The Diva Crusade (John McRae Book 1)

by Phoenix Ford

  “I really don’t know, but I think two million dollars would go a long way.”

  “Okay. I will request $200,000 from each of the families but let them know we may need more for future activities. I won’t be too specific about our plans because it’s too risky. I’ll just say it’s to help Christians who are being persecuted in the Middle East. When I have the money collected I will deliver it to you to get into the right hands through the priest at the Greek Orthodox Church for use in Syria. I’ll give you the contact details. The Greeks can help with logistics too, and believe me, they will want to help. If our plans are successful it’s quite likely that the Iranians and the Kurds will start their own terror tactics against the Islamic State. The American, French and Russian bombs help a lot, but our plan attacks the problem at the source, the the Islamic State mosques where their radical clerics poison the minds of their ignorant followers who accept everything they say on blind faith. It’s like these people don’t even have minds of their own.”

  After coffee and a shot of grappa Eleanora showed some of her finest paintings to the Monsignor because he was such an art lover. He complimented her on the restoration of a small portrait by Leonardo da Vinci, one of the most valuable pieces in her large collection. To avoid prohibitive inheritance taxes most of the old Italian families with these old palaces and villas either had to turn their homes into museums during the day or at least make their collections available for viewing on certain days according to a schedule. Eleanora opted for the latter arrangement and was permitted to lock her private rooms and open only the public rooms where most of the art was displayed. After Eleanora and the Monsignor walked through the villa he returned to his car and drove back to the Vatican where he lived in a small apartment.

  CHAPTER 5

  Eleanora disembarked from the Metro at the Louvre-Rivoli station, crossed the street to the other side and walked up the Rue de Rivoli towards her hotel not far from the Chatelet station. She had been in Paris more than a week but left the offices of Angolaturbine just after lunch today. She had seen the American acquisition team as she walked past a glass-walled conference room and noticed that John McRae wasn’t a bad looking guy, early 40s, swimmer’s body, and tall with light brown hair slightly gray at the temples. She had not shared with Monsignor Polombo how she had previously arranged for John McRae to have an “accident” by contacting a distant mafioso cousin or let the Monsignor know those efforts would resume if John McRae got too close to the truth. Hopefully all the bogus seismic work documentation she had planted in the offices would adequately cover the trail including the shipment of all remaining explosives and blasting caps to Cyprus last week. If all went well it would just look like the small seismic division had been a loser. John McRae’s company wasn’t interested in seismic work anyway.

  At the Louvre she had stopped to view two particular Italian Renaissance paintings which had been restored by a particular artist she was considering for her next restoration. Most of her share of the income from the vineyards went to the costs of these periodic restorations. Walking along the Rue de Rivoli she considered the high quality of the restorations and decided the artist would be good if she could get an affordable price. Obviously she lacked the financial resources of the Louvre. If the restoration was not done soon the problems with the painting would get much worse.

  Last Friday the brothers of St. Pachomius should have collected the crates of explosives from the freight forwarder in Cyprus, loaded them into the hold of a fishing boat and made the journey back to the Port of Tartous in Syria where it would just appear as an ordinary fishing boat returning from the day’s run. She was told that they had already made fifty suicide vests to fill with the explosives and were planning their first big attack in Al-Raqqah at all the major mosques for a week from Friday. They had more than fifty men and women volunteer, all elderly people, some with serious illnesses. They were willing to sacrifice their lives to preserve their faith as Syrian Christians. The good thing was that they looked the same as Muslim Syrians and could easily blend in, especially in a different city like Al-Raqqah. It was on the northern bank of the Euphrates River in Northern Syria. The attack was somewhat smaller than originally planned but nevertheless expected to be catastrophic with explosions in all the major mosques, most of the smaller ones and a few crowded markets too. With any luck the most extreme clerics would perish in the blasts.

  Eleanora entered through a side door by the restaurant of the Novotel and went directly to her room to pack before leaving for Charles de Gaulle Airport. She planned to catch an early evening flight back to Rome.

  CHAPTER 6

  Sylvia Walsh frowned as she read the top secret report on her desk at MI6 in London. She was one of many operatives who worked in the Middle East section of the British spy agency. The report detailed how forty-seven explosions in Al-Raqqah and Mosul had killed more than a thousand people in mosques at Friday prayers and in several crowded markets on the same day. Many others were injured. So far no group had claimed responsibility. She picked up her phone and dialed Reggie Arnold in Washington. Reggie was a professor at Georgetown University and a consultant on Syria for the Central Intelligence Agency with a top security clearance.

  “Hi, Reggie. This is Sylvia in London. I’m getting some disturbing reports out of Al-Raqqah and thought I’d better check to find out if you know anything about it.”

  “Hi, Sylvia. It’s always nice to hear from you even for something like this.” They were both in their mid-30s, she a good-looking blonde with an alluring smile and he a tall thin American with a razor sharp mind. He had a PhD. from Harvard University with a specialty in Middle Eastern Studies. A year earlier they had a brief fling but decided that due to distance and the demands of their respective careers that it was best to just remain friends. This did nothing, however, to dampen their mutual attraction. “You must be calling about all the suicide bomber explosions.”

