Global Conspiracy

by David Shomron

  In his car, while driving toward the university, Duval dialed Valensi’s number.

  “Archives, Valensi,” crackled a dry voice at the other end.

  “Ah, Monsieur Valensi,” Duval said in his warmest tone of voice. “This is Commissaire Felix Duval of the prefecture. I wonder if I may trouble you for a few minutes.”

  “Why, certainly, commissaire. It would be an honor.”

  “Well, it’s lunch time now. Why don’t we meet and talk things over with a little bite to eat, then? If you’re not too busy, we could meet at the bistro La Concorde, across the street from the department. I could be there in ten minutes.”

  “I’ll have to ask—”

  “Good. I’ll see you there, then.” Duval was quite sure that nobody would miss an old archive clerk for an hour.

  Duval had, in fact, already arrived at the bistro during the conversation. He parked, went in, and seated himself at a table. His hunch was correct. A few minutes later, a stooped man with thinning hair stood in the doorway and peered around at the diners. Duval stood up and waved his hand. The stooped man smiled, and made his way to the table. They shook hands and sat down.

  “What will you have,” Duval asked graciously as the waiter hovered by for their order.

  “I have to watch my diet,” Valensi snickered. “Doctor’s orders. I’ll have a salade du chef, please.”

  “Make that two,” Duval told the waiter, “and two glasses of beaujolais.”

  “Now, Monsieur Valensi,” Duval said, after the waiter had scampered off, “I need to talk to you about the Allier case.” He continued to describe those portions of the case that were relevant to the questions he was about to ask.

  “So you see, Monsieur Valensi, this is not a police investigation. Rather, I am trying to tie loose ends in order to get a complete picture. Any information you could give me would be most appreciated.”

  “I quite understand,” Valensi said.

  “What can you tell me about the device on Professor Allier’s desk, the one that probably caused his death.”

  “I don’t know anything about that, Monsieur le commissaire. But I can tell you that on the day before the professor’s demise, I saw Dr. Alvarez carrying a large carton into Professor Allier’s office.”

  Eureka! Duval thought, but his face revealed noting.

  “Do you remember what time this was?” he asked.

  “Of course. It was a few minutes before everyone went home.”

  “Why didn’t you tell this to any of the investigators after the professor’s body was found?”

  “I wasn’t asked,” Valensi said defensively. “I wasn’t even questioned.”

  “How could that be, Monsieur Valensi? My team interrogated all the employees that day.”

  “Ah, yes. I found out about that later. I wasn’t in that morning—I had a day’s authorized leave, as I had a doctor’s appointment.” Valensi was almost apologetic.

  My inspectors didn’t bother to check if everyone was accounted for, Duval thought. Sometimes you can’t trust anyone!

  “Thank you very much for your time, Monsieur Valensi,” Duval said warmly. “Would you be prepared to testify if requested?”

  “Certainly.”

  Commissaire Duval, gratified at what he had learned, ordered a rich dessert for them both.

  The commissaire considered rebuking his inspectors for not fulfilling their duty, but decided not to attract attention. He knew that Inspecteur Marnier and his immediate team members were aware of his continued prying into the Allier affair—they had no secrets amongst themselves—but as long as they pretended that they knew nothing, he preferred to “let sleeping dogs lie.”

  Alvarez, who had meanwhile been awarded the coveted professorship, was now the prime suspect. Duval visited him in what was once Allier’s office.

  “Congratulations, Professor Alvarez,” he said, “on your new position. And your professorship as well.”

  “Thank you, commissaire,” Alvarez said. “Now, what was so urgent?”

  “Professor Alvarez, a witness claims to have seen you enter this office the day before Professor Allier’s death. He said you were carrying a large carton. Would you explain that to me, please?”

  Alvarez stared at Duval. He went deathly pale when he realized the enormity of what the commissaire was implying. He quickly recovered and got up from his desk, walked to the large wall closet in the back of the room, and opened a side door. He took out a large carton box, which he placed on the desk in front of the commissaire.

  “Commissaire Duval,” Alvarez said, “this is the carton. I had just arrived from Rome that afternoon. Three days before, Professor Allier requested me to bring him a ‘genuine Italian espresso machine.’ Which I did. I couldn’t go right into Allier’s office because he was busy with some people. After they had left, I brought it in to him. He thanked me, paid me, and placed the box into that closet without even opening it.”

  The box was indeed still sealed. Alvarez opened it carefully, and showed the contents to Duval—a brand-new, shiny espresso machine in its original plastic wrapping.

  Commissaire Duval was stunned. This time he had guessed wrong, and it was hard to acknowledge. Perhaps Alvarez brought in the box after the murder, to provide himself with an alibi in case he was seen with the other carton—the one with the killing device? Did his investigators notice this box when they searched the office? He couldn’t remember anything of the kind in the reports.

  The silence was getting to be too long. His theories were too far-fetched. He had to say something to Alvarez—perhaps even apologize. What an embarrassment!

