by Rene Fomby
Sanders had not only managed to get them on the flight to Marseille at the very last minute, he also somehow got them booked into the first two seats in first class. Gavin waved off the free wine and champagne—he needed to keep his mind as sharp as possible for the night ahead. Ramon ordered a local beer, but after a quick swig set it aside for the rest of the flight. The day was still very young.
As soon as the plane arrived at the gate, the two of them bolted out of their seats and off down the ramp, Gavin carrying his canvas bag under his right arm and Ramon pulling a black Samsonite roll-along behind him.
“Hello. You must be Agent Larson and his trusty sidekick Ramon Mendez.” Their contact for Marseille was tall, brunette and definitely not what Gavin had expected. “The name’s Desrosier. Elena Desrosier, but my friends just call me Dez. I’m with the French National Police, assigned to la sous-direction anti-terroriste. You two have any luggage other than that?”
“Uh, no. This is it. We like to travel light,” Gavin told her. “So you’re with SDAT? You guys are looking at Andy’s abduction as part of a terrorist plot of some sort?”
Dez motioned for them to follow her and turned to head back through the terminal, speaking over her right shoulder as she went. “Not necessarily. But your guy Bob Sanders specifically asked for me, so here I am.” She checked her watch. “Look, it’s a bit early for dinner, but I thought we might grab something down by the wharf anyway. Just to get it out of the way, in case we get busy later. Then we can nose around the fishing boats, see if anyone has heard something. Starting maybe with the company Boucher’s father used to own, before he sold it a few years back.”
“Don’t you think we should check out the airport first? See if we can turn up some leads around here?” Gavin asked.
Dez shook her head. “Already way ahead of you on that. After the jet touched down, a car—probably a late model Citroën—met up with it briefly on the tarmac, then left. We tracked the car headed in the general direction of the piers, but lost it about a mile inland. The jet took off immediately afterward, flying VFR. We’re trying to get a fix on its destination, but that part’s still up in the air. No pun intended.”
Gavin shared a quick shrug with Ramon. “Okay, then, the wharf it is,”
As they made their way out of the terminal toward an unmarked car parked illegally in the unloading area outside—a police officer keeping close watch on it just a short distance away—Gavin took advantage of the opportunity to better evaluate his new companion. Elena Desrosier was quite striking, in an angular sort of way, with a prominent Aquiline nose and hazel eyes, and her beige slacks and light green blouse managed to strike the right balance between feminine and practical. Hanging from her right shoulder was a small tan leather purse that Gavin immediately recognized as a standard-issue concealed carry handbag, commonly carried by female agents when the weather was too warm for a jacket. Overall, she gave off the impression of someone you might notice for a second, and then just as quickly forget, perfect for an agent poking around in the field asking questions. Interpersonally, though, she seemed all business. At least so far.
Dez jumped in the driver’s seat and started the car without a word. Ramon grabbed Gavin’s bag and climbed in the back, leaving Gavin to take the front passenger seat. In seconds they were flying down the road toward the airport exit, Dez seeming to take little notice of the speed limit signs along the way. After a short ride they entered Marseille proper, finally turning left onto a street that reminded Gavin faintly of old New Orleans.
“This street is La Canebière, in the old quarter. Its name comes from cannabis, because this area was originally a major source for hemp, used for rope and baskets, mostly. The tourist guides call it the Champs-Élysées of Marseille. For our purposes, though, it’s the road that takes us straight to le Vieux-Port, the Old Port where Boucher’s old company is headquartered.”
Coming to the water’s edge, she turned left for a few blocks, then pulled off to the side, killing the engine and slapping a little placard on the dash. “Here we go, gentlemen. If you’re in a big hurry, we have a pizza shop just behind us, or right here on the waterfront we could try La Nautique, a pretty decent seafood restaurant. I’d strongly suggest the seafood, given—” She swept a hand tellingly toward the water. “And their bouillabaisse is the finest in all of France, in my opinion.”
