High Flight

by David Hagberg

  “The problem is we need more data so that we will be able to minimize your risks later.”

  “I can see that,” Reid said.

  “Your plan is very brilliant, let me tell you that, Mr. Reid. But it is also very large and very dangerous. If we are successful, which I have no doubt we will be, then many very dedicated, very professional people will be searching for us with a very great earnestness. I want to be prepared, not only for our success, but for the aftermath. Do you understand this as well?”

  “Yes, I do,” Reid said. For the very first time since he’d begun this campaign, as he called it, he was getting a sense of just how large and dangerous it really was.

  The President, his National Security Adviser Harold Secor, his Secretary of State Jonathan Carter, and his Secretary of Defense Paul Landry were gathered in the Oval Office to watch CNN’s live broadcast of Japanese Prime Minister Ichiro Enchi’s speech to the Diet. It was 8:00 A.M. in Washington, which made it 10:00 P.M. that evening in Tokyo.

  The White House had been informed late last night that the PM would be making what the communique termed a “substantive” presentation to the parliament.

  Within two minutes of the start of Enchi’s speech, for which CNN was providing a simultaneous translation, Secretary Carter turned to Harold Secor and said, “Substantive, my ass. This one’s a bombshell.”

  “It would appear that an error of navigation, combined with the passions of a young crew, ultimately led to the tragedy in the Tatar Strait,” the Japanese leader said. “The government of Japan deeply regrets the incident and the unnecessary loss of lives.”

  Prime Minister Enchi looked out at the assembly. “I too add my personal sorrow for the suffering the families of the crew of the Russian naval vessel are experiencing. I pledge that my government will leave no avenue unexplored in its effort to make amends for the loss.”

  “He’s practically handed them the strait on a silver platter,” Secretary Landry commented.

  “Question is, what’ll they do with it,” Carter said, but the President waved him off. Prime Minister Enchi was continuing.

  “In this difficult transitional era, none of us must be guilty of the errors of pride and complacency. The world has stepped away from the brink of thermonuclear war. Let us not relax our vigil, however. Here, at home, the unrest in Tokyo and Yokosuka must end.”

  Again the Prime Minister looked up for the benefit of the parliament as well as the international media. He was a consummate politician.

  “I appeal not only to my people, but to the peoples of the world, for patience and understanding. In a measure to alleviate world tensions, to step even farther back from the brink of the unthinkable, I am proposing a new purpose for the economic summit meeting scheduled for next month here in Tokyo. I am offering to take steps that would create a Japanese free-trade zone. All trade restrictions will be lifted for a trial period of one year.

  “In addition, I would like to invite every nation, not just our friends in the United States, but every nation, to attend the summit. No nation with goodwill in its heart will be turned away. We are a family of humankind. Let us begin to be a family of friends and equal partners.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Harold Secor muttered.

  “You can say that again,” the President said.

  TWELVE

  Karl Schey’s passport was flagged at Charles de

  Gaulle Airport. Once he was passed through, a plainclothes Action Service officer by the name of Albert Thiers was assigned to track him to his destination.

  The German’s name, along with a hundred others, had been placed on the red list posted at every airport, railway station, bus terminal, water port of entry, and frontier crossing by the SDECE five years ago. Like the others, Schey was suspected of having some connection with Stasi. Each name that remained on the list was weighted with a number from one through ten. One meant that in the opinion of the Service that person was considered an important, and probably dangerous, suspect, while a ten meant that the Service was interested, but not very.

  Schey’s number was seven. Under other circumstances his entry into France would have been noted, but he would not have been followed. However, since the shootout near Chartres, the Action Service had increased its surveillance operations.

  It took him ten minutes to make his way through customs—he had only one carry-on bag—and get to the cab ranks in front.

  Thiers knew little about the man, except his number and his nationality, but it was obvious that he was, if not wealthy, at least well-to-do. His suit was English and expensive, his shoes were probably Spanish or Brazilian, and definitely handmade, and his travel bag was a Gurkha, solid, no nonsense, and pricey. So it did not surprise the Action Service officer that Schey opted for a cab into the city and not the much cheaper bus.

  Memorizing the taxi’s shield number, Thiers motioned for his partner, Paul Fallières, waiting in a dark green Peugeot, to move up.

  “It’s the taxi that just pulled out,” Thiers said, getting in.

  “Anyone important?” Fallières asked, merging with the light traffic.

  “Il est un numéro sept.”

  “This will be an easy afternoon, hein?”

  “Oui, but watch that you do not lose him. I don’t want to write that kind of report.”

  “D’accord.”

  The taxi headed into the city at a high rate of speed on the Autoroute Nord, turning onto Paris’s ring road, the Périphérique, and turning again onto the Avenue De Saint-Ouen.

  “Well, at least we’re not going to have to chase the bastard into the Left Bank.”

  Thiers shot his partner a sour look. He’d been a cop all his adult life, and now at forty-three he took the business very seriously. In his twenty-one-year career he’d lost five partners: one in a fiery auto crash, one stabbed to death in a dark corridor of a whorehouse, of all places, and the other three shot to death on the streets of Paris. In each case the accidents were clearly attributable to laxity.

