After a night of troubled sleep, Martin forced himself to return to earth and get on with the job. He called Charlie and set up a luncheon date with Sing. Then he rented a car and drove north to Charlie’s restaurant.
Charlie took him to his house, where Sing was already waiting. They had a round of handshaking and “good to see you’s,” and then settled down to lunch, which Charlie brought over from the restaurant.
“Everything arrived safely,” Sing said, while chewing a mouthful of rice and shrimps. “No problems with the customs. It is already located at the place where we will do our training.”
“And the, umm … students?” Martin asked.
Sing smiled craftily.
“They are here, already,” he said. “They will carry out the operation in Pyongyang. We shall start work tomorrow morning in Charlie’s storeroom.”
Martin was very pleased. As there was nothing further to discuss regarding the training, he decided to talk about current politics.
“I was wondering what the citizens of North Korea are thinking today. You know, after the dismantling of the nuclear reactor in exchange for economic aid from the West.”
“The apparent dismantling,” Sing corrected. “Everyone in the know will tell you that the stories are all hogwash. In the North, and here as well, they all know that plutonium production is continuing in several places unknown to the West. Just like in Iran.”
“Do you really believe,” Martin pressed on, “that in the US they don’t know this? Or that they don’t understand what’s going on?”
“There are those who say that the US knows, but prefers to claim diplomatic successes.”
“But why?”
“Because North Korea doesn’t bother them in the least, with or without the bomb. Anyway, the North Korean people will continue to starve—all the economic aid goes to the leadership, and what they don’t pocket for themselves will go toward developing nuclear weapons.”
They set up the timetable for the next day, and Martin returned to Seoul.
Martin met his “pupils” the next day. To his surprise, he found two men and three women. It was hard to tell their ages, but Martin assumed they were all under thirty. Not one of them spoke English, and Sing appointed himself translator.
“Usually it is the women who are more talented and industrious,” Sing explained. “They are also often quite braver when in a tight spot. But these boys here will do just fine, too.”
Sing introduced each of the trainees by a code name, which Martin didn’t even try to put to memory.
“Each of them will be a team leader,” Sing said. “They will teach other activists, and then they will supervise the operations.”
Martin started with the association’s credo, and then went over all the details of the devices and materials, as he had earlier in London with the Iranian, Jack. Each of them not only went over the operation aspect of all the gear, but also practiced how to teach others to do the same. Martin found them to be a group of very intelligent, dexterous and quick-learning pupils.
Charlie brought in food and drink for everyone, just as they completed the course of familiarization with all the equipment. The youngsters laughed and chattered, and Martin felt a bit self-conscious for being left out of their conversation. He asked Sing what they were talking about.
“You don’t want to know the details,” Sing laughed. “It seems the girls have taken a fancy to you, and the boys are poking fun at them for it.”
Practical training was now over. Martin spread a large, blank sheet of paper on a table.
“Ask them,” he requested Sing, “to draw a sketch of the area where the grand rally will take place. Have them include the nearby vicinity as well.”
One of the Koreans drew a beautiful urban layout of a large square, flanked by houses and side streets.
“Now ask them to describe, on the chart, how they will make use of what they have learned today.”
Sing translated, and there was a short silence of concentration. Then they all began jabbering at once, pointing fingers, and some wrote down notes. Five minutes later, Sing managed to translate two different plans of operation, while the trainees held their breath, waiting for Martin’s approval.
“They say,” Sing said, “that these are only draft outlines, and that after they scout the arena, they will fill in details and combine them into one plan.”
Martin smiled and clapped his hands at them in applause. They applauded back at him, all smiling broadly.
Martin raised his hands for silence. He produced a map of North Korea, spread it on the table, and although he was talking to Sing, his gaze was on the five trainees.
“Ask them if they can mark this map with military positions of the North Korean armed forces and air bases,” he said. He knew he was taking a risk here—this request was pure espionage. On the other hand, he was facing the precise forum from which to collect this type of information. One or two military targets for the “wasp” or Excalibur would do it.
To Martin’s delight, they eagerly marked over a dozen sites on the map—bases, airfields, and at least three that they claimed were of a nuclear nature.
It was approaching suppertime, and Charlie served them all a meal. Martin wrapped up the day’s work with a short ideological speech, which repeated some of his earlier opening remarks. This time he got several nods of agreement whenever Sing finished translating a sentence.
Nothing to do now, but wait for the big event.
Commissaire Felix Duval was still in a quandary regarding Allier’s demise. Suspicions were everywhere, but there was no evidence to support them. The connections Allier had with Sir Cedric Norton and—perhaps—with Mme. Professeur Dupré, were flimsy to say the least. He could never make a case out of that alone.
