The Thin Black Line

by Simon Gervais

  For half an hour Mike waited, immobile, for some sort of answer. But one never came.

  What did I expect?

  Finally, Mike raised his head and looked around him. The place was entirely deserted with the exception of Lisa, who stood next to her parents’ graves. He got to his feet and joined Lisa to pay his respects to his mother and his in-laws. They then spent some time at Chloe’s, spilling tears for the daughter they’d never even held. Before they left the cemetery, Mike kissed the ground under which Melissa lay.

  “I love you, baby girl. Please help us stay the course.”

  As Mike and Lisa walked away, a strong wind rushed by them, and the clouds parted. For a few seconds the sun shone down on them, and Mike could feel its warmth. In his heart, he knew Melissa had just winked at them.

  PART 3

  CHAPTER 21

  Gendarmerie Nationale Headquarters

  XVI District, Paris

  Normally, Marise Martin, aide to the administrative assistant to the director general of the French gendarmerie, would have never gained access to the secure server. But today was no ordinary day. Anne-Marie Chartier, the young but efficient administrative assistant, had left in a hurry when she’d received news that her husband, a police officer, had been grievously wounded in a traffic accident. With the consent of the director general himself, she’d asked Marise to cover for her for the rest of the week. In order for Marise to carry out her new duties, Anne-Marie had given out her own password.

  Marise was pleased. She had already provided the password to her CSIS handler, allowing them remote access to the secure server of the French gendarmerie. Zima Bernbaum—aka Marise Martin—was too busy to wonder about the consequences if she was caught. She hoped the RCMP and CSIS analysts working in concert on the case would find something soon. On the other hand, she had to admit she was enjoying working undercover. The constant danger made her feel alive. Never more so than last night’s excursion inside General Richard Claudel’s private residence.

  ―

  Everybody in the intelligence-gathering business knew that acquiring useful information was a lengthy process. Nonetheless, after only a few weeks of being in place inside the Gendarmerie headquarters, the RCMP commissioner had called her on her secured CSIS-issued cell phone.

  “Yes?” answered Zima, who was reading a paperback in the living room of her one-bedroom apartment.

  “It’s me, Zima,” said the commissioner.

  “One minute, please,” requested Zima, climbing out of her futon. She didn’t think her apartment was bugged, but she didn’t want to take any chances. She grabbed her keys from the table of her modest vestibule and exited the apartment. Once she was outside, she made a right on Avenue Victor Hugo, heading toward the closest Starbucks, a block away.

  “Sorry for the delay, commissioner. One can’t be careful enough.”

  “Have you found anything, Zima?” asked the RCMP chief, not wasting any time.

  “No. I haven’t been in position long enough. Except for making photocopies and answering the phone, I’m not doing much and haven’t come in contact with any confidential documents,” she replied.

  “I have a special task for you.” 4

  Something in his tone made her stop. “I’m listening.”

  “General Richard Claudel won’t be home tonight. I want you to search his residence.”

  “Are you serious?” asked Zima. When the commissioner didn’t answer, she remarked, “I guess you are.”

  “We’ve received reliable intel that something big is coming up,” said the commissioner. “Maybe as early as within a couple of days. My point is, we need someone to look into Claudel’s personal belongings.”

  She wasn’t crazy about the idea. “If I get caught, we lose everything.”

  And my mother, who thinks I work in a museum, will sue your ass!

  “I know the risks, Zima. But if something happens and it becomes known we had a lead on Claudel and didn’t act on it, heads will roll.”

  Your head will roll, thought Zima, despite knowing the RCMP commissioner was right. They had to investigate the lead they had. Was breaking in the general’s home the best way to do it? Considering the matter, she overcame her initial reluctance. She didn’t see any other alternatives. The clock was ticking.

  “I’ll need special equipment,” said Zima, entering the Starbucks.

  “Already taken care of. You’ll find all you need in the trunk of your car.”

  These guys are slick. “That’s convenient.”

  “CSIS support personnel accessed your car earlier today,” explained the commissioner. “If you need anything else, call me directly.”

  “Will do.”

  “You know what we’re looking for, Zima. Find it before it’s too late.”

  The RCMP needed proof. They wanted receipts, documents, bank account numbers, anything that could directly linked the French general to the Islamic terrorist group headed by the Sheik.

  “How long do I have?” she asked.

  “In theory, he’s away until tomorrow morning, but you know as well as I do his schedule changes a lot.”

  “So we aren’t sure when he’s coming back?”

  “Nobody said this gig would be easy,” the commissioner said. “In any case, Xavier and Étienne will be close by.”

  Xavier Leblanc and Étienne Perrin were two CSIS operatives working at the Canadian embassy in Paris.

  “That’s good to know,” Zima said.

  “I expect your report by tomorrow morning,” the commissioner said.

  After hanging up, Zima ordered a tall café latte. While she waited for her drink, she was already plotting her next move. Getting the bag of goodies out of the trunk of her car was the priority. In an ideal world, she could have conducted reconnaissance on the residence for a few days prior to breaking in. It would normally be protocol, but the commissioner had made it clear he expected her to go in tonight. She didn’t like it one bit. So many things on so many levels could go wrong. Plus, she had no clear rules of engagement. She would have to play it by ear.

