by Phoenix Ford
“How are things going, cara?” the Monsignor asked.
“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” she replied as the waiter served their drinks. Eleanora picked up her juice, took a sip and set it down, waiting until the waiter walked away to continue talking. “The Syrian Christians gave the Islamic State a severe punch in the stomach with the explosives in Al-Raqqah, but I’m afraid it was hardly a death blow. Because the Americans are now trying to buy Angolaturbine and have teams of lawyers and accountants and other people giving the company much scrutiny I have lost my source for explosives. I understand we could buy such things on the black market, but the Syrian Christians have sent back a message. Rather than more explosives they want to catch the Islamic State totally off guard with something much more devastating. They want to poison the entire water supply for Al-Raqqah as well as Mosul which the Islamic State also controls. They have requested some kind of lethal poison for their people to smuggle into Syria for this purpose.”
“Absolutely no!” Polombo replied. “Thousands of innocent people would die too, many of the people we are trying to save from the Islamic State. We are not at war against Islam or the normal people of Syria. We are at war with the Islamic State extremists because they are unmercifully persecuting Syrian Christians and anyone else including their Muslim brethren who do not share their extremist views. The Islamic State is killing thousands of innocent people solely because their religious point of view is different in any way. ”
“Yes, I too have considered this risk. I understand and agree that the Islamic State is the enemy, not innocent people who do not share their extremism or wish to be dominated by them. What do you think about limiting their plan to an attack more limited to the Islamic State?” she asked.
“What do you have in mind?” he asked.
“Nearly all traditional buildings in the Middle East have flat roofs with a water tank on the roof. The water pressure is usually so low that they need these tanks to increase the pressure in their houses, apartment buildings and other buildings. What if we require the Syrian Christians to limit their water poisoning to water tanks on top of the Islamic State government buildings, mosques frequented by Islamic State extremists, the Islamic State military facilities, the Islamic State madrassas where they teach their evil doctrine, homes of known the Islamic State leaders and any other buildings used by the Islamic State?” Eleanora asked.
“If they will agree to that I will whole-heartedly endorse the plan and support it however I can.”
“Okay. I will tell the Greek priest of this requirement and ask him to require the Syrian Christians to surveil Al-Raqqah and Mosul and to identify which buildings with water tanks will be the targets. I will ask them to plan how they will get to each water tank in advance to make sure the target is feasible. I will suggest to the Greek that if they have anyone with Black Ops training to help prepare the Syrian Christians for their missions it would be good. They should all be carefully trained and then checked to not wear any Christian symbol or any clothes with labels or carry anything that would give away where they come from. I would imagine that many buildings used by the military and government are closely guarded, so I fully expect some of the Syrians to be killed.”
“What type of poison did they request?” Polombo asked. He swallowed the rest of his espresso.
“They didn’t specify, but I chose Potassium Chloride at a lethal dosage,” Eleanora replied.
“Can you get it?”
“Yes. I can get it through someone else I can trust from a supplier somewhere in China. I’m sure Iran would happily provide it if given the chance, but we have had no contact with them. Potassium Chloride is not too expensive to buy, but the bribes to be paid and logistics of getting it from China to Syria are likely to be very expensive. After I know more details I will tell you how much money we need. This is just a guess, but I expect it to be another two to three million dollars.” Eleanora finished her juice.
“That’s pocket change to the person I will ask. Please let me know the amount when you get the details.”
“I will call you as soon as I know more. I imagine it will take a few days for them to investigate and identify each building they want to hit. I am so hoping this attack will be the death blow the Islamic State needs.” Eleanora stood up to leave.
Monsignor Polombo stood too. “May the Lord protect us against evil. Shall we walk out together? I must rush off to a meeting.”
“Thank you for meeting me, my dear friend.” Eleanora smiled and shook his hand. They walked out of the café and at the door went in different directions.
