Eight

by James R. Vance

  “Still, it's solved my problem…they're finally in the library. We'd best hang on here. It seems that the action could kick off any minute.”

  At precisely 18.30hrs, from his position in the walkway, Cathcart detonated the explosive device. Outside, chaos descended on the main body of the engagement party. Guests fled in all directions. Security staff appeared on the scene, vacating their positions.

  Tom Cathcart entered the library through the vestibule, carrying an AK47 assault rifle. He beckoned the stunned visitors to follow him to the helicopter, telling Dumas to stay put with his associates in case of more bombs. Dumas ordered him to tell the pilot to fly the Al Qaeda associates to the safety of the yacht.

  Petra was halfway along the corridor, her hand gripping the Sig Sauer in her shoulder bag. Harcourt and Massey followed behind. One armed guard, anxious to see what had happened, had left the library doorway to peer through a side window of the anteroom.

  “Laissez tomber vos armes!” she screamed at them on entering the anteroom, her gun pointing first at the guard by the door, then swinging towards the one by the window. Taken completely by surprise, they lowered their firearms to the ground.

  “Au dessous…sur le sol,” she shouted. They dropped to the floor. “Volte-face. Restez le visage en bas, les mains sur la tête.” She had rehearsed her commands in French before leaving the hotel. Would they understand?

  They obediently faced downwards and put their hands behind their heads. Breathing a sigh of relief, she stood over them, legs apart, the gun pointing from head to head. Massey looked on, impressed by her cool dominance. She had instructed Harcourt to act as a rearguard and to watch their backs. She stood by the entrance to the anteroom, nervously pointing her gun down the corridor.

  Massey checked his watch. “That's two minutes, go now!”

  Petra shouted at Harcourt. “Guard these two. If they move, shoot the bastards.” She tried the door to the library. It was locked. She stepped back and fired twice at the lock, smashing it in bits. She forced open the door with the heel of her foot and entered the room. Dumas and several others were huddled together in the far corner away from the windows. She levelled her gun at them. He and two other men, members of his legal team, stared at her. They displayed a mixture of fear and curiosity. Alexis was with them, stood to one side. Confused but relieved at seeing him again, she glanced about the room.

  Massey followed her. Suddenly an armed guard appeared in the vestibule, raised and pointed his assault rifle at Petra. He was too late. Ducking level with a table, she took him out with two shots. He dropped to the floor.

  “Face the wall,” she screamed at Dumas and his colleagues. They half turned as a second guard entered the vestibule and took aim. The bullets flew past Petra, striking Massey in the shoulder. They lodged in the wall, spraying it with his blood, tissue and fragments of bone. He dropped to the floor. Harcourt screamed. Petra ducked low and shot dead the second guard. As she raised herself from a crouching position, she felt the cold metal of a gun barrel on her neck. The two guards from the anteroom stood behind her.

  “Ne tuez pas!” Dumas yelled at the guards. He addressed Petra. “Put down your gun. You are more use alive than dead.”

  She placed the Sig on an adjacent table before turning round to find Harcourt kneeling over Massey. The detective was attempting to stem the flow of blood from his wound. Untrained for critical situations, Harcourt had left her post to tend to her colleague. So much for my rear cover, thought Petra. Alexis came across, took her firearm and backed away.

  Shit, she thought, that's the second gun I've lost. Rob'll kill me if these guys don't kill me first. Why am I even thinking that? She looked across at Dumas. “You're surrounded by an international counter-terrorism unit. I suggest that you give yourselves up before other lives are lost.”

  Dumas smiled. “Vous êtes mes otages. Hostages make for good assurance.” He picked up the detectives’ weapons and took charge of the situation. He turned to Alexis. “Search them. Check they not carry any other weapons. After, everyone go down the walkway to the cabin. There is safer. There I negotiate with the lives of my hostages.”

