The Monroe Decision

by Patrick Clark

  “How can I help you, sir?”

  Aaron produced his government identification with White House credentials and asked to meet privately with her.

  “Of course, please come with me to my office.” Ms. Stevens led them past the heavy wood counters in the lobby and through a hidden door behind the check-in area into an extravagant office setting of dark paneled wood and fine Berber carpets.

  She offered them a seat at a heavy oak table and sat in a chair facing them. She crossed her legs and folded her hands over her knees. “Now, how can I help you Mr. Monroe?” she asked.

  “Our jet developed mechanical problems and we had to put in at Orly for a few days while the maintenance crew checks it out, so we need a room. A very nice room.”

  “Is this official White House business, Mr. Monroe?”

  “Yes, of course it is.”

  “And will you — ”

  Aaron interrupted. “Of course you understand I’m not at liberty to tell you what that official business is and I will count on your discretion as you assist us.”

  “Mr. Monroe, I haven’t yet said I will assist you,” she answered tersely. “You just came in here, out of the blue, each with one roller bag and a backpack to your name and asked me to give you a room, a nice room, of course. And I haven’t even brought up the subject of payment yet.”

  “Ms. Stevens, I assure you that you will be compensated at the standard government rate for the room and services you provide.”

  “You don’t even know what — ”

  Aaron interrupted again. “And as you pointed out, my colleague and I have traveled very light to get here. We will also need you to arrange a private buying session so she can dress appropriately for the few days we will be here.”

  Ms. Stevens’ gaze hardened.

  “And we will also need a short lease auto. Something discreet. A Peugeot, for example, and a Ducati 821 street bike. Can they be delivered to the parking garage?”

  “And how will you pay for this service, sir?” she asked tersely.

  Sarah leaned over and retrieved her brown leather shoulder bag from the floor and pulled out her black American Express card. “This should cover any charges,” she said as she handed the card to Ms. Stevens.

  “Yes. I’m sure this will cover everything. I do apologize, Ms. Nejem. I’m sure we can find suitable accommodations for someone of your stature.” Ms. Stevens stood and walked to her desk and punched some keys on her keyboard. “We happen to have the vice presidential suite available for the next five days. Will that be acceptable?”

  Aaron shifted his gaze toward Sarah and they made eye contact. Sarah wore a thin smile. “That will be fine,” Aaron answered. “And one more thing. Since we’re going to be here for a few days, Ms. Nejem would like to take this opportunity to look at some real estate in the Eighth. Could you arrange for her to meet with an agent who speaks English? Today, if possible.”

  Ms. Stevens flinched.

  “Discretion, Ms. Stevens,” Aaron stressed.

  * * *

  Ms. Stevens and two of the hotel’s concierge staff escorted Aaron and Sarah to their suite on the top floor. She opened the door and as they entered Ms. Stevens waved her hand across the room.

  “As you can see, this suite offers a spacious living room area with comfortable seating and a flat-screen TV. And I invite you to enjoy the outstanding view of the Eiffel Tower from your balcony.”

  She stepped purposefully to the bedroom door and, like a tour guide, pointed an open hand inside. “And as you will see, the vice presidential bedroom offers plenty of comfortable seating as well and a luxury king-size bed.”

  As she departed, Ms. Stevens stopped at the door and turned to address Sarah, “Ms. Nejem, will one o’clock be a convenient time for you to meet with a buyer?”

  “One o’clock will be fine. And you may call me Sarah.”

  “Please just call me Karen.” She closed the door behind her.

  “Nice touch. Womanly charm,” Aaron said as he turned toward Sarah.

  “And the black card,” replied Sarah. “What the hell are you planning?”

  “You’ll see.”

  * * *

  Sarah met with the personal buyer Ms. Stevens arranged and purchased several casual outfits made by Valentino, Adam Lippes, and Casual Couture. While she did that, Aaron met with a rental agent from an exclusive auto service who delivered a black Peugeot model 2008 compact SUV and the Ducati. When he returned to the suite, there were two new suitcases on the floor. Aaron chuckled, then asked sarcastically, “Are you sure you got enough for a couple of days?”

