Global Conspiracy

by David Shomron

  Anne sat bolt upright. Murder mystery! She was involved in one herself. She had neglected to follow up on her quest for Tanya’s killer. Anne felt the guilt rising in her bosom. She had this uncontrollable urge to go out right now and continue her search.

  I know I promised Martin not to go alone, to consult him before taking action. But if Lucien Laval is the killer, he most certainly won’t be at the address I have, waiting to be picked up. If I inquire about him there, all that could happen is that they’ll tell me he has left, or perhaps not even answer me at all. That was probably true regarding the other two addresses I visited also—there never was any danger. So why take all these exaggerated precautions? And it certainly couldn’t do any harm. Maybe I’ll get a forwarding address, and then Martin and I could decide what to do. So there’s no real reason why I should not inquire at Laval’s address. It will just be some more information gathering. That’s it then—I’m going there tomorrow.

  So here she was. Rue de l’Ourcq in the 19th Arrondissement—the address of Lucien Laval. She had dressed modestly, armed herself with the clipboard, had taken the metro to the Ourcq station and walked to the house, reciting to herself the pollster story.

  Holding her breath, she rang the bell. She told the concierge that her business was with the Laval family and was buzzed in. She walked up two flights and was greeted by an elegantly dressed, elderly woman.

  Before the woman could ask anything, Anne blurted out her story. She kept a lookout for anything suspicious, prepared to run down the stairs at the slightest provocation.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said, when she had finished her introduction. “Lucien left the house a long time ago. He only shows up when he’s broke and needs some cash. Even so, I haven’t seen him for several weeks now. It pleases me greatly that the university is taken this kind of initiative. Please come in—perhaps I can help you find him.”

  Anne hesitated for a second. Then, despite all the alarms ringing in her brain, she entered the apartment.

  “I really shouldn’t, you know,” Anne said apologetically. “I have a long list to cover. Perhaps just for a minute….”

  Mme. Laval seated Anne in an armchair and brought lemonade from the kitchen. Then she, too, sat down and started to talk.

  “Lucien is a good boy. While he was still studying at the university, he was industrious and diligent. Then he met this blonde floozy with the ponytail and everything changed. She has total control over him. He neglected his studies, frequently stayed out late, and demanded more money than his regular allowance from his father. My husband works as a cashier for the railway company—the SNCF—and earns a decent living. But we cannot afford Lucien’s new extravaganzas. All we wanted is for our only child to get a good education. But this … this tramp,” Mme. Laval’s eyes burned with rage, “has ruined his life!”

  “Do you think he’s with her now?” Anne asked.

  “I’m sure he’s with her now!” the mother spat out.

  “And has Lucien ever been mixed up with anything else besides this … woman? I mean, something—ahh—unsavory?”

  “Mon Dieu, yes! He started taking drugs, thanks to that succubus of his. Listen, you’ve got to save him.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to do, Mme. Laval,” Anne fibbed. “But for that I need your help in locating him.”

  Lucien’s mother began sobbing quietly.

  “I wish I knew,” she said softly. “All I know is that this tart is seen occasionally on rue Saint-Denis. You may not be familiar with this, my dear, but rue Saint-Denis …”

  “Yes, I know,” Anne said, resting a hand on Mme. Laval’s shoulder. This street was well known as one of Paris’ famous red light districts.

  “… And her name,” continued the mother. “She is called Ninette. I doubt, however, if that is her real name.”

  “Could you give me the names of some of his friends? Perhaps they could help in locating him?”

  “He had a number of friends. They kept walking in and out of here, but he never introduced me to any of them.”

  “Well, I guess that’s all, Mme. Laval. I shall pass on this information and I hope the university will send someone who can assist your son. You have been of great help. Thank you very much.”

  On the way back to the metro station, Anne pondered on what she had recently learned. She was positive that the woman was perfectly frank with her. There was no sign that she was hiding anything. Anne was also convinced that Lucien’s mother had no inkling that her son was connected to a crime in any way. Then again, perhaps she belonged to the type of people who don’t read the newspapers or listen to the news.

  Anne decided to wait for Martin’s return. She certainly would not venture alone into a street full of prostitutes. That was really dangerous. But she was quite pleased with what she had achieved.

  FORTY

  The first day in Seoul had passed uneventfully for Martin and Spencer. The hotel had provided first class Western service, including the Korean Times delivered early to the room, a well-prepared breakfast, and bookings for tours. Seoul was the habitat for ten million people, about half the entire population of South Korea. The tour of Seoul revealed an enormous city, divided in two by the Hangang River, with suburbs on the surrounding hills. These, they were informed, were built by the throngs of poor Koreans, who left their villages to seek their fortunes in the big city.

  There were about twenty universities in Seoul. It was estimated that approximately a hundred and fifty thousand foreigners lived in the city—mostly Japanese and Chinese, but also some twelve thousand Americans.

