Eight

by James R. Vance

  Harcourt looked dubiously at Massey.

  “Look, if you're not up for it, Petra will have to go it alone. The operation requires steady nerves. At least she's been trained for such situations.”

  “And experienced,” added Massey, recollecting her criminal history and not relishing the prospect of armed confrontation.

  “My speciality was knives,” snapped Petra, sniping back at him.

  Rob returned to the sketch plan, unimpressed by the bickering. “Sort it out amongst yourselves.”

  He pointed to the library once again, indicating a rear vestibule with two exterior doors, one leading to the covered walkway linking the log cabin, the other to a path that crossed the rear gardens. After passing through an opening in an inner boundary wall, the path terminated at the helipad.

  He continued his overview of the game plan. “Tom will access the library through the rear door and inform the group inside that the villa is under attack. He will offer to escort the Al Qaeda chiefs to the sanctuary of Dumas's chopper affording instant escape via his yacht. They will see it as a rescue mission. Dumas will believe his security guard to be acting in good faith. Timing is critical. As soon as Tom leaves with his captives, you will enter the library, arrest Dumas and any remaining members of his group and detain them until the arrival of the G.I.G.N…. or to give it the full title, the Groupe d'Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale.”

  Harcourt had reservations. “What happens if his own security guys turn up?”

  “They too will have to be dealt with. However, the assault team should on the scene within minutes.”

  Petra could see the wider picture. “I assume that the chopper will be in our hands by this time. Where is it destined for in reality?”

  “It is planned to commandeer the helicopter and the yacht earlier, prior to you storming the library. Once Tom has the group safely on the chopper, it will head for the yacht, which an American SEALs unit will have seized. The yacht will take the captives several miles out into the Mediterranean to rendezvous with a U.S. Los Angeles-class attack submarine. The SEALs will transfer them on board. At that point, an officer will inform them of their arrest.” Rob stood to one side to allow them to digest his briefing.

  “What about all the other guests caught up in the midst of this mayhem?” Massey asked.

  “The special forces team will process and release them, apart from any deemed to be a security threat. Any assistance that you could give would be most welcome, but if you so wish, you can return to the U.K. following the usual de-brief.”

  Petra sprawled on the bed. “You said that we are to restrain Dumas until the task force takes over. What about Alexis, if he's present?”

  “Everyone must be detained,” Rob replied, “including the two guards. No exceptions.”

  Harcourt smiled as she rejoined Petra on the bed. “You make it sound so simple. What if the plan fails?”

  Rob spread his arms to emphasise his confidence in a successful outcome. “If we all play our part, it cannot fail. This is a one-off opportunity. Failure is not an option. There will be a detailed briefing for the full team at 08.00hrs tomorrow morning. We will provide transport. You will learn the location for the meeting en route. Any further questions?”

  Harcourt turned to Massey. “I should have listened to you in Limoges.”

  “You should have listened to me in bloody Manchester,” he retorted.

  Rob folded his sketch plan. “Okay, under no circumstances will anyone speak about what has been discussed here. The remainder of the evening is yours to act normally. Dine out or find a bar. Chill, but have an early night. Tomorrow will be a long day.” He turned to Petra. “I'd like a word with you before I leave. Meet in your room in, say fifteen minutes?”

  Petra nodded, said her goodbyes and walked back to the Escale Oceania to await Rob's visit.

  8888

  Petra left her door open. Rob found her lolling casually across her bed. She patted the duvet. “Sit yourself down. You look worried. What's bothering you?”

  Rob ignored her invitation. He paced the room, deep in thought.

  She guessed the cause of his disquiet. “It's those two, isn't it?”

  “Partly…can we rely on them? They shouldn't really be involved, but the extra bodies will help.”

  “I'm sure that you can trust their confidentiality. Whether they have the bottle to partake in any action remains to be seen.” Petra sat upright and leaned forward more earnestly. “It's not just that, is it? What else is on your mind?”

