The Paris Directive

by Gerald Jay

  PART THREE

  28

  DARGELIER’S IOU

  The Emerald City. Ringed by water and bathed in light, Montreal glowed green as the Boeing 747 broke through the clouds at eighteen thousand feet and descended for a landing at Dorval International Airport. With only carry-on baggage, Pellerin and Blond breezed through customs and were soon checked into the InterContinental, near the Vieux-Port and not far from the world headquarters of Tornade. Booked for a quickie overnight stay. Their first step after getting the job had been Berlin and the accident artist. Now came step two—Montreal and the multinational’s new broom. It was time to collect on Dargelier’s IOU.

  The front of the Tornade building was a skyscraping wall of tinted glass surmounted by a massive green letter T. Security wanted to know who they were. Pellerin showed him a copy of the e-mail they’d received in Paris with the time of their appointment. After checking his clipboard, the guard labeled them each Guest, and in they went. Blond asked the woman behind the information desk what the green circles were on the huge map of the world covering the lobby wall. Malachite, she explained, marking the dozen cities in which Tornade had plants. The company, a diversified giant with more than sixty thousand employees worldwide, was organized into four divisions: aerospace, trains, ships, and finance.

  Pellerin asked, “And Jean-Paul Dargelier?”

  She said, “Our new CEO. You’ll find him on the thirty-third floor, the top of the Tornade.”

  The new CEO was waiting for them in his office. On a bright day like this one, the windows—even through tinted glass—were filled with crystal blue skies and a glittering view of the St. Lawrence River. There were Oriental rugs on the floor, soft leather chairs, a wide-winged diptych computer monitor, but no clocks. The place reeked of power. At forty-five, Tornade’s new CEO was the youngest in the history of the company.

  Dargelier, as he came out from behind his heavy mahogany desk to welcome them, might have been a bit of a letdown if they hadn’t met him a few years earlier at the Paris air show. He was in his early forties then and already in charge of Tornade’s aerospace division—the third largest builder of civilian aircraft in the world after Boeing and Airbus. Clearly a young man on the make, his brilliant career rising like a rocket.

  On the short side, Dargelier had a quiet manner and a thin, dark, ferret face that by six o’clock would probably require a razor before he took it out for cocktails. Not too impressive, if you failed to see the steel beneath his saturnine exterior. Pellerin was not one to make that mistake. He could even feel the ambition in Dargelier’s handshake.

  “Congratulations,” Pellerin said. “We knew when we last met you in Paris that it was just a matter of time.”

  Dargelier sighed. “But how could you know? Schuyler was still such a relatively young man.”

  Blond corrected him. “You’re a young man.”

  “I mean out of the blue like that. Totally unexpected. His death was quite a shock to everyone here.”

  “I’m sure,” Pellerin said coolly, anxious to get down to business. “The good news is that even the darkest clouds often bring the needed rain.” He glanced about the room, admiring the CEO’s large corner office with its spectacular view. “This is all yours now. Didn’t you tell us it was time for a Canadian to take over the reins of Tornade?”

  “Did I say that? I suppose I did. Though that was probably only the gin in my martini talking. But even then there were people here who thought so. In any case, Schuyler left behind a full plate of projects for his successor. First of all, there’s our unmanned aerial surveillance vehicles being made for the Canadian military, then there’s the new ultra-long-range corporate jet to compete in the U.S. market with Gulfstream, and add to that our latest high-speed train for Chad—a country without any railroads and few passable roads of any kind.”

  Pellerin knew all about the African project. “But what Chad does have,” he pointed out, “is loads of natron for manufacturing glass, ceramics, soap, and paper. And what you didn’t mention is that the French-owned Chad Development Corporation is willing to pay a great deal of money to transport it out of that unhappy, impoverished, landlocked nation to the African coast for export.”

  Dargelier’s eyes opened wide. “You know your Chad, monsieur.”

  “Not really, but I have visited their corporate headquarters in Paris.”

  The new CEO’s glance went from Pellerin to Blond. “Are you both still working for the French government?”