  If I find something on Claudel, how will the RCMP play it? Take him down? Turn him, maybe? It doesn’t matter; I’ll have done my job. But this isn’t entirely true, is it? If this bastard is in any way responsible for Lisa’s and hers family deaths, I’ll kill him myself.

  By the time her drink was ready, she wasn’t in the mood for coffee any longer. She took a sip of her latte and then proceeded to dump the full cup in the garbage. She then headed to her vehicle to grab the bag her colleagues had left for her. Luckily, her Fiat sedan wasn’t too far from her apartment, because she had to employ all her willpower not to open the bag. Once she was safely inside her apartment Zima unzipped the black duffel bag.

  She lay out a set of lock picks, a pair of leather gloves, a wireless earpiece, a small flashlight, a radio set to the earpiece frequency, a throwaway cell phone, a flash drive, and a diminutive but sharp knife.

  She inserted the drive into her laptop and read the instructions Leblanc and Perrin had left for her. After reading all the material twice, she checked her watch. Although carrying out a full surveillance on the residence was out of the question, Zima figured that she would observe the general’s house for a solid hour before breaking in. That wasn’t much but it would have to do.

  After changing into a pair of dark jeans and a long-sleeve Under Armour sweatshirt, Zima headed to the kitchen to get the hairnet she would wear under her black baseball cap. Making sure she had all her equipment secured in her backpack, she ate a protein bar and drank half liter of water before she left.

  Two hours before, she’d been reading a book on her futon, and now she was ready to put her life on the line to obtain some intelligence that might help save others’ lives. That was how she wanted to live.

  Much more exciting than working in a m
useum…Sorry mom.

  And she meant it. Raised a good catholic, Zima hated the lies she had to tell her family and friends in order to protect herself and her colleagues. Only a handful of people knew she was a spy. Her unpredictable work schedule had forced her to accept she would stay single for a long time. Broken promises and missed opportunities had make sure that all the guys she had ever fallen for had fled for their lives.

  I can’t blame them. I would have done the same thing if I’d been in their shoes. Besides these eight-to-four kind of guys aren’t really my type.

  Walking to her car, Zima appreciated the gloom of the night.

  I have to admit it would be nice to walk hand-in-hand with someone with whom I could be honest, be myself for once. Good Lord! What am I thinking about? Enough, Zima! Concentrate on the task at hand.

  Zima laughed out loud. I definitely need more sex.

  There was no moon in the sky, and the low-hanging clouds provided her with the perfect cover. Her black clothes would melt into her surroundings. She used the phone she had found in the bag to call Xavier Leblanc.

  “Marise?” Leblanc said after picking up.

  “Yes, it is. You’ve been briefed, I take it?”

  “Étienne and I are already in position.”

  “Anything I should know?” asked Zima, starting her car.

  “There’s a cat in the house. I saw it sitting inside next to the window.”

  “So there is no alarm system.”

  “We don’t think so. His housekeeper exited the premises an hour ago. I kept my binoculars on her, and I’m positive she didn’t set an alarm. She left the door open for more than two minutes while she carried her cleaning stuff out of the house.”

  Zima was relieved. One less hurdle.

  “Étienne is on foot, and I’m mobile in the vehicle,” continued Leblanc. “There’s a lot of traffic in the neighborhood, so another car won’t be noticed.”

  “I’m on my way. I should be there within the next half hour,” said Zima.

  General Claudel lived in a row house in Paris’s fifth administrative district. It was the oldest neighborhood of Paris and very popular with tourists.

  “May I make a suggestion?” asked Leblanc.

  “Shoot.”

  “Park your car one street east of the target. It’s a one-way street traveling north and will give you an escape route.”

  Stopped at a streetlight, Zima studied her car navigation system. Claudel’s house was located on Saint-Hippolyte, a one-way street toward the east.

  “Will do,” said Zima. “Thanks.”

  She was lucky to find a parking space close to Claudel’s on her first try, half a block north on Rue Pascal. She then spent the next thirty minutes walking aimlessly through the neighborhood. She passed in front of her target’s residence only once, but it was enough. The general’s residence was a two-story brown brick house that had had its exterior recently renovated. The sizable garage door was made of expensive wood, as were all the window shutters. She waited until she reached the next intersection before calling Leblanc.

  “I’m ready to go in,” said Zima.

  “Put on your earpiece,” Leblanc replied. “Make sure it’s on the same frequency as your portable radio.”

  Zima quickly confirmed the frequency and inserted her earpiece in her right ear.

  “Radio check.”

  “I hear you five by five,” answered Zima through her wireless mic attached to her Under Armour sweatshirt. “Where’s Étienne?”

  “I’m enjoying a cup of coffee at the restaurant at the corner of Brocas and Saint-Hippolyte. I’m fifty meters away west of the target’s residence, and I have eyes on the prize.”

  “Got it.”

  Zima walked around the block one last time before approaching the house from the east. By the time she reached the front door, her lock-picking kit was in her hand.

  “You’ve got time, Zima. No pedestrians in sight, and I don’t see anyone standing on the balconies across the street.”