  “This bastard, as you call him, is a German. And you know what the Germans did to us at Chartres. So just watch your step, Paul.”

  “What’s he doing here in the first place? That’s all I’m asking. We go along for months without his kind coming over. But Chartres was practically an invasion. What I mean is that he’s on the red list, even if he’s only a seven. He knows what happened last week. So why has he come to Paris now, of all times?”

  “Do you think there may be a connection? Something we should call in?”

  “When you think about it, maybe we should get some help. Look what Bruno Mueller did to us down there. Made us all look like fools. The salopard mec hid in the attic while we were traipsing around the house. He must have had a good laugh listening to us bumping into each other. And then he kills one of our men right there in the house, has Gisgard fly him to the border, and shoots him in the head.”

  “What’s your point?” Thiers prompted.

  “We’ve not heard the last of Colonel Mueller. Everybody agrees to that. But the colonel has gone to ground. Now this one shows up. He’s only a seven, so maybe he figures that he won’t attract much attention. Maybe he’s come here to set something up for Mueller.”

  Thiers had learned to trust a cop’s instincts. This time, however, he didn’t believe they had enough to go on.

  “We’ll just wait to make that call,” he said. “First let’s see where this one settles in. See if he meets anyone. Maybe he’s here on business, or maybe on vacation.”

  The taxi turned on the Rue D’Amsterdam toward La Madeleine, and Fallières concentrated on his driving as Thiers worked at the idea like a dog worried a bone. Mueller wasn’t through; he did agree with that. But the man would have to be a raving lunatic to think that he could try anything so soon on French soil. Every cop in the country was looking for the German, and there wasn’t one of them who would hesitate to shoot given the chance. There’d be a promotion, a pay raise, and a commendation for the lucky bas
tard who gunned the terrorist down.

  Mueller had lost the last of his gang in France, and he had very nearly lost his own life. He would seek revenge. If not now sometime in the future. It wasn’t very likely that Karl Schey had come here to front for Mueller. But then again why not? It would be interesting to know if any others left on the red list had recently crossed into France. Say, within the past twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Paris, like any capital city in the free world, was no fortress. The city, and all who lived in her, were vulnerable to attack.

  Service 5 had an enviable record. When there was trouble it was taken care of immediately with dispatch and efficiency. Its officers were enthused about what they were doing. France was a relatively small nation but shared borders with Spain, Belgium, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy. In addition she had, in effect, three separate seacoasts: the Mediterranean, the Bay of Biscay, and the English Channel. It was a lot of territory to cover, but bad people who tried to operate in France were dealt with.

  Thiers had lost his last partner three years ago. Ever since then he’d held a pact with himself that he would not lose another. He would accomplish this by being very careful.

  The taxi turned east on Rue Saint-Honoré and circled the block to the Rue De Castiglione, stopping in front of the elegant old Hotel Inter-Continental around the corner from the Tuileries gardens. A doorman helped Schey out of the cab and took his bag. Together they went into the hotel. A half-minute later the cab took off. Fallières had waited in front of the Godiva chocolate shop next door, and as soon as the cab was gone he pulled ahead to the hotel. Thiers got out and went inside.

  Three stairs up, a broad hall led to the right into the long, narrow, ornately decorated lobby. Thiers waited before he approached the desk until the German registered and left with a bellman. He showed the clerk his SDECE identification card.

  “What is the name of the gentleman who just now registered, please?”

  “Karl Schey. Is there a problem, Monsieur?”

  “What room did you give him?”

  “Four-oh-five.”

  “I will require the use of an adjacent room. Left or right, it makes no difference. But not across the corridor.”

  The clerk quickly checked the register. “I am sorry, Monsieur, but three and seven are both currently occupied.”

  “Empty one of those rooms,” Thiers said.

  “Of course,” the clerk said, his thin lips compressing. He checked the register again. “You may have four-oh-seven. Do you wish it to be made up?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “It’ll be just a few minutes. Can you say how long you will need use of the room?”

  “How long is Herr Schey staying with you?”

  “Two days.”

  “Then we will need the room for two days.”

  “Can you tell me, Monsieur, if there is a danger to our guests?” the clerk asked quietly.

  “Absolutely no danger. The Service simply has an interest in Herr Schey’s movements while he is in Paris. Nothing more. Give me the key, if you please, and I will wait five minutes before I ascend.”

  The clerk handed over a key, and Thiers went back to Fallières waiting in the car. “We have an adjacent room. Four-oh-seven.”

  “Let’s call Lebrun and tell him what we are doing here,” Fallières suggested. “I don’t know about you, but suddenly I have a chill about this one.”

  “Use the radio and then come up.” Thiers went back into the hotel, where he waited unobtrusively in the lobby until the clerk nodded to him that it was clear to go upstairs.

  The room was small but very nicely decorated with an antique armoire and a modern, well-equipped bathroom. It looked down into a cours, which in summer was alive with flowers and fountains. Peaceful.

