He was doubtful about the gravel—the pebbles would not be that practical on a paved area, such as streets or parade grounds. Fields, yes—and gardens and perhaps lawns, too. The Al Qaeda training areas did not concern him at the moment—he had never thought that the pebbles would be effective there.
And that went for the fertilizer as well! Prior to a military parade, they would doubtless sweep the itinerary clean—any fertilizer spread there would be removed!
We need to improve our methods, he thought.
He had set up a meeting with Gustav Lemke two days hence. That would not interfere with the association’s schedule—Sir Cedric was on a trip to Italy, Martin was in Iran for at least a week, and Anne needed to remain in the background for now.
Commissaire Duval prepared a formal document requesting an item from the police storerooms, supposedly in order to compare with another item. He then called his old classmate, Jules Racine. Forty-five minutes later, they were shaking hands in Racine’s electronics laboratory.
“So, Felix,” Racine said, obviously awed by the fame his old colleague had achieved. “It’s been so many years, and neither of us has kept in touch. You said nothing of yourself over the phone. Quel dommage. So tell me now—do you have a family, or are you too busy creating headlines in all the newspapers? Here, let me get you a coffee.”
“We can exchange domestic developments a little later, Jules,” he said. “Right now I need your assistance in something very urgent.”
“To be sure, to be sure! What can I do for the great commissaire?”
Duval plunked the box he was carrying on Racine’s worktable. He opened it and took out the device.
“Take a look, Jules. Tell me what it is.”
Racine sat at the table and observed the machine indifferently, turning it this way and that, looking underneath, and poking around with a screwdriver. He then folded his arms on his chest and gazed at the device for a couple of minutes.
“It reminds me of an ancient dishwasher,” he said finally. “Some essential parts are missing. That doesn’t mean a thing, however. What’s it supposed to be?” He looked up at Duval.
Duval gave one of his rare smiles.
“That’s what I came to you to find out,” he said sweetly.
Racine scratched his chin, his eyes glued to the device.
“It doesn’t have a motor, and it has no accessories that could do any tasks. It doesn’t heat up and it cannot produce a sound. It certainly won’t shine in the dark, and I doubt if any smell will come out of it when operated. It’s not supposed to be moved about, and nothing I can see there will cause it to vibrate.”
“So now we know a whole lot of what it is not!” Duval was getting impatient. “Can you tell me what it is?”
“It’s nothing. It doesn’t do anything. It could possibly be a reject by some novice electrician who was experimenting on it. You’d better watch out if you want to plug it into the electricity system. I noticed that the connections are faulty and could electrocute anyone who touches it. Where on earth did you find this?”
“Well, Jules, just entre nous, this device is involved in a case that is officially closed. However, I am not satisfied, if you understand my meaning.”
“Oh, quite!” Racine was elated. Here was the master detective, about to reveal a professional secret. To him!
“This is the device that electrocuted and killed Professor Albert Allier some weeks ago. Do you remember the incident?”
“But of course! Everything I know I learned from him. What a wonderful man!”
“Nobody knows how this machine got on his desk. They say that he may have been developing something new, and that there was an accident. Case closed. What do you think?”
“You really want my opinion? All right, then. Professor Allier would never have made such a mistake. I mean, he would never have touched it. Safety was his number one priority at all times! He used to tell us students: ‘Never forget that alongside all the blessings that electricity can bring us, it can also kill! Always check the connections before turning on an unknown appliance.’ And I have followed that warning all my life.” He pointed at the machine. “There is no way that this is something that the professor wished to develop. If it wasn’t for the tragic results, I would have considered it a joke.”
“I’d like this to be perfectly clear,” Duval said. “It is your opinion that the late Professor Allier could never have used this device in the process of developing something new. Am I right?”
“Absolument.”
“Would it be reasonable to assume that someone had placed this thing on Allier’s desk without his knowledge, and that he touched it accidentally? To remove it, perhaps?”
“It’s possible. Did you find any fingerprints?”
“No. Excepting Allier’s own hand prints, of course.”
“What about the plug?” Racine picked up the plug and dangled the cord from his hand.
“Now there’s a mystery. No fingerprints on the plug either. You understand, I hope, the significance of this.” It wasn’t a question.
“How about inside? Did you search for fingerprints inside the device? I’m asking because while building this thing, the insides—I mean, like this panel and this condenser—needed to be handled, too. Sometimes fingerprints are left there.”
Commissaire Duval was aghast! The insides had almost definitely not been dusted for fingerprints. However, he did not allow his consternation to show.
“So,” he said calmly, “from what you’ve seen here, would you say that Allier’s death could have been a murder?”
“Judging only by the device’s sole function—to electrocute—and the lack of fingerprints on the plug, I would say that murder is a strong possibility.”
“That’s what I thought, too. Well, Jules, my deepest thanks for your help.”
Only then did the conversation resort to personal and domestic matters and, of course, coffee.