  Blond hesitated.

  “You might say so,” Pellerin informed him, chuckling, “but in a different capacity. We’re now independent contractors. In fact, that’s in part what brought us here. You may be in a position to do us a little favor.” He paused to let his words sink in. “After all, you do owe us one, you know?”

  Though puzzled by his visitor’s remark, Dargelier looked interested. “What sort of favor?”

  Pellerin mentioned a recent article he’d read in Le Monde. It was about the first delivery to Tornade of a new NATO trainer from Zalltech Aerospace in Houston.

  “Yes, that’s right! The T-9AX.” Dargelier’s enthusiasm for their acquisition was obvious. “Tornade will be handling instruction in the plane’s advanced technology. It was the last major deal Schuyler made for us—and what a deal! The advantages for NATO countries are clear. It gives them a quality, cost-effective pilot training program with highly advanced avionics, such as its cockpit electronic display system for navigation, radar, satellite, and anticollision data. And all without the need for these NATO countries to purchase the training planes themselves. It’s a win-win agreement. The one major hurdle was that this was the first transfer of U.S. military technology to the private sector of a foreign country. Naturally Washington was anxious about it falling into the hands of unfriendly nations. But what helped seal the deal for us, of course, was that Schuyler was an American.”

  Pellerin inquired, “How many of the planes did you receive?”

  “In the first shipment? Ten,” Dargelier replied.

  “Good. Then you won’t be likely to miss one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Pellerin quietly explained, “We’d like you to include one of the new NATO trainers in your next shipment of high-speed railroad parts to Chad. It will have to be packed in the same sort of large wooden crates and addressed exactly like the others to the Société de Chemin de Fer du Tchad. Can you handle it?”

  Dargelier’s smile was the sort you might give a child. “That’s ridiculous. Why would I want to throw away an expensive plane like that?”

  “Because you owe us that little favor we mentioned.”

  “Do I?” Dargelier was still smiling.

  “I thought you understood. There’s a tape of our conversation in Paris.”

  His smile fell like a trapdoor. “What tape? What are you talking about?”

  “Surely you weren’t so éméché you’ve forgotten telling us that the one person who stood in your path at Tornade was Schuyler Phillips, and that the only way he’d go is if he were pushed.”

  “But I never said murdered. I only meant—”

  “Whatever you thought you said—or meant to say—the French investigators of the Taziac deaths might find it more than a little interesting, n’est-ce pas? But of course, you do us this favor and that tape disappears.”

  “I still don’t understand. What are they going to do in Chad with a NATO trainer?”

  “No problem. It’s not going to stay there very long. It’ll be going elsewhere. And we’ll take care of that.”

  “I see.” Dargelier’s voice faltered, his face darkened as if he’d slipped behind a cloud. “That might very well be a problem.”

  “What are you getting at?” Blond demanded.

  “It’s very simple. If that plane ends up where it shouldn’t be and Washington gets wind of a possible violation of the U.S. Arms Export Control Act, our agreement with the United States would probably be finished.”

/>   Pellerin said, “Who says they’ll find out? If push comes to shove, all you know is it went astray. You’re free and clear.”

  “Free as a bird,” chorused his friend.

  “With no ugly rumors about the death of Phillips to ruin a glassy-smooth succession. Think of it, another win-win agreement and this time of your own making.”

  Dargelier sank back in his chair and considered the possibilities. “Let me think about it.”

  “Of course.” Pellerin got up to leave.

  “But not too long,” Blond advised.

  Stopping at the office door as if he’d left something behind, Pellerin wheeled around.

  “Think it over. When you’ve run the numbers, you’ll soon see that all this will cost you are a few dollars for the loss of one plane rather than millions for the entire contract. We’ll call for your answer tomorrow morning from the airport.”

  29

  MAZARELLE’S SQUAD

  Bandu walked over to the barred ground-floor window with his mug. “C’est dégueulasse.” As he tossed out what was left of his coffee, it splashed against one of the black iron bars.