  Sarah had changed into a casual off-the-shoulder dress and she replied with her hands folded behind her head while she sat facing him. “I just got tired of living out of one small suitcase. I bought some new stuff for you, too.”

  Aaron kissed her passionately for a minute and hugged her tightly. “Are you happy?”

  “More than ever,” she said. “What do you want to do now?” Her eyes sparkled mischievously.

  “As much as I want to, that will have to wait. You have an appointment with a real estate agent at three thirty.”

  * * *

  Aaron walked to the elevator with Sarah as she left to meet the agent in the lobby. She wore a casual blue shirtdress by Valentino and sandals with her shoulder-length hair pulled to one side. Aaron pushed the elevator call button and swung his approving gaze toward her. “You know you look fantastic, right?”

  Sarah smiled and placed her hand in his as the elevator door opened.

  They stepped inside and as the elevator descended, Sarah said, “Let me make sure I have my story right.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Sarah bit her lip, then said, “I just married you,” she lifted her gaze to Aaron and smiled, “Mr. Dupree from Cannes. We met in Monaco. I was born in Dubai but my family moved to London when I was young.”

  Aaron nodded approvingly.

  “We’re making plans to move to Paris and I would like to be in an area where there will be other Muslim women I can meet.”

  Aaron removed his hands from his pockets and stood next to her and held her hand. “The agent will take you around in the Eighth and I will follow you on the Ducati. While you’re riding with her, ask if she knows where others from the UAE live. If you can get that kind of information, we can come back and stake out a few houses. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  As the elevator neared the lobby floor, Aaron kissed Sarah and said, “I’ll be with you everywhere you go.”

  “You better be,” she insisted. Then she stepped into the lobby where Ms. Stevens stood by the concierge desk and beckoned Sarah to meet the middle-aged real estate agent she had arranged.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  PARIS, FRANCE

  TUESDAY JUNE 21ST

  3:30 P.M.

  Sarah walked across the expansive marble floor of the lobby and extended her hand to greet the agent.

  “Hello. My name is Sarah Dupree.”

  Ms. Stevens folded her hands together in front of her and raised an eyebrow.

  “My name is Renee Petit, with Christie’s International. Ms. Stevens tells me you are only here for a few days but would like to see about purchasing a property.”

  “Yes. A second home, perhaps. My husband and I live in Cannes, but Paris is such a beautiful city. We love our visits here and would like to move here permanently someday.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful,” replied Petit. “I’m sure we will find something you will be very happy with. Can I ask you a few questions so we can narrow the search and make the best use of your short stay?”

  “Why don’t you take a seat in the lobby,” interjected Ms. Stevens, “and I’ll leave the two of you to conduct your business.”

  With Aaron seated at the lobby bar in her line of sight, Sarah spoke with Petit for twenty minutes. She answered Petit’s questions and elaborated the story.

  “And you’re certain you want to stay in the Eighth Arrondissem
ent?” asked Petit.

  Sarah clasped her hands together in her lap. “I hope I don’t sound difficult and vain, but I really want to be in an area where I can meet other Muslim women of similar wealth, whose husbands have a similar stature as mine.”

  Petit smiled and replied, “Then I think you will want to be in the Eighth. I can think of three places right now that you will want to look at.”

  “Can we see them now?” Sarah asked.

  “I think that can be arranged. I will make a few calls while I retrieve my auto and I’ll meet you at the front lobby entrance.” Petit gathered her things and placed them in her large brown leather bag and exited toward the parking lot.

  Sarah picked up her brown leather shoulder bag and walked toward the lobby door. Aaron nodded and left the lobby bar toward the door to the parking lot where the Ducati was parked.

  Petit stopped her black Bentley at the curb on the Champ-Élysées in front of the hotel. The doorman walked with Sarah through the covered walkway to the car and opened the door.

  Sarah saw Aaron at the curb a few cars back, straddling the Ducati. “Merci,” Sarah said to the doorman as she slid into the passenger seat.