  “Yes, exactly – even though some of the top Islamic State hierarchy were eliminated so many innocent people were killed or injured. Do you have any information on what group is responsible? We need to stop them before they do something like this again. Even though I am happy to see anything that hurts the Islamic State extremists they might use these attacks as a recruiting tool to attract more gullible Muslims.”

  “Only a rumor, Sylvia, which needs to be substantiated. One of our agents in Al-Raqqah reported that one of the bombers was shot before he could detonate his vest and that he was wearing a silver cross on a chain around his neck. There’s speculation in our offices that this could be some kind of retribution for the murder of hundreds of Syrian Orthodox Christians and the destruction of their ancient religious sites.”

  “Oh, that’s just what we need,” she replied sarcastically. “The Islamic State will describe these activities as a new crusade against.”

  “Well, we have no choice but to wait for someone to claim responsibility or to otherwise obtain some reliable information from Syria. Our guys are trying to learn what they can. I’ll call you if I hear anything.”

  “Thank you, Reggie. I’ll put out some feelers too and will let you know if I hear anything.”

  Later that day Sylvia learned that one of her agents managed to get a sample of bomb residue from one of the sites. He was sending it to her in a diplomatic pouch from Baghdad. With that residue their lab would be able to determine the type of explosives used and possibly their origin. Her boss had called her to a private meeting to discuss their desire to put a lid on this incident quickly if possible to avoid giving the Islamic State yet another recruitment tool. The goal of the Islamic State was to establish a new Caliphate of their brand of Wahabi Sunni Muslim extremism. For anyone of a different faith they offered only two choices, conversion or death. Sylvia also called another operative with contacts in the Syrian Orthodox Church. Thousands of them had fled Syria and were in a special encampment in Lebanon for safety. After her call she booked a flight to Beirut where she would meet with
the Syrian Orthodox Church hierarchy to try to determine what was really happening in Al-Raqqah.

  CHAPTER 7

  A week later John McRae walked up the rue St. Lazare to pick up some takeout food for an early dinner in his room. Tonight he walked past the Chinese place and farther down the street to a patisserie which had good quiche as well as takeout salad. He was going to a concert of a Mahler symphony and a Vivaldi cello sonata tonight at Salle Pleyel. Because the concert started at 8 P.M. he planned to eat dinner in his room and stop somewhere for a café express before the concert.

  It had been a long and tedious day. Max Rhinehart, the chief financial officer of his company, had been here the past two days to negotiate the final purchase price. After a tedious morning and early afternoon of haggling and bickering between the parties they finally signed the Letter of Intent at 3:30 PM. Max was returning to Houston tomorrow morning, but John was staying a few more days to help kick off the real due diligence here in Paris before starting the more extensive due diligence in Angola. Here in Paris it was mostly a matter of examining the books and records except that here in Paris there was one sizable warehouse where Angolaturbine stored equipment and supplies purchased in Europe prior to shipment to Angola. He was in a good mood because they got a lesser purchase price than expected, and Max had complimented him for his negotiation of an acceptable Letter of Intent.

  The next morning John arrived at nine o’clock at Angolaturbine’s warehouse and started his inventory of records. Today he would mostly just list the records which would be examined much more closely by the French law firm that would be representing John’s company in the purchase of Angolaturbine. That process did not take too long. What surprised him were the amount of recent orders for seismic work. After he finished the inventory he walked out of the warehouse office and asked to see the area where seismic materials were stored. He was led to a large walk-in wire mesh cage. It was empty, and it was locked.

  “Why so much storage space empty?” he asked George duBois, the warehouse manager.

  “A week ago it was full, but we shipped everything to the plant in Angola last week,” he lied.

  “I’m going there in a couple of days. Will I be able to see the seismic inventory there?” John asked.

  “You can see what they already have on hand, but it will take a couple of more weeks for last week’s shipment to clear customs.”

  “That’s too bad because we are concerned to know much more about the seismic part of the business. I really don’t understand why Angolaturbine is even in that business, but I’m sure I’ll learn the history of it in Angola.”

  George duBois waited five minutes after John left to call Eleanora in Rome on his personal mobile phone. “He just left the warehouse. Unfortunately he is very interested in the seismic inventory and records. He seemed surprised by the size of our seismic storage space in Paris and doesn’t understand why Angolaturbine is even in that business. This means lots of discussion and extra scrutiny.”

  “Thank you for the call, George.” Immediately she called her cousin Angelo in Trastevere.

  “Buongiorno, Angelo, Eleanora calling. The problem has returned.”

  “No problem, cara. How much time do we have?”

  “Two nights here in Paris. Then he goes to Angola,” Eleanora replied.

  “We will succeed in one of the two places. Don’t worry about anything. Leave everything to me.”

  John rode the cage elevator in his hotel up to his room on the 4th floor. After booking an Air France flight to Luanda for the day after tomorrow he spent an hour reading through email. Fortunately there were no “fires” to extinguish. Tomorrow was officially a work day, but he planned to visit the Edouard Vuillard exhibit at the Grand Palais that everyone in Paris was talking about. As a late impressionist, Vuillard wasn’t as well known as many of the other impressionists, but his work was much admired by John. This was a rare opportunity to see so much of it in one exhibit.