An hour later, Duval was back in his office. He hurriedly summoned Marnier and handed him the box with the device.
“Take this to the lab,” he ordered, “and have them check everything in this machine’s interior for fingerprints. Have them cut through the outside paneling, too, if necessary.”
Patricia and Martin were the epitome of correct and proper relationships. They spent the days together as model tourists, and parted to their rooms at night. Martin was always the perfect gentleman toward Patricia—friendly and affectionate. They talked about every possible topic under the sun, and discovered that they shared a passion for silent movies and Indian food. However, no other type of passion was involved. In Patricia’s opinion, Martin was indeed an attractive man with many high qualifications to his credit, but he was the “boss,” and work and play don’t mix. Besides, since her divorce she felt no real need for male company, although she supposed that someday she would.
As for Martin, the thought of hanky-panky with Patricia never even crossed his mind. He was too much in love with Anne for that.
FIFTY-TWO
As usual, Gustav Lemke invited the admiral to a luscious meal at an exclusive restaurant. Sometimes the admiral believed that Lemke was trying to lull him into a false sense of security, whereupon he would pounce with an undeniable demand. But that had never happened—the food was excellent, his satisfied feeling was genuine, and Lemke was the model of hospitality.
“I would have spoiled that sumptuous meal if I had talked about business,” the admiral said, hiding a faint burp. They were each holding a glass of red wine and enjoying a warm afterglow.
“Ach, ja!” Lemke responded. “That would have been a pity. But now is a good time, no?”
“Thank you, Gustav. There is something bothering me about the fertilizer and the gravel.”
Lemke raised an attentive eyebrow.
“It would be hard to halt a military convoy driving on an asphalt road.” The admiral continued describing his apprehensions.
Lemke looked disappointed. He
pursed his lips and gazed into his wine glass. The admiral knew better than to disturb him—Lemke had, after all, proved himself to remarkable inventive talents.
Lemke seemed to suddenly wake up.
“I’ve been thinking about liquids,” he said, half to himself. “A spray or sprinkler, perhaps. But liquids are too volatile—they’ll evaporate before being of any use. Maybe something more viscous. Or maybe something that leaves a thin dry film over the paved area. It will start sublimating only in the presence of petrol engines exhaust fumes. Ja, ja—that could work. Still just an idea, though. I’ve got to work on it—keep trying.” Lemke raised his head, as if suddenly aware of the admiral’s presence. “How much time do you have?”
Admiral Stone was already thinking along operational lines: how to sprinkle or spray a stretch of several kilometers a day or two before a parade. And perhaps a much shorter distance would suffice, as the leading vehicles would jam up the rest. But this was putting the cart before the horse.
“Take all the time you need,” he said. “In any case, we cannot plan anything without your stuff on hand.”
“I’ll go at it right away! When I have something, I shall call you. No, wait! I remember you said not to call you. Very well. You call me, then. Shall we say … in ten days?”
“Indeed, we shall say!” the admiral said with a smile.
They clinked their glasses.
School was out, and the Dupré children joined their mother on a visit to their paternal grandparents in the south of France. Anne felt a strong urge to get away from Paris and her everyday worries. Planning a meeting with Boulanger could wait until she returned.
For the children and the elder Duprés it was party time from beginning to end. Guy and Julie always enjoyed being spoiled by their father’s parents. Grand-mère cooked meals to die for, and Grand-papa took them on outings to country fairs and petanque—a form of boules—games.
Anne had a much-needed rest, loafing around, reading, strolling in the countryside, and avoiding thoughts of Paris. But human behavior does not always follow human desires. Every now and then, her thoughts would turn to the police investigation—and to Martin. She truly loved him. There was no denying that despite her jealousy, anger, and frustration, she still could not break away from that love. And now, resulting mostly from her own decisions, Martin was enjoying himself with another woman in a far-off country. Anne felt as if an anvil was pressing down on her chest.
FIFTY-THREE
For two days, Martin and Patricia continued behaving like any other tourist couple. They took a long bus ride to Isfahan and stayed there overnight. The next day they flew to Shiraz and visited ancient Persepolis. In the short time at their disposal, there was no way they could actually cover everything these sites had to offer. However, like millions of tourists before them, they could now say they had “been there.”
On the third day, they flew back to Tehran. They had enjoyed the outing immensely. Patricia was overwhelmed by the splendor of Persian antiquity and Iranian marketplaces, and had taken hundreds of pictures. Martin had purchased a golden pendant as a gift for Anne. Most importantly, they had established themselves to be bona fide tourists, doing what tourists do.