  “De rien,” he replied.

  Sarah felt the powerful surge of the Bentley’s V8 engine as Petit pulled away from the curb heading up the hill on the Champs toward the Arc de Triumph.

  “The first apartment is on the very chic Avenue George. The building is one of the finest nineteenth century buildings in Paris.”

  Sarah turned her gaze toward Petit.

  “The apartment has high ceilings,” continued Petit, “marble entry, hardwood floors, three fireplaces, two complete bedroom suites, three maids’ rooms, a wine cellar, and two parking spaces.”

  “That sounds lovely,” Sarah replied as she turned her gaze behind the Bentley and ensured Aaron was still close behind.

  It was, as Petit had described, a very short ride to the first apartment and the tour of the property impressed Sarah. The rooms and hallways were spacious and the craftsmanship of the detail work was outstanding.

  “This is a beautiful apartment,” Sarah declared as they returned to the marble entry on their way out. “It really shows the pride and quality of the workmen when the apartment was built.”

  “Yes, it is,” Petit beamed. “And at one million and eight hundred thousand euros, this is a good price.”

  Sarah smiled and nodded.

  Petit opened the door and as Sarah walked past said, “And I think you’ll like the other two that I want to show just as much.”

  “The next apartment is just above two million euros. It is near the Éysées Palace,” Petit said as they drove to the next stop in front of the nineteenth century building on Rue Franklin Roosevelt.

  As they entered the apartment, Sarah asked, “I was wondering if you know where some of the diplomats from the UAE embassy live? I would feel very comfortable near people from the country of my birth.”

  Petit rolled her eyes slightly as she answered, “Yes, I know of some. I will show you as we drive around the Eighth.”

  Each of the three stops lasted about thirty minutes and between stops, Petit pointed out two mansions both located near Parc Monceau. The first was a four-story, baroque – style building that dated back to the 1880s and the second dated to the early 1900s but had been completely remodeled with a more contemporary façade. Petit was certain both of those properties were owned by the Embassy of the UAE.

  When Petit dropped Sarah off at the front entrance of the Marriott at five thirty, she said she would discuss the properties with her husband and call if interested. The doorman again opened the car door and escorted Sarah to the lobby.

  She walked across the expansive marble floor of the lobby again, only this time she headed straight to the lobby bar and ordered a double gin and tonic. As she waited for her drink, Sarah sat with her back to the bar and her gaze fixed on the lobby entrance from the parking lot.

  Aaron came through the door within a few minutes. They made eye contact and he walked over and sat next to her.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  She leaned her head on his shoulder and quietly said, “I don’t know how you do this. I was nervous the whole time.”

  Aaron gave her a warm hug and asked, “Did you get her to tell you any potential locations where we might find our man from the embassy?”

  “Yes. Two of them.”

  “Great,” answered Aaron. “We’ll go scope them out tonight.” He kissed her on the forehead and said, “Great work.”

  * * *

  Aaron rode the Ducati and Sarah followed in the Peugeot. When they arrived at the first of the two locations on the narrow, tree-lined road Petit had pointed out to Sarah she parked in a spot four car-lengths away from the black iron driveway gate that protected the front entrance. Aaron backed the bike in behind the Peugeot and parked between it and a silver Volvo. He opened the passenger door and sat in the Peugeot where he had a clear site of the mansion through the bars of the fence.

  He placed his backpack on the floor in front of him as he looked over the property. “You’re sure this is the one she pointed to?”

  “Yes, it is,” answered Sarah. “When she pointed it out, I made a mental note of the large gas lamps on top of the fence posts.”

  Aaron turned to face her and he smiled smugly, then teased her. “You’re catching on to this secret agent stuff pretty well.”

  “Yeah, maybe I was born for this.”

  Aaron reached into his backpack and pulled out a Sig Sauer M11 and slapped a fifteen-round magazine into the hand grip until he heard the audible click. He turned his gaze toward Sarah. Her smile had disappeared and her focus was on the pistol.

