The topic under discussion was the political situation regarding Iran.
“Here’s what we have,” Anne said. “According to the press, and there seems to be mutual agreement about this, Iran is continuing her preparations for the production of nuclear weapons, and the West is preparing an attack on Iran.”
“France still has its reservations,” Sir Cedric reminded her.
“The way I see it, it doesn’t matter whether or not there is a strike. It’s a lose-lose situation both ways. If there is an attack, there will be very many casualties on both sides—Iran is bound to react with force. Perhaps just Israel will be the first target, as Saddam Hussein intended in the First Gulf War. But knowing how irrational they are, we shouldn’t exclude other countries from being targeted as well. That would mean a complete failure for us, as we’re working to eliminate casualties—or at least diminish them as much as possible. On the other hand, if these are just journalistic speculations, then nothing has changed in our position, except for the fact that time is running out!”
“So?” the admiral asked.
“So I propose we speed up our program. We need to prepare for action as early as possible.”
“An American or Israeli strike against Iran—even if successful—will not wipe tyrannies off the face of the planet.” The admiral’s visage was very serious. “North Korea is backpedaling but it’s only for tactical reasons—I have no doubt they will return to their old ways when they believe they can benefit from it. Al Qaeda is growing stronger by the week. South America is cultivating a new type of dictatorship. Therefore, I do not believe that our mission will end if there is such a strike. But I do agree that we should act quickly.”
The admiral then reported that Gustav Lemke had called him the evening before.
“He sounded pretty excited. I asked him what it was all about, but he said that he needed to meet me in person. So I’m off to see him tomorrow.”
“Anyone have anything else to report?” Anne asked. “Well, that’s it, then. Thanks for taking advantage of my visit in London for this brief meeting.” She got up, smiling.
As they were shaking hands with Admiral Stone on their way out, Martin steered Anne to one side.
“I hope I can offer you a lift to Reading. As we had such a short meeting, I hope you have a little extra time. There’s this delightful Indian restaurant on the way, not far from here, in Cowfold, and I thought we might have lunch there, that is, if you like Indian food—my goodness, Anne, why am I babbling like a teenager?”
Anne’s eyes shone as she laughed. This was certainly worth “postponing” her meeting with the children to the hour they had prearranged.
“I have a weakness for chicken vindaloo. All right, let’s see how ‘delightful’ this place is.”
“I see you like your dishes spicy. Just be careful you don’t burn off the roof of your mouth.”
Outside, they got into Martin’s car and drove off. It had been a long time since Anne had been so at ease with herself. It was almost like the excitement of an anticipated childhood picnic. She joked and laughed with Martin during the drive, and they both arrived quite flushed at their destination.
Over lunch their conversation became serious. Anne wanted to discuss Tanya’s case.
“I feel a kind of obligation toward Tanya,” she said. “When Raoul, my husband, was dying, if it wasn’t for Tanya I would have probably gone to pieces. Or a deep depression. He became ill while we were in London, and eventually, when it got worse, we had to return to Paris for his treatment. And indeed, he got the best possible treatment there. But they couldn’t save him. Those were the hardest months of my life—raising the children under those circumstances is a nightmare. And what with the daily visits to the hospital—Martin, believe me, not only was I a physical wreck, I almost went out of mind! And who saved me? Tanya. She was direct, free—even shameless, I dare say. Here’s an example: when we were outside the professor’s office, the one treating Raoul, and we didn’t have an appointment, I found I couldn’t just walk in. I was afraid of rejection, afraid of the bad news, afraid of being scolded for barging in. But Tanya boldly marched into his office and a minute later he received me.”
“I see,” Martin said.
“She had a kind of agreeable arrogance about her,” Anne continued. “She’d be firm and defiant, and yet you couldn’t be cross with her—even if her motives were purely selfish.”
“I certainly would have liked to meet her,” Martin said.
“I loved her, but only now do I realize how much I loved her. I’m saying all this so that you’ll understand why I’m so desperately concerned, even involved, in her murder case. I know I shall never find peace until the killer is brought to justice. I want him dead—but I acknowledge that a court of law will eventually decide what to do with him.”
“I understand, Annie,” Martin said softly and reached for her hand. “I offered you my help before, and that offer still stands.”
Anne squeezed his hand.
“Thank you, Martin. I really appreciate it. But I feel I must hurry. Just please don’t try to stop me—go along with me.”
“That is my intention. What were you planning to do next?”
“Visit the next Lucien, of course. Lucien Charpentier. The address I have is on rue Cambronne, Montparnasse.”
“And what cover were you preparing for yourself.”
“Can you think of any reason why I shouldn’t repeat the polltaker story?”
“No. I think it’s quite acceptable. Now, Annie, I want you to have a relaxing weekend with you family. Why don’t we meet in Paris early next week and have a look around the address you mentioned. Let’s see what kind of house it is, if there are any back doors, which floor he lives on, and so forth. Then let’s think about action.”