CHAPTER 18
At 5 PM the white taxi was waiting for them in front of the hotel as Sylvia and John entered the lobby. John had already paid the bill so they immediately left the hotel and got in the taxi to ride to Charles de Gaulle Airport. Neither of them carried any luggage, only brief cases. Sylvia insisted on sitting in the front passenger seat while John sat in the back.
The taxi drove down the Rue Saint Lazare. Just as they were approaching the nearby Gare Saint Lazare, a train and Metro station, the back window of the taxi shattered simultaneously with the windshield. “Get down!” screamed Sylvia, pulling out her Beretta semi-automatic pistol and mobile phone at the same time. “Vite! Vite!”“ Fast! Fast!” she screamed at the driver. The windshield and rear window were mostly intact due to the safety glass but a spiderweb of cracks with a bullet hole very close to the back of where John’s head had been in both windows. The bullet had passed completely through the taxi.
Speed dialing Jean Paul Solleder of the Sûreté while lowering her window Sylvia turned her attention to the rear of the taxi racing through intersections and making sudden evasive turns while a black late model Renault sedan gave chase. John was flat on the floorboard of the car. “Jean Paul, it’s Sylvia here in Paris with John McRae. We have an emergency. We’re being chased, and they’re shooting at us. Hang on!” She quickly leaned out the passenger side holding her Beretta taking a quick shot back at the car just as a man leaned out of a side window of the black Renault and took another shot at them. This time he missed the taxi completely. “Yes, Jean Paul, I think we can lose them after a few more blocks.” After listening another moment she said “Yes, we can go to that garage.”
Sylvia turned towards the driver who was really not a taxi driver at all but another MI6 operative posing as a taxi driver and well trained in evasive driving maneuvers. In advance the Sûreté had arranged for garages at three different locations as safe destinations if being chased. At each location the Sûreté had at least two of its operatives with fully automatic weapons ready to spring into action 24 hours per day. “We are closest to Opera, their code word for the garage close to the old Paris Opera. Thanks, Jean Paul.” She ended the call.
Their driver had managed to get two blocks ahead of the Renault. Then, miraculously, at the next intersection just as their car passed through the intersection a bus started crossing their street but got stalled in traffic, completely blocking all traffic behind them including the Renault. “Quick,” Sylvia spoke to their driver. “Lose them and go to garage code Opera.”
Despite the short distance it took them a half-hour to reach the garage due to thick traffic at this time of day. Upon arrival they were immediately admitted to the garage and taken to an office within the garage temporarily assigned to the Sûreté. The office had no windows and was stuffy with stale cigarette smoke. “Haven’t you heard that cigarettes cause cancer?” Sylvia grimaced as she looked back at the Sûreté operative accompanying them.
He smiled. “Jean Paul will join you in a moment. I guess those people somehow found where you were staying. You won’t have to breathe this air very long. We have an armored vehicle on its way to take you to our headquarters.” He stepped outside the office door and left Sylvia and John inside.
“Well, I guess this means we’re not going to Angola tonight,” John said as he sat down. Sylvia took a seat too.
“No,
I think not. Let’s wait to talk with Jean Paul, but I think it’s time for you to go back to the U.S. for a while. You can send your colleagues to Angola for you.” Sylvia pulled out her Blackberry to scan her messages.
Moments later Jean Paul Solleder opened the door and entered the small room. He took the only remaining chair. “Well, we are grateful that nobody was injured. However, John, you must get out of Paris tonight. These attempts on your life bear all the markings of mafia-type assassination attempts. I suggest you fly to Amsterdam and return to the USA tomorrow morning. We have an armored vehicle waiting to take you to our headquarters and then to Charles de Gaulle Airport. We’ll provide protection at the airport too. You need to stay out of Paris for a while until we catch these criminals. I have little doubt it’s about the missing explosives from the company you’ve been interested in buying. Sylvia, I suggest you accompany John at least as far as Amsterdam.”
John looked at Sylvia, waiting for her to speak. “Yes, I think those are the best suggestions to be made.” Sylvia had the appearance of regret as she spoke.