  Thiers carefully opened his side of the connecting door to four-oh-five and listened. At first he could hear nothing, but then a toilet was flushed. An old man’s bladder, he thought irreverently. The room fell silent again for a minute or two, until Schey began to speak. Thiers strained to catch the words, but he could make out nothing, except that the German was probably talking to someone on the telephone.

  Fallières knocked at the hall door, and Thiers let him in.

  “Schey is speaking on the telephone. Call downstairs and see if you can find out if he is connected to someone inside the hotel or to a number outside.”

  Fallières got on the telephone, and Thiers listened again at the connecting door. Schey spoke a single word, that sounded to Thiers like oui, and the room was silent until there was another sound, metallic. The security chain on Schey’s door.

  Thiers hastily closed the connecting door and opened the hall door a crack in time to see the German heading down the corridor.

  “It was an outside call,” Fallières said, hanging up.

  “He’s on the move!”

  “Merde.”

  Schey disappeared around the corner, and Thiers rushed out into the corridor. “We’ll take the stairs.” He headed in a dead run down the hall to the SORTIE sign. Thank God the German hadn’t taken a room on one of the upper floors. He frankly didn’t know if his legs would be capable of descending ten or fifteen stories.

  They reached the ground floor as Schey crossed the lobby. A corridor to the right went past the hotel bar and restaurant and then to the street doors, bypassing the lobby. Thiers and Fallières took that route.

  Advertising posters were placed behind glass display units on the corridor walls. At the corner they watched Schey’s reflection in the Moulin Rouge announcement go down the stairs and turn left outside toward the Place de Vendôme.

  “I’ll cross the street and double-tail him from the front,” Thiers said as they hurried downstairs. “Keep your distance in the rear, but don’t lose him.”

  “D’accord,” Fallières agreed, and outside they immediately separated.

  Schey was already twenty-five meters ahead of them. At the corner he turned left on the much wider Rue Saint-Honoré. He moved as if he were a man in no particular hurry, heading to no particular destination. Nevertheless, Thiers had to hustle to cross the broad street then go left across the avenue to maintain his position. It became evident almost immediately that the old man was a professional. He varied his pace, he stopped at the odd moment to look at something in a shop window, sometimes he got ahead of a fellow pedestrian and remained there for a dozen meters, at other times he remained behind another for a like distance, and once he even stopped in his tracks, turned back as if he had forgotten something, pondered it for a moment, then decided against retracing his steps, turned back, and continued his stroll.

  What was not immediately evident, however, to either Thiers or Fallières, was whether the German suspected that he was being followed, or if these were the normal precautions of an old field man. But an old field man from what service? Did the Action Service suspect that this might be one of the moles in the BND? Schey was an old man. Very probably he was retired, which might explain his low rating on the red list. But then what the hell was he doing practicing his tradecraft here in Paris?

  The German reached a small café and went inside.

  Thiers was across the street and three doors away. He motioned for Fallières to follow the German inside, then waited for a break in traffic so he could cross over.

  The interval between the time Schey entered the café and the time Thiers got there was less than one minute, but already the old man was seated with a man of similar age at a small table near the back. Fallières stood at the end of the bar nearest the door. The barman poured him a glass of white wine. Thiers took the place next to him, from where he could get a good look at Schey and the man he’d come to meet.

  “Monsieur?” the barman asked.

  “Un café, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Un espres?”

  “Oui,” Thiers said, and the barman left.

  “That one with the German, I have seen his face,” Fallières said softly.

&nbs
p; “Yes, who is he?”

  “His name is Éduoard Capet. Until very recently he was the number three or four man with Airbus Industrie here in Paris.”

  “How do you know this, Paul?”

  “He was on television last week. It was his retirement. He said the airline company would fail unless the Germans were given a much bigger part. It made me think at the time that the bastard should have been with our compatriots at Chartres if he was so much in love with the Germans.”

  Thiers watched the two old men for a few moments. Capet was a Frenchman. It made Thiers sick to see him sucking up to the German that way.

  “What did Lebrun say?” Thiers asked. Louis Lebrun was their division supervisor.

  “Nothing. Just tail and report.”

  “Call him again, Paul. This time I think we need help. I want to know why this bastard is here.”

  Éduoard Capet was saying something, and Schey was listening, but his attention was drawn to the two men at the end of the bar near the door. They looked as if they did not belong. He hadn’t noticed them when he’d come in, but then he hadn’t been on his guard. Not really. And now, was he simply being paranoid?

  Since Mueller’s visit, Schey had done a lot of serious thinking. Whatever Edward Reid was involved with was very large. Talking to his old friend some months ago he’d been struck by how excited the American had been.

  The fact was that they were old men. Time now to retire from a business that was, in any event, all but played out. No enemies left these days. No causes to struggle for. Nothing to be gained by spying, except … what? Excitement? Money? Schey supposed he’d had enough of both in his lifetime. Yet something in Reid’s voice, in his eyes had been stimulating, portending something important. Capet had confirmed Schey’s suspicions that whatever was afoot might involve Guerin Airplane Company. The Japanese were on the verge of making a move against the firm. And considering what had happened last week in the Tatar Strait, Reid might be in over his head and might need help.