  “Merde!” Wiping off his damp hand, his shirtsleeve, he muttered, “Tepid piss.” No one in the task force really liked the watery coffee made by their machine, but their chief didn’t seem to mind. He supposed it was something to wet Mazarelle’s whistle and keep his eyelids propped open when working late into the night.

  Bandu and the others were waiting for him in their small downstairs meeting room—the temporary office the commissaire had given them—at the rear of the building. They’d brought in their own computers and programs, file cabinets, telephones, and infamous coffeemaker. The two windows overlooked the rear parking lot, which was almost always crowded these days. A frequent source of bitching among Rivet’s officers because so many of the cars belonged to Mazarelle’s men. That morning, shoehorned into the noisy, smoky room, they were expecting their patron any minute.

  Rivet had stopped Mazarelle outside the meeting room to complain about the parking situation when he noticed the new sign on the door: Mazarelle’s Squad. From the exasperated expression on the commissaire’s face, the inspector knew that he shouldn’t ask but did anyway. “All right, what’s wrong with this one?”

  Rivet blew out his cheeks in disgust. “It’s as bad as the first. Maybe worse. Much too much like the gendarmes. Too military. That’s not us. We’re not a ‘troop,’ or a ‘platoon,’ or a ‘squadron.’ We’re the police. So why not something less official sounding and”— his expression softened as if bathed in a rose light—“more like Mazarelle’s ‘team’? Or ‘band’? Or ‘bunch’? That sort of thing. Isn’t that better?”

  “Hmmm,” Mazarelle pondered. With a major murder case on his hands, how come he had to put up with crap like this? The young commissaire sounded like a fool, which he certainly wasn’t. So why, Mazarelle asked himself, is he all of a sudden busting my balls? He figured all it meant was that the former homicide hotshot from Paris was getting too much media attention, and it was driving Rivet crazy. “Let me think about it.”

  The men jammed into the meeting room fell silent as the inspector’s bulk filled the doorway. Limping across to the coffeemaker, he poured himself a full cup, took a sip of the dreadful stuff, and, deadpan, put it down. Mazarelle reminded his men that they couldn’t hold Ali Sedak in garde à vue too much longer without bringing charges. Tacked on the wall behind him were a half-dozen grisly photos of the crime scene and its victims. The four bodies were either slashed or buckshot riddled in their twisted final agony. He didn’t want any of his people to forget what sort of killer or killers they were after and why. “Okay,” he announced, “let’s hear what you’ve got for me.”

  The two teams he’d sent door-to-door in the vicinity of L’Ermitage to learn if anyone had heard or seen anything unusual the night of the murders had nothing new to report.

  “Not even strangers in the neighborhood?”

  The silence in the room was suffocating.

  “No one said anything?” Mazarelle’s displeasure was evident. “Zip?”

  Lambert, who had grown up in Taziac, said, “People are frightened.”

  The inspector gestured to the photos behind him. “I understand. But did you try every house nearby?”

  “A few of them appeared to be empty.”

  “Go back. Double-check. Let me know right away if you get anything. In any event, tell me the locations of the empty houses.” He glanced around the room. “Now what about the rest of you?”

  André Tricot spoke up. He’d come highly recommended by Madame Leclerc, and though Mazarelle understandably hesitated taking him on—anxious to avoid leaks—he felt he’d no choice. She was, after all, the investigating magistrate. As it turned out, Tricot was a good cop, and he’d come up with something. Tricot handed him a plastic bag with two wallets. The brown one belonged to Monsieur Reece. Tricot showed him the New York driver’s license with its tiny picture of Reece, guardedly eyeing the camera. Mazarelle recalled the expression. Holding the wallet carefully by the corners and turning it inside out, the inspector went through it.

  “Any money? Credit cards?”

  “Nothing.”

  Tricot explained that a farmer who lived on the road to Eymet had called. He’d found his dog playing with it. Tricot had discovered the black wallet, which belonged to Monsieur Phillips, a little farther down the road. He supposed the wallets were thrown from a passing car but had no idea when.

