The Chimera Sanction

by André K. Baby

  Dulac sat in silence, his jaw agape. ‘I, I think I misunderstood.’

  ‘You heard correctly, Mr Dulac.’

  ‘Why, why are you telling me this, your Eminence?’

  ‘Because we think you can best execute the mandate.’

  Dulac sat upright on the edge of the sofa, ‘I’m, I’m sorry. I’m at a loss here. You want me to eliminate de Ségur?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, Mr Dulac. We want you to eliminate the threat.’

  ‘Pretty thin distinction. Anyways, I’ve been suspended. I don’t—’

  ‘Actually it’s all the better for us. You can give this, this mandate your complete attention. Consider it a private matter, Mr Dulac. Nothing to do with Interpol. You will be paid accordingly.’ Legnano took back the letter from Dulac’s quivering hands.

  ‘Monsignor, just out of interest, what would be the terms of this … mandate?’

  ‘Before we discuss the details, we wish to determine your level of commitment. Should you refuse, Mr Dulac, this conversation never occurred. Are we clear on that?’

  ‘I’m still having trouble digesting all this, your Eminence.’

  ‘Of course. But as the letter states, we don’t have much time. Tell me, as a matter of professional interest, Mr Dulac, if you were to accept, I presume you would call on some…. I believe you have some contacts?’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean by contacts.’

  ‘I mean, in your capacity as Interpol agent, you may have come across persons that could—’

  ‘None that come to mind, off hand. But I’m still curious. Why me, your Eminence?’

  ‘Because we trust you, Mr Dulac. Because this file is highly sensitive. Because you are the only one, apart from ourselves and de Ségur, who knows about the diary. Besides we thought it would seem natural that you would be motivated to “close the file”, so to speak.’

  Dulac shifted uncomfortably in the sofa. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, your Eminence, but you still haven’t answered my question. How am I supposed to eliminate the threat without eliminating the person behind it?’

  ‘I leave that entirely up to you, Mr Dulac. It’s the result that counts.’

  ‘If I were to even consider this, just the logistics for this kind of operation would be expensive. Very expensive.’

  ‘Mr Dulac, I haven’t made myself clear. Price is not a meaningful consideration.’

  ‘And you want my answer yesterday.’

  Legnano nodded.

  Chapter 28

  Dulac endured the bumpy flight back to Paris, resisting the temptation of the usual dose of Glenlivet, and instead invited Karen for dinner at Montet’s. After a mundane meal, they skipped dessert, rushed to Karen’s flat and replaced the dessert with a session of vigorous sex.

  As Karen lay naked in bed beside him, perspiring and replete, Dulac could feel her heavy breathing warming his right shoulder. She moved up and kissed his neck softly.

  ‘So you stick this beautiful neck out and lose your head if it doesn’t work. Is that it?’ she said.

  ‘Metaphorically and physically.’ He reached over to the night table and grabbed the package of Gitanes.

  ‘So apart from the money, why would you even consider the Curia’s mandate?’

  Dulac sat up on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette. ‘That bastard de Ségur is long overdue for some prison time. When he got away last year with the French president’s help, I swore to myself I was going to make that happen. Here is the perfect opportunity for me to keep that promise.’

  ‘And if it works, Interpol gets the credit, just like when you rescued the Pope?’

  Dulac took a long drag, ‘Thanks. I really didn’t need that comment.’

  ‘I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. It’s just that whatever you do, you can’t seem to win.’

  Dulac stood up and walked to the window. The evening’s last rays of soft gold light shone on the leaves of the small oak trees below. After a moment he turned, watching her as she lay lounging in the residual warmth of his side of the bed. ‘I’m still puzzled as to why Legnano chose me. Why not a professional firm?’

  ‘Like the Mafia?’ she said, her left elbow propped on a pillow.

  ‘He doesn’t have to go down that route. I’m sure there are other ways.’ Dulac blew a puff of smoke onto the window pane. ‘I must admit it would give me the greatest of pleasures to trump that prick Harris.’

  ‘Careful. Aren’t you letting a bit of vengeance cloud your judgment?’

