, listening to the breakers on their never-ending journey to and from the shore, counting the clusters of stars, going over his escape plan. As ever, it was the getaway that stressed him, not the killing.

  Dawn came eventually. The sun peeped over the hinterland, pink light spreading across the hillside and his hide, and tinting the ocean so that momentarily it looked like a limitless pool of blood. The breakers had quietened to a murmur, mostly drowned by the incessant cries of swirling gulls.

  His breakfast was orange juice from a flask, and an apple. It left him hungry, but he was used to short rations. Hunger kept him sharp. His biggest problem would be lack of shade, not lack of food.

  By ten o’clock the heat was blistering. His precautions against it - light clothes, floppy hat, hand-held, battery driven fan, plenty of water in a chiller bag - kept the worst effects at bay. He sweated nonetheless, and cast many a longing glance at the ocean, a short sprint and a plunge away.

  Vazquez was late. It
was 10.38 when a black Buick Roadmaster turned off the dirt track onto the even dirtier track that ran up to the cabin. Lux’s Toyota stood in the driveway, posing as the transport of the non-existent men Vazquez had come to meet. Positioned to prevent other cars from getting closer to the cabin than twenty yards.

  The Buick had heavy-tinted windows, shiny wheel trims and several layers of dust. It nosed up the track, bouncing on its soft suspension, cautious, suspicious. It would be too remote for Vazquez’s liking, too secluded. Anybody would be uneasy, especially Vazquez, ever in fear of his old enemies. Even surrounded by bodyguards. Notwithstanding that one of the men he was coming to meet was an old friend. Trustworthy. Sadly, that same friend was now occupying a grave in the middle of the desert.

  The Buick came to a halt more or less where Lux had predicted, immediately behind the Toyota, and some ten yards from the cabin door. The engine continued to run. The front passenger door opened and a thickset bald man in jeans and white T-shirt got out. He was clutching what looked like a pump-action shotgun. Now to test the plan’s only obvious weakness. Would they expect Tomas to come out and greet them? Would they be suspicious if he didn’t respond to their summons? Whatever their reaction, Lux was ready to take them out, inside or outside the car.

  The T-shirted bodyguard scanned the area. He was thorough. Lux’s hiding place came in for a long scrutiny, as being the only place where a gunman could be concealed.

  Confident of his invisibility, Lux lay still, the M25 butt tucked into his shoulder, his finger hooked around the trigger. The slightest hint from the bodyguard that he was rumbled, and the guy was a dead man. Would be a dead man anyhow, very soon.

  The rear door on Lux’s side swung open. Another bodyguard, this one in chinos and a dark blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Also bald or shaven, taller and thinner than the first, similarly armed.

  Lux could have taken them both now, four shots, two corpses. But the third bodyguard was still behind the wheel, waiting for the all clear. In the rear seat a silhouetted head was visible.