The Chimera Sanction

by André K. Baby

  ‘Gazzar says he won’t interfere if we get him out within forty-eight hours.’

  ‘Why the hell should we believe him?’

  ‘Because he knows that if he double-crosses us, we’ll leak to Kargali that his chief intelligence officer knew of the Pope’s presence in Libya, and didn’t bother to inform him. As proof, we’ll send Kargali a voucher of the bank deposit. Gazzar will be dead within the hour.’

  There was silence. ‘Good point. But still, those Hueys aren’t invisible.’ Harris’s tone had mellowed somewhat. ‘They’ll show up on their radars in an instant. Gazzar can’t pretend he didn’t see the choppers on any of his screens. There are also the Tunisians.’

  Dulac took a deep drag on the nicotine stick, exhaled and said, ‘Maybe we can help.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I happen to know there are three American Army Comanche latest model prototypes, sitting in Stuttgart. It was in the Herald Tribune. The Germans are doing some tests before deciding if they’ll buy.’

  ‘I read that too. The ones with stealth technology.’

  ‘Correct.’ Another moment of silence, as Dulac sensed Harris’s brain digesting the possibilities.

  After a moment, Harris said, ‘Very interesting. I’ll see you in the morning in Lyon.’ Dulac closed the phone, pensive. Something in the back of Dulac’s mind, or perhaps the bottom of his gut, was telling him he would soon regret his suggestion.

  Dulac returned Karen’s inquisitive gaze and continued. ‘That Comanche is one amazing helicopter. It’s got a range of 2000 kilometers, and a top speed of 450 kilometers an hour; that’s more than twice the speed of a Huey. It’s also practically invisible by radar.’

  ‘For someone who hates flying, you seem to know a lot about it,’ said Karen, sitting on the sofa, her arms crossed.

  ‘It was in the Herald Tribune. The article caught my attention.’

  Karen kicked off her shoes, rose, and walked to the bathroom. ‘I think I’ll take a shower.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Tell me, those Comanches, can’t they get shot down by a, what do they call it, a SIM missile?’

  ‘You mean a SAM, a surface-to-air missile.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Karen started to brush her hair in front of the mirror over the sink.

  ‘Not if the missile can’t see it.’

  She stopped brushing and looked at Dulac. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The Comanche apparently has a 97% stealth rating.’

  ‘All this phallic, anti-phallic weaponry. When will it end? It’s beyond me how anyone can still want to invent this stuff.’ Karen let her dress slip to the ground and unhooked her bra.

  ‘It’s called survival of the fittest,’ said Dulac.

  She removed her panties and stood naked before the mirror, cupping her taut breasts, and bending a knee slightly, one after the other. ‘What do you think?’ she said.

  ‘Fabulous.’

  She laughed, half-closed the bathroom door and stepped into the shower stall.

  Dulac went to the minibar and poured himself a scotch. A short while later, Karen, wrapped in a light blue bathrobe joined him, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ Karen said, drying the ends of her hair with a towel.

  ‘Harris will pull the usual strings. The Italians have the equivalent of a SWAT team. It’s called SISMI. ‘Servizio per le informazioni … something or other. They’re surely itching for something like this to redeem themselves.’

  ‘Redeem?’

  He put down his glass on the side table and took off his shoes. ‘You’re probably too young to have heard about the Milano fiasco with the Red Brigades.’

  Karen shrugged.

  ‘Gladio? Does that name mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not one bit.’

  ‘Point proven.’

  Dulac picked up his glass, leaned back on the bed’s headboard, and took a long sip of his scotch, as the dreaded though of seeing Harris the following morning took a firmer hold of his consciousness.

  Suluq, Libya, 4.30 p.m.

  De Ségur’s patience was fighting his eagerness to receive news of the Vatican’s payment. He tried to remain calm, knowing that transferring money covertly, untraceably, was an art as delicate as that of diamond cutting: one slip-up and all that work and meticulous planning would be ruined. He reasoned with himself that the only thing he could do for the moment was wait. He’d been informed that if one required an expert in the clandestine world of anonymous bearer shares corporations, their complex layering and quick dissolution, Notario Alfredo Lucino was the man to call in Costa Rica. His fee was steep: three per cent of the funds transferred, automatically deducted upon corporate shutdown.