  ‘I’ve thought of that. Not really.’

  ‘What if things go wrong? What about your career?’

  ‘What career? Weren’t you the one to say “time to think out of the box, Thierry?”’

  ‘This isn’t exactly what I had in mind.’

  ‘When opportunity knocks, Carpe diem. Seize the day.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Besides, with the Vatican’s deep pocket….’ Thoughtful, Dulac started back towards the bed. ‘Come to think of it, many years ago I knew the son of the Venezuelan Ambassador to Belize. A certain Juan Garcia. I wonder what happened to him.’ Dulac donned his boxer shorts. He returned to the living room, opened his laptop, and typed in Interpol’s people search databank. ‘Code invalid,’ read the computer screen. Damn. Harris again, that asshole. He called Gina, at forensics.

  ‘Gina Marino.’

  ‘Dulac. Listen Gina, I need a small favor.’

  The following morning, Dulac discovered a brown envelope under his door as he entered his apartment. Good girl, that Gina. As Dulac went through the file, he could see that Juan Garcia’s reputation had gone from dubious to bad. Descendant of a wealthy sugar cane Venezuelan family, he’d inherited the right business at the wrong time: world-wide antitrust law enforcement coupled with increasing union demands and the rising strength of the American sugar barons had made for decreased profit margins in his once protected segment of the industry. Juan had become a minor player, an untenable position for a man of his expensive appetite: one Ferrari 360, one Aston Martin Virage, one Donzi 35 R speedboat. A sailboat in Douarnenez. Christ, I’ll bet he still has that old Dragon class sailboat. Memories of prior, happier times came flooding back. Dulac took out the photographs. They showed Garcia in various sexual positions with a well-endowed, middle-aged blonde. He looked at the back of the photographs: ‘Cartel leader Vic Baldoni’s wife Michèlle & Juan Garcia.’

  The report went on, mentioning that many of the South American sugar barons had noticed the similarity between the harvesting, refining and distribution of sugar and that of cocaine. Although the allegations were still unproven, Garcia’s flamboyant lifestyle seemed to give credence to the supposition. A recent investigation by the Venezuelan Department of Justice had fizzled out, for lack of live witnesses. Men and women whom Garcia came into contact with had the disturbing propensity of winding up missing, or dead.

  Dulac knew that under normal circumstances, it would be impossible for anyone not in Garcia’s immediate entourage to reach a man like Juan Garcia. However Dulac had a trump card, his father Paul. Ex-French ambassador to Venezuela, Paul Dulac knew Juan’s father. A few calls later to the right people in the French and Venezuelan diplomatic corps, and Dulac had Juan Garcia’s private telephone number.

  ‘Is this Juan Garcia?’ said Dulac.

  ‘Who is speaking?’

  Dulac immediately recognized the voice. ‘Thierry Dulac, you might—’

  ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘Through the Venezuelan embassy. You might remember that my father Paul and your father sailed together in France about twenty years ago? The Thalassa Cup?’ Dulac waited for a reply.

  ‘You have the wrong number.’

  ‘Hold on a second. Just hold on. Surely you remember that day I couldn’t let go the mainsheet and that we nearly rammed the breakwater off Douarnenez. I think the name of your father’s boat was … Aphrodite, yes Aphrodite.’

  Another pause. ‘But of course I reme
mber. Just checking.’ The voice became friendlier. ‘How are you? What have you been up to these past … Has it been twenty years already?’ said Garcia in a curious mix of Oxford and Spanish accent.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘I’m calling you because I have some business I’d like to discuss with you. An interesting opportunity, I think.’

  ‘What kind of opportunity?’

  ‘Sorry, it’s rather confidential. Not the sort of thing for eager ears.’

  ‘I understand. Where are you, my friend?’

  ‘In Paris. And you?’

  ‘I’m in Florence till tomorrow afternoon,’ said Garcia.

  ‘Would you have some free time for me? An hour will be plenty.’

  ‘What is this about?’

  ‘I’d rather tell you privately,’ said Dulac.

  ‘I see. We could have lunch at 12.30 at The Trattoria Stromboli. Do you know it?’

