The Chimera Sanction

by André K. Baby

  ‘Yes, your Eminence,’ said the chauffeur.

  Turning to the others, Sforza said, ‘We’ll meet Inspector Guadagni, Haeflinger and the rest of the Curia.’

  ‘Who is Haeflinger?’ said Dulac.

  ‘Colonel Ernst Haeflinger has replaced Romer,’ said Sforza. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve checked his background.’

  ‘Any news on the cause of Romer’s death?’ Dulac said.

  ‘Apparently someone poisoned his beer with the same poison that killed Aguar. Inspector Guadagni has started a full investigation.’

  A half hour later, they entered the Segnatura room and were greeted by the muted applause of the Cardinals.

  ‘Cardinal Legnano telephoned from the Agostino Gemelli Clinic where His Holiness is undergoing a preliminary examination. Legnano will join us shortly,’ said Brentano. ‘In the meantime, please be seated.’

  Twenty minutes later, as Dulac was still describing the night’s events to Harris and the astounded cardinals, Legnano entered the room and all eyes focused on him.

  ‘Gentlemen, the doctors have given me an initial assessment of the Pope’s health. His vital signs are good. The Pope is understandably tired, but in good spirits. He will rest for a day or so, and then undergo a comprehensive medical examination.’

  The other cardinals nodded their approval.

  ‘What about surgery to save his ear?’ asked Fouquet.

  ‘The doctors will do tests at the first opportunity. After so much time, I’m told it looks doubtful,’ said Legnano.

  ‘I will prepare the press conference to announce the Pope’s return,’ said Sforza.

  As the early morning dawn broke over Rome, Dulac and Harris took a taxi and headed back to the hotel. Dulac, barely awake, wasn’t about to interrupt the long, uncomfortable silence inside the cab when suddenly Harris burst out, ‘Let’s get this straight between us once and for all, Dulac. If you think you’re getting some oohey, goohey gobs of praise from me, a golden star in your little scrap book, you’re going to wait a long time. You’re sadly mistaken if—’

  Dulac exploded. ‘For Christ sake, I followed your goddamn scheme, nearly got my butt shot out of the sky while rescuing the Pope out of some hole in Libya, and all I get from you is this shit?’

  Harris’s tone mellowed. ‘All right, all right. So you did well. I’m not questioning that part of the operation, although you could have let us know earlier about de Ségur. We would have—’

  ‘We were a bit busy dodging Libyan missiles, and trying to keep the Comanche in the sky.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I realize that. I don’t want to appear ungrateful but we must begin to think ahead.’ Harris, his breath smelling of alcohol, turned towards Dulac. ‘How long do you think the press will let us off the hook for not catching de Ségur? A week? Two at the most? I hate to have to keep reminding you, Dulac, that until de Ségur is eating lunch behind the bars of La Santé Prison, we’ve failed, we’ve—’

  ‘Cut the crap, Harris. You mean I’ve failed.’

  ‘As you wish. This rescue is only a part of the overall mission. Need I remind you de Ségur has two, no, now three red flag warrants for his arrest?’

  ‘After a good night’s sleep, I’ll give de Ségur my undivided attention.’

  ‘Get on his tail,’ said Harris, his face near Dulac’s. ‘He’s probably lying low in Benghazi. We can still get him while he’s in Libya. May I remind you, Dulac, that, as my lawyer friend says, time is of the essence?’

  Harris’s breath was bearing down on Dulac and he leaned slightly towards the window, away from the offensive odor. ‘I doubt he’s in Benghazi,’ he said. ‘He’s trying to get the hell out of Libya before Kargali finds out he’s been screwed out of the opportunity of a lifetime. If de Ségur is still in Libya when the colonel finds out—’

  ‘If, when, probably…. I want more than your damn hypotheses and theories, Dulac. I want results.’

  ‘The colonel will throw the dogs after his hide. My bet is he’s making a run for it out of Libya. Problem is, we don’t know where the bastard is headed with those vans. They—’

  ‘Dulac. Am I getting through?’

  ‘Loud and clear. By the way, when you said that time is of the essence, did you call for a satellite search on the vans?’

  ‘How could I? I had no idea de Ségur was using vans.’

  ‘One might have anticipated the possibility. Of course, by now it’s probably too late.’ Dulac suppressed a yawn. ‘Those satellites would be trying to cover the whole of North-east Africa.’