  At 4.45 p.m., de Ségur’s satellite phone rang. ‘It went like Swiss clockwork,’ said Lucino.

  ‘All $600 million?’ said de Ségur, as he peered outside at the simmering waves of desert heat off the dunes.

  ‘$600 million. The money has already been wired out of Costa Rica to the intermediary accounts in Belize. I’m shutting down the Costa Rica accounts. The corporations will be liquidated within the hour.’

  ‘Good doing business with you, Lucino.’ ‘Anytime, Mr.de Ségur. Anytime.’

  De Ségur hung up and phoned his agent in Belize.

  ‘Santos.’

  ‘De Ségur. Do you have it?’

  ‘It’s already distributed.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Santos had just confirmed that de Ségur’s numbered accounts in the Fortes Bank of Luxembourg, Pictet Bank of Switzerland, Banque Pasche of Monaco, Bank Frick and Co. AG of Lichtenstein respectively, had increased in total value by $600 million American dollars. It is earning tax-free interest as we speak, thought de Ségur.

  ‘No possibility of a trace?’

  ‘Impossible. The intermediary accounts in Belize, as far as anybody is concerned, never existed. Anyway the source of that money is presumed bona fide and legal.’

  ‘Good work, Santos. One more thing. At 10.30 p.m. tomorrow evening Rome time, I want you to contact Cardinal Legnano’s office through the Vatican secretariat. Ask to speak to him personally on my behalf and leave the following message. “Deal closed. Pick up package Suluq, Lat. 31 degrees 40’ N, Long. 20 degrees 15’ E.” But not before tomorrow evening. Understood?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  De Ségur hung up.

  ‘We have it!’ said a smiling de Ségur to the Cathars. ‘Now it’s our turn to deliver.’ He turned to one of the Berbers and spoke in Arabic. ‘Our guest is well?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ replied the swarthy-complexioned man in a dark-blue tunic.

  ‘Good’, said de Ségur. Turning to the others, he added, ‘We’ll take the vans. I’ve made arrangements for a jet to meet us outside Cairo, at the old military airstrip at Siwa. From there we fly to Belize. Everybody get some rest. Tomorrow will be a tiring day. We leave at 5.15 a.m., sunrise.’

  ‘Mr de Ségur, why can’t we leave now?’ said one of the Cathars.

  ‘We can’t see the dunes. They’re like quick-sand. We can’t risk getting caught in them.’

  Suluq 4.55 a.m., May 28

  ‘We’ll travel in tandem,’ de Ségur said to one of the drivers. ‘Did you find some extra touareg clothing?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. We may need the cover. We’ll stop and refuel at Al Jaghbub, near the Egyptian border.’

  De Ségur returned inside the house, where the Cathars were busy making last minute preparations for departure, and entered a small dusty room in the back. The man, dressed in a white jellaba, sat passively waiting.

  ‘It is time to bid you adieu, your Holiness,’ said de Ségur, bowing slightly.

  ‘So it is.’

  ‘The Berbers will take care of you until your rescuers arrive.’

  ‘I will pray for your soul.’

  De Ségur emitted a small guffaw. ‘Don’t waste your time.’ De Ségur turned, and walked outside towards the vans. />
  Lyon, Interpol offices, 11.05 a.m., 28 May

  Dulac made his way down the wide corridor towards Harris’s windowed office on the seventh floor of Interpol’s headquarters in Lyon, stopping before the office’s open doorway. The morning sun, unhampered by the open blinds, was blazing through the full length windows. Sitting at his desk, wearing a pink shirt and blue bow tie, Harris was engrossed in some voluminous report. Working on Sunday was not unusual for Harris, a man without hobbies – except alcohol. Enveloped by the disc’s orange hot rays, Lucifer-like, he seemed oblivious to the heat.

  Shielding his eyes, Dulac entered the stifling room and reluctantly shook the general secretary’s proffered hand. Close up, Dulac noticed its owner already exuded an odor of gin.

  ‘Well good afternoon. Glad you could drop by,’ said Harris.

  ‘The flight was delayed,’ said Dulac, unruffled.