  ‘In Piazza Della Signoria, I think.’

  ‘That’s right. What kind of business did you say you were in my friend?’

  ‘See you then.’

  Chapter 29

  Florence, Piazza Della Signoria, 12.15 p.m., Thursday, 15 June

  Sitting a bread roll’s throw away from the imitation of the statue of David in the city plaza, Dulac recognized the heavyset man who in his prime had often been mistaken for Antonio Banderas. The Venezuelan crossed the Piazza Della Signoria and approached the small café and restaurant. Put on a bit of weight, have we Juan?

  Dulac couldn’t help notice two men with oversized necks and undersized heads walking not so discreetly behind Garcia. Drawing closer to Dulac’s table, Garcia recognized the Frenchman and smiled. The bodyguards continued on as Garcia stopped and sat down.

  ‘So what brings you to Florence?’ Dulac said, trying to jumpstart the conversation.

  ‘I’m picking up a drawing by Piero di Cosimo. I’m still awaiting the last of the authentication certificates. In this business, you can’t be too careful. Too many crooks,’ Juan said, leaning over towards Dulac in feigned confidence. ‘So tell me my friend, what’s this business you can’t talk to me about over the phone?’

  The waiter came to the table and hovered, pen and pad in hand. ‘Double espresso,’ said Garcia.

  ‘Same,’ said Dulac.

  Dulac waited for the waiter to leave before answering.

  ‘Well, it goes like this. A certain party wishes to have abducted an important fugitive from French justice.’

  Garcia’s eyes narrowed into slits. ‘So?’

  ‘I thought you might—’

  ‘Might what? I’m in the sugar business.’

  ‘I don’t have time for games, Juan.’

  Garcia’s face hardened. ‘I don’t like your tone of voice, my friend. What do you mean “games”?’

  ‘I mean I did my homework. Interpol has a half meter long file on your personal protection alone. Don’t get me wrong, Juan. I’m not here to—’

  ‘Santa Maria! So you’re with Interpol?’ Garcia looked nervously at Dulac, then turned and discreetly shot a quick glance at his bodyguards sitting behind him.

  ‘Let’s just say I have access to certain privileged information.’

  ‘Every rich man in Venezuela is a kidnap target. Protection is not an option.’

  ‘Precisely. And I’m sure you’ve hired the best.’

  ‘I’m still alive.’ Juan smiled, showing two front teeth separated by a singularly wide gap.

  Dulac tried to be reassuring, ‘Juan, I swear this has nothing to do with you. I want some names, that’s all.’

  ‘Sure. Names. Of course. Why didn’t I think of it? Russian, Italian or Jewish mafia? Which do you want?’

  ‘Not funny.’

  ‘Interpol! Who would have thought? Anyway this target of yours, I presume your party can’t get him out the legal way because of the lack of an extradition treaty?’

  ‘Dead-on.’

  ‘And who is this French fugitive of justice?’

  ‘Let’s just say he’s wanted in at least two jurisdictions for extortion, kidnapping and murder.’

  ‘Sounds like pretty big game.’

  ‘The biggest, and out of season.’

  ‘Let me get this straight, Dulac. If I understand correctly, you, an Interpol agent, are asking me to furnish you with, with mercenaries?’ Garcia smiled derisively.

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  Garcia blew a long whistle through his gapped teeth then laughed. ‘I didn’t come here to get insulted.’

  ‘Relax, relax, my friend.’ Garcia put up a hand in protest. ‘Don’t be offended. Like Dylan said: “Times, they are a-changing”.’

  Garcia turned towards his men and gave them a short palm down signal of his right hand. Facing Dulac again, he continued. ‘Even if I had such contacts, it would be very, very expensive, my friend.’

  ‘Money is no object. Including your finder’s fee.’

  ‘I was getting to that. But tell me, my friend, why isn’t Interpol taking care of this? Or for that matter, the French Sureté? They’ve done some extra-curricular work like this before.’

  ‘It’s a complicated story, but my party chooses not to use the official routes.’

  ‘I know someone at Mossad.’

  ‘Out of the question.’