  Alexis quickly checked their pockets and the women's shoulder bags, finding only spare magazines that he gave to Dumas. The guards pushed their captives at gunpoint towards the vestibule. Harcourt helped Massey to stand before grabbing a handful of linen serviettes from a side table to assist in plugging the blood loss from his shoulder. Outside, they could hear more shooting. Scampering awkwardly through the walkway, they crouched to stay below the level of the windows.

  Petra rose up and glanced several times towards the main entrance until the dance marquee obscured her view. The front lawns were deserted. Most guests appeared to have taken cover in the shrubbery and in or behind the portakabins. The marquees now appeared to be empty apart from two security guards who were using the bar counter in the round marquee as an improvised foxhole. The assault team was nowhere in sight. What was happening, she thought. Where was Rob when needed?

  Inside the cabin, Dumas asked Petra for a contact number. “I need to arrange a safe passage for me and my friends. The helicopter will return soon.”

  Petra folded her arms and grinned defiantly. “Your chopper's gone. Your terrorist mates are en route to the U.S.A. and I don't have a contact number, so mister big shot, you're stuffed!”

  Dumas raised his arm and smacked her across the face, drawing blood from her lips. “You find me a contact to make negotiation or I shoot your friends here.”

  Harcourt looked terrified. “Petra, give him a number.”

  Massey was slumped on a sofa, his eyes closed. His face had changed colour; it was ashen. Petra realised that he would not survive without urgent medical attention. In addition to his trauma and blood loss, there was the possibility of serious internal damage.

  She turned to confront Dumas. “I'll give you a number if you allow me get medical aid for D.C.I. Massey.”

  “You are not in position to demand,” Dumas ranted. He pointed Harcourt's gun at Massey's head. “I ask once more.”

  “If you shoot us, any of us,” Petra said calmly, “you'll sign your own death warrant. You'll never leave here alive.” She looked at the two legal men. “Vous aussi,” she added, drawing her forefinger across her throat, unsure whether they understood what she had said to Dumas. Their faces paled; they knew now.

  Alexis stepped forward and whispered something in Dumas's ear. He nodded in the affirmative. Alexis, still holding Petra's handgun, ushered her down the corridor into the sauna.

  “What's going on, Alexis?” Petra asked. She stood facing him with her hands on her hips.

  “It's a long story,” he replied, tight-lipped.

  “Well, you'd better make it quick. The task force are about to blow you all away.”

  He sat on one of the slatted wooden benches, holding the Sig Sauer across his lap. “I'm sorry. Initially, I had no idea that you would become involved to this extent.”

  “Who cares? What about now?” she yelled. “Anyway, you took me to Roche's bloody house. How can you say that I wouldn't be involved?”

  “I thought that we would be safe. I was trying to impress you.”

  She glared at him, hands on hips. “You certainly did that. I ended up in hospital and then I heard that you had possibly pissed off to Russia. What's that all about?”

  Alexis took a deep breath. “Dumas has been playing this game for a long time now. For years, Marseille has had problems with crime and corruption. At first, he was small fry, merely trafficking small quantities of drugs over from North Africa. All he had to do was grease a few palms and the authorities turned a blind eye. Gradually, he became more ambitious…more involved with major players. It's all about money, financial rewards, whether he trafficks drugs or people. It matters not if they are doctors, carpenters or even terrorists. To him they are just another commodity. He has no scruples, no morals. He's an expert in creative smuggling. He provides the service
and in turn, that provides his wealth.”

  “But if you're so critical of him, how did you become involved?”

  “I came across some paperwork that Roche had carelessly left lying about. I challenged him about it. Next thing, Dumas arrived on the scene with a guy called Dimitri to deal with me. He came to the house and charmed grand'maman. She entertained them with her tale of my ancestry and their attitude towards me changed completely. I think that he visualised me as another financial opportunity.”

  “You know about the Romanov connection,” Petra said, surprised by his admission.

  Alexis smiled. “I know about grand'maman’s version. Whether it's fantasy or not, I'm unsure, but it has certainly opened doors for me. Dumas offered me a job in his organisation, a kind of ambassadorial role, selling his so-called services to some very powerful people. He put it about that I was the true heir to the Russian throne. The story propelled me to dizzy heights, unfortunately within the criminal fraternity. I was sucked in, too young and impressionable to take it seriously.”

