The Monroe Decision

by Patrick Clark

  Before they checked out of the hotel, Aaron had logged on to the Rail Europe website and purchased two first-class tickets on the double-deck, high-speed train to the Gare de Lyon Station in Paris. He checked the time on the face of his iPhone. It’s a little before six in the morning in Washington and I have forty-five minutes before the train departs. That’s more than enough time to make a call. Sarah had started to drag her bag toward the entrance to the terminal so Aaron jogged to catch up to her.

  “Sarah, hold up a second. I need to make a phone call.” Aaron put his hand on her shoulder. “C’mon, let’s sit in the park for a few minutes. We don’t need to go into that madhouse yet. We have plenty of time and it’ll give me a chance to call Stafford.”

  She glanced at her watch, then nodded and followed him across a street that was closed off at both ends by concrete barriers toward the park steps and the lake fountain. They walked down the steps and found an empty park bench and sat under towering lights that flickered on and off — not far from a metal dragon where a few children played but far enough that his conversation with the handler would not be heard by others.

  “Baby, are you okay?” Aaron asked. Sarah still wore a frown and seemed distant. She sat and Aaron reached over and placed his hand on her thigh. She bit her lip.

  Aaron pulled out his cell phone and called his handler.

  * * *

  Stafford answered after several rings and immediately initiated the secure protocol. “Code in,” he said.

  Aaron typed in his personal identification number and the line synched in secure mode.

  “Jesus, Aaron,” began Stafford. “It’s awfully early. And what the hell is going on? I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “Yeah, I know you have. I wasn’t able to answer your calls. Bad timing.”

  “Last night we received an initial and very sketchy report that came from the Consular Office in Barcelona,” continued Stafford. “One adult male dead from gunshot. One teenage female dead from apparent suicide and several other teenaged girls that had been held against their will, apparently set free by a British man and woman.”

  Aaron leaned back on the bench and stretched his legs out but did not respond to Stafford’s comment.

  Stafford continued, “Aaron, this sounds like it was your work.”

  “It was,” Aaron replied.

  “Dammit, Aaron. What have you done?”

  “I’ve done exactly what I told you I was going to do.” Aaron allowed a moment before he continued. “Look, what I’ve done is found the ISIS recruiter in Barcelona and eliminated him.”

  “You weren’t authorized to do that.”

  “Bullshit. You knew that was exactly what I was going to do.”

  “Without . . . ”

  “Look,” Aaron cut Stafford off, “his name was Abdul-Aziz Baseer. The dead girl was one of his recruits until he raped her and then she killed herself. There were four other girls there we let go and I had hoped they had made their way home by now.”

  “Alright,” replied Stafford. “Look, the Council thinks this has gone too far. They want you to come back.”

  “It’s too late for that.” Aaron sat down next to Sarah, took her hand, then continued to speak in a calm tone to Stafford. “You need to know what I’ve discovered.” The phone remained silent on Stafford’s end so Aaron continued. “My earlier suspicion was correct. There is a network of recruiters located in major cities in Europe. It’s well-organized and the hub appears to be in Paris. The recruiters transport the kids to Paris where there is some kind of collection point. From Paris, they are transported to a coastal city, and from there they are taken to Syria by boat. I’m pretty certain that’s what I stumbled into in Trieste when the Council sent me to eliminate Asadel and Fatin.”

  “Go on,” replied Stafford.

  “When the children get to Syria, they’re auctioned off and the recruiter gets paid in either euros or dollars and the funds are deposited in offshore accounts.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Abdul-Aziz became very talkative before he died.”

  They briefly remained quiet, then Stafford spoke. “Great. Well, you haven’t told me anything I can use to change the decision of the Council to call you in. There is no imminent threat to the United States.”

  “But there is. The threat is already in the States,” Aaron replied as he turned his gaze toward Sarah. “There are recruiters in major American cities and, apparently, those recruits are not shipped to the Middle East. They stay in the States.”

