Wait a minute! Mining areas! There had to be abandoned mine shafts in that area! They could easily be used to simulate underground bunkers for the satellite test. Sir Cedric needs to confirm this!
What’s our cover story going to be? The movie business was quite successful in Tunisia. Well, we’ll need a reconnaissance trip anyway….
As to the shipments to Seoul, we’ll need to find a way to package the liquids they’ll need there. There’s the fertilizer, which should now be in liquid form, and there’s the ‘conditioner’ stuff that the gravel has to be soaked in to make it operational. Bottles? Tins? Jerry cans? Under what label? I hope the answers arrive soon …
And now—let’s hear what John and Patricia have to report.
“What would you like to do until we have dinner at the Shiraz again?” John asked.
They had just had lunch at yet another Iranian restaurant. They kept a list of the eateries they had visited but had lost count by now. A few, like the Shiraz, they had deemed as worth a second visit.
Patricia hesitated.
“If you have nothing in particular scheduled,” John continued, “we could take in a movie.”
“I have a better idea,” Patricia said. “Why don’t we go up to my place, where we can rest comfortably until our evening ‘assignment’?”
John was taken aback. He had not expected any signs of ‘special treatment’ from Patricia because of their common past. True, his feelings for her had not diminished, but he could not imagine her either reciprocating or deliberately trying to hurt his feelings. So far he had found her friendly, but absolutely ‘proper’ in all aspects.
He accepted her invitation, but not without some internal trepidation.
When they got to her flat, which, naturally, was not the one he was familiar with in the distant past, she tossed off her shoes and invited him to do the same.
“Make yourself at home,” she said. “I’ll make some coffee, and we can discuss a couple of angles of our project.”
“Such as?”
“Such as what do we say to Farhad when we meet him on Friday?”
“And what do you suggest we say?”
“We cannot play hide-and-seek much longer. We’ve got say something to forward our mission.”
“Depends on what that something is,” John said.
“You’re a big help.” Patricia sound annoyed, but there was a glint of challenge in her eyes. “How about we tell him we are associated with a group of well-wishers who would like to assist the Iranian people.”
John picked up the challenge easily.
“And if he says, for instance, that the Iranian people have no need for foreign assistance, and that conditions there are fabulous—then we ask him why he’s here and not there.”
Patricia’s eyes now sparkled.
“And if he says that it is impossible to help the Iranian people? That the regime is powerful and brutal?”
“That’s a horse of a different color. In fact, that’s what we’re hoping for.”
“We could respond by saying that something should be done to weaken the leadership.” Patricia was getting excited.
“And according to his reaction,” John said calmly, although inside he was just as excited as she, “we could say something could be done! And perhaps more than just weakening the tyrants. Maybe actually bringing about their downfall!”
“And that we could help in that!” Patricia crowed triumphantly.
John smiled.
“Right. But let’s not put the cart before the horse. Let’s play it slowly …”
“You mention another cliché with horses and I’ll feed you hay.” She giggled. “I think I’ll have a shower and stretch out for a while. Wake me when it’s time to leave.”
SIXTY
Commissaire Duval arrived at the conclusion that Mme. Professeur Dupré was playing games with the police. It seemed she was taking unnecessary trips in all directions for the sole purpose of disconcerting him. It was quite clear to him that she had seen Marnier tailing her and had led him on a wild goose chase. Well, if she can be so crafty, he thought, I can go one better.
Duval arranged to take a few days off. He rented a closed van, and parked it overnight near Professeur Dupré’s residence. He would come early next morning, leave his car parked a block away and stand watch from inside the van.
On the first day of his vigil, she left for the university.
On the second day, she left the house late and went shopping at the grocery store.
On the third day, a taxi pulled up to the house and took her to Gare du Nord. Duval followed them. When she got out of the taxi at the station, the commissaire forced the van onto the sidewalk, yanked out the keys, and hurried into the enormous building. I’ll handle the illegal parking later, he thought. After Anne had bought her ticket, Duval elbowed his way to the cashier, brandished his badge of authority and demanded to know the destination of “the lady who was here a moment ago.”
Brussels.
He bought a ticket. So far so good. She’s not going to play games with me. Duval boarded the train.
Anne got off at the Brussels-Midi station, and took the metro downtown. Duval followed in her footsteps, a discrete distance behind. She alighted at the Central Station, and Duval watched her walk less than a hundred meters north and enter the Sheraton Towers Hotel.
He stood by a shop window, the entrance to the hotel in full view, and dialed the Brussels Police on his cellphone.
“Get me Commissaire Edouard Valentin,” he told the switchboard.
After a short pause, he heard his colleague’s voice.
“Valentin here.”