  “So, why didn't you get out?”

  “I was naïve. I was unaware of the depth of his criminal activities. The lifestyle, the glamour, the prestige attracted me. By the time I realised what it really involved, it was too late. I knew too much.” He shrugged his shoulders. “To have walked away would have been my death sentence.”

  “Am I to understand that you are the one responsible for sending suicide bombers to the U.K. with false passports?”

  He shook his head. “Not directly. Let me explain quickly.” He adopted a more relaxed demeanour.

  Petra sat on a bench opposite.

  Alexis placed the handgun to one side. “There are radical Islamic factions who are intent on committing atrocities. However, sometimes they have difficulty in assigning trained operatives to designated targets. For example, to equip and employ British Moslem fundamentalists to cause carnage in the U.K. would involve sending them to Pakistan, Afghanistan or other such places where these training camps exist. Such trips are constantly monitored by the latest intel and surveillance techniques. On their return, they become prime suspects. Their movements are restricted, their contacts compromised and they are under constant surveillance. At the same time, there is an endless assembly line of well-trained jihad supporters, willing to die for the cause. They are stuck in various Middle Eastern countries awaiting assignations.”

  “And you decided to bring them in, disguise them as members of your football club and ship them to the U.K.?” Petra showed some annoyance with his feeble excuses.

  “Roche came up with the scheme. Initially, he suggested sending over a team of about fifteen players, but Dumas considered that would create too much media attention. Therefore, Roche became an intermediary to arrange varied forms of transport and false documentation on an individual basis. The pay-off for Dumas was generous and the scheme was successful until the cock-ups in Manchester.”

  “One died accidentally, but who was responsible for the murder of the other one?”

  “Not a clue. Maybe one of the established U.K. cells. Perhaps he was about to blow their cover. I really don't know. It was certainly not down to us.”

  “So, how do you fit into this? Do I take it that you don't actually murder innocent people, but merely facilitate the process?”

  “I'm just a negotiator, meeting with clients and arranging financial deals. Roche was the facilitator.”

  “What's the fuckin’ difference?” Petra screamed, furious with his continued evasion of her questions. “Hang on, you said ‘was’. Where is Roche? He left Limoges. We presumed that he headed for Marseille. Why isn't he here?”

  “He never made it this far. I believe that he's somewhere in the depths of the Mediterranean. He was a liability.”

  “You've killed him?”

  “As I said, Dumas has no morals.”

  Petra shook her head. “You're unbelievable. Did he blow up his own house?”

  “It contained too much evidence, especially in the cellar. I removed some and, as it was previously wired for destruction, I said that I would deal with it if necessary. It only required a phone call, but I had to be certain that you were okay. When I saw the emergency services arriving, I took off in a boat that Roche kept down on the river. I returned early the following morning to collect more documents that I stashed in my car. I returned to the cellar and shredded quite a lot of stuff. Then the gendarmes arrived, trapping me down there. Nothing appeared to have been touched, so I realised that they hadn't found the secret passage. I thought that I would be safe until they had finished searching, but then you turned up and revealed the sliding panels.”

  Petra glared at him. “So, you made it look as though you had also been Roche's victim.”

  “Got it in one. The rest you know. Fortunately, the phone call to detonate the explosion came after you arrived at the gendarmerie.”

  His composure stunned Petra. “Fortunate! They were still there. You killed the forensic team and some officers, you bastard.”

  “I'm sorry, but I didn't make the call.”

  “Too fuckin’ late for that.” Petra was now uncertain what to believe. “I suppose that you're going to have to kill at least one of us to prove that you mean business. There's already a detective dying in there unless he gets some medical attention. If you kill any more of us, the task force will simply take you out. They have what they came for. You, Dumas and his associates are just an added bonus. You know damn well that they won't negotiate with you.”