  Stafford did not respond for a few moments. Then he asked, “Are you saying there are cells being recruited in America that are connected to this recruiter network overseas?”

  “I can’t say that for sure but it sure looks that way to me,” Aaron replied. “If there was no other reason, that alone would be reason enough for the Council to let me to stay on this.”

  “Why don’t you come back and let the Council decide based on your new information?”

  Aaron moved the phone away from his mouth and quietly cursed. He sat for a moment glaring at the phone, then brought it back to his mouth. “You let the Council know what I’m doing. I’ll be in touch when I have more information.” Aaron terminated the call.

  He glanced at Sarah. “That didn’t sound like it went well,” she said.

  Aaron placed his hand on Sarah’s thigh and lowered his head.

  “They want you to stop, don’t they?” she asked.

  Aaron nodded.

  “So what are you going to do?” asked Sarah.

  Aaron lifted his head and turned toward her. She smiled at him and there was a gleam in her green eyes. “What do you think I should do?” Aaron asked.

  She leaned into him and placed her arms around his neck and they kissed gently. “Let’s go to Paris,” answered Sarah.

  * * *

  They arrived at the designated platform number five for the high-speed train and passed their luggage and backpacks through the x-ray machine. Ten minutes passed after they collected their bags and stepped aboard the blue and silver bullet train. They found their way to their comfortable club duo seats on the second deck.

  Sarah nudged close to Aaron and whispered, “Weren’t you worried they would find your guns?”

  Aaron smiled. “No. Spaniards don’t object to having their bags screened but they consider it an invasion of their privacy to have to step through a metal scanner.” He put his arm around her waist and pulled her toward him. “I’m wearing them under my coat,” Aaron whispered.

  Aaron placed their roller bags on the racks behind their seats and their backpacks in the racks above them. He sat facing aft and Sarah sat across from him facing forward with a small table between them. The only other occupants of the first-class accommodation was an elderly, sophisticated couple seated at the far end of the cabin.

  Rain started to fall heavily and Sarah leaned closer to the window and looked at the activity on the platform. “You want to hear something funny?” she asked.

  “Sure. Tell me.”

  “Other than city metros, I have never traveled anywhere by train. This will be a first for me.”

  “I think you’ll like it.” As the train slowly accelerated out of the station he closed his eyes. With the quiet drone of the muffled diesel engines and the soothing hum of the rail, he fell asleep.

  Aaron awoke about thirty minutes later as he felt the train decelerate while entering the medieval city of Girona, Spain. He opened his eyes and lifted his gaze toward Sarah.

  “Did you sleep well?” asked Sarah.

  “Yeah. Actually, I did, however briefly.” He sat up straight and placed his elbow on the table between them. “I didn’t realize I was that tired.” His backpack was on the seat next to Sarah and she held Abdul-Aziz’s passport in her hands. “Did you find anything interesting?” Aaron asked.

  Sarah leaned closer to him. “As a matter of fact, yes. I did.” She handed him the open passport so Aaron could look
at it. “Look at this page. He has four stamps from Dulles in the last two years.”

  Aaron lifted his gaze from the passport to Sarah. She rubbed her forehead. They sat for a moment without speaking, then Sarah asked, “What would he have been doing in America?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  PARIS, FRANCE

  SUNDAY JUNE 19TH

  11:45 P.M.

  The high-speed train arrived at Gare de Lyon Station in Paris ten minutes early. As the train slowed down and made a slow right turn, Aaron pointed out the window at the lights of the classic renaissance-style station and the distinctive clock tower on the north bank of the River Seine. “Welcome to Paris.”

  “It’s beautiful,” replied Sarah.

  The station was almost empty in the late evening; the train from Barcelona was the last to arrive and there would be no more departures or arrivals until just before sunrise.

  They disembarked the train and with their bags in tow walked through the cavernous Hall One to the Boulevard Diderot. Aaron hailed a taxi for the fifteen-minute ride to the Hotel Renoir.

  “This is in the Marais?” the driver asked.

  “Oui,” Aaron replied.

