Global Conspiracy

by David Shomron

  “Oh, there certainly is,” the admiral said, smiling, “G) Can you use the telephone freely? Particularly for international calls? From your hotel? H) How widespread is the use of the Internet in the country? Can you access it from the hotel? From your room? And I was also thinking along the lines of: I) Can private aircraft fly into the country? And where are they allowed to land?”

  “And don’t forget,” Sir Cedric said, “J) Where do public events take place? I mean, where does the president or the spiritual leader address the multitudes? What are the environs of this place? K) Can a foreigner rent a flat in the capital or anywhere else? How about in the area of public gathering I just mentioned?”

  “That’s good, Cedric,” the admiral said admiringly. “I wasn’t aware that you were a brilliant strategist, too.” He turned back to the others. “Listen. I’ll try to obtain maps and mark them with the sensitive locations we know, such as obvious military targets and nuclear installations. You’ll have to stay away from these places.”

  “Quite a long list there, isn’t it,” Anne said. “And you’ll have to be on your toes at all times, too, to pick up pointers for future operations that may come upon us. What will your cover stories be?”

  “We’ll stray from the truth as little as possible,” Martin said. “I shall appear in my true identity as a fitness center owner. Patricia, or whoever it is that accompanies me, will be my fiancée. We’ll book separate rooms, though—who knows, in the land of the ayatollahs they might frown upon an unmarried couple sharing a room.”

  Anne still didn’t like the idea, but managed to curb her annoyance.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Martin and Anne went for a tour of what was once the central marketplace of Paris—Les Halles. It had been partially torn down to provide space for the Centre Georges Pompidou, the modern arts and culture institution named after the late French president. The neighborhood may have changed since then, but the world’s oldest profession had not. Tiny bars, cheap hotels, and ancient houses joined together in strings. And—of course—girls.

  Girls in light miniskirts exposing their underwear. Push-up brassieres that force mammaries to overflow their confinement. Supposedly loitering in the hotel doorways, the prostitutes actually parade on the sidewalks. Men pass by without looking, ostensibly minding their own business, and suddenly one of them stops by one of the girls, a quick exchange of words, and they disappear into the nearest hotel. There are other men, too—they stand apart and watch. These are the maquereaux, or pimps.

  Anne had tied a scarf around her hair and put on an enormous pair of dark glasses that concealed the upper part of her face. Martin had a Basque beret on his head and sunglasses on his nose. They strolled down the length of rue Saint-Denis, minding their own business in earnest. They did not wish to appear as tourists or even outsiders, so they did not carry cameras or expensive bags.

  They walked into a bar, ordered two glasses of dry white wine, and drank it while standing at the bar, as was customary.

  “Do you see now what you’re up against?” Martin said. “Ladies do not walk around here alone—don’t you dare try it.”

  “So what do you suggest?” Anne asked.

  “Frankly, right now I have no idea what to do if and when we decide to look for your Lucien.”

  That’s not very encouraging, thought Anne. This street is very repulsive, even scary. I don’t recall ever having been in such a place—the commotion, the half-naked girls, the men that feed this ‘industry’—it’s sickening!

  Anne removed her scarf and glasses.

  “Let’s go to a decent café,” she said. “I need to get the taste of this locale out of my mouth.”

  While sipping coffee at the Café Beaubourg, with the grand view of the art center’s façade, Martin realized that Anne must have undergone a mild shock. He regretted the discomfort he had caused her but hoped she would stay away from this neighborhood once and for all. Not without him in tow, at least.

  Commissaire Duval and Inspecteur Marnier arrived at Charles De Gaulle airport and waited by the gate through which Sir Cedric Norton was supposed to emerge. They were equipped with cell phones and could communicate directly with each other. Earlier, Duval had received Sir Cedric’s flight particulars, along with his description and attire, from Assistant Commissioner MacLeod of Scotland Yard.

  Duval had not informed the inspector who the target was or why he was to be followed. Marnier knew better than to ask—if the commissaire wished to share the information, he would have done so.

  The passengers began to trickle out and then emerged in groups.

  “There he is!” Duval said. “The elderly gentleman in the dark suit. Brown briefcase in his right hand, raincoat over his left arm.”

  “Got him!” Marnier replied. “Do you think he has a suitcase as well?”

  “No, just the briefcase. Get a move on—he may go out and catch a taxi at any minute.”

  “On my way.”

  Commissaire Duval reevaluated the situation. Sometimes he wondered whether he was doing the right thing. After so many years on the Paris police force, he should know that there were paths you shouldn’t stray away from. Why was he pursuing this case, anyway? To date, he had handled everything on his own—nobody else was involved. Now he had brought Inspecteur Marnier into the picture. This was not a good thing—not good at all!

  Duval decided that, if the trailing of Sir Cedric resulted in nothing encouraging, he would give up the case. In fact, he was actually hoping for the case to terminate.