Two possibilities existed: either Dr. Michel Alvarez killed his superior in order to step into his shoes, or that vague organization did away with one of its members. Then, of course, that same organization existed only by evidence of what Alvarez said—very possibly a tactic to divert attention from himself. Alvarez had most of the necessary attributes that a classic killer required: motive and opportunity. The method, however, left a lot to be filled in. Still, it was a better beginning than the alternative—he would not be laughed out of the prefecture if he presented the case this way.
But he needed more evidence. He needed to talk to more of the employees of the Irradiation Institute, but he could not do so officially—this was, after all, a closed case. If Alvarez were not a suspect, Duval would have asked him to find colleagues to interview. But, of course, Alvarez should never know that others were being questioned about him.
Commissaire Duval needed more time to think.
SIXTY-EIGHT
When Anne left her flat, she found an envelope in her mailbox. There was no stamp and there was no address—just her name in handwritten block letters. Strange, she thought. And suspicious.
She opened the envelope, and took out a folded page. With mounting horror, she read the block letters:
Anne gaped at the letter and read it through once again. Her first thoughts were, naturally, as to the identity of the writer. She knew everyone who knew about the association. Furthermore, she also knew those who had never heard of Anne Dupré—Lemke, Rosetti, Bennett, and Hoffman. Martin and his gang were above suspicion, and so was Patricia Welles. So, who could know so much about the association, including where she lived?
Anne raced back to her home. She called the university and fed them a story about a sudden illness in the family. She then ordered a taxi to take her to Gare du Nord, forgetting all her evasion tactics. At the railway station, she frantically called Admiral Stone in London and informed him she had to see him, and that she was arriving on the next Chunnel train.
It was still morning when Anne rushed into the admiral’s office and handed him the letter. He read it twice without the slightest revelation of emotion.
“I want to call Sir Cedric and Martin here immedia
tely,” he said. Anne nodded.
Admiral Stone picked up his phone and summoned the two men to his office. They were to drop everything and arrive as soon as they possibly could. While waiting for them to arrive, the admiral brought Anne a drink, which she downed unceremoniously. They tried to figure out how the information could have leaked to someone “outside,” as it was inconceivable that someone “inside” could be the perpetrator.
Less than an hour later, they were joined by Sir Cedric and Martin. Martin was surprised to see Anne there, but he quickly averted his gaze. It was all Anne could do not to burst into tears.
The information came as a shock to them. They quickly agreed that it couldn’t be an insider, and the list of known “outsiders” was faultless.
“So let’s look at the ‘periphery,’” Martin suggested.
“What do you mean by that?” Sir Cedric asked.
“We’ve been in contact with many people outside the association besides our scientific and financial collaborators. Various suppliers and vendors, the people who rented us the ‘cowshed’ and the offices for the film company, and so forth. And, of course, the Iranians. Perhaps one of them put two and two together and came up with conclusions.”
“So let’s think about people that we have encountered!” the admiral said.
Sir Cedric shook his head.
“None of them know of Anne,” he said, “except for Mrs. Bahtyar, her husband and Oumid. I doubt they are suspects. Still, maybe preparing such a list—with all the possible contacts we have made—could possibly narrow us down to a suspect or two.”
“Which leads me to suggest that in the future we should refrain from introducing ourselves by our real names when going about the association’s business. We can always hide behind a bogus company name and address.”
“We don’t have the time!” Anne blurted out. “Almost half a day has already passed since this posting, and we need to pay up in less than forty hours! Do we pay or not? And if we do, we need to get the money. You can’t pick up half a million euro at the teller’s at the bank.”
“We don’t have much choice, then, do we?” the admiral said. “We’ll pay, but just in order to buy time. I’m positive that the blackmailer will come back with a demand for more.”
“That depends,” Sir Cedric said. “If he’s a big time operator, you are probably right. But if he’s just small fry, he could suffice with the half million and disappear forever. Just the same, we have to be prepared for the worst. Anyway, we need to get the money now.”
“I’ll call the bank now,” the admiral said. “It’ll be ready by tomorrow morning.”
Martin raised a hand.
“The note was delivered in Paris,” he said. “I think it quite likely that the blackmailer will want the delivery site to be in Paris, too. Two of my boys and I could wait in hiding at that location for the bastard. We’ll try to apprehend the fellow, but if we can’t do that, perhaps we could identify him, or take his picture. Maybe follow him.”
“It’s a good idea,” the admiral said, “but very dangerous. If he catches wind of what you’re doing he could take the money and publish what he knows about us.”
“That’s a risk we’re taking anyway,” Martin argued. “Let me work something out.”
“Who is going to make the actual delivery of the money?” Anne asked.
“It pains me to say,” the admiral said seriously, “that you are the only one to do the job. All we know right now is that he knows you personally. Despite his allegations, we cannot be sure that he knows anyone else of us.”