  ‘Have a seat,’ said Harris, offering Dulac one of the leather chairs as he returned to behind his desk. ‘Sun bother you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Harris lowered the venetian blind and sat down. ‘You’re one lucky sonofabitch, Dulac.’

  Dulac disliked the tone of the qualification. ‘Oh? Why is that?’

  ‘I’ve been busy all night and this morning brokering a deal between the Vatican, the Italian Minister of Defense and the US Department of Defense. We muscled the Germans into lending us one of the Comanches.’ Harris reclined in his swivel chair and continued. ‘A certain commander Klein will go to Paris to pick up Lescop, then on to Rome tonight to refuel and pick you up before going on to Benghazi. They’re clearing the flight plan as we speak. He should—’

  ‘Did you say pick me up?’

  ‘Yes, you’re going to get the Pope out of Libya. You—’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

  ‘Absolutely not. I’ve discussed this whole matter, and all the options with Legnano and the Italian prime minister. By the way, the $5 million dollars were deposited in Gazzar’s Swiss account last night and the clock is ticking. They want to get His Holiness out quickly and discreetly. The usual diplomatic options are out, because everybody’s afraid of the possible debacle and Kargali’s unpredictability, so they’ve decided to go in sub rosa, low key, under Kargali’s nose. With Gazzar’s ultimatum, the only chance we have is going in tonight under the cover of darkness. Besides, the faster we do this, the better chance we have of avoiding a leak. Lescop will back you up.’ Harris’s voice had that dangerous ring of finality coming from a man who can shift the blame on someone else if things go wrong.

  ‘This is crazy. This—’

  ‘You’re going to Benghazi, Dulac. It was your idea in the first place. It’s your ballgame. Besides, I cannot think of a better man: your knowledge of Arabic could come in handy on the ground.’ Harris swiveled his chair towards the computer and eyed the screen. ‘Quite amazing, this Comanche helicopter. It will arrive at 10 p.m. tonight at the Guidonia Air Base. Plenty of time for you to get to Rome.’

  Dulac got up, put both fists onto the desk and leaned forward into Harris’s face. ‘You are sending me, with only Lescop, to get the Pope out of Libya?’ he shouted. ‘Have you all gone completely fucking mad? This is a job for SISMI, or the US SWATS, not a couple of overweight, middle-aged Interpol agents.’

  Harris leaned back in the swivel chair and, his hands in the form of an arch, tapped his fingers together. ‘Out of the question. The Italian prime minister can’t take the chance they’ll screw up again. Also this operation has to appear politically neutral.’

  Dulac stood back for a moment, then started pacing back and forth in front of Harris’s desk. ‘This is absolutely insane, Harris. There is not one shred of evidence that de Ségur will keep his word. I—’

  ‘In that case, we’ll have wasted a night flying you and Lescop in and out of Libya and a bit of the Italian’s taxpayer’s money. They are footing the bill, by the way. End of story.’

  ‘You are completely, utterly mad.’

  ‘Think of it as a diplomatic mission.’

  Dulac stopped and glared at Harris. ‘I’m no damn diplomat.’

  ‘The Italians believe Interpol best represents the interests of its members, including Italy. You may not know this, Dulac, but they’re a big contributor to our budget. It also diffuses the responsibility if things go belly up and—’

  ‘Your confidence in this upcoming fiasco is underwhelming me.’

  ‘I don’t have time to argue. We have less than eighteen hours left to get His Holiness out of Libya. You’re going to Benghazi, Dulac. Tonight. We both know there’s no other option.’

  Dulac sat back down, feeling the inevitable hand of destiny squashing his shoulders into his chest. For a moment, both men stared at each other in silence.

  ‘Jesus,’ exclaimed Dulac finally.

  ‘I’ll take that as a “yes”. The Italians will provide air support until the helicopter reaches Libyan air space. After that, you’re on your own. By the way, if you get caught, we’ll disavow the whole operation, of course.’

  ‘Of course. Just pissing great.’

  Harris reached in the desk drawer, took out his pipe, lit it, then reclined in his seat. ‘Fine. That’s settled. Now for the other item on the agenda. Why don’t you give me a rundown of your meetings with the cardinals?’

  ‘Why not? Nothing better to do until I fly into oblivion.’

  Dulac wondered why Harris hadn’t already broken into his usual demonstration of learned culture. He didn’t have long to wait.