She squeezed his hand again and the smile returned to her face.
Anne felt very refreshed after her stay in Reading. Her parents and her children were all in the best of health, and she managed to forget the convolutions in her life, resulting from her involvement with the association and the murder of Tanya.
She put the finishing touches on her pollster “disguise” and descended to the street holding her clipboard. As agreed, Martin was waiting for her in a taxi, and she gave the driver an address close to their real destination.
“It’s best if you were not seen here twice,” Martin said, after paying the taxi driver. “So I’ll scout around first. Find yourself something to do, and I’ll meet you here in a few minutes.”
Anne breathed in the artistic atmosphere of Montparnasse. The last time she was here was years ago, with Raoul and the children, to visit the famous cemetery where Baudelaire, Sartre, de Beauvoir and Beckett were buried.
She decided to stroll to the nearest intersection and then walk back. If Martin returned, she would be in full sight. Meanwhile she could peek into the shop fronts and make believe she saw the literary giants who had frequented this area. She looked around—there was no missing the huge tower that dominated the skyline. What would those authors have said about it? she wondered. And other patrons of this area: Zola, Picasso, Hemingway, Matisse, Modigliani? The list was endless. How different all that was from the present circumstances—now I’m on the trail of a murderer. Anne felt herself growing increasingly impatient. Perhaps I’m closer than I suspect. I must find out!
Her thoughts were interrupted by the return of Martin.
“The house has a concierge,” he said. “A remarkably disagreeable old crone. I inquired about the Lavoisiers, and she brusquely said there was no one there by that name. But through the main entrance I saw an open door to an inner courtyard. I couldn’t see where that courtyard led, if anywhere. So I walked around the building, actually around the whole block, but I saw no other exit for Monsieur Charpentier’s house. Just a line of closely packed houses.”
“Thanks, Martin,” Anne said. “I’m going in. Could you wait for me here, please?”
“Umm, Anne
, maybe we should prepare a plan? I was thinking …”
“I can’t wait any longer!” Anne was determined. “I must do something!”
Martin realized there was no stopping her.
“Very well. But promise me that you will not enter the apartment under any circumstances! I must insist on this, and you will insist on staying outside the door. If you see any signs that you are being coaxed or forced into the flat—run! Straight down the stairs. However, if you feel you have the time to explain a hurried departure, you can say that you’ve left a child alone downstairs or something like that. I’ll be just outside the main entrance.”
Anne took a deep breath, held her clipboard at the ready and rang the bell. The concierge buzzed her in.
“Bonjour, Madame,” Anne said pleasantly. Martin was right—she was an old crone.
“What do you want?” barked the concierge. Martin was right again, she was a very disagreeable old crone.
“I’m from the university, and I’m taking a poll for them. Do you have a Charpentier family here? Their son, Lucien, was a student and he quit his studies without giving an explanation.” Anne said all this in one breath so that the concierge could not brush her off with “third floor, second door to the left.” Now the concierge was a party to her mission.
“Lucien Charpentier is dead,” said the old woman. “He got sick and died.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Anne. “When did this happen?”
“I can’t remember,” muttered the concierge. “Could be about six months ago.”
Anne scribbled something on her clipboard and left. When Martin saw her reappear, he heaved a sigh of relief.
“He died half a year ago,” Anne told him.
Inwardly, Martin was very pleased. He hoped that candidate number three would also turn out to be a wild goose chase and with that Anne would give up her insane chase after a killer.
“Too bad,” he said. “Whom does that leave us with?”
“Just one name. Lucien Laval. I have his address at home. But I think I have had enough for today.”
“Let’s let it simmer for a couple of days, Anne. We may come up with a better cover, or a better escape plan, if one is called for. Keep in mind that, with two names eliminated, there’s a good chance that the third could be our man. We need to be extra careful this time.”
Even though Martin didn’t really believe that the last candidate was the killer, he realized he had just made himself an accomplice to Anne’s quest. He accompanied Anne back to her flat but—very reluctantly—refrained from going in with her.
“I simply must get back to London. My gym isn’t getting the attention it deserves. Not only I, but the boys, too, are absent for long periods of time, mainly doing association-associated work.” He grinned at his feeble alliteration, and then became serious again. “I want you to promise me that you will make no attempt whatsoever to locate the killer without me. All right?”
Anne looked up at him and smiled.
“I promise,” she said.
A quick kiss, and he left.
On the way to the airport, Martin was bothered by thoughts on his relationship with Anne. They both knew that love was blossoming between them, but it had not been consummated. In other words, he told himself, we haven’t had sex yet. Quite unlike any other woman I’ve met. True, the others were younger, but I bedded them all in no time at all. Anne, however, is no young virgin. She is a mature widow with two children and worthy of admiration and respect—because of her personality and because of what she represents socially. And because I love her deeply. Come on, Martin, admit it—why else would you want to protect her, to take care of her, to … yes, hold her and kiss her and sleep with her, too. But that can wait—the right moment will arrive and then it will be ecstasy. Martin surprised himself by discovering that no other women interested him now.