“On any other day, I’d be all over the seafood,” Gavin said. “But a sit-down restaurant … I don’t know, I’m kind of itching to get started here. So, unless Ramon has some aversion, why don’t we just grab a slice of pizza and hit the ground running?”
“I’m with you on that, big guy,” Ramon agreed as he leaned forward and tapped Dez on the shoulder. “But about our bags. Shouldn’t we store them in the trunk, out of sight?”
“Normally that wouldn’t be a problem,” she replied, shaking her head. “This area is pretty safe, at least during the day. But you’re right, I should have thought of that earlier. We might as well get them tucked away, so we don’t have to worry about them later. By the way, we have you both booked into the Grand Hôtel Beauvau for the night, just back there where we turned left along the water. Do you two need to freshen up after we eat, or are you good for now?”
Gavin glanced over at Ramon, who shrugged. “I caught some z’s on the flight over, so I’m good. And every minute we don’t find Andy …”
Dez nodded, stepping out of the car and popping the trunk. “Right. But I had to ask. Here in Marseille, things have a tendency to heat up pretty quickly, and if you’re dragging your butts—”
“Don’t worry. I can handle myself just fine,” Gavin assured her, grabbing the luggage from Ramon and settling it into the trunk. “Let’s roll.”
※
As it turned out, the pizza shop was sold out of premade slices, so they had to cool their heels while new pies were being baked in the wood-fired oven.
“The bouillabaisse would have been faster,” Dez suggested, sipping on a bottle of Perrier.
Gavin stared into the mouth of the Diet Coke he was nursing. “Yeah, well, you never know. But while we’re all standing here, bring me up to speed. What’s the game plan for tonight?”
Dez leaned back casually against the wall. “I thought we could ask around, see if anyone around the docks has seen something suspicious. Normally the fishermen are pretty tight-lipped about spilling what they know, like a bunch of clams, but when it’s SDAT asking the questions—”
“Yeah, about that. How the hell would they know who you are? It’s not like you’re wearing some kind of badge or something. You’re not even dressed like a cop.”
“Oh, they know who I am. Trust me on that.”
Just then the pizzas were pulled out of the oven, a large pepperoni and sausage for Gavin and Ramon and a small no-sauce pizza covered with anchovies for Dez. Gavin paid up as Ramon and Dez grabbed the food and commandeered a small table near the front.
Gavin wrinkled up his nose as he joined them. “You really like all that dead fish?” he asked, nodding toward Dez’s pizza.
“Sure. Sardines are very popular around here. Although they’re getting much more expensive lately, because of all the overfishing. But really, along the water, anything fish related gets top billing.”
“Hmph. I’ll stick with Tilapia,” Ramon chimed in, stuffing his face with a wide slice. “But not on my pizza,” he added after swallowing a bite down almost whole.
Dez shook her head disgustedly, then sliced off a small bite of her own pizza with a knife and fork before raising it slowly to her lips. “And eating like that is why you Americans are so graisse,” she pointed out.
“Grace?” Gavin asked. “You think that’s graceful?”
“No. Graisse. Fat. Like pigs. Cochons américains.”
“Can’t argue with you on that,” he agreed. “But it does get the job done, and right now we need to be out on the street asking questions, not sitting here nibbling away on street food.”
“D’accord. I’ve
had enough, anyway. Seeing him eating like that has ruined my appetite.” She stood up, heading out the door while Gavin and Ramon each grabbed one last slice, plus paper napkins to soak up the grease. Outside, they turned right, following Dez’s lead.
“The Boucher company is several blocks this way,” she said, not bothering to turn around. “A big yellow building. You can’t miss it.”
Just then, Gavin passed an open-air tourist bus parked on the street off to his left, and he couldn’t help but gasp out loud. “Damn. Did something up and die around here?” he asked.
Dez smiled at him, shaking her head. “Oh, that would be le parfum de France. The sweet smell of hard work. The French, they aren’t as fanatic as you Americans about taking a bath every day, particularly down here in Southern France. After a while you just get used to it, I guess. But hey, you’re one to talk, with that little tiny bag you brought along. A few more days with no change of clothes and you’ll be joining them all pretty soon.”