“It’s Felix Duval. Listen, I’m in Brussels following a suspect involved in a murder case. Could you please join me here—I’m opposite the Sheraton Towers Hotel. I can’t explain over the phone. I’ll fill you in when we meet. Hurry—it’s urgent!”
“I’ll be there,” Valentin promised.
He was. Duval gave his host a brief summary of the investigation, emphasizing a possible meeting with an Englishman named Sir Cedric Norton. They entered the hotel cautiously, Duval covering most of his face with a newspaper. Anne was nowhere in sight.
While Duval browsed through a magazine rack, Valentin strolled over to the reception desk. The clerk was a familiar face.
“Hello, Henri. How are you?”
“Quite well, commissaire, thank you.”
“Tell me, please—do you have any Englishmen in the hotel?”
“Surely you joke, commissaire. The hotel is overflowing with Englishmen.”
“Ah, but I am interested in a particular Englishman. Does the name Sir Cedric Norton sound familiar to you?”
“I am terribly sorry, commissaire. But no—I would have certainly remembered such a name.”
Valentin rejoined Duval and repeated what he had learned from the clerk.
“Perhaps,” he joked, “she is having a clandestine affair with this English nobleman, and wishes to conceal it from her husband.”
Duval brushed aside this theory, explaining to Valentin the connection between Anne Dupré, Sir Cedric Norton, and Albert Allier—who had died in Paris a few months earlier. And that Duval was sure he was murdered.
Duval and Valentin decided to wait for Anne to come out again. They walked into the hotel lobby and sat in easy chairs with a good view of the lifts. With nothing better to do, they browsed through magazines and kept a sharp eye open for Anne.
Three hours later, Anne emerged from one of the lifts. Duval scrunched low behind his magazine. Valentin stood up.
“Shall I have her followed?” he asked.
Duval pulled him down by the sleeve.
“No, Edouard. She’s on her way back to Paris. I want to see if another familiar face comes out of those lifts. With a little luck we’ll see the elusive Sir Cedric Norton.”
Duval had hardly uttered those words when Sir Cedric stepped out of the lift.
“That’s him!” Duval
hissed. “That’s Sir Cedric! If he’s such a good friend of Mme. Dupré, the way both of them claim, then why does he have to meet her here in Brussels? He used to visit her regularly at her home in Paris until I began poking around. It appears I was right. Those two are up to something insidious.”
“Well, shall I have him followed?”
“Futile. He’s on his way to London. That’s it, Edouard. I found out what I wanted—that they met here. Thanks to you and your help. I’m afraid, though, that this little episode will not be reported. You see, the Allier murder case is officially closed. I’m snooping of my own volition. I hope you’ll forgive me for using you.”
Valentin laughed.
“Come on, Felix. My wife and I are having you as our guest for lunch.”
At that very same board meeting, the most important item on the agenda was the satellite trial run.
“It looks like Mauritania is our best choice for a number of reasons,” Martin said. “Point number one, the environs of the city in question, Zouérat, are very sparsely populated. We could roam around there pretty much as we please, as long as we don’t go north, where the active mines are guarded. This brings me to point number two—the mines. I am pretty sure we can find abandoned mine shafts everywhere we look. Sir Cedric, am I right in assuming that mine shafts could substitute for underground bunkers?”
“Oh, admirably, my boy, admirably.” Sir Cedric was duly impressed. “What a clever idea.”
“Point number three—though in some ways Mauritania is somewhat backward, it has most the facilities that serve tourists. And point number four—I believe our cover story of making a movie might serve us well again here.”
“Once we have the exact location,” Anne said, “say, a mine shaft, we’ll need to have its precise coordinates. I’ll send them to Boulanger, who will, in turn, give us a number of alternatives of date and time for the experiment.” She thought for a second. “If we adopt the movie cover, we’ll need vehicles to transport the equipment. A lorry or a large van. It could also serve as a target for the test.”
“Good idea,” Martin said. “Of course we’ll require another vehicle as well.”
Admiral Stone reported on the next topic on the agenda.
“Our friend Gustav Lemke has informed me that he has succeeded in applying his fertilizer as a liquid spray. It can be used instead of, or in addition to, the regular fertilizer. It can be sprayed or sprinkled on a stretch of road, where if forms a very thin transparent film, just a fraction of a millimeter thick. However, it adheres very well to the road surface and cannot be washed, scrubbed, or even scraped off. It is activated by fumes given off by vehicles’ engines—the material sublimates into a gas that enters the air intake and kills the engine.”
“That’s great,” Martin said. “When you receive some of this fluid we shall test it. After that, we’ll need to think about how to ship quantities of this stuff to Sing in Korea.”