  Garcia looked suspiciously at Dulac. ‘This is not some religious, Islamic thing, is it?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Not exactly?’

  ‘I can only tell you that my principal’s motives are personal, not religious.’

  ‘The last thing I need is a fatwa on my head.’

  ‘No chance.’

  Garcia leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head. ‘This game you’re playing is very dangerous, my friend. I don’t want to think of what happens if you miss.’

  Before leaving, Garcia had given Dulac a name: Eric Roquebrun. ‘He’s good, but he’s a handful to control,’ warned Garcia.

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘He’s a great tactician, but in the heat of battle, he’ll do everything to get the job done.’

  ‘Isn’t that good?’

  ‘He’s got some collateral damage to his credit.’

  ‘Don’t you have someone else?’

  ‘Sure, but he’s temporarily unavailable.’

  ‘How temporary?’

  ‘Could be a while. Ahmed is doing life in Beirut on three charges of rape and four counts of murder.’

  Back in his apartment, Dulac phoned Gina.

  ‘Again? But Mr Dulac, you’re still suspended. I can’t access…. If they find out I gave you access—’

  ‘Gina, they need you more than they need me.’

  ‘I don’t know, I….’

  It had cost Dulac a massage and pedicure at Lyon’s upscale body shop, Chez Chloe, to get Gina to do another summary Interpol database search.

  ‘Eric Roquebrun, 46 years old, ex CRS, ex “Force Tactique”, fired for sexual harassment of a 26-year-old woman recruit and the brutalizing of two members of his unit. Last known address: Casier Postal 4800, Marseilles. Box closed for non-payment on renewal. Current whereabouts and employment unknown.’

  Just the kind of man you’d want your sister to marry, Dulac thought.

  Chapter 30

  Paris, Restaurant Chez Aurélie, 12.40 p.m.

  After his futile search for Roquebrun’s whereabouts, Dulac phoned Garcia and convinced him to have Roquebrun contact him. Roquebrun agreed to meet Dulac at Chez Aurélie, one of the seizieme arrondissement’s more discreet and intimate cafés. As he sipped his glass of chilled rosé, Dulac kept reminding himself that behind the mercenary’s mustachioed smile, sad droopy eyelids and wire-framed spectacles, resided not a benign university professor about to admonish his student, but a battle-hardened killer out for the pleasure of the hunt and the spilling of human blood.

  ‘You must understand that de Ségur is to sta
nd trial in France. He’s no good to me dead, otherwise the deal is off. Is that clear?’ Dulac said.

  ‘If he’s hiding out in Belize, he’s got a lot of locals on his payroll. There’s bound to be collateral damage,’ said Roquebrun.

  ‘That’s your problem. Alive or no deal.’

  Roquebrun twisted one of the ends of his mustache for a moment, as if to think more clearly. ‘I can manage that. Any satellite photos?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve identified four buildings, smack in the middle of the Mayan Mountain Range: one main and three smaller houses, the whole thing surrounded by a barbed wire fence, probably electrified. He’s got a generator plant supplying the power. He has a helicopter at the north-east end of the compound.’

  ‘He lives well.’

  ‘That’s a matter of perspective. Self-imprisonment has never held any great appeal to me.’

  ‘He’s undoubtedly bought a lot of tolerance from public officials and a lot of protection.’ Roquebrun looked squarely at Dulac. ‘For this operation to be successful, Mr Dulac, we need two things: the non-interference of the Belizean police and the element of surprise.’

  Dulac bit into the cold and overcooked bavette steak. He put down his knife and fork and summoned the waiter. ‘Garçon, you dare call this steak? Take this, this rhinoceros hide back and get me something edible, a salmon filet or something. Surely you can’t overcook that?’

  ‘Yes sir, I mean no sir,’ said the contrite waiter.

  Dulac turned to Roquebrun. ‘What about men? You have your, your—’

  ‘Mercenaries, Mr Dulac, mercenaries. That’s what we are. I need two days’ notice to round up my team. They’re enjoying a bit of R and R, after we hammered the piss out of those Colombian buggers.’

  ‘Anything to do with the Ines Botalla rescue?’