  The next morning he arrived at the Galeries Nationales du Grand Palais in the 8th arrondissement at close to 10:30. It was a large and imposing building with many entrances built for the 1900 Exposition Universelle. He managed to find the right entrance and waited in line to buy his ticket for the Vuillard exhibit.

  After a few minutes someone tapped his shoulder from behind. A good-looking blonde in her mid-30s smiled at him and said “Excuse me, sir. My name is Sylvia Walsh.” She flashed an official-looking ID in a leather case. “I work for the British Secret Intelligence Service. Are you John McRae?”

  “Yes. Oh my goodness,” John replied. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”

  “No, sir. It’s nothing like that,” Sylvia smiled. “Could we sit on that bench over there so we can chat for a few minutes. I promise it won’t take long.”

  “Sure,” John replied. He followed her to the bench where they sat down. “Now what’s all this about?”

  Sylvia opened a thin leather valise and pulled out a file. “The branch of the British Secret Service I work for is commonly known as MI6. We are similar to your Central Intelligence Agency. Because the U.K. and the U.S. are such close allies I work closely with the CIA.” She showed him her official ID. “Last night I received a call from Professor Arnold in Washington, D.C. He’s a professor at Georgetown University in Middle Eastern Studies, and he often works closely with the CIA, mostly as a consultant. It seems that the National Security Agency in the U.S. has picked up some telephone chatter about a company in Angola by the name of Angolaturbine Industries.”

  “Why, that’s the equipment manufacturer my employer is trying to buy in Angola. I’ve been here in Paris negotiating with their French owners and am flying there tomorrow to kick off the due diligence in Angola.”

  “Mr. McRae, I am here to tell you not to board that flight.”

  “Why?”

  “Telephone chatter picked up by the U.S. National Security Agency indicated there’s a mafioso plan to keep you away from Angolaturbine,” Sylvia replied.

  “But why would the mafia be interested in me?” John looked bewildered. “And I didn’t even make my plane reservations until last night.”

  “At this point we don’t know, but if you board that flight it could be your last. Could you tell me what your immediate plans were upon arrival in Angola?”

  “This company is primarily an equipment manufacturer, and right now they are the only company in Angola technically qualified for the type of welding techniques necessary for the manufacture of high pressure deep water oil and gas production equipment. That’s why we want to buy them. This constitutes most of their business, but here in Paris I discovered that they have a small seismic operation too. As a lawyer, this concerns me due to potential liabilities. In their warehouse here in Paris I expected to inspect the explosives on hand but learned they had been shipped to Angola last week. On this trip I was planning to learn as much as possible about their seismic business.”

  “Very worrisome. Anything involving explosives is potentially a big security issue due to the level of terrorism in today’s world. Mr. McRae, you must not board that flight. You must let Professor Arnold and me get to the bottom of this before you take this any further.”

  “But I am the company lawyer assigned to this transaction. I am responsible for coordinating the legal due diligence. It’s my job.”

  “Look, this is what I suggest. Why don’t you let me go to Angola for you tomorrow? I can tell them I am your legal assistant, and I will dig around to try to find out what is going on with the explosives. We must keep all of this a secret except that Professor Arnold can call the president of your company, explain and gain his cooperation. But whatever you do, you must not breathe a word of this to anyone. It’s for your own safety.”

  “Okay, but I will have to spend a couple of hours with you explaining the company background, our business, the letter of intent and the goals of our due diligence process. Otherwise it won’t appear plausible that you are my assistant.”

&
nbsp; “You’re staying at the Hotel Langlois?” Sylvia asked.

  “Yes! But how did you know that?”

  Sylvia smiled. “We’re not called a spy agency for nothing. I know a small restaurant not too far from there. In fact, it’s very close to the big department store Printemps on Boulevard Haussmann. They have a small private room they will let us use for dinner and our discussion. It’s called Chez Roxelane. Could you meet me there at 7 PM?”

  ”Sure,” he replied. They both stood up. “I’m going inside to see the Vuillard exhibit, but I’ll see you tonight at 7, Sylvia. And since we’re having dinner together please call me John.” He smiled at her. She said good-bye and walked away. He couldn’t help but watch her shapely figure and the bounce of dark blonde hair off her shoulders as she walked away. He wasn’t certain about her age, but he guessed it to be early 30’s.

  John walked through the large exhibit. He admired the paintings, especially one of fishermen and boats, but all he could really think about was that someone was planning to kill him going to Angola or in Angola. The incidents six months earlier must have been intentional. He would tell Sylvia about those tonight. Someone was afraid he was going to find something, but what?

  CHAPTER 8

  Sylvia was already seated in the small backroom where she had made their reservation under the name Antoinette Plaissance. “How was the exhibit, John?” she smiled as she shook his hand. She was wearing red jeans, a light blue blouse and a striped blue and white seersucker jacket with a single strand of pearls and small gold loop earrings.