At the same time, Admiral Stone was visiting his friend Gustav Lemke in Hamburg. Lemke was exceptionally excited, as if he were preparing a surprise party. The admiral knew better than to ask questions. Let the juvenile old guy have his fun, he thought. Lemke took him to a brand-new restaurant that boasted an exceptionally varied menu and ordered for them both. Thus far, he had not given a clue about what the issue was all about, and the admiral was getting mildly curious.
Throughout the meal, they discussed almost every topic under the sun except their common dealings. The admiral began to wonder. Is he trying to test my endurance before I snap and came out with a question? He has obviously discovered something new, but I really do not appreciate these kinds of games. Come on, Gustav—out with it!
But the meal was magnificent. Trust Lemke to come up with the best of the best. Lemke beckoned the waiter to bring the schnapps.
“I got your order for fifteen additional sacks of the fertilizer,” he said. At last, thought the admiral, finally—our issue at hand!
“Yes, indeed,” the admiral said. “We hope we’ll get them soon. By the way, Gustav, I must say that this was one of the finest meals I have ever had anywhere! My deepest thanks.”
Lemke reached into his pocket and took out a pebble, about the size of a walnut. He placed it on the table in front of the admiral.
“Take it and examine it,” he said.
The admiral turned the piece of gravel in his hand, shook it, tested its weight, held it to his ear—nothing. An ordinary pebble.
“Seems very commonplace to me,” he said.
“A stone, ja? Just a stone. Like your name. You have no doubt?”
The admiral shrugged—there was a limit to how long he could play this game.
“This pebble,” the German explained, “is actually a container made of a special plastic material. In it there is a paste that sublimates on exposure to air—it becomes a gas without becoming a liquid first. The gas is a soporific and a tranquilizer in one. Whoever inhales it gets a feeling of pleasant calm and a strong desire to sleep. Depending on the inhaler, the gas could act as a narcoleptic—the victim falls asleep involuntarily. The gas remains effective from six to twelve hours after exposure in locations without heavy winds or drafts. The effect on the inhaler could last from one to two days, again depending on the person and the amount inhaled.”
“Well, well, well,” said the admiral. “Camouflaged anesthetics.”
“I can already sense the skepticism you and your associates will have toward this breakthrough. Frankly, when I was working on its development I was not thinking of dictators but of Al Qaeda. They are robots resembling humans only in shape. I always think of them as already being poisoned by a drug we cannot produce yet—the drug of fanaticism. My drug will act as an antidote to their drug.”
“Indeed? I wonder how?” The admiral was genuinely curious now.
“We all know how hard it is to get to them—they’re so hard to find, nein? However, some of them are, perhaps, accessible. We know that they train somewhere between Afghanistan and Pakistan. Now, if I guess correctly, you have access to secret intelligence reports that can narrow down these training areas to definite locations. You could spread these pebbles over that area.”
“And how is the paste exposed,” the admiral asked.
“Ah, yes! The paste is released to the atmosphere by melting the plastic container. This is done by dipping the pebbles into a liquid I have developed for that purpose. Once dipped, the pebbles start dissolving—and they continue dissolving even after the liquid has dried.”
“Now that’s an interesting approach,” the admiral said. “Still, it would be quite cumbersome to take pebbles and liquid into the arena of action and then dip and spread, dip and spread—I can see our operators dropping with content smiles on their faces before getting anything substantial done. We’d have to wear gas masks—making the operation even more unwieldy.”
“You are thinking faster than I can explain!” Lemke laughed. “There is no need to worry. You can time the beginning of the dissolving process by diluting my liquid, which I call the ‘conditioner,�
�� with ordinary tap water.” Lemke produced a slim notebook, which he handed to the admiral. “Here, look. I have prepared a table that matches the amount of water necessary for each period of delay. You can delay the release of the gas by one to seven days—depending on the amount of water. With equal parts of conditioner and water, you get a delay of four days. Less water, less delay. And vice versa, of course—it’s all in the table in the notebook.”
The admiral shifted his gaze from the notebook to the pebble and thought furiously. If this works, it could be a major breakthrough.
“Just think,” Lemke continued, his excitement mounting. “You prime these pebbles in the conditioner and then spread them where you think they’ll be most effective. The crazies arrive for training and suddenly get very drowsy and drop off to sleep with big smiles on their faces. It could be very challenging for their commanders and trainers, except that they, too, would join Morpheus in dreamland. There’s no limit to what can be done—use your imagination, my man!”
He’s right, thought the admiral. At the moment, I cannot think of how we could make use of these pebbles, but it most definitely has possibilities. How about if we got the gardener of one of the dictators to cooperate with us, and he would spread primed pebbles on the lawn where Mr. Tyrant has his tea and muffins. If this went on for a couple of weeks, everyone would be positive that the despot had lost his marbles. Oh, well … nice thought, though.
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