  “I find your explanation quite satisfactory, Professor,” he said at last. “There are a few more issues I need to clear up. I may yet call on you again, with your permission. Meanwhile, I thank you for your cooperation.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Alvarez said. “Now that you’ve reminded me of the package, I must take it to the widow. It’s hers, after all. Au revoir, commissaire.”

  When Duval was back in his car, he strapped on his safety belt but did not switch on the ignition. Too many thoughts chased each other in his head. I should change course again. There’s still a lot to learn about that secret organization. It seems less of a trumped up story, as Alvarez has now gained credibility. I cannot use Marnier any longer –enough is enough. So it seems I’ll put an end to the surveillance of Professeur Dupré’s house, because I certainly shall not stand watch there. Should I ask Neville of Scotland Yard to check into the doings of Sir Cedric Norton? Absolutely not! I’ve overreached his hospitality as it is. Not to mention that I haven’t the slightest shred of evidence against Norton. Once again—I need to sleep on it …

  Later that afternoon, Inspecteur Marnier entered Duval’s office with a file he had just prepared. Duval looked up from his computer as Marnier put the file down on the desk.

  “By the way, Marnier,” Duval said, “remember the old Allier case? Do you happen to recall if you found a sealed box in one of the closets in his office?”

  “Absolutely,” Marnier responded unhesitatingly. “It was an Italian espresso machine, still in its original packaging.”

  “Did you check the contents?”

  “Not much point, was there? The electrocuting device was right there on the desk. Is there a problem?”

  “No, no,” Duval said, with a wave of his hand. “I just happened to think of it.”

  While Sir Cedric Norton was beginning his South American tour, Admiral Stone hunted for a yacht suitable for carrying a UAV. After several inquiries, he focused his efforts on a four-year-old, hardly used, yacht he had discovered in Brighton. She was a hundred-and-fifty-five-footer, capable of twenty-five knots, with two diesel engines and nine double cabins.

  In his mind, the admiral already saw how the crew would fit—the master cabin would be for him, of course, then one for the mechanic, one for Patricia, one for George, one for Philip and Bernard, and one for John and Spencer. The thre
e other cabins would need to be combined to provide space for the UAV, after its wings had been either removed or folded.

  The price was eighteen million pounds, more than the admiral had expected. But it would do the job—the distance to the Yellow Sea near North Korea would be about twenty-two thousand kilometers. The round trip would be twice as much. Taking into account stops along the way for fuel, supplies, etc., the voyage would take about two months.

  This meant they had to leave at least a month before the grand event in order to be there on time.

  Under the pretence of doing a favor for a friend, the admiral instructed his secretary to find suitable candidates for a qualified ship’s mechanic. It would take several days, but once he had narrowed their number down to the five or six most likely, he would let Martin take over and find the one with the “correct” frame of mind, and recruit him into the association.

  Only then could he begin preparing for the trip to Pakistan.

  The association’s cover company, International Film Promoters, began negotiations for the purchase of the yacht. John Carmichael, as the company’s CEO, gave the owners a down payment of half a million pounds, but it was agreed that the final purchase would occur later, “after certain modifications were planned.” The idea was, of course, to first find a UAV that would fit into the yacht, after combining three cabins. This was George Graham’s job.

  Martin and the rest of the team returned to intensive work at the fitness gym, which had been neglected somewhat during the past weeks. Patricia Welles joined in the effort—not only was she interested in the work, but also because her assistance was sorely needed in the absence of John and George.

  SEVENTY

  The admiral had begun his Pakistani tour. Sir Cedric was still in South America. Anne was back on her regular schedule at the university in Paris. The search for a UAV was still on. The remaining team members ran the gym smoothly.

  Martin interviewed four candidates, sent to him earlier by the admiral, for the position of ship’s mechanic. Only one of them showed interest in world affairs, and his views happily matched the association’s ideology. However, he requested a postponement of negotiations for a week, as he wished to visit his family after a two-month absence on his last cruise. Martin had no objection to this—the UAV had not been found, the yacht had not been purchased, and the candidate’s return would just about coincide with the admiral’s.

  Anne considered this new phase in the developments as a vacation from the association. In many ways, it was a relief to return to the academic world. Mainly because it helped in taking her mind off Martin. She reviewed her lectures and found she could update them with fresh material. Most of her time was spent at the university or at home, reading or listening to classical music.

  But alone in bed she could not push away the memory of Martin. Guilt washed over her. Why couldn’t she face him? Or even call him? Why was it so imperative for him to make the first move? Especially as she was the one who had placed them both in this ridiculous situation?

  What would she do if a UAV was found and a decision needed to be made? Martin would call her—that’s how it was arranged. What would she tell him? Wait for the admiral? Make use of the opportunity to meet him face to face? Perhaps at the university cafeteria, where they could have a “chance” meeting?