Gavin made a show out of sniffing his armpits. “Not too bad so far, but then I’ve only been wearing this shirt since early this morning. And I’ve got more stuff packed away in that little bag than you might think. Like I said, I like to travel light.”
She gave him a skeptical look as Ramon chuckled lightly behind them, bringing up the rear and glancing around constantly to make sure they weren’t being followed. In a few minutes they were standing directly in front of a large three-story building with the name “Boucher Pêcherie” engraved on a small brass plaque next to the front door.
Gavin stopped to examine it. “I see they decided to keep the name after they bought the place. I suppose it saved on having to print up new stationary.”
“Yes, yes,” Dez mused. “But—such an odd name for a fishermen, ‘Boucher.’ The butcher.”
“Hmm. If the father was anything like his son, it might not be such an odd name after all.” Gavin was about to open the door when Dez motioned for him to stop.
“Attendez un moment. I see an old friend who might be able to help us. Wait here.”
Checking quickly for cars, she scurried across the street, heading straight for a wizened old fisherman who was sitting on a short stone wall, mending a net. Focused intently on his work, he failed to notice Dez until she stopped abruptly right in front of him. When the fisherman looked up, Gavin noted a brief flash of surprise, a look that instantly morphed into something much more savage, his brows furrowed deeply and his shoulders straightening and squaring. The two of them exchanged heated words for a moment, then Dez reached into the concealed pocket in the side of her purse, pulling out her nine millimeter semi-automatic and shoving it forcefully against the side of his head. More words were exchanged, then Dez cuffed him lightly on the back of his head with her pistol and turned to walk back.
“What the hell was that all about?” Gavin asked when she finally rejoined them.
“We French National Police don’t have the same restraints on us that you Americans have,” she explained, tucking the gun back in her purse. “We place greater value on the public safety than some punk’s individual rights. So, when he was being a little obstinate, I simply reminded him that the rest of his day would go much better if his brains remained tucked safely up inside his skull.”
“And did it work?” Gavin asked, suddenly much more wary of his new colleague from the local police force.
“Yes. Very much so. He gave up the address of a warehouse not too far from here where a certain black Citroën sedan arrived last Saturday, carrying a large person-sized bundle of something just after the private jet landed at the airport. It’s not very far from here, but we should backtrack and take the car, just in case.”
She turned quickly and started walking back toward the pizza restaurant and the spot where they had parked the car. Ten minutes later they were piling into the unmarked sedan and heading in the direction of the warehouse.
Gavin looked at Ramon, seated in the back, then over at Dez. “So what makes you think this guy at the pier is trustworthy?”
“I don’t,” Dez answered. “And that’s why I trust him. He knows better than to piss me off.”
She was racing down the crowded streets with little apparent regard for the traffic around her, but after a minute or so the activity on the street seemed to fade away. They had entered an area of the city filled with warehouses and shuttered storefronts. Dez pulled abruptly to the side of the road and killed the engine. “We can walk from here. It’s just around the corner.”
All three of them jumped out, with Dez pulling out her gun and something else she shoved in her pants pocket, then stopping briefly to toss her purse carelessly into the floorboard of the car. “That thing’s just a nuisance if trouble breaks out,” she explained, locking the door.
Gavin shared a look with Ramon, and they pulled their guns, too. Trying to keep to the shadows wherever possible, they quickly negotiated the route to the corner, then turned left.
Dez waved her gun in front of her and to the right. “Just up ahead a half block. You can’t miss it.”
“Have you been here before?” Gavin asked. “Is that how you know where it is?”
Dez shot him a sour look. “Non, Américain fou. Street names and numbers aren’t exactly random, you know. This part of Marseille is a grid, just like pretty much every other city in the world. So the addresses are quite predictable.” Suddenly she stopped, ducking behind a tree. “Look. The black Citroën in front.”