  Alexis retrieved his gun, stood and walked towards the door. “It's complex. Stay here. I'll see if I can get some help for your detective friend and ask Dumas to start negotiations at the very least. It'll give both sides time, otherwise as you said; Dumas will kill one or all of you. To him, human life is worthless unless there's a trade-off. If he believes that he can achieve a result by offering you up as his hostages, your lives will be of value to him. There must be someone with whom you can make contact. I need a number from you to call.”

  Petra took out her mobile.

  “Where's that appeared from?” Alexis asked. “You were searched earlier.”

  “Inside my right boot,” she replied, her face relaxing into a wry smile. “You only checked my clothes and my bag. Before I give you this, I want your assurance that you'll bring it straight back to me and that no harm will come to the two detectives. Phone Rob Smith. You'll find his number under ‘Smithy’. He's the best guy to contact.”

  “I'll do my best, but it may take some time. Believe me, I've no intention of hurting you or your friends.”

  Petra stepped towards him. “You fail to protect them and, God help me, I'll fuckin’ kill you!”

  Alexis shouted one of the armed security men to guard the door to the sauna. He had not envisaged this scenario. At least I can buy some time for everyone, he thought. He returned to the main lounge area. The two legal advisers sat together on a sofa; their silence reflected their anxiety. Dumas was pacing the room, but stopped and listened to what Alexis had to say. Dumas ordered the other security guard to take the detectives to the sauna, giving him more privacy to discuss how they might negotiate their own freedom.

  Whilst they discussed the situation, a smiling face appeared at a window. It was Bobo. Dumas beckoned him inside.

  “Une bataille a passée là-bas,” the young man said. “Partout boom, boom!”

  His observation of a noisy battle having taken place prompted them to realise that the shooting had actually stopped. They concluded that the security forces must have gained control, leaving Dumas and his group isolated in the cabin. The disco marquee blocked their view of the front garden area and the major part of the villa. Consequently, they were unaware of what was taking place on the outside. The sun had almost set in the west, indicating the imminent approach of darkness that would make their situation even more untenable. It was imperative to broker a deal involving the hostages. The only other option was to stage a breakout.
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  Petra was concerned for Massey. He looked in a bad way. She approached one of the men guarding the door to the sauna. She pointed at the wounded detective. “Il est blessé. J'ai besoin des serviettes de bain pour lui. Il y a beaucoup dans la salle de douche à côté. Allez chercher, vite.”

  The guard hesitated, looked at his colleague, glanced at the almost unconscious Massey and stared back at Petra.

  “Allez…vite. Portez au moins quatre ou cinq.”

  He turned and entered the adjacent shower room, brought out a pile of thick white bath towels that she had requested, threw them into the sauna and started to walk back towards the lounge.

  “Il a soif. Allez chercher de l'eau aussi.” Petra shouted. She spread some of the towels on a wooden bench to enable Massey to lie down. The remaining guard slammed the door on them.

  Harcourt protected Massey's wounded shoulder with two more towels. She turned to Petra. “I think it must have clotted. The bleeding has finally stopped. What did you just shout to that security guy?”

  “I asked him to bring some water. I also gave my phone to Alexis earlier, so that he could contact Rob.”

  “Was that wise?”

  “We need Dumas to negotiate,” she explained, “otherwise we're all dead meat. I gave him the phone on the understanding that he requests medical assistance for D.C.I. Massey.”

  Several minutes passed before the door opened again. The guard pushed Bobo inside and closed the door. The young man carried a plastic jug filled with water.

  He smiled. “Monsieur Dumas m'a demandé apporter de l'eau pour vous.”

  “Merci Bobo.”

  He passed over the jug, whereupon Petra asked Massey to take a sip.

  “Qu'est-ce que se passe au dehors?” Petra asked, attempting to persuade Bobo to update her with the state of play.

  “Une bataille, mais je pense c'est fini maintenant.”

  In their preoccupation with Massey, they had not realised that silence now reigned outside. According to Bobo, the struggle for control had apparently ceased.