Anne inwardly trembled at the thought. But none of her feelings showed outwardly.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
Martin felt a surge of apprehension at the danger Anne was putting herself into. While he was still battling with his emotions, he heard the admiral speaking to him.
“Martin,” the admiral was saying, “Anne will call you on your cellphone the minute she gets further information from the blackmailer. From that moment on you will be in constant communication. I have thought over your surveillance suggestion, and I am prepared to authorize it under the condition that whatever happens, your primary concern is for Anne’s safety—even if it means losing the blackmailer and the money. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Martin said solemnly. “I promise.”
“Good! I don’t think he’ll choose the daytime for the transaction,” the admiral continued. “So we possibly have until tomorrow evening. I’ll notify the bank right now, and collect the money tomorrow morning. I suppose a large briefcase would hold the sum required. Anne, I shall fly to Paris and bring the briefcase to your flat—don’t worry, I’ll have a disguise on.
“Any questions? Right, we’re adjourned. Anne has to get back to Paris today. Martin, please stay—I want to hear what you’re ‘working out’ on this plan of yours. But first, I need to call my bank manager.”
Anne went downstairs to check her mail at eight in the morning. There was nothing. She returned to her apartment and called the university saying that the crisis was not yet over and she had to be absent for another day. She tried peeking through the window, from behind the curtains, but the nearest she could observe was the other side of the street—anyone approaching on her side would be invisible to her.
The tension was nerve-wracking. She paced about, tried to drink some coffee, but she was getting increasingly nervous. After about an hour, she went down again. Still no mail.
At eleven a.m. the intercom buzzed. Anne jumped at the sudden sound, and answered it immediately.
“Yes?”
A strange voice answered.
“Open please. Supermarket delivery.”
Of course, she had not put an order to the supermarket. This was the blackmailer, notifying her of the new message he was leaving. She buzzed him in, intending to go down a few minutes later to pick up his letter.
The doorbell rang. Anne was aghast. He dared come up to her apartment! But she had no choice, and opened the door. There stood a deliveryman in long grey overalls, a visored cap covering most of his upper face, with a large carton on his shoulder. He walked right in without waiting for an invitation.
“This is for you, Madame,” he said, setting the carton on the table.
Anne recognized the admiral then. He removed the cap, and she was so relieved that she went up to him and kissed him on both cheeks.
“That was very clever,” she said.
The admiral leaned against the table and wheezed. It was a heavy load, and he was not a young man any more. Anne offered him a drink and let him rest a bit.
“There’s half a million euros in there,” he said when he had caught his breath. “It’s pretty hefty. You cannot take it in the carton. Do you have a large bag with two handles?” Anne did not respond—instead, she went into her bedroom and returned a minute later with a large blue traveling bag with two red carrying handles.
“That’ll do fine,” the admiral said. “A bit conspicuous, but never mind. Help me move the money into it.”
After completing the transfer, the admiral put on his cap again and left. His plan to deliver the money to Anne could not have gone off more smoothly. His bank in London had provided the cash that morning, and he packed it into a briefcase. He then flew to Paris and, at the airport, booked a hotel room and rented a car. He requested the bellhop to find him a large cardboard box, and bring it to his room. When it arrived, the admiral moved the money into it. He then took the lift down to his car in the parking lot under the hotel, put the carton into it and drove the car to Anne’s neighborhood, parking a couple of blocks away from her home. There he quickly changed into his deliveryman disguise.
Now that the transfer was completed, the admiral walked back toward the rented car. He turned into a side street, stood inside one of the doorways, and removed a large plastic bag from one of his pockets. He then took off his overalls and stuffed them, with the cap, into the bag. He continued walki
ng, looking like a normal pedestrian, and dumped the bag into the nearest trash bin. Finally, he arrived at his car and drove back to his hotel, where he intended to be close to the action, and in constant communication with Martin!
In the afternoon, Anne found an envelope, identical to the first, in the mail. This time she took it upstairs before opening it. In the same block letters, it said:
Anne’s hands shook. Cold sweat covered her body. She knew she had to call Martin. She had tried once before, and failed for lack of nerve. Now there were no excuses. God, what he must think of me! she thought.
With trembling fingers, she tried to key Martin’s number into her cellphone. It was the first time she had ever used it, and it took a couple of attempts before she succeeded.
“Yes? Anne?” she heard Martin’s voice.
“I … I got another letter.” Anne’s voice was shaking as well. She read the letter to Martin.
There was a short pause.
“I’ll look up this place,” Martin said. “I’ll try to find somewhere to observe …”
“That won’t be possible,” Anne interrupted. “I know where the café is. The street makes a loop around half of the Étoile—the Charles de Gaulle Square. There is nowhere to park and visibility is also very limited.”
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