  He started up the car and headed for his office. Halfway there, his telephone rang.

  “Marnier here. The man went directly to the residence of Professeur Dupré.”

  “Do you know who she is?” Duval asked.

  “She’s the friend of the lady who got murdered some weeks ago. The Tania Gerard case—you’re familiar with it, aren’t you—it’s still open and at a dead end.”

  “Is he still there now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Let me know where he goes from there.”

  Commissaire Duval was surprised. He had looked into the files of the Gerard murder case, but he was convinced that the Dupré woman had nothing to do with it. Marnier’s recent information did nothing to change this belief. And yet … she knew the murdered woman, and now she’s visited by a man who knew the deceased Allier. Could that mean anything? Not necessarily, but now he couldn’t let go of the case. He had to find out if there was any connection between a British scientist from London and a British-born history professor from Paris.

  Commissaire Duval decided he would have a chat with her.

  FORTY-SIX

  They knew that it was rather uncommon for tourists to return to the same country within three weeks of their first visit. Martin prepared a cover story, which would serve them in case anyone challenged the reason for their revisit. He packed several brochures of his fitness gym and its equipment, and he did not intend to show them unless he actually needed a fallback. And if that was the case, he intended to visit local gyms and get interested with their equipment and fitness programs.

  “What if there aren’t any fitness gyms over there?” Spencer had asked.

  “So much the better,” Martin replied. “We’ll be the first!”

  They both laughed.

  Their arrival had been preceded by a debate: whether or not to find a different hotel, where they wouldn’t be recognized. They picked the same hotel mainly because they were known there and therefore less liable to be asked questions. Martin said, jokingly, “Have you ever heard of a hotel that asked its customers why they arrived or why they returned? We’ll be taken for ‘veterans’ over there, and everything we do will seem natural to them.”

  Indeed, they had been graciously received by the management and were given two of the best rooms. Now, on the morning after their arrival, they rented a car and toured some of the area south of the capital. Not too much, however, as towards evening they intended to have
dinner at Charlie’s and meet with Sing.

  Charlie was quite surprised to see them again.

  “My good friends, Martin and Spencer,” he called as he walked toward their car, a huge smile in his face. “Welcome back!”

  They shook Charlie’s hand vigorously.

  “Come in, come in—have some dinner. How was your trip?”

  “Just great!” They walked into the restaurant. “It’s been three weeks since our previous visit. I hope Mr. Sing remembers that, and that he’ll be here tonight.”

  “Of course, of course. Sing always keeps his promises. And now I see that you do, too.”

  Martin and Spencer enjoyed a sumptuous meal, while Charlie stopped by their table from time to time to exchange a few words with them.

  “Tell us, Charlie,” Spencer said. “Has there been any progress since the leaders of the two Koreas met?”

  Charlie gave him a pitiful smile.

  “It’s been only three weeks, my friend,” he said. “What did you expect could happen in such a short time? These kinds of changes could take months, even years.”

  At that moment, Sing walked in. Martin and Spencer began to rise, but he gestured to them to remain seated. He joined them at their table, and Charlie served him a drink. After the preliminary niceties, Charlie led them back to his house and they got down to business.

  “I know you are anticipating responses to your questions,” Sing said. “But before I answer you, I want to ask you something: Have there been any changes in your plans? Or do you still want to pursue the one you described to me three weeks ago?”

  “Absolutely!” Martin said seriously. “Why do you ask?”

  “It crossed my mind that after you learned about the intended meeting of the two Korean leaders, you may not be requiring my services any longer. You might have arrived at the conclusion that food and clothing need not be transported across the border by the likes of me—that this could now be done openly and officially. Normalization, you know …” He glanced at Charlie.

  “No, Mr. Sing, we did not entertain those thoughts at all. But what do you think about this?”

  “Please call me Sing, like everyone else. Listen, I don’t think—I know! If goods begin to flow across the border, everything will wind up with the supporters of the regime—the top leadership, the ministers, senior military officers, and a couple of thousand loyalists who form the basis for Kim Jong-il’s dictatorship. The rest will continue to starve!”

  “So you don’t think you’ll lose any of your business, eh?” Martin smiled.

  “Not on your life!” Sing was dead serious. “You know, I often feel that we would all be better off if I did have a problem with smuggling. I’d have to find something else to do to make a living. But it would also mean that the nightmare over there was over! You are foreigners here. You live in an organized world. You have no idea what it means to have hundreds of thousands of families’ lose their possessions, houses, land—everything has been confiscated or impounded.”

  “In the North,” Charlie continued the narrative, “there is an acute problem of hunger. Millions are starving! Women go out to the fields to pick weeds so that they can give their babies something to eat. You see children on the streets with distended bellies. It is an indescribable horror!”