  The taxi stopped in front of the hotel and Sarah stepped out. She stood on the narrow sidewalk along the Rue du Montparnasse.

  “Aaron, this is the wrong hotel.”

  Aaron looked up and down at the drab, gray façade of the hotel situated between a Korean barbecue and a stationary store.

  “No, baby,” Aaron answered. “This is it.” He grabbed their two roller bags and stood next to Sarah. “I told you we wouldn’t be staying at five-star places.” He turned his gaze her way and smiled.

  Sarah turned toward him and nodded with a wry smile.

  “We have to stay low profile,” Aaron continued.

  Aaron rang the call button on the wall next to the door and spoke to an attendant in French to confirm their reservation. A few moments later a young woman appeared in the foyer and unlocked the hotel door. She was slim with strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and wore a tight fitting, below-the-knee skirt and button-up white blouse with the top two buttons undone. The name tag on her blouse read “Allee.”

  The hotel lobby was small and clean. The décor was polished blonde wood and brass hardware. Beyond the check-in counter was a narrow room. The flooring consisted of white ceramic tiles inlaid in blonde hardwood framing. There were two couches along the wall and a large end table with one lamp.

  “Welcome back, Monsieur Dupree,” said Allee. “May I see your passport, please?”

  Aaron reached into his backpack and produced his counterfeit Canadian passport — Eric Dupree from Quebec — and handed it to Allee. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of Sarah as she stood behind him, hands on her hips and eyes narrowed.

  Allee typed on her computer, then handed the passport back to Aaron and asked, “And your guest,” she lifted her gaze toward Sarah. “Madame, may I see your passport?”

  “She is my friend from Toulouse,” Aaron interjected. “She met me at the train station and will stay with me for a few days.”

  “Yes. Of course,” replied Allee with a smirk as she handed him the large brass key. “When you leave the hotel, please leave the key at the front desk.”

  “Will do. Thank you.”

  “The elevator is through this room.” Allee walked out from behind the counter and pointed to the end of the small room with the ceramic and hardwood floor. “Enjoy your stay.”

  As soon as the elevator door closed, Sarah spoke in a questioning tone, “Welcome back, Monsieur Dupree!”

  “I should have given you a heads up.”

  “Yeah, you think.”

  “Obviously, I’ve stayed here before on assignment. Like I said, we’re staying low-key.”

  “And she thinks I’m your hooker or something?” asked Sarah.

  “No, she probably thinks you’re my mistress and I’m sure she will be discreet,” Aaron teased.

  “And you would know this because?”

  Aaron rolled his eyes and when the elevator door opened he led down the hall to their room and opened the door.

  They stepped inside. The room was small with just enough room to stand between the folding chrome luggage racks provided by the hotel and the two twin beds that had been rolled side by side.

  “Cozy,” commented Sarah.

  * * *

  Aaron awoke the next morning when he heard the annoying buzz of his iPhone. He had been asleep with his face buried in his pillow. With the sheets down around her waist, Sarah sat upright and stretched her arms around the back of her neck, which innocently emphasized her smooth skin and firm breasts.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yeah, I did. How about you?”

  “I slept great,” she said. “I need to take a shower. Then I’ll be refreshed and ready to go.” Sarah rolled back the white, cotton cover on her side of the makeshift king-size bed. Naked, she stepped awkwardly in the tight confines of the room to the bathroom.

  Aaron’s gaze followed her and he smiled approvingly. She’s beautiful. He put his head in his hands. What is going to happen to us? I really don’t want her to leave but I’m also worried what might happen if she stays. He heard the shower start to run.

  “Have you decided if you want to go home?” he asked.

  Sarah leaned around the corner of the bathroom door as she pulled her hair in a bun above her head. “Did you say something?”

  Aaron watched her shower and took pleasure in every detail of her spectacular body. He was fully aroused as he tossed back the covers and stepped into the bathroom just as Sarah turned off the water and stepped out of the shower stall into the small room. They stood face-to-face and Aaron reached around and clasped his hands just below her butt and pulled her close. “I don’t want you to leave.”