  “This Alexis guy. How close are you?”

  Petra laughed. “You're asking me that! You know me…the good time girl, no commitments. Play the field. That's my motto.”

  “What if the situation arose where you had to confront him in say, a life or death scenario, you or him? Could you kill him or would you freeze?” Rob studied her face.

  Petra held his gaze. “If your evidence is correct and he is involved in some terrorist activity, I'm sure that he would have no hesitation in putting me down.”

  “That doesn't answer my question.”

  Petra played with her hair, twisting strands between her fingers as she spoke. “If my life was threatened, I would have to defend myself, wouldn't I?”

  Rob nodded, not really convinced by her reply. “How involved do you imagine him to be? Would you shoot him without proof or full knowledge of his role in all this? ”

  “Probably not…I'm not sure…it would depend on the circumstances. You took me completely by surprise by stating that he was working with Dumas.”

  Rob sat on the end of the bed. “Tell me about this Russian connection. You say that his grandmother still talks about her ancestry?”

  “She's like a bloody encyclopaedia on Russian history. I think that she likes to embellish and romanticise on the facts. Alexis gave me the impression that he found it all very amusing.”

  Rob thought that some explanation was required. “The former Soviet Union, despite the predominance of the Orthodox Church, had quite a diverse ethnic population. Over centuries, the demand for recognition and more recently for independent states has caused horrendous problems for successive governments. The unrest continues to this day, particularly in Chechnya, where nationalism is more radical and anti-Russian. Recent bomb atrocities in Russian cities are naturally attributed to Chechen militants as the region is perceived as a breeding ground for terrorists.”

  “What has that to do with Alexis?” asked Petra.

  “You don't think that his family has a Chechen background, do you?”

  Petra leaned back on the bed and grinned. “He has more chance of being a descendant of the Romanov dynasty.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “His grandmother talks incessantly about Tsar Nicholas II and his family. I think it more likely that they have royalist rather than revolutionary sympathies.”

  Rob stood up shaking his head, confused. “Your observations don't make any bloody sense.” He checked his watch. “I'd better make a move.”

  “One last question. What's your role in this offensive tomorrow?”

  “Communications co-ordinator. Initially, I'll be with the bogus TV support crew before joining the G.I.G.N. Responsibility for the militants captured by the SEALs will remain with the Americans. I'll assist Interpol later with the subsequent investigations at the villa.”

  He turned to leave. “Stick around and help, if you've no wish to rush back.”

  Petra smiled. “Thanks, I'd like that.” She remained on the bed as she watched him leave. She continued to fiddle with her hair, her mind elsewhere.

  She so wanted to visit Katherine again, whatever the outcome. Had Alexis flown to St. Petersburg? If that were the case, what was the reason for the visit? Had he stayed at that same hotel mentioned by his grandmother in her reminiscences of the Romanovs? Could it be merely coincidence or was there more to Katherine's ramblings than just a sensational historical connection? Once again, her head was
spinning with unanswered questions. Since Rob's revelations, she was desperate to learn the truth about Katherine's mysterious grandson, but firstly, there was tomorrow's mission to survive.

  8888

  Petra was still sleeping when a foretaste of the day's unfolding horrors took place over 100 kilometres east of her hotel room. As the silver entrails of a fading moon receded from the placid surface of the Mediterranean Sea, the first streaks of dawn began to project their pink, sun-kissed fingers over the horizon.

  A shadowy figure approached the man who had just appeared from his cabin below deck. The shadow's arm reached out, plunging a knife upwards into the man's back. His heartbeat ceased as the blade ripped apart his vital organ. The victim lunged forward from the force of the assault. His assailant thrust his boot into the man's back, tumbling the limp body over a glistening chrome rail.

  Blood spurted from the corpse as it spun like a dying Catherine wheel towards the blue-green waves below. It quickly disappeared beneath the surface replaced by the foaming wake of the yacht. Dimitri tossed the knife overboard into the white streaks of water as the vessel ploughed through the dark depths of ocean. He turned away and busied himself with a hose to wash from the deck any vestiges of Roche's presence.