  “Also empty?” Mazarelle asked, as he looked through the pockets.

  Tricot nodded.

  “Did you check the ATMs in Eymet?”

  Tricot had checked. The one at the BNP branch had been used. He reported that early on the morning following the murders a large sum of cash had been withdrawn on Monsieur Reece’s MasterCard as well as Monsieur Phillips’s Visa. He handed Mazarelle the duplicate receipts he’d obtained with the times of withdrawal plus exact amounts.

  “Well done, Tricot!” The inspector slapped his back approvingly and Tricot, a slim, taciturn man with big, expressive eyes, winced. Mazarelle told him to send the wallets down to PTS in Toulouse at once and see what they could find.

  “Okay, what else?”

  Bandu had some information for him. He’d spoken to one of his stoolies from Périgueux and gotten the name of a local dealer here they called Rabo.

  “We know all about him. Go on.”

  Bandu said that after a little coaxing he’d admitted Ali Sedak was a regular customer. Recently flashing big bills, according to the junkie.

  “Good work.” Mazarelle chewed his news over carefully. “Okay,” he said, after a few moments. He detailed Bandu and Duboit, who knew the layout of the old water mill where Ali lived, to go out there and find his stash. “Tear the place apart if you have to. The stuff is there somewhere. Get it for me.”

  “What about a search warrant?” Duboit asked, remembering how difficult Thérèse could be. “She’s not going to let us in.”

  “Forget the search warrant. There’s no time for that. Besides, you won’t need one. She’s not going to make a fuss with her man locked up here.”

  Bandu, who hated any kind of meeting, was eager to get out of there. “Come on, Doobie. En route!”

  “But remember, no more ‘accidents,’ ” Mazarelle called after him.

  Halfway out the door, Bandu kept going as if he hadn’t heard.

  Mazarelle grabbed the younger cop by the arm and pulled him back. “Keep an eye on him, Bernard. I don’t want her going to the media black-and-blue.”

  “D’accord, boss.”

  Thérèse recognized one of the two cops out front, looking over their battered VW. He was from the commissariat in Bergerac where they were holding Ali. She wondered why they’d come, feared it was bad news.

  “What do you want now?”

  “What happened to your car?” Bandu asked.

  “Three guys on motorcycles.”

  “Who
were they?”

  “How should I know? They wore helmets with visors.” She said she’d called the local gendarmerie and reported what happened, and they promised to be right over. “That was the last I heard from them.”

  Duboit said, “We’re here to look around.”

  “The last time you looked around, you took my father’s rifle and said you’d return it. I’m still waiting.”

  What a bitch, Duboit thought. “It’s part of our investigation. You’ll get it back when we’re done with it.”

  “And what are you looking for now?”

  “We’ve had a report that your—”

  “Drugs,” Bandu said, cutting him off. “Come on.”

  “We have no drugs here. What are you talking about?”

  Duboit said, “How about the reefer Sedak was smoking the last time I came?”

  “You can’t do this without a search warrant. I know my rights. I’ve had enough from you cops. Had it up to here. You’re never around when we need you and always show up when we don’t. Now get out.”

  In a low, flat voice, Bandu warned her, “Shut up and sit down.”

  Thérèse did as she was told.

  They started their hunt in the kitchen, yanking open cabinets, checking the shelves, the chipped dishes, looking into the water-stained cardboard boxes under the sink, behind the pipes. Bandu quickly went through the drawers in the refrigerator and, not caring for the putrid smell, slammed the door and muscled it away from the wall to see whether anything was taped to the back. Thérèse, riveted, watched the two cops as if they were wild animals, ignoring the cries of her baby, who had just been awakened. But the crying grew louder, more demanding, and she soon had to feed him.

  It took the two of them about twenty minutes to find the hashish, hidden under the wooden stairs outside the back door. Bandu opened the black plastic garbage bag and whistled.

  “Look at that, Doobie.” He gave his partner a tight-lipped, satisfied smile. “Five keys of ’shish. A nice day’s work.”