Sir Cedric then told the board about Rosetti.
“I am pleased to report that Emilio has managed to shrink Paganini and has installed it in an electric shaver, a cellular telephone, and a camera. This means we can transport it almost anywhere.”
“Won’t it show up on the X-ray machines at airports?” Anne asked.
“I asked Emilio the same question,” Sir Cedric said. “The answer is yes. But not even an expert would be able to distinguish between Paganini and the genuine internal parts of these appliances.”
Martin reported that John and Patricia had made contact with an Iranian who did not sympathize with the regime in his homeland. No further details were available and additional meetings were scheduled.
Martin kept a stern visage throughout the meeting, and did not make eye contact with Anne. As usual, she left first, followed by Sir Cedric and then himself. The admiral planned to stay in the suite overnight.
John and Patricia took Farhad, with his consent, to a good French restaurant for dinner. After ordering, John deftly steered the conversation to the mission at hand.
“Well, Farhad, here we are—three people who have met by accident and seem to like each other. Every time that happens to me, it’s as if a whole new world opens up to me. That is why I like to strike up new friendships. What do you think?”
“I admit it doesn’t happen very frequently to me,” Farhad said, a bit bashfully. “You see, we need to be careful about whom we make friends with.”
John leaned forward.
“I’d like to discuss a couple of sensitive issues with you. So I’d rather prefer we kept this little discussion to ourselves. Are you all right with that?”
Farhad smiled.
“I’m all right.”
“We belong to a group of people who don’t like seeing other people oppressed. We don’t belong to any party or political affiliation—just good citizens. But we do have good connections with very wealthy financiers who cover our expenses when necessary. We think there is no point in just handing money out—you can never reach all who need it. We believe that assisting an oppressed people is by changing the regime.”
Farhad looked alarmed, and got to his feet.
“Please, Farhad, please.” John did not lose his composure. “Let me finish. It’s not at all what you think, I promise.”
Farhad hesitated. He seemed torn between apprehension and curiosity.
“We are not revolutionaries,” John went on rapidly. “Neither are we an ‘underground resistance.’ We do not have, or use, weapons or explosives.” He paused. “Won’t you please sit down again?”
Farhad said nothing, but slowly took his seat again, his eyes never leaving John’s face.
“We think that a psychological approach will bring better results. If a dictator loses the faith and trust of his people, especially of his supporters, he could not possibly survive. We’re looking for ways to embarrass the tyrant, to humiliate him in public, to make him look ridiculous in front of everyone. No one has ever thought of this.” John peered intently at the Iranian. “Neither have you, by the look on your face.”
Farhad remained silent.
“Don’t you have anything to say, Farhad?” Patricia asked.
“I don’t know what to say. You’re saying very strange things. Why? Why are you telling me all this?”
“My words may seem very strange to you, Farhad,” John said. “But others would take them very seriously. We won’t be able to do anything without the assistance of Iranian citizens, whether in Iran or in exile.”
“So?”
“So perhaps you know someone who would take our words seriously?”
Again, a hesitation followed by a resolution.
“Well, my older brother, Oumid, is always discussing current affairs, meets with people, has arguments with them.”
“Could we meet him?” Patricia asked.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“When?”
“He and I live together. I could take you to him after the meal, if you wanted.”
Patricia and John exchanged meaningful glances.
“Good idea,” said John. “Let’s have dinner.”
After they had enjoyed a sumptuous meal, Patricia asked:
“Farhad, do you think your brother would be home by now?”
“It is very likely,” Farhad said.
“Good,” John said. “Let’s have some coffee, and then we’ll go.”
“No, no.” Farhad was smiling now. “You shall have coffee at my house.”
It turned out that Farhad’s entire family populated “his house.” The neighborhood was predominantly Iranian émigrés. Some of them were veteran Londoners by now, others were newer arrivals. The house itself was old, but the living quarters were large and comfortable. The lush couches and the carpets were the first to catch the eye.
“This is where we live,” Farhad explained. “My father and mother, my grandmother, my brother Oumid and myself, and my younger sister Soraya.”
Farhad’s mother appeared from an adjace
nt room and offered soft drinks.
“Never mind, mother,” Farhad said. “I promised them coffee. Is Oumid home?”
“He went to buy cigarettes.” Farhad’s mother smiled at the guests and made her way out. “He’ll be right back.”
“My father works late into the night,” Farhad said. “He visits bars and restaurants and sells roses. In Iran, we owned a beautiful rose garden, and my father would tend it lovingly. But my father could not find a job here. He made contact with a local nursery and sells their roses. It doesn’t pay well, but at least it’s a living—he doesn’t need anyone’s help and his pride is intact.”
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