  It had been dark when the Etoile Olympique had slipped quietly from the harbour of Saint Tropez. By the time he was satisfied with his clean-up attempt, the sun had risen, casting a rosy glow over the blue and white superstructure of the yacht. He had roused Roche early to help him in getting underway before the first guests appeared for breakfast. That had been his explanation. In reality, he needed that first hour free without the presence of any crew or passengers. Not only would there be no witnesses to his evil act, but also the yacht would be far out from the shore, surrounded only by the rippling azure of the Mediterranean.

  He had dutifully carried out the instructions that he had received. He was loyal to his paymaster; he knew no other way of life. He was the perfect individual to be a right-hand man, whether as a bodyguard, an assassin or a general dogsbody. As Dumas once said, with Dimitri alongside, your chances of survival in the trenches would be increased ten fold. He would fight to the last man.

  With the warmth of the sun on his back, he headed west towards Marseille. He shrugged his shoulders; he had done the deed. He never cared much for Roche, anyway. In his opinion, the man was a loser, a low-life and an uncouth bully. He checked his watch; time for chef to start breakfasts. The early morning activity had sharpened his appetite. The day had started well, the weather forecast was good and there was a weekend of celebration to anticipate. What could go wrong?

  8888

  Immediately after breakfast, a chauffeur drove Petra and the detectives to Le Chateau des Fleurs on Boulevard Michelet, a conference centre not far from the Vélodrome. They were escorted to Salle 4, a large meeting room where representatives of all the agencies involved in the full-scale security operation had assembled. Once all non-participants had vacated, the doors were locked. There must have been close to forty attendees.

  Aided by graphic images on a screen show, the director of the operation explained each detail meticulously. The presentation covered roles, responsibilities, positions and exact timings. There was to be no contingency plan. The only acceptable result was a successful outcome.

  Following the briefing, they returned to their respective hotels to prepare themselves and their minds for what lay ahead. Unfortunately, this period of inactivity tormented the thoughts of Massey and Harcourt. In their minds, they were about to face the unknown. Both detectives had been in similar situations preparing themselves for a drugs raid or a criminal suspect swoop. However, none of their previous experiences had prepared them for a mission of this magnitude.

  Petra had no time to dwell on such things. Rob had asked her to join him for an early lunch at a nearby restaurant before he left to join the task force. They sat on a terrace outside La Samaritaine on the Quai du Port and ordered two seafood platters. To a passer-by, they must have seemed like a couple of holidaymakers taking lunch together. The sun shone, promising good weather for the approaching engagement party and its unexpected guests.

  Rob had quietly observed the detectives’ reactions. He impressed on Petra the importance of the forthcoming operation and the part that she had to play. She appreciated his concerns.

  “It's vital,” he said, “that your detective friends understand that this mission is not like a normal police raid or a simple house arrest. The action is more likely to run as a military offensive, different to anything that they may have previously experienced. Don't forget that you have undergone specialist training for dealing with such situations, including how to outwit and overcome desperate adversaries.

  “It will be crucial to monitor your two colleagues constantly. Do not allow that to obstruct any decision that you deem necessary. If you give them an order, impress upon them that they must carry it out to the letter. I know that you can be tough, if required. Today, that approach could be fundamental, not only to our success but also to your own survival.”

  Petra nodded in agreement. “From past experience, Massey has always struck me as organised, resolute and disciplined. Harcourt is an unknown quantity. She appears to want to be in control, but somehow lacks the necessary air of authority. I don't intend to be over-reliant on them.”

  “Good. After the event, they'll need to be de-briefed. Ensure that they stick around. What are your immediate intentions when it's all over?”

  “You mean I can take a break or have you something planned?”

  “A couple of days off may be on the cards.”