“Well, we’ve had several other people from our company looking at Angolaturbine’s plant in Luanda so I can authorize the local law firm to proceed with their due diligence without me attending the opening meeting. Our law firm here in Paris will be managing the Angolan lawyers too. Most of the records I need to see are here in Paris anyway, and I’ve already reviewed them. But what I really need is for that CIA man to call the president of my company and explain all of this to him so that he will understand I have no choice but to return to the U.S.”
“That’s no problem at all. I’m sure that Professor Reggie Arnold will be happy to call on behalf of the CIA. At least this plan will allow you to get back to the other work I’m sure you must have waiting.” She smiled.
“Okay,” Jean Paul said as he stood. “Let’s take the armored car to our headquarters, and you can make your flight arrangements. I’m sure that either Air France or KLM will accommodate you.”
CHAPTER 19
Air France had a flight to Amsterdam just past 8 PM. An airport security vehicle drove them directly to the plane where the other passengers had already boarded. The Sûreté had authority to use assumed names for Sylvia and John so that no one hacking into a computer system to view a flight manifest could find them. Sylvia and John hopped out of the car and hurried up the stairs into the plane just before the stairs were wheeled away. It was a relatively small prop plane with seventy seats.
John followed Sylvia to their seats just above the wings of the aircraft. The flight appeared to be two-thirds full. It looked like most of the passengers were tired business people who had worked a long day. “Do you know how long this flight is?” John asked Sylvia as they sat down. She stashed her briefcase under the seat in front of her, and John did the same. The Sûreté had packed their things at the hotel and had had their suitcases loaded onto the plane before they boarded. “Not long,” Sylvia replied. “Approximately one hour fifteen minutes.” When you consider the amount of time most travelers must wait at the airport before boarding and the time to get to and from the airports in both cities, many people prefer to take the train which takes roughly five hours. In our case, it is much safer to travel this way.”
A flight attendant was taking orders for drinks as she made her way down the aisle. When she got to their row Sylvia said “whiskey, neat.” John smiled. “A mineral water if you have it.” The stewardess nodded and walked to the next row. “I thought you didn’t drink when you are working,” he said with a grin. “In case it makes you feel nervous don’t be concerned,” replied Sylvia. “There are two Interpol plain clothes officers on this flight.”
“Interpol?” he asked. “How did they get involved?”
“It’s because the French think the mafia are involved in the situation,” Sylvia replied. For you that’s good because they will be providing protection for you in Amsterdam too.” Their plane was about to take off.
Five minutes later they were in the air. The stewardess was quickly serving the drinks. She placed a napkin, glass, miniature bag of salty peanuts in front of each of them and then set a miniature bottle of Glenlivet in front of Sylvia and a can of mineral water with a glass and ice in front of John. “Thank you, nurse,” John said with a smile as the stewardess moved to the next aisle.
After they had both poured their drinks John raised his glass and said “Here’s to our survival for another day.” “I’ll drink to that,” replied Sylvia, clinking her glass against his.
“What’s the plan for Amsterdam?” he asked. “This is Thursday night. I haven’t been to Amsterdam in a couple of years. I’m thinking instead of returning to the U.S. tomorrow I’d like to stay the weekend to more or less wind down after all that happened in Paris. Having people trying to knock me off is a bit unsettling.”
“I think that’s a fantastic idea. I’m flying to Beirut Monday, but until then I can stay here with you to provide protection,” she smiled. “I do think you should return to the U.S. Monday.”
“Okay, that sounds great,” John replied.
“The room I booked is in the Toren. Have you stayed there before? ” Sylvia asked.
“No, but I think I know which hotel it may be. Is it in the central canal district?,” he replied.
“Yes, it’s in a building dating from the early 17th century directly on a canal surrounded by beautiful canal houses of the same era. For anyone here to relax I can’t think of a more advantageous location. You can walk almost anywhere from there or hop on a street car. And did I forget to say it’s beautiful?” She smiled and swallowed the rest of her drink.