  Sarah put her arms around Aaron’s neck, tilted her head to one side, and smiled. “I don’t want to leave.” She kissed him.

  Aaron started to say he was happy about her decision but Sarah put her finger over Aaron’s mouth to stop him. “I’m in love with you, Aaron Monroe, and you’re not going to get rid of me that easily,” she teased.

  Sarah nudged Aaron back through the small room and onto the bed.

  * * *

  They skipped breakfast so Aaron and Sarah had lunch at the historic Le Dome Café, a popular gathering place that dated back to the late 1800s and was located just a few blocks from their hotel. Over lunch, they decided they would pretend to be parents of a missing girl and that they were looking for her. Sarah had a photograph of a ten-year-old girl she knew who lived in her New York condominium. She would use that picture and pretend she was her mother.

  After lunch, they took the underground to the Trocadero station, exited there, and walked halfway around the semi-circular green where they crossed the street near the statue of Marshal Foch, a French hero of World War I.

  From there, they walked toward the River Seine and the Pont d’lena toward the Eiffel Tower. They pushed their way through a large German tour group and up the steps into the marble esplanade between the two wings of the Grand Museum. Street vendors, most of them immigrants from poor African countries, were many and aggressive as Aaron and Sarah walked toward the tower. The vendors chased down the many tourists and scammed the men to buy roses for a sweetheart or knockoff jewelry or cheap trinkets. The experienced tourists simply avoided eye contact with the vendors and avoided speaking with them. The less experienced tourists were hit multiple times.

  Aaron knew there would be dozens of vendors between the Trocadero and the Eiffel Tower. “The Trocadero will be a target-rich environment for information that can only be found among the seedier element of Paris’ population,” Aaron said. “If there is human trafficking in Paris, the Trocadero is a good place to start making inquiries.”

  Aaron walked up to the first two vendors he came across. One wore dirty brown slacks and a long sleeve brown-and-black-stri
ped shirt. The second had on worn designer jeans and a blue T-shirt. They each carried several miniature Eiffel Tower statues and key chains.

  “Very cheap. One euro each for key chain and three euro for statue,” the man with the striped shirt said.

  “No, thank you. But maybe you can help me. I’m looking for my daughter. Can you help me find her?” Sarah replied.

  The two vendors exchanged a quick glance and the one wearing the blue shirt said, “I give you choice of color. Silver or gold.”

  “My daughter ran away.” She pulled the picture out of her brown leather purse and showed it to the two vendors. “Please tell me if you know anything about young runaways.”

  The vendors avoided looking at the picture and shook their heads as they picked up their trinkets and quickly moved away.

  They approached the next vendor who wore jeans, a red Chicago Bulls ball cap, and blue tennis shoes with red laces. He also had on a blue and red backpack.

  “One euro for key chain. Three euro for statue.”

  “Can you help me find someone?” asked Sarah.

  The vendor walked toward a tourist a few feet away. Aaron took three quick steps and cut him off.

  “We’re looking for our daughter. She has run off.” He took the picture from Sarah and showed it to the vendor. “Do you know where she might be?”

  The vendor hurried away toward a small group of other vendors that had placed a blanket on the mall and were setting up cheap, colorful spinning tops to sell.

  They made their way across the esplanade and through the Trocadero Gardens. It was a warm, sunny morning and several young couples were laying under the blue sky on the grassy hills alongside the long fountain. Along the way, they stopped several dozen more street vendors. The response was predictably the same.

  As they crossed the Pont d’lena over the River Seine toward the Eiffel Tower, Sarah looped her arm through Aaron’s. “I can’t help but think these people know something but they’re afraid to say anything.”

  “I’m sure they are scared to talk,” Aaron answered. “For one thing, what they are doing is illegal. So they fear the Paris police. Second, if there is an ISIS cell here, these guys would be afraid to cross them. They know their lives are not worth much here in Paris.”