  ‘Quid?’ said Harris.

  Dulac winced at Harris’s employment of his high-school Latin. He knew there’d be more to come.

  ‘Et in illo tempore, omnia exeunt,’ he replied, knowing Harris would be lost. He paused, while Harris, embarrassed, waited for the translation. Dulac said, ‘it means “and then, everybody left”. I get the feeling everybody is scrambling for cover, including some cardinals.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘I’m convinced de Ségur has high placed allies within the Vatican,’ said Dulac. ‘Interesting theory.’ Harris took a puff from his pipe. ‘Give me some meat to nibble on, some dramatis personae.’

  ‘I’ve found out that Cardinals Brentano and Sforza reviewed Romer’s application. They are ultimately responsible for all hiring within the Vatican, which includes Romer and, indirectly, Aguar.’

  Harris leaned forward, took the pipe from his mouth, and rattled his left fingers nervously on the tabletop. ‘That, Dulac, is a pretty wild suggestion. Even for you.’

  ‘I have more. Romer was definitely in on the kidnapping. That’s why he had to dispose of—’

  ‘Woah, hold on a minute,’ said Harris, raising his pipe-carrying hand in protest. ‘Tell me,’ – he pointed the small end of the pipe at Dulac – ‘why on earth would Brentano and Sforza have Pope Clement XXI kidnapped?’

  ‘Ambition, for starters.’

  ‘Unproven. Dulac, you’re the lawyer, give me some facts.’

  ‘I’m trying to get a meeting with Legnano. My instinct tells me he knows more about the Pope than he’s letting on. Question is, will he talk?’

  ‘Dulac, why must you always complicate matters? It’s a clear cut case of extortion and ransom. Give us the money and we’ll give you back your Pope. End of story.’

  Dulac felt for a moment he should tell Harris about the diary. No, that can wait. Besides, I promised Legnano I’d keep it confidential.

  ‘More like Plato’s Myth of the Cave,’ said Dulac. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘We see only the shadow of the story, mistaking it for reality.’ ‘Meaning?’

  ‘We have de Ségur, a known Cathar, member of Chimera. We have Romer, a Cathar, who conveniently becomes head of the Swiss Guards. Brentano recommended him. Sforza was responsible for his acceptance as a Swiss Guard and didn’t identify his Cathar roots.’

  ‘An oversight.’

  ‘Aguar’s credentials and history were known to most police forces across
the world.

  Except Romer? Interpol has a file a mile long on Aguar. Why didn’t Romer check with us? It was his job to check before the Vatican hired him. Convenient Aguar slipped through, isn’t it?’ Dulac smiled at Harris.

  ‘Still but a handful of coincidences. So far, you haven’t given me anything that supports any other motive than ransom.’

  ‘If ransom is their motive, why kill Romer? With Aguar dead, Romer wasn’t about to get caught.’

  ‘If the cardinals were in on the ransom, what possible gain could they have? It’s not as if they could spend it,’ said Harris.

  ‘Which supports an ulterior motive.’

  ‘Or their non-involvement.’

  Dulac leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands and stretched both arms above and behind his head, ‘Go to the head of the class. It’s called working both ends of the paradox towards the middle.’

  ‘I don’t need your sarcasm, Dulac, I need answers. By the way, since when are you qualified to give advice to the members of Curia on demands of the kidnappers?’

  ‘Since they asked me.’

  ‘Must I remind you that we are, and must be seen as non-political?’

  That’s it, you gutless wonder. Hide behind your textbook bullshit. ‘In the heat of battle, it’s not always that easy. The lines get blurred. Anyway, it was their decision. What’s the problem?’ Dulac said, losing patience.

  ‘The problem, Dulac, is your attitude. You don’t seem to give a damn about the rules. Just the other day I received a complaint from one of the members of the Curia. You’re interfering—’

  ‘Who could that possibly be?’

  ‘You’re missing the point. Who, is not important, it’s—’

  Dulac felt his fuse about to blow. He leaned forward, putting both hands on the edge of Harris’s desk. ‘Fine. Pull me off. How about right now? That way I don’t get myself killed going to Libya.’

  ‘Don’t get your feathers ruffled. I didn’t mean—’