  Lock picking wasn’t as easy as the movies portrayed it. A burglar needed a lot of practice and outstanding dexterity. Zima had both. She slipped inside Claudel’s house within two minutes.

  Gently closing the door behind her, she stayed stock still for a minute, listening to any noise coming from inside the house. It was dark, and she decided not to turn on any lights. Instead, she reached into her backpack and retrieved her night vision goggles. She powered them on and immediately noticed another door leading to a midsize courtyard shared by the different owners living on Saint-Hippolyte Street. She knew the courtyard offered her an alternative getaway in case the front door became compromised for any reason.

  “I’m in,” Zima whispered. “Commencing search.” The first thing she did was to locate the study and insert the flash drive into the general’s computer. The instructions given to her indicated she didn’t have to turn on the machine. The drive would automatically copy everything that was saved on the hard drive. The consensus reached at the highest level of CSIS was that the general must be keeping a hard copy of his most important financial transactions. Everybody did.

  Where would a top general hide documents he wouldn’t want anyone to find? Yet, she considered, they needed to be readily available. She looked into the air ducts, peeked behind the numerous paintings, and tested drawers for hidden bottoms. She rummaged through the bathrooms, bedrooms, and closets, making sure to leave them the way they were. Two cats followed her everywhere, but they didn’t answer when she asked them where the general secret cache was. After two hours, she had retrieved the flash drive but hadn’t found anything. She was beginning to doubt the general had anything hidden in his residence. She was about to go back to the study when Étienne Pellerin’s voice came through her earpiece:

  “Marise, someone just got out of a taxi. He’s walking toward the house.”

  Shit. What now? Zima felt her heart beat faster than she ever remembered.

  “You have less than five seconds, Zima. I’m moving in to intercept and back you up. Let me know.”

  Zima was picturing Pellerin walking toward the residence, a hand on his hip where his firearm was secured. Five seconds wasn’t enough to reach the back door, she decided.

  “Stay put,” said Zima, hearing the front door opening. “I’ll let you know if you need to come in.” She hurried inside the walk-in pantry and powered off her NVG. The light switch to the pantry was outside, and she didn’t want to be blinded in case Claudel turned the light on. She placed the NVG on the floor next to her backpack and thought about grabbing her knife. She opted against it, but knowing it was close by made her feel better. She didn’t dare take another breath, afraid Claudel would hear her heart pounding against her chest. She swallowed hard.

  She could hear the thud of footsteps approaching. Hard soles on hardwood. Please don’t enter the pantry, please don’t enter the pantry, prayed Zima. The footsteps stopped. A kitchen cabinet was being opened and a glass was taken out. Shuffling inside the fridge followed by the sound of liquid being poured into the glass. Then a phone rang.

  “Hi, Richard,” said the voice of the man standing in the kitchen. The voice had a thick Arabic accent.

  Richard? Then who’s the guy standing a few feet away from me? wondered Zima. She wished she could hear more than one side of the conversation.

  “I’m at your place. I thought you were going to be here.”

  “Yes, of course. I understand. I’ll feed the cats.”

  “Listen, Richard, I got some last-minute instructions for you from Peter Georges. I’ll put them in the atlas if you don’t mind. ”

  “I miss you too. I’m looking forward to seeing you in Portugal. I hope we’ll be able to spend a few nights together.”

  What the fuck is that all about? Last-minute instructions? This was getting interesting. That m
ight very well be the break they were looking for. “I’ll put them in the atlas if you don’t mind.” An atlas was usually quite big and easily noticeable among smaller books. She’d wait until the man departed, then search the study one more time. In the meantime, she had to contact Pellerin to let him know she was okay and to remind him not to intervene unless she called him for assistance. She didn’t dare speak, though, while the man was still only feet away from her. She forced herself to remain calm and to control her breathing. Moments later, she heard the man walk away and allowed herself to relax. But as she was about to contact Pellerin, she heard the man’s footsteps approaching once again. This time he was moving fast, without hesitation. Shit! I’ve been made! The pantry’s bright light came on, blinding her. She grabbed her knife, ready to defend herself, but the door was pushed toward her, forcing her back against the metal shelves behind her. She was holding her knife with such strength her nails embedded themselves into the soft flesh of her palm. She was about to push the door with all her might against the intruder when she saw his arm reach for a can of cat food.

  “Anyone hungry?” she heard the man say before closing the door behind him. Zima didn’t breathe for what felt like a full minute. Oh, my God, that was too close. Her throat was so dry it hurt. She was sure she’d been seconds away from dying from a heart attack. She took a few deep breaths before trusting herself to speak.

  “Étienne, this is Marise. All is well. Stay put,” she whispered in her mic.

  “Copy that, Marise. Xavier and I are ready to move in.”

  Patience was the key. She didn’t know how long the stranger would remain in the house, and she had to wait it out. She needed to get her hand on this atlas.

  Minutes went by before she heard anything again. She thought she heard someone climbing the stairs leading to the second floor, but she couldn’t be sure. If it was in fact the case, the man must have removed his shoes. Maybe he was ready to go to bed. Would he be sleeping here?