  ‘Give it a try,’ said Harris. ‘One never knows. Have Dieter coordinate it with the French. And call Boning in Tunis. Have him take the next plane to Benghazi.’

  Dulac bit his tongue, knowing full well that sending an agent to Benghazi and commencing a satellite recon search was a complete waste of time and money.

  ‘Grab the trail and get on de Ségur’s goddamn tail. I want results, Dulac, not excuses.’ At that moment, the taxi pulled up before the hotel’s entrance. Dulac got out first.

  ‘Thanks for the appreciation,’ he said, starting towards the hotel and leaving Harris to pay the cabbie.

  Chapter 24

  Hotel Dante, 11.00 a.m., May 29

  After contacting Dieter and Boning, Dulac, his nerves jangled by the confrontation with Harris, retreated to the hotel’s lounge and ordered a glass of milk and a ham sandwich. Sitting at the bar, from the corner of his eye, he’d occasionally catch a glimpse of the comings and goings of the hotel’s patrons in the lobby. Moments later, Harris’s voice at the front desk caught Dulac’s attention. He’s leaving, finally.

  It wasn’t until he saw Harris cross the lobby and walk through the rotating doors that Dulac felt a wave of relief. He phoned Karen in Paris.

  ‘Congratulations! The Pope’s rescue is all over the news on TV. Tell me all about it. I can’t wait to hear how it went,’ she said excitedly.

  ‘Later. I’m a bit frazzled right now.’

  ‘Understandably. I thought you’d be asleep.’

  ‘Can’t. Too tired.’

  ‘How did it go with Harris?’

  ‘Don’t ask. It’s getting worse. He can’t make it through the morning without a drink, many drinks. It’s affecting his judgment,’ said Dulac.

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘He’s constantly jumping to conclusions. Wrong conclusions. He thinks de Ségur is still in Benghazi. God knows why.’

  ‘Is that so unlikely?’

  ‘Trust me. If you’re not an Arab, Libya is a pretty small place. As Westerners, de Ségur and his goons would stick out like red carp in a fish barrel, waiting to be picked off by the Libyan security force. The man might be a psychopath, but he’s not stupid. With de Ségur’s Cairo contacts, he’s probably headed to Egypt.’

  ‘So why aren’t you in Egypt?’

  ‘Timing and geography. He left Suluq yesterday. If all went well, he’s out of Africa by now, headed to God knows where, probably to his safe haven Belize. If not, and assuming de Ségur plans to leave by air, which is far from certain, we’ve only got two agents to cover the whole of Egypt. With Boning, three for all of Libya, Tunisia and Sudan. Ever try to hold water with a fish net?’

  ‘Difficult.’

  Dulac signaled the bartender. ‘Coffee with milk….’ Then, uncovering the phone’s mouthpiece, he continued. ‘Sorry. As I was saying, the only way to catch de Ségur is to be one step ahead of him, not chasing behind him all over hell’s half acre. Realistically, unless he’s still in Africa and we catch him in the desert by satellite tracking in time for the local police to move in, we’ll have to wait for new developments. In the meantime, I’m working this side of the investigation.’

  ‘In the Vatican?’

  ‘Correct. I just wanted to say hello. Call you.’

  Dulac returned to his room to catch some much needed sleep. He’d just entered some lustful ruminations of his subconscious when the buzzing of his cellphone broke the spell and jolted him awak
e. He leaned over, grabbed the cell and saw the dreaded Interpol’s encrypted number flashing insistently on the LCD. Harris again. Bastard doesn’t let up.

  ‘Have you read Dieter’s preliminary sat recon report?’ said Harris, his tone aggressive.

  Asshole is trying to make me feel guilty, thought Dulac. ‘I wasn’t expecting it until later this evening, tomorrow morning even.’

  ‘It’s on your computer. Read it.’

  Naked except for his boxer shorts, Dulac went to the desk and turned on his computer. ‘Got it. Give me a minute.’ He started to read.