  Many citizens spoke English, though sometimes broken and funny-sounding, and their number decreased dramatically the further away you were from the city. After a few feeble attempts to get the hang of the language, Martin gave up. He and Spencer would have to make do in English and sign language if necessary. He hoped that the smugglers, if and when they found any, would speak at least a little English.

  Now, after two days of touring, they had rented a Hyundai and made their way north. They had prepared a cover story for their trip—the border between the Koreas was made famous by the press, and they wanted to see it with their own eyes. They passed through the townships of Uijeongbu and Tongduch’on, and they soon arrived at the first destination—the town of Ch’orwon.

  Martin scouted while Spencer drove.

  “Whoa, Spencer. There’s something that looks like a food place. Let’s go in and see what we can find.”

  Spencer parked the car, and they walked into a small restaurant. They sat at a table and ordered beers. The waiter, who was also the owner, spoke to them in English.

  “You are Americans?”

  “British, actually,” Spencer replied.

  The owner grinned broadly.

  “We see very few Britishers here. Welcome! Are you here on business?”

  “No,” Martin laughed. An air of jollity encouraged conversation. “We’re tourists. We wanted to see the famous 38th Parallel up close.”

  “Well, that’s further up north,” the proprietor said. “But the road will take you there. Once, before the division of the Koreas, this was one of the roads to the north. It leads all the way to Pyonggangup, the first town beyond the border. But you won’t be able to go there. May I suggest that you drive up to the border, look around and return here for a first-rate genuine Korean lunch?”

  The proprietor was short and pot-bellied, probably indicating his love for food. He had a constant smile on his face, which was a kind of fixture that people who serve other people acquire over the years. He had thin stubbly hair and was probably in his fifties.

  “You honor us,” Martin said. “We’d be glad to dine here.” He was hoping to build a relationship of trust and friendship with this man—who knows when a local ally could become handy.

  The trip to the border was very short. Beyond that point, the road and the fields on both its sides were blocked by huge chunks of concrete, enforced by barbed wire s
trung at shoulder height. Further on, they could see an ancient military outpost, a pillbox, manned by a short soldier in a Soviet uniform of the type seen only in movies nowadays.

  Martin and Spencer got out of the car, strolled around, and waved a greeting at the North Korean soldier. They got no response, nor did they expect any. However, they refrained from taking pictures, as that may goad the ‘Soviet’ sentry to open fire. So they waved again, a friendly goodbye, got into the car and headed south again. On the way back, they stopped and dawdled away the time taking pictures, so as to arrive at the restaurant for noontime lunch.

  At the restaurant, they were greeted by the owner as old friends. They introduced themselves by their first names. So did he.

  “My name is Chou-Jiang-Ho but many foreigners find that difficult to pronounce. So they call me Charlie for short. You can call me Charlie, too.”

  There were a few other diners at the restaurant, all locals. They were all in a hurry to finish their meals and get back to work. Charlie served his foreigner guests various appetizers, most of them variant preparations of turnip, and it seemed that he wished to delay them until the others had left. Indeed, after the last diner had disappeared through the front door, Charlie served up fish, followed by meat, prepared in ways unfamiliar to the Englishmen, but which they found very tasty. Charlie, his smile unwavering, watched them as they ate.

  “How about some tea?” Charlie suggested as they were finishing their meal.

  “Just the thing,” Spencer said. “Bring it on.”

  Charlie served the tea, and then sat down at their table. He leaned forward and his smile took on a shifty appearance.

  “Just what are you looking for?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Martin feigned indignation. “We told you, we’re tourists.”

  The sly smile remained.

  “Anyone coming to these parts is looking for something.”

  Martin’s vast experience in working with people, together with his acute sense of judgment, convinced him that Charlie was neither hostile nor a threat. He gave a quick glance at Spencer and decided to test the proprietor.

  “My office in London employs a very nice chap who came from this area many years ago. When he heard that we were planning a trip to Korea, he told us that he had a family on the northern side and that he wished us to transfer a sum of money to them. He also told us that he could not expect such a transfer to be done for free, and that he was willing to pay for it. We went to the border hoping to find somebody there to help us, but there was no one. Such a pity.”

  The smile on Charlie’s face remained the same. He scratched his head and breathed heavily.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe.”

  Martin looked him directly in the face.

  “You are very guileless persons,” Charlie said. “You say you want to do your colleague a favor and send money to his family. Right?”

  “And you’re trying to tell us that’s impossible,” Martin said. “Right?”

  Charlie laughed so hard he had to hold onto the table to keep from falling off his chair.

  “Everyone knows,” he gasped, wiping his eyes with one of the napkins, “that this is the ‘highway.’ This is the main road for smuggling into North Korea. Everything passes through here: food, textiles, raw materials, currency, people—you name it. And you’re telling me you want to ‘help a friend’?” The loud, roaring laughter returned—wave after wave of belly-rolling cachinnation, the tears streaming from Charlie’s eyes.

  Martin and Spencer couldn’t help themselves—the laughter was infectious. They joined in heartily, albeit with a certain degree of control and dignity. It took them all several seconds to calm down.