  I DON’T KNOW! she wailed internally. Please, please, Martin—call me and say you want to clear up our issues. It’s the only way! I know it’s my fault, but I can’t take the next step, no matter how necessary it is. Just like I got nowhere with Tanya’s murder …

  Tanya!

  The memory of Martin was briefly overshadowed by the thought of Tanya Gerard and her grisly fate. Anne sat up in bed. She glanced at the clock—ten-thirty p.m.

  It’s not too late. In fact, things are only beginning to stir in rue Saint-Denis at about this time. I could go there again….

  Anne got up and went to her wardrobe. The “elderly lady” outfit hung there like a ripe fruit ready to be plucked. She reached out her hand, then slammed the wardrobe shut, turned around, and leaned against it, panting heavily.

  I must be out of my mind. I must check with the police first—perhaps they’ve found something.

  The next day Anne called Commissaire Felix Duval at the prefecture.

  “Good morning, Madame,” Duval said cheerily. “How can I be of assistance?”

  “I wished to inquire, commissaire,” Anne said, “whether anything new has come up regarding the murder of my good friend, the stage director Tanya Gerard.”

  “Professeur Dupré, we are not in the habit of disclosing the details of our investigations to the public. But since we’re old friends, I can tell you, off the record, that there is nothing new regarding this case. Like other homicides, they usually demand a great deal of patience.”

  Anne made an effort not to openly accuse him of incompetence. Her own inquiries had brought her almost to the killer’s doorstep, whereas the police, with all its resources, were floundering aimlessly. Or worse, doing absolutely nothing! She adopted the “concerned citizen” approach.

  “Does the commissaire expect anything to happen in the near future? I mean, do you think it wise if I call again in a few days? Perhaps….”

  “I am sorry, Madame,” Duval interrupted. “This is not a matter of days. May I suggest you wait patiently, just like the rest of us? If any developments occur, I can promise you that you’ll know from the press sooner than from me.”

  “But commissaire,” Anne insisted, “I was her closest friend. As her family is rather distant, don’t you agree that I should know before the press?”

  “I cannot promise anything, Madame. I shall do my best. Au revoir.” He hung up.

  Anne was furious. True, she was withholding evidence from the police—she thought she knew who the killer was and where he was hiding. On the other hand, if she was wrong and alerted the police, it might end up in a false arrest, and she would be in deep trouble.

  For the past several days, George had been busy hunting for the right kind of UAV. After examining several models, he decided to take a shot at the Swiss company, UAV-Suisse, which he had checked out earlier. He set up an interview with their London representative.

  “My company is seriously considering the model you showed me,” George said, when they met. “However, we have to be sure of a few details first. As I have informed you the first time we met, my company has special demands of the UAV we purchase. The movie we’re making calls for launching it from a boat or a yacht. Therefore, two things need to happen: first, the wings need to be detachable, or foldable, in order to fit on the boat, and second, a solution needs to be given to the problem of the runway needed for takeoff and landing.”

  The information George already had was that it could carry two hundred and fifty kilograms—far more than was needed for Excalibur. No problem there. Neither was there a problem regarding the operator’s console—about the size of a desktop computer. However, the wingspan of the model offered by UAV-Suisse was twelve meters—much too wide. If something could be done about this, it could fit into the yacht. But the main problem was that the UAV also needed a two-hundred-meter runway for take-off. George had no answer for that.

  “Mr. Graham,” the agent said, “have you considered an unmanned helicopter? I would think that would be ideal for launching from a boat. The rotors fold down for storage, and you don’t need more than four times the aircraft’s footprint for takeoff and landing.”

  George was taken aback. It sounded like an excellent idea, and it hadn’t occurred to anyone heretofore.

  “Yes, it does sound attractive,” he said. “Could you tell me how it compares to the regular UAV we’ve been discussing?”

  “Well, besides the obvious advantages of vertical takeoff and landing, we should also look into payload and maneuverability. The smaller models can carry up to fifty kilograms and are relatively agile in the air. The heavier models are bulky, can carry two jeeps, but they are slower
and less maneuverable. Also, their range cannot exceed two hundred kilometers.”

  George made some mental calculations. It didn’t add up to something advantageous.

  “I’d like to think these options over later,” he said. “Could you please provide me with any write-ups you may have on these helicopters.”

  “Certainly,” the agent said, and handed George a pre-prepared sales dossier.

  “I’d still like to know,” George said, “about the UAV wings issue and the runway.”

  “Well, let’s take each item separately. Removing the wings and reassembling them—that’s not impossible. It’s been done with warplanes in the past. About the runway—we could fix a rocket or jet booster on the undercarriage of the UAV. We’d also install a launching ramp on the boat.”

  “How much would that cost?”

  “These modifications would probably double the price of the UAV.”

  “Well, you’ve got the UAV flying. How do we get it to land?”

  “Not on the boat, I’m afraid. You either put it down on land or lose it.”