A black French sedan was parked somewhat sloppily just off to the right of the front door. Other than the door, the gray metal building had no other entrances or windows visible from where they were standing. Dez checked her weapon.
“Safeties off. Here.” She handed Ramon a small black remote control, sporting one white button covered by a clear plastic shield. “I’m willing to bet this place has more than one way to get in and out. I’ll try the back door if I find one. You two take cover behind the Citroën. If you hear anything happening inside, press the button, then get inside right away, guns blazing. You got that?”
“What does the button do?” Ramon asked, taking a moment to examine it.
Dez pulled something out of the front right pocket of her slacks. To Gavin it looked like a tiny ball of Silly Putty, with a miniature version of the remote control pressed into its face. “As I pass the door I’ll slap this on the lock and activate it. It should be enough to get the door open, even if it’s locked. Just don’t press the button until you’re well behind the car, okay?”
“Gotcha.” Gavin waited for Dez to slip across the open parking lot to the building, then turned and motioned for Ramon to follow him, swinging around the parking lot in a wide arc and approaching the car from the side opposite the door. Dez paused briefly at the door, pressing the Silly Putty onto the lock, then darted around the left side of the building.
Several minutes went by with nothing happening, then gunshots erupted from inside. Ramon pressed Gavin down lower behind the car, then pushed the button on the remote. Immediately the area surrounding the door lock exploded violently and the door blew inward. Ramon waved for Gavin to follow him and they raced for the inside of the warehouse, guns up and at the ready, Gavin double checking with his thumb to make sure his safety was indeed off. Always embarrassing when you pull the trigger and nothing happens.
Inside, Dez was standing calmly in the middle of the room, pointing her gun at three men who were standing around a small card table, their hands raised up over their heads. A shattered bottle of what appeared to be some kind of whiskey lay scattered across the table and onto the floor behind.
“Sorry about the gunshot,” Dez explained. “I tried to explain to them nicely what the proper etiquette was for this kind of situation, but it appeared they weren’t really listening. So I figured putting an end to their silly little party was a good way to get their attention.” She turned back to the three men. “La fille. Où est-elle?” she demanded.
One of the men, apparently t
he leader of the group, spoke up reluctantly, refusing to make eye contact with her. “Nous ne connaissons aucune fille. Nous étions juste là, en train de jouer aux cartes, de passer un bon moment. Est-ce un problème?”
Dez stepped a little closer to the men, waving her gun slightly for emphasis. “Connerie. Votre voiture, sa plaque d’immatriculation correspond à une voiture qui a pris une femme à l’aéroport. Une femme qui avait été kidnappée.”
Group Leader glanced quickly at his companions before answering. “Ah. Oui. Nous avons rencontré un avion. Mais je ne sais rien d’une fille. Nous étions juste payés pour livrer un colis à l’église en haut de la colline.”
“What’s he saying?” Gavin asked impatiently. He glanced around the warehouse, empty except for the card table and the three men. “Does he know where they took Andy?”
Dez’s eyes narrowed as she tried to sort through whether or not her captives were telling her the truth. Not about whether they knew the nature of the “package” they had picked up, that was total bullshit. But about whether their final delivery location had indeed been “the church up high on the hill.” A location that seemed to make little sense. Before answering Gavin’s question, she pulled her cell phone out of her back pocket and dialed 17, the European equivalent of 911, the call going directly to the local police. When they answered, she quickly identified herself, then ordered backup to pick up the three men for further questioning. When she was finished, she turned back to Gavin, who was tapping one foot on the ground, more than a little angry that she had taken so long to answer.
“Look, Gavin, I’ve got the police headed this way to take these three goons off our hands. The guy who appears to be in charge insists they dropped her off somewhere else. But it doesn’t really make much sense. That place, I mean. So, I know you want to keep moving on this, but why don’t we give it a few more minutes, get these guys locked up tight, then try and regroup. I just don’t think it’s a smart idea to say too much in front of—” She nodded over her shoulder at her three captives. “They may be just a bunch of local punks, but even the lowest dregs of Marseille society speak English these days, so—”