“That part of Amsterdam is so romantic too, especially at night with those decorative lights lining the arches of canal bridges. It’s so cool the way they reflect off the water.” John smiled as he looked at Sylvia. She smiled back but said nothing.
John realized that the only reason Sylvia was with him was because it was part of her job at the moment, but unfortunately he was starting to get attached to her. He liked her crisp English voice, her beauty, her intelligence and self-assured manner and so much more. Despite all that had happened earlier in the day he found himself looking forward to a weekend in Amsterdam with Sylvia. He wanted to attend a concert at the Concertgebouw, considered one of the finest concert halls in the world, and to visit two or three museums. He hoped she wouldn’t mind playing tourist. But more than anything he looked forward to being with Sylvia in the hotel room.
CHAPTER 20
By the time Sylvia and John arrived at the Toren Hotel from Schipol Airport in Amsterdam it was 10:30 PM. Fortunately room service was still open, so they ordered a meal to their room. Both were too tired from the long stressful day to go out.
While they were waiting for their food to arrive Sylvia went into the bathroom to have a shower and came out 15 minutes later wearing a thin blue paisley robe over her pajamas. John said “I think I’ll do the same” and went into the bathroom. When he came out their meal was waiting on a small fold-up table with two of the room chairs waiting for the two of them to take their seats. They had each ordered a piece of salmon served with potatoes and spinach.
After they were seated John poured a glass of Chardonnay for Sylvia and some mineral water for himself. “Here’s to our successful escape from Paris!” he toasted and clinked his glass against Sylvia’s.
“What would you like to do tomorrow?” she asked, taking another sip of her wine..
“I’d like to sleep at least until 9 AM and then go to the ticket office of the Concertgebouw to find out what they are performing tomorrow night. If it sounds good I’ll get tickets. Do you mind going to a couple of museums afterwards? If the weather is nice we could have a late lunch, maybe at a restaurant or cafe with sidewalk tables overlooking a canal,” he replied.
“That sounds good to me. I was here a couple of months ago, but I was working as usual and had no time to do anything fun. What museums do you have in mind?” she asked.<
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“I heard that the Riksmuseum has finally re-opened after years of renovation. Even though I’ve been there several times I would love to see the Rembrandts again and all the interesting memorabilia of Holland’s Golden Age. Also, if you’re game I’d like to visit the Hermitage Amsterdam museum. In case you have never been there, it’s an outpost of the Hermitage in St. Petersburg where they have so much art and other treasures they can only show a small percentage at any one time. The Russians put some of their collections on display at this museum, and periodically the exhibits are changed. I haven’t been there since they moved from a small building to a large 17th century building which was originally an almshouse for elderly people. Do those suggestions interest you?” John asked.
“They sound marvelous. I need to make a few phone calls in the morning, but that won’t take very long.” Sylvia smiled at John. “We will need to let Interpol know our general plans because they will have one or two agents following us everywhere for protection --- just in case.”
“Bon appetit,” John said, gazing into Sylvia’s beautiful blue eyes. He took a sip of his wine.
“Bon appetit,” she replied with a smile, sipping her wine, then lifting her fork and knife to take a bite of the salmon. “Delicious,” she said. “I’m so hungry.”
“Yes, I’m hungry too,” he replied. “I’m glad to have a chance to relax.”
After another blissful night with Sylvia, John felt happy to be standing with her in line at the Concertgebouw’s ticket office the next morning at eleven o’clock. He was going to purchase their tickets for an 8 PM performance of Brahms piano sonatas performed by some German pianist whose name he did not recognize. He knew the pianist must be excellent; otherwise he would not be performing at this concert hall. Sylvia waited near the door chatting with the Interpol agent, a woman dressed as a tourist holding a map.
It took ten minutes, but John managed to get two good seats in the side orchestra section of the concert hall. Walking up to Sylvia he said “Well, are you ready for the Rijksmuseum?”