by Rachel Lee
She settled back in her chair, awaiting her coffee, smiling as she drank in the atmosphere. Around her, voices chatted in a familiar language for a change, and the air smelled of trees, cigarettes, wine, fresh bread and food being prepared. She sank into the wonderful familiarity as she might have settled into a favored chair.
Perfect.
Except for the tourists, of course. Le Rive Gauche was bound to attract them, and it did, but she forgave them. At least they were civilized enough to seek out this beautiful place.
The gray day smelled of coming rain, but the red canvas canopy overhead would shelter her if necessary. When her coffee arrived, she raised it to her nose and inhaled the wonderful scent. Home.
Then she glanced at her watch and wondered where Michel was. That he was late should not, she supposed, be surprising, given that he worked for the Sûreté. Things happened when one was a gendarme, even one as high-ranking as Michel.
A gentle rain had started to fall by the time he arrived, a tall, lean man with gray-dashed dark hair, a beakish nose and a wide smile.
“Margarite!” he said delightedly, seizing both her hands to bring them to his lips. “It has been too long. How do you like working in Italy? Much sun, yes?”
She had cultivated Michel as a source for the past three years, and he knew that her apparent employment as an antiquarian was cover for her job with an international police force. He assumed she was with Interpol, and she let him. Twice she had aided him in stolen art cases. That, and their casual romantic interludes, had cemented their relationship. But they preserved the surface illusion that she was an antiquarian because it also protected Michel.
“I suppose it is sunny there, but I have been working in Germany.” She made a moue of disgust.
“Ma petite pauvre,” he said with mock sympathy. “Was it worth your while?”
“Some items of interest lack provenance.”
He shrugged. “The war. The background of some pieces will never be recovered. Pity.”
“Barbaric,” she said flatly. “Extremely so. Now they are herding Muslims together.”
His mouth tightened, and he looked around. “Please, mon amie, not too loudly.”
“Why not?” she asked, both curious and surprised by his reaction.
He shrugged. “Most people favor it. And sometimes they favor it very—shall we say—heatedly?”
In that instant Margarite realized that a new wind truly had begun to blow. Here, of all places, on the Left Bank of the Seine, free speech and thought were treasured. Now Michel, himself an inspector of police, was worried that she had spoken disparagingly of the removal?
“Michel, what is going on?”
“Nothing. Truly.”
“The burning of the mosque…abominable! Are you telling me anyone condones that?”
“Non. Of course not.” He waved for the waiter and ordered two more cafés au lait for them, along with a basket of pastries. “Forgive me, Margarite. Matters are so tense here, I feel as if I am sitting on a powder keg all the time. I am perhaps too sensitive.”
She would certainly say so, but instead she merely smiled. “I am sorry. I should have guessed, given current events.”
At that he seemed to relax, and when the pastries arrived, he tucked in with the appetite of a man who hadn’t eaten recently.
“So what brings you to Paris?” he asked. His eyes smoldered into a smile. “Pleasure, I hope.”
A part of her wished that she could abandon herself for a few hours with him. But there was work to be done. “I am afraid not, Michel,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness. “Business. Always business. But I would rather do business here than in Germany.”
“Ah.” He dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “At least it gives me an opportunity to see you again.” He raised his coffee cup as if in toast and sipped.
“I have missed you, Michel.” And that was true. But the situation rendered that irrelevant. Duty first, and duty required that she elicit more information. Perhaps a ruse was in order. “If you think from what I said that I object to the removal, I have misrepresented myself.”
He arched an eyebrow.
“Something must be done to end the violence, non? But why do you look so tired? I would have thought you were receiving aid from the EU security force to catch those involved in the rioting.”
Something in him stilled, and she did not miss it. After a moment, she leaned forward. “Michel?”
“What?”
“When I was in Germany…” She leaned forward even farther and lowered her voice. “I heard something that distressed me.”
“Oui?”
“I heard that a man had been arrested for killing an EU security officer. But he is claiming that the security man threw a firebomb into a crowd of demonstrators.”
“I have heard that story, as well.”
“I need to know…” She hesitated.
He understood their relationship as well as she. “What is it?” he said finally. “If I know, I will tell you.”
“Is it true? Is this just a crazy man lying in order to avoid prison, or are EU security people really involved in these riots?”
He frowned then, a very deep frown. “That is a serious charge.”
“I am charging no one, Michel. I am merely curious.”
“No, you are not merely curious. I have never known you to ask a question for which you did not think you knew the answer before you asked.” He dropped his partially eaten pastry on his plate and dabbed his lips with his napkin. “We have helped each other much over the past few years.”
“Oui.”
“I am grateful to you, mon amie.”
“As I am grateful to you.”
He smiled. “We have been a good together, have we not? We both need our special sources.”
Why was he hedging? she wondered. It was almost as if he were saying farewell. But then she brushed the thought aside. It was too ridiculous.
“I do not know if this supposition has any basis,” he said. “Even EU security agents have personal opinions and may act on them.”