  “I need to stop off at Limoges before returning home to hand over the car and the apartment. There's also unfinished business there with a certain old lady.”

  Rob was coming to terms over her preoccupation with Alexis and his grandmother. “Okay, but remember, there will be resultant business to conduct in the U.K. I believe that Counter-Terrorism Command, SO13, will lead that in liaison with local forces. We will still have to resolve the fall-out from this mess, so don't stray too far. You may be called into action nearer to home.”

  Suddenly, a stranger interrupted them. He approached Rob and greeted him warmly. “Ralf…Ralf Mairose in person…what a pleasant surprise!”

  Rob spun round, looked towards the voice and stood to face a giant of a man. He wore a faded green tee shirt, yellow Bermuda shorts and sandals. His appearance reminded Petra of a monstrous pineapple.

  Rob gasped with astonishment. “Yury, my friend…it's been a long time.”

  Petra recollected her first encounter with Rob in Phuket. She cast her mind back to when he had set off to help survivors of the tsunami. In his bedroom, she had discovered an assortment of passports; one alias was Ralf Mairose. His past appeared to have caught up with him.

  The two men hugged each other cordially before Rob turned to introduce her.

  Yury took her hand and brushed it with his lips; his grip was firm but gentle. “How fortunate to meet you again and with such a beautiful companion.” Yury's voice seemed to boom across the terrace. “What are you doing in Marseille, besides enjoying local seafood in this wonderful setting?”

  Petra smiled in response to his compliment. Yury was well over six feet, built like a bear, probably aged mid to late forties, she thought. His fair hair was cropped short, his face angular but of sallow complexion, his eyes deep blue and smiling. Without any invitation, he drew up a chair and joined them at the table.

  Rob seemed a little apprehensive of his intrusion. The Russian ordered drinks…three vodkas. Petra glanced at Rob as if to say that this was not the moment for socialising or starting a drinking session. Time was pressing.

  “Nazdarovye.” Yury downed his vodka in one. “You here on vacation or is this a business trip?” He winked at Petra, laughing loudly.

  Rob raised his glass. “Cheers. It's a mixture…business and pleasure. How about you, Yury…still ploughing the same co-operative fu
rrow?”

  Yury clicked his fingers at a waiter and indicated another round of drinks. “Times have changed, my friend. Gone are the days when the state would send you around the world to exotic locations. That image exists only in your James Bond films.” He brushed his fingers through his thick mass of short hair. “Now, all our questions are answered in cyber-space. I can achieve more success in a two-bedroom apartment in Moscow just by logging onto the internet.”

  “So why are you here in Marseille?” Rob asked. “Is this time off for good behaviour?”

  The Russian grinned and lowered his voice. “You would hardly credit it. They have sent me to investigate an arms dealer. This bastard has been supplying arms to the Chechens…the bloody Chechens! Can you believe that? I can remember the time when all the arms dealers supplied only the Russians.” He roared with laughter.

  The waiter arrived with three more vodkas. Petra had yet to sip from her first glass. Yury gulped most of his down immediately and leaned once more across the table. He grasped Rob's wrist tightly. It was as if he had trapped his arm in a vice.

  “You know me, Ralf. I am an expert…that is why I am here. I have found the bastard. This afternoon, I am paying him a visit with some of my friends.” He let go his grip. “He won't be supplying the Chechens or anyone else after we have finished with him.” He drained the glass and licked his lips. “The best part is that I am going to sort him out in front of his guests. He is holding a party for his daughter's engagement. Fuck his celebrations. Yury will show him that you cannot fuck with the Russians.”

  He slammed the empty glass on the table, stood and checked his watch. “I need to go.” He looked down at Petra and held out his hand. “Delighted to meet you.” He turned to Rob. “She doesn't say much, does she?” He winked. “You've certainly pulled a fit looking broad there, as the Americans say.” He held out his hand. “If you fancy meeting up for a drink whilst you are here, I am staying at the Hotel de Rome in the centre of town…room number sixty four.”