  There was no doubting the man’s sincerity. Martin saw this as a sign to forge ahead.

  “Mr. Sing … I mean, Sing, let’s get down to practical issues. For that, I see it my duty to modify the story I told you about us last time. It is true that we wish to smuggle goods into North Korea. But not food and clothes.”

  “Arms?” Sing asked.

  “Not arms. Neither any other kind of war materials. We’re not military, intelligence, or underground resistance.”

  “So what’s left?” Charlie chuckled.

  “I’ll tell you. We are a circle of people who wish to topple dictators. Not only here. Everywhere.”

  “Really? How?” Sing usually listened in silence, but he could not resist the question.

  “Not by force. Not by the use of weapons. By humiliating them.”

  Sing and Charlie looked at each other questioningly, as if saying ‘what is this madman talking about?’ Finally, Sing said:

  “I have never heard of such a thing.”

  “Patience, Sing. I shall explain myself.”

  “I’m listening.” But it was obvious that he was thinking it was a waste of time.

  “We believe that if a leader is made a mockery in front of his people and his close supporters, his days are numbered. At least, he will lose some of his self-confidence—perhaps totally. He will begin to doubt his capability to carry out his megalomaniac ambitions.”

  “Very nice theory,” Sing said. “Are you going to make his face turn blue on television?”

  Martin smiled.

  “You’re getting the idea, though we have other methods in mind. A team of scientists is working on developing the resources to make things happen—similar to what you suggested. Let me give you an example. One of the most cherished occasions for these tyrants is to have a public appearance, where the people can ‘adore’ them. For a dictator this is a very important event, and they make sure that the population thinks the same way. Now, if we could disrupt his speech in a most embarrassing way—intersperse rude noises and eventually just turn the PA system into a horrendous screech—don’t you think the crowd would flee from the square with their hands over their ears? And laugh at their leader for weeks to come? Don’t you think his reputation, integrity, and general public image would be irreparably damaged?”

  “Sounds like fantasy to me,” Sing said.

  “I’m glad. Because the impact will be so much greater when it actually happens. And let me tell you that when this acoustic ‘fantasy,’ as you call it, is accompanied by additional embarrassing events—the effect will be even more degrading!”

  The two Koreans thought for a while in silence.

  “You really believe that this could bring about his downfall?” Sing asked.

  “Yes. And by using other means as well. It has a good chance of succeeding. Anyway, we think it’s worth a try.”

  It was evident that Charlie and Sing were mulling over ideas that would never have occurred to them. These notions were strange, new, different—and yet, carried a certain logic with them.

  “And now, Sing, please permit me to ask you if you and your men have found out anything for us.”

  It took a while before Sing responded.

  “You have really astonished me,” he said. “Something that happens very rarely, indeed. I did not expect anything like this. I thought that overthrowing tyrannical regimes was the job of governments and superpowers, not private enterprises and scientists. And I have many questions I wish to ask you. But first, I shall answer your request. Even though I doubted your credibility after our first meeting, I sent men to investigate the things you spoke of. Yes, there are people who will cooperate, even to the extent of endangering their lives. And hiding places for your … ‘goods’ can also be found. Now we need to be more specific about how things are going to take place. What else did you have in mind?”

  “Sing, I have already informed you that I cannot reveal all the measures we’re working on. But I shall give you another taste of what we can deploy so that you won’t take us for reckless adventurers. We have a special material that looks like fertilizer. When spread, it emits a gas that can neutralize vehicle engines—they just die and cannot be activated until serviced in a special way. Now, can you imagine what that fertilizer can do to a convoy parading before the Great Leader? The tanks and the heavy lorries towing the missiles will all grind to a halt, while the dictator is heard hiccupping into his microphone. In time, you shall learn more, perhaps everything—after all, it’s your men out there who will have to do the job. You will be shown all our techniques and how to operate the instruments. Have I answered your question?”

  “You most certainly have! Tell me what you
need, and we’ll do the best we can.”

  “We shall need gardeners or groundkeepers who work in the public gardens—mainly the flower beds, lawns, and so forth—especially in the main squares of Pyongyang.”

  “That will not be a problem.”

  “They’ll be the ones to spread the fertilizer.”

  “I gathered as much. Go on.”

  “We’ll need apartments, shops, warehouses, restaurants—anywhere where we can deploy a small electronic device. Many of them. They will disrupt the PA system and other acoustic equipment. They may be placed anywhere within a kilometer of the parade itinerary, but they will still work.

  Sing nodded.

  “We need to know,” Martin continued, “if there are any civilian employees inside military bases. I mean, personnel handling sanitation, gardening, kitchen duties, and so on. If so, could they be recruited, or could outsiders infiltrate into these bases? I’m referring only to bases within or nearby the city—where the parades would normally commence.

  “I’ll check,” Sing said. “If there are any, I’ll recruit them.”