She nodded.
“You obviously have some confidence in these rumors. I will sound things out quietly and let you know if this was an isolated incident.” He shrugged. “I would like to know myself. I had not been thinking along those lines.”
“I wouldn’t have, except for what happened in Berlin. The witnesses may be wrong. In times of stress, people are often mistaken in their observations.”
“That,” said Michel, “I believe. But I will check out the other possibility and let you know.”
“Merci.”
Again he shrugged and dropped his napkin on the table. “Are you certain you cannot stay for a while?” His smile, as always, sent a shiver of raw desire running through her.
“I wish I could. I miss our cinq-à-sept,” she admitted, referring to the traditional hours of illicit liaisons. “Next time.”
“Most definitely next time. Now I must go to a meeting.” He looked disappointed as he rose and bent to kiss her cheek. “Come back soon, chéri.”
She sat on for a while, reluctant to leave, because when she did, she would have no idea how soon she might return. Michel, in his usual way, had left money on the table to cover the coffee and pastries.
The rain continued to fall gently. She ordered another coffee. Then, realizing she could only wait now, she called for the bill for her second coffee.
Michel would send out feelers. It might be days or even weeks before he actually knew anything certain. But of one thing Margarite had no doubt: If Soult was at any level involved in this mess, Michel would sniff it out.
Then, sadly, she began to walk away from the café. Tonight she would return to Rome.
She never noticed the man who rose from another table, tossed a few euros down, tucked a newspaper under his arm and joined the flow of people on the street behind her.
Nice, France
Etienne Duchamps stood at the front o
f the rail car, looking back at row upon row of men facing him from their seats. Given the expressions on their faces, he was happy to be carrying an automatic rifle.
The removal train had left Nice Ville, the main station in Nice, fifteen minutes ago, promptly at 6:00 a.m., every seat full of Muslims. The women were in separate cars at the front of the train, the men at the back. That was the first thing Duchamps objected to. Why didn’t the men stay with their families to watch over them? No man worth his salt would leave his wife and children alone at such a time.
But there were other things he did not like. France had welcomed these people for more than ninety years from places that were both poor and backward. In return, what did France get? Riots. Bloodshed. Terror.
But that view he kept to himself. His job was to ensure that these people made it from Nice to Toulon. Not a long trip. Some removal trains traveled a lot farther. These people would resettle only two hours away. And Toulon had the advantage of having a naval base, which he was sure would protect both the Muslims, as if they were worth it, and the local inhabitants. Nor should these passengers complain too loudly, considering what Muslim jihadists were doing to Europe.
But Etienne Duchamps belonged to the European Security Force, so here he stood, guarding people who by rights ought to be sent back to Algiers. His orders were clear: He was not here to protect these people as much as he was to here to ensure they went to Toulon peacefully.
The whole of France felt as if it were sitting on a bomb. The bloody street rioting was bad enough, but the burning of the mosque in Paris had unlocked something dark and ugly. Etienne, who held no great interest in other cultures or politics, was sure of only one thing: There would be retribution for the burning of that mosque, but it was not going to happen on his train.
He again scanned the rows of seats as the train slid over the rails. Many of the men had begun to read and murmur among themselves. Among them were boys, one as young as eight. Etienne was sure these men would attempt no violence while their young sons were with them. Nor with their women and daughters in the other cars.
But then he realized he was assuming there were no fanatics among them. Those jihadists could not be relied upon to behave as normal men. So he scanned the car again, hands tightening on his rifle.
One row away from him sat a boy with huge brown eyes. The boy stared at Etienne with fascination. Etienne shifted uncomfortably and frowned, hoping to make him look away. The child continued to stare.
The man beside him spoke. “Forgive my son, monsieur. He has never seen anyone holding a rifle before except on television.”
“Non?” Etienne shrugged. “It is for your protection.”
“So we are told. Do you know where they plan to put us in Toulon?”
“I have heard something about the North African Quarter, but I am not certain. It is merely my purpose to ensure you arrive.”
“We are grateful for your protection,” the man said.
Etienne thought that statement sounded more sarcastic than genuine, but he could not be certain. The man’s face, clean-shaven, remained placid.
“I am more fortunate than many,” the man said.
“How so?”
“I am not leaving behind a business or a house. I worked for a banking house, and we lived in an apartment. I have been assured that I will have a job awaiting me in Toulon.”
“If you are allowed to leave the protection zone.”
“I have also been assured I can work on my computer at home.”
“What do you do, exactly?”
“I analyze investments. Primarily public bonds. It is mostly research. One does not need an office for that.”
Etienne nodded. This man was very successful, he guessed. More successful than he was himself. Part of him begrudged that, and part of him accepted that as a citizen of France, the man had simply earned his way, unlike the young people today who, regardless of religion, couldn’t seem to find or hold jobs.
“The youth,” Etienne said. “It is the youth who cause much of the problem.”