  May 27th, 12.08 p.m. hours to 5.45 p.m. hours. Extracts from Geostationary satellite DGP-FRA 3ZC log. Initially believed to be closest matches to suspect vehicles. Sat recon unit captured and tracked the following heat imprints, identified and confirmed by local authorities to be vehicles as follows:

  1) 1.10 p.m. local time: two vehicles bearing 300 degrees north approached Sudanese border at Kurmuk. Sudanese guards asked to identify occupants. Miscommunication occurred and Sudanese let vehicle through without noting identity of four occupants. Subsequent description of occupants does not fit suspects. Four Japanese tourists believe headed for Khartoum. Result negative.

  2) 2.18 p.m. local time: three vehicles near Suluq bearing 270 westerly direction, headed for Tunisia. Intercepted at Ras al-Jedir. Tunisian authorities confirmed identities of twelve occupants: six Dutch nationals, three Swiss, three Americans. No match with suspects. Result negative.

  3) 9.08 p.m. local time: immobilized vehicle identified near Siwa Egypt airstrip. Asked Egyptian police to investigate. They found an abandoned van with two flat tires bearing Tunisian license plates. Checking identity of owner. Result negative.

  End of Preliminary Report.’

  ‘Dulac?’

  ‘I’m just finishing reading.’

  ‘Result negative, result negative. That’s all I need,’ said Harris.

  ‘I warned you yesterday that our chances of finding them with a sat recon—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. Any news from Boning?’

  ‘Negative.’

  ‘So basically we’re still nowhere.’ A moment of silence, and Harris continued. ‘You should have gone to Cairo.’

  ‘Didn’t I hear someone say recently Benghazi? He’s got to be in Benghazi?’

  ‘I don’t need your smart-ass sarcasm.’

  Another pregnant silence. ‘You know, Dulac, I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’s time we got some new blood in the file.’ Harris’s tone had become conciliatory, dangerously so. ‘Besides you’ve earned a good rest. I’m seriously thinking of giving Lescop a chance to take on more responsibility. I think—’

  Dulac felt the axe coming and beat Harris to the swing. ‘Piss off, Harris. You’re looking for any fucking excuse to dump me. Now that the Pope is safely back in Rome, now that the spotlight has been turned off, I can do what I want with old Dulac. He’s expendable. Let’s put the old nag out to pasture.’

  ‘I will disregard that comment, in the memory of your deceased father for whom I had the greatest of respect. You will hand over the file to Lescop.’

  ‘That’s one hell-fire way of getting it further stalled.’

  ‘One more comment like that and I’ll—’

  ‘You’ll what, Harris, you’ll what. You’ll fire me? I’ll have my lawyer in your office within minutes.’

  ‘Don’t you threaten me, Dulac.’

  ‘Harris, why don’t you go and do the anatomically impossible thing.’

  Hotel Dante, later that night

  Downing his fourth scotch, Dulac extinguished his Gitane on the edge of the glass, got up from the uncomfortable barstool and stumbled his way to the hotel’s rotating front door. Outside, the fresh air hit his lungs like the contents of a can of Febreze. He phoned Karen.

  ‘Hi, it’s me.’

  ‘Do you know what time it is?’ she said drowsily.

  ‘I’m free, free as a goddamn bird. So come fly with me, fly me to the moon, to paradise. I left my love … in Costaaa Ricaaa….’

  ‘I strongly suggest you keep your day job.’

  ‘Is my shinging that bad?’

  ‘You sound plastered. Any particular reason?’

  ‘No reason, no problem. I’ve been shus … suspended.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘In and out. Comes with the job. He’ll call back and apologize.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He needs me. If he thinks Lescop can do a better job in finding de Ségur, he’s shadly mistaken.’

  ‘So what’s this about Costa Rica?’

  ‘The best diving in the world. Great trekking too.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘See the jaguars, see the jaguars and Dulac, before they’re both extinct. Wanna go?’

  ‘Call me when you’re sober.’ She hung up.

  Chapter 25

  Belize, 7.15 p.m., 29 May

  The Bombardier’s steep banking onto final approach awoke de Ségur. He looked out the window in time to catch a glimpse of Belmopan’s main landing strip before the Bombardier leveled again and the Rolls-Royce engines slowed to a quiet purr. A welcome change from hell, thought de Ségur. The jet landed, taxied to the small terminal building and stopped. Moments later, the steward opened the Bombardier’s passenger door and de Ségur stepped down the steep boarding ladder. A lone Customs officer was already waiting at its base, clipboard in hand.