  “I don’t know what is going to go down here tonight, but whatever happens, we both need to be ready.” He disengaged the safety and pulled the slide back to the rearmost position and released it to chamber a round. He handed the gun to Sarah. “You need to be ready to use this if necessary.”

  Sarah took the pistol and placed it in the seat pocket on the front of the driver’s seat.

  Aaron pulled two more M11’s out of his backpack and loaded and chambered rounds. He removed the light jacket he was wearing, slipped on a double shoulder holster, then put the jacket back on.

  Aaron’s gaze was fixed on the front of the mansion when Sarah asked, “I suppose now we just sit here and wait, right?”

  He turned to face her and replied, “Yes, now we wait. We’ll sit here tonight and if our guy doesn’t show up, we’ll check out the other place tomorrow.” Aaron turned his gaze back toward the mansion. “I have to find this son of a bitch. I have a gut feeling about him. I think he is the key to discovering what the connection is to whatever is happening in America.”

  “If you can get him to talk.”

  “He’ll talk,” Aaron replied.

  * * *

  They sat quietly for almost an hour. Aaron had earlier placed his cell phone on vibrate and he felt the sensation in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw it was a secure call from Nigel Stafford. Not now, Nigel. Not now.

  Aaron noticed Sarah was struggling to stay awake. “Stakeouts are boring,” Aaron said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Can you stick with it a few more hours?”

  “Whatever it takes, baby. I told you I’m in. Whatever it takes.”

  “You can nap if you need to. I’ll wake you if anything happens.”

  “I’ll stay awake,” she replied. “Maybe.”

  Aaron smiled then said, “I love you and I want you to know I have never said that to anyone on a stakeout before.”

  “You are a nut.”

  A gray Mercedes Benz, fifteen-passenger van pulled up to the driveway of the mansion and Aaron immediately sat up and snapped his attention in that direction. “What do we have here?” he asked.

  The iron gate opened inward and the van pulled inside and stopped by a side door under the porte cochere.

 
“I’m going to check this out. Stay in the car.” He opened the car door, quietly closed it behind him, and ran across the street and found a large tree he could hide behind that allowed him to see the van clearly. The side door on the van slid open and two men stepped out. They each wore dark, shoulder-length hair and beards. They looked to be in their late twenties and wiry.

  The tall Arab Aaron had followed and lost at the Quai Malaquais stepped out of the covered side door of the mansion and hugged them, kissing both quickly on their cheek. He wore a long, white thobe and a red-and-white-checked headdress held in place by a black cord. Aaron watched as the three conversed congenially. After a few minutes, the Arab motioned to someone inside and then eight young girls were led out of the house and into the van by men in business attire and ironically carrying Israeli made UZI mini sub-machine guns. The last were the girls Aaron had seen him meet earlier at the Pont de Invalides. They were holding hands.

  Aaron walked to the other side of the street but kept his gaze fixed on the Arab and the van. When the Arab stepped back through the doorway into the mansion and the two bearded men got back in the van, Aaron ran back to the Peugeot where Sarah waited. He opened the car passenger door, ducked his head inside and said, “They just loaded eight girls in that van and the Arab is in the house. I’m going to follow the van and I need you to stay here and watch the house. Call me if you see him leave; otherwise, I’ll be back here soon.”

  “Aaron! What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. But I’ll start by following them and see where they go. So, I guess what I do depends on what they do.”

  “Please be careful.”

  “You need to be careful, too. If you feel the least bit uncomfortable here, you just leave. You hear me? Just leave and go back to the hotel.”

  The van was backing out of the driveway into the street. “I gotta go.” He shut the door and stepped around to the back of the car and mounted the Ducati.

  The gray van backed onto the street, turned, and drove past where the Peugeot and Ducati were parked. Aaron accelerated from where he was parked and rapidly closed the distance. With the exception of the cockpit area, all the windows were blacked out. Assume the worst, he recalled from his days in training. It’s a fifteen-passenger van and there were eight girls plus the two men I saw. There is a definite possibility there are more men inside.