  “So, Charlie,” Martin said finally, “you have just met two naïve and ridiculous foreigners. Now please enlighten us—that is, if you weren’t pulling our leg. Is there a way to send money into North Korea? How? Do we do it through you?”

  The proprietor was suddenly serious. It was the first time they saw him without a smile.

  “Oh, no, no, no. I’m just a restaurant owner. Everyone stops by my place to eat and I make a decent living. I don’t need to undertake any additional adventures that, after all, are a bit hazardous. But I can introduce to someone who can help.”

  “Why would he meet with perfect strangers,” Martin asked. “Wouldn’t he be suspicious?”

  “Suspicious of what? This has been a thriving business for over fifty years. Both sides, especially the North, realize that these … er … transactions are beneficial to all involved. The authorities over there are very severe in their control of the people, but they are well aware that they cannot clothe or feed them. Smuggling is the natural and necessary solution to the problem. Over the years it has become ‘institutionalized,’ so to speak.”

  “But doesn’t Pyongyang take any action against smugglers.” Spencer asked.

  “The North Korean government, over there in the capital city, either doesn’t know, or rather, doesn’t want to know. They look the other way and allow some of their poverty-stricken citizens to survive the only way possible. Naturally, some of the officials have material gains as well—they get their cut of food, money, cigarettes, and so on—things that most other citizens there cannot afford. In this region, however, everybody knows, and nobody encounters any interference.”

  Martin and Spencer looked at each other.

  “You needn’t look so shocked.” Charlie was laughing again. “Necessity sometimes leads to strange solutions. For fifty years, no one has disrupted this ‘industry,’ and smuggling privileges are bequeathed from father to son. Now …” Charlie leaned forward, his eyes sparkling. “If you really want to send something up north, I’ll arrange for you to meet the right person.”

  Martin nudged Spencer under the table to keep silent. His brain was working furiously. It seemed almost too easy—and that intimidated him. He knew that Spencer was working out the same arguments. Martin needed his confirmation for the decision he was about to make. Over the years in the army, Martin and his squadron had developed tiny signals to each other, and Martin hoped Spencer was on his toes.

  He glanced at Spencer, his eyebrows ascending a fraction of a millimeter. Spencer responded with an almost imperceptible nod.

  “All right, Charlie,” Martin said. “When and where can we meet this fellow?”

  “In the evening,” Charlie said. “Always in the evening, and as late as possible. After the last of the diners has left.”

  “What, here? Come on, Charlie—you know we don’t want your patrons to see us here.”

  “My house is right behind the restaurant. You will meet him there. Come, I will show you.”

  Charlie showed them out and led the way. Sure enough, a cozy cottage was located just behind the restaurant. Martin and Spencer followed Charlie into the house and admired the carpet-covered floors and the many photographic portraits hanging on the walls—probably relatives. Stylish furniture was tastefully placed in the living room. Charlie gave them a tour of the five rooms and introduced them to his wife. He sent a clear, unspoken message—I have all I want and I don’t need more.

  Back at the restaurant, Martin asked for the bill. Charlie rejected the request with a friendly gesture.

  “You are my guests,” he said. When he noticed that they were about to insist, he added:

  “Listen, it’s obvious that you did not come here to ‘help a friend.’ No matter, whatever you’re after will end in a transaction with the man tonight. And I’ll get my share from that, never fear. It will pay for your meal many times over, believe me.” A soft laugh. “Come to my house at ten. He’ll be there.”

  At the same time, a board meeting was held at Anne’s.

  “No news from Martin and Spencer yet, I suppose,” Sir Cedric said. “When are they supposed to return?”

  “We didn’t give him a time restriction,” Anne replied. “They may need a couple of days to acclimatize and then some more time to find the contacts we’
re looking for. They’ve been away for only three days. I suppose they’ll be back in a week or so.”

  “You don’t believe they’re in any danger, do you?” the admiral asked.

  “Not really,” Anne said. “They have clear instructions just to make contact without revealing our true intentions. There’s no danger there. I think we needn’t worry. I expect Martin will call sooner or later, and if there’s nothing of importance to report, he’ll just let us know when they’re returning.”

  “That’s it then,” the admiral said briskly. “I would now like to draw your attention to one more test that we need to do—Lemke’s ‘gravel tranquilizers,’ as I like to refer to them.”

  “Indeed,” Sir Cedric stated. “What about them?”

  “This is a bit more complex than our previous experiments. Let’s say we strew them outside a remote village from a passing car. The villagers exposed to them will feel drowsy, tired, listless, whatever—and probably visit the local doctor or doctors. These will become aware of a collective phenomenon and alert the Health Ministry who may send in an investigation committee. Now, we do not want that to happen, right?”

  “Very true,” Sir Cedric muttered.

  “And another thing,” the admiral went on, “if the incident is not reported in the press or on the news, we’ll have no way of knowing the experiment’s effects. And we certainly cannot loiter around the village for days to observe the results.”