At that the man smiled. “Part of it, at least. But that is because they are not occupied. Or because some pour poison in their ears. All kinds of poison flow from tongues these days.”
Etienne couldn’t deny that. “Madrassas,” he said, referring to the mosque schools that often turned out militants and jihadists.
The man nodded. “We had no madrassas. I would not allow my son to attend one.”
“Why not?”
“Because it is a school of one sect, Wahhabi. They believe Islamic countries should be theocracies, ruled by religion.”
“And you do not?”
“I think religion and politics can become very messy when joined. The French realized that long ago, oui?”
It was true. “Oui.”
“Only look how ugly matters have become here.”
Another man spoke. “Be quiet, Khalil. You were always soft.”
The man called Khalil turned and looked at his fellow passenger. “Soft on what, Binyamin? I am not soft on the practice of my faith.”
“You cannot see the wrong that is being done to us with this removal.”
“Oh, but I can. Still, there is violence enough. If this is how it must be ended, then so be it.”
Binyamin snorted. “Every time we get treated this way, the risk of violence increases. The people who thought up this plan will learn before long. Do you think the jihadists will allow this to go on without retaliation? I assure you, they won’t. The world will be in flames because of this.”
Etienne’s grip tightened on his gun, and he remembered his orders. “Enough,” he barked.
Without warning, the brakes began to screech. The jolt of the emergency halt knocked him against the wall and down to the floor, though he managed to hang on to his rifle.
Then all hell broke loose.
21
Rome, Italy
“I t’s going to blow.”
Margarite had barely stepped into Office 119 before Jefe’s words greeted her.
“What is?”
“This whole situation.” He was sitting before a bank of monitors, scanning news stations, his arms folded over his chest. “This relocation is going to backfire. Listen to the Arabic news stations. Then listen to the European ones.”
“I didn’t know you understood Arabic.”
He rolled his eyes at her. “Try the English-language version of Al Jazeera. But the words are unnecessary. All you need is to watch the way the film clips are being chosen and shown. If someone doesn’t come to his senses soon, this mess is going to make the Crusades look like a sports competition. What did you learn in Paris?”
“Nothing yet. My source has not heard about the EU being involved, but he will check and get back to me.”
“How soon?”
Margarite frowned. “Soon. As soon as he can.”
“You’re sure he can be trusted?”
“How many times do I have to answer that question?”
“As many times as I ask it.”
Margarite’s frown deepened. Jefe was clearly suffering from a choleric mood today. “Lawton?”
“Still warming a cell.”
“Renate?”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “When did you start caring about Renate? She’s still in Germany. Stubborn, as always. I’ve called the rest of the teams in.”
Margarite registered shock. “Why?”
“We know this all traces back to Soult. The three men we killed in Strasbourg were private military contractors working for a Colonel Hector de Vasquez y San Claro.”
“Mercenaries?” Margarite asked, her thoughts suddenly in freefall as she tried to rearrange pieces.
“Private security, at least,” Jefe said. “It turns out this Paxti Lezeta also worked for Vasquez for years. He was an informant against ETA. Apparently got some of his own family killed in the process.”
Margarite nodded. “What does this tell us?”
&
nbsp; “Soult started as Director of Security for the EU after Black Christmas.”
“I remember.”
“He served with Vasquez in NATO. They did some ops together in the Balkans. Then Vasquez went private, set up a company called Protección Ejecutiva Atiende. Executive Protection Services. PEA started with the usual security stuff, protecting corporate bigwigs and their families. He hired former military, exclusively. Remember when those two Swiss kids, the son and daughter of a banker in Zurich, were kidnapped by the FARC in Colombia, three years back?”
Margarite nodded.
“It was a PEA team that got them out,” Jefe said. “Killed six of their kidnappers in the process and pretty much made a hash of the FARC base where they were being held. Tough guys.”
“Lezeta was one of them?” Margarite asked.
“He worked for PEA, but he wasn’t on that op, so far as I know. He seems to have been working in Lebanon at the time. God knows there was enough work to do there.”
“How did he end up in EU security?”
“That’s the curious part,” Jefe said, smiling. “When Soult took over security for the EU, guess who he hired?”
“PEA?”
“Bingo,” Jefe said. “Then, when Soult was elected as President of the European Commission, who moves into his old job as security director?”
“Vasquez,” she said, her heart speeding up. “And the PEA contractors become EU security.”
Jefe nodded. “I also got a message from Miriam Anson. One of the guys we took out in Strasbourg was in Guatemala back when she was there. May have been part of the killing of the U.S. ambassador there, or may have been privately hunting the people who did it. She’s not sure. But she’s sure he was there. Then he shows up in Strasbourg, trying to take down Kasmir al-Khalil.”
“Could they have been legitimate?” she asked. “It sounds like they’ve been working with the good guys. They rescued those kids in Colombia, were probably hunting for the assassins in Guatemala, then trying to arrest al-Khalil in Strasbourg.”