  ‘Good afternoon Mr de Combel. Welcome back,’ said the overweight, short man, with a hint of a British accent. ‘How was your trip?’

  ‘Fine, Fernando, fine.’

  ‘How many passengers?’ he said, eyeing the open doorway of the jet.

  ‘Six, counting myself.’

  ‘Anything to declare?’ the Customs officer said perfunctorily. ‘No, nothing to declare. How are the wife and children?’

  ‘My young one, Esperanza is in the hospital. She broke her arm playing soccer. And Anna, the older—’

  ‘Kids. They recover quickly.’

  ‘And my wife Isabella, she is trying to make ends meet. It is very hard with the children…. They eat us right out of the kitchen…. Ah, but that is not your concern. I’m sorry….’

  The officer paused, cleared his throat and continued. ‘Mr de Combel, as usual I am required to check your passports before you proceed to Customs control at the gate.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, Fernando.’ De Ségur took the Customs officer by the arm and walked with him towards the other side of the ladder, away from the line of sight of the terminal building. ‘You know, Fernando, some of these passengers would rather be discreet about being here in Belize. Depending on who you are, a Belizean stamp on one’s passport could be, well, misinterpreted.’ De Ségur smiled. ‘I’m sure you understand. Plus, some of those passports are a bit past their expiry dates.’ De Ségur paused. ‘I have a little something here that isn’t.’ He put his right hand on the Customs officer’s shoulder, brought him close and with the other, took out from his vest a thick, white envelope and slipped it into Fernando’s pocket.

  ‘Thank you Mr de Combel.’ Fernando smiled, quickly stuffing the envelope deeper into his pocket. ‘Then you are checked through.’ He initialed and handed de Ségur six cards. ‘When you are ready, present these at the gate.’

  ‘Actually, Fernando, we would rather be more discreet. Is there a way we can avoid the gate altogether?’

  ‘Is the jet staying here?’

  ‘It will refuel and go on to Costa Rica.’

  ‘Then wait until darkness and go through the guard station at the hangar.’ He pointed to the corrugated metal building to the left of the terminal. ‘My brother is on guard until midnight. I’ll let him know.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘I’ll tell the officers at the terminal that the plane is in transit, waiting to refuel.’

  Good man, that Fernando, thought de Ségur, as he watched the Customs officer walk back to the terminal building. De Ségur made a cellphone ca
ll and climbed up the staircase to the top. Suddenly, he felt dizzy and grabbed the handrail. It’s getting worse, he thought, as the dizziness slowly dissipated. He regained the interior of the cabin and addressed the Cathars, sitting anxiously in their seats. ‘The van will pick us up at 8.15. In the meantime, everybody relax.’

  Back at de Ségur’s compound that evening, a general unease permeated the Cathars’ dinner conversation, occasionally peppered with banal exchanges on the unusually hot weather. De Ségur’s phone rang. He left the table to take the call. After a moment, he returned and addressed the Cathars. ‘Gentlemen, I have good news. Antoine and the others made it safely to Cairo. They will return to France in the morning. Now let’s go to the salon. We’ll be more comfortable there.’

  As they sat down in the wicker chairs set about the rustic surroundings, a macaw perched on the feeder outside on the veranda began to crow noisily. De Ségur put down his cognac, went to the window, and closed it. He returned and stood facing the tired and jet-lagged Cathars, moroseness etched onto their faces. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I have advised the families of our fallen brothers and sisters about the sinking of the Bellerophon. Their kin are taking it very hard, some of them blaming me for the loss of their loved ones. I assume that responsibility entirely. I will leave for France next week and see each and every family. That is the least I can do.

  ‘In the meantime, you are surely wondering if we should proceed with our mission. I cannot blame you for having your doubts.’ He grabbed the back of the wicker chair before him and leaned forward. ‘But I ask that you keep your focus on the overall goal. We must continue. Otherwise, the sacrifice of our comrades’ lives will have been in vain. The reality is that we will recruit others and rebuild the core. Our ancestors suffered much worse, and they prevailed. We can also. These setbacks will not halt our mission. Our success depends on all of you returning to your dioceses and recruiting new faithful. I ask that you continue to trust me. In turn, I promise you this: the prophecy will be fulfilled. Our time will come.’ He paused for a moment, eyeing each of the Cathars one by one. ‘Are you with me?’