Now, back in Tehran, Martin and Patricia set out to do what they had come for. They rented a car and drove through the city. They chose the route to the airport that took them along the wide Azadi Street with the enormous Azadi Square at its end. This was where public gatherings would occur. Multitudes of citizens would assemble and listen to the oratory of the Iranian leaders. Martin paid close attention to all possibly relevant details: the distance from the square to the nearest buildings, the location of trees, bushes, lawns, hedges, sewer manholes—if they could even remotely serve a future operation at this site, these minutiae would not be forgotten. Using the odometer of his car, Martin measured the lengths of the piazza, and the most likely stretches of road before and after the square, where people would be gathered. At the same time, Patricia took as many pictures as she could.
On the last day of their trip, Martin and Patricia visited the Tehran Bazaar. This was the time to buy souvenirs and inexpensive knickknacks to give to one’s friends. The rest of the time was spent packing and relaxing.
The next day, at the airport, Martin called the admiral and coordinated their communications schedule for after their return to London.
The response from the lab was short and formal: fingerprints of two different persons were found on parts in the interior of the device that killed Professor Allier. None of these fingerprints were on file. On one hand, Commissaire Duval was glad that he had approached Jules Racine—his hunch had proved correct. On the other hand, there was no way he could discover to whom these fingerprints belonged. The owners of those prints weren’t involved in any crime in France—of that much he was sure. So they could be foreigners, too. He couldn’t very well turn to MacLeod at Scotland Yard again—there were limits, after all. But the thought of testing the fingerprints against those of Sir Cedric Norton had crossed his mind. Ridiculous, he thought, a respectable gentleman like him would not be handling technical trifles such as these. And yet ….
He decided to sleep on it.
FIFTY-FOUR
The four board members convened at Admiral Stone’s suite at the Sheraton Towers in Brussels. Their arrivals were spaced just minutes apart. Martin was the last to arrive. He found the others already seated in a semicircle, and he shook their hands one by one. Anne held out a limp hand and avoided looking into his eyes. Of course, he wouldn’t dream of kissing her here. The admiral offered drinks all round.
“We have quite a number of topics on the agenda today,” Anne began. “First, we’ll hear Martin’s report on his trip to Iran. Then Sir Cedric will tell us of his meeting with Rosetti. The admiral will inform us what’s new in the field of fertilizer and gravel. And we’ll revive the issue of the need for a hacker to invade targeted computers. We will not need another confirmation for Martin’s next trip to Korea.” She looked at him blankly. “When notification arrives, you’ll take off ASAP.” She gazed around the room again. “As for me, unfortunately I cannot report anything at all. Monsieur Boulanger is away on holiday. Martin, the floor is yours.”
Martin briefly described the touristic side of the trip, and quickly came to the main point.
“The Azadi Square is a huge oval about four hundred by three hundred meters. With the surrounding ring road, the area is trebled. It, and the adjacent streets, can contain several hundred thousands of people. It is located outside the city—on the way to the airport—and therefore does not have many buildings nearby. We might face some difficulty in placing our acoustic Paganinis in place.
“The other thing that bothered me was how to get our stuff into the country. Subsequently we’ll also need to store it, and find the people to do the necessary planting of whatever we bring in. Who will do the work?”
“By your tone,” Sir Cedric said, “I’m sure you already have an answer.”
“Well, perhaps just a suggestion. We noticed—and the tour guide confirmed this indirectly—that there is some criticism directed against the leadership. We can see it in the press, too. I thought we might try and meet up with Iranian emigrants in Europe.”
“I suppose they could give us some more inside information,” the admiral said.
“That’s only part of it,” Martin continued. “The main thing, I think, is that they may have connections with underground factions inside Iran. And those are the people who should ‘do the work.’”
“Interesting concept,” the admiral said. “Worthwhile considering.”
“Do you totally exclude the possibility that we, as tourists, could do the job?” Sir Cedric asked. “After all, we’re a bit more reliable, I should think.”
“He’s right, Martin,” the admiral concurred. “How much of a difference would it make if we did it? Would we be so conspicuous? For instance, how are tourists treated at the passport control and luggage chec
king in Iran?”
“Quite normal. I couldn’t see anything irregular about them. True, there are a handful of men who just loll around, watching other people go about their business. I really couldn’t swear that these were security personnel, but that’s the impression they gave me. However, foreigners stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. Their dress is in sharp contrast to the locals’—especially the local women, who are covered from head to toe in their tent-like chadors. A foreigner will always be noticed and eyes will always follow him or her.”
It was clear to all that tourists would not be able to carry out an operational mission in Iran.
“Gentlemen,” Anne said. “Let us all pick up on Martin’s suggestion regarding the finding of Iranian expatriates. Each of us will try to get information on this topic. However, may I remind you, please, that no contact is to be established without this forum’s specific approval.”
Anne gestured toward Sir Cedric, who reported on his conversation with Rosetti.
“That’s very good news, Sir Cedric,” Martin said. “Significantly reducing the size of the acoustic devices will be a boon for us. Did he say when he’d be ready with them?”
“A couple of weeks. Knowing him he’ll have several Paganinis ready by then!”
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