Jules Barnier and Henri Foche had a long association. They were not close buddies, but they dined together occasionally, and while Jules lacked the driving ambition that would take Henri to the very pinnacle of French power, the brutal manner of his death had caused the Parisian banker considerable sadness.
“Ah, Stanford,” he said. “Ever the pragmatist.”
“Well, I’m correct, aren’t I? You will now be the Gaullist candidate in place of the departed Henri, and there should be nothing to stand in your way. My friend, you have a clear run to the Elysée Palace, where I very much look forward to a lot of high-class hospitality.”
Jules Barnier, grief stricken or not, was unable to avoid laughing. “I really called to let you know I have just resigned from the bank. Obviously, it would have been quite incompatible with my projected political career. It was all very agreeable, and the board members were generous to me.”
“I should think they would be,” replied Rossow. “You’ve made them all a lot of money. You’ll miss it, you know, that cut-and-thrust of the world economy.”
“I expect so, but I’ll probably have enough cut-and-thrust of my own if they make me president of France.”
“There’s no doubt, is there?”
“Well, not really. The Gaullists are plainly going to sweep to victory. Every opinion poll has us miles ahead. And I am now the candidate.”
“A few months from now, you will be all-powerful, hiring and firing cabinet ministers on a daily basis. Frenchmen will quake in their boots at the mention of your name.”
“Frenchmen of my class don’t wear boots. They wear highly polished Gucci shoes. And no one quakes when they wear those.”
Senator Rossow chuckled. “Do you still want me to keep a weather eye for a cottage here in Maine?”
“Very much so. France is even more inclined than America to close down for the summer. I have always loved that Maine coast, and I can’t think of anything nicer. In any event, waterfront real estate on your coastline is an excellent investment.”
“Always the banker, Jules, always the banker.”
“Not at all. But the dollar’s weak against the euro, trading this morning at 1.54. For me, that cottage is a buy.”
Both men laughed. “Well, it would be great fun to have you here for a few weeks each year. You’d bring the boat?”
“Certainly. I might even keep it there.”
“Just so you remember, Maine has a very short summer. End of August, we’re all done. It’s likely to snow in October, and it doesn’t get real warm until the middle of June at best.”
“That will suit me very well. I look forward to it, all those beautiful islands, with the pine trees coming right down to the shore, the deep water, and the homard! Formidable.”
“Oh, Jules, there was one thing I wanted to mention. Will you carry out Foche’s intention to cut right back on the purchase of foreign hardware for the military?”
“I will not. Because it goes against every principle I have about international trade. There’s nothing sillier, in this day and age, than any form of isolationism. I believe in expansionism, and to tell the truth I thought some of Henri’s ideas were very old-fashioned. I expect you are talking about that little shipyard you have mentioned before.”
“Well, I was about to talk about Remsons,” replied the U.S. senator. “And I have explained how important it is to them—that frigate order from the French Navy. And it’s pretty damned important to me. As you know, I don’t have a huge majority in this state.”
“Stanford, my friend, the frigate order stays in place, for a lot of reasons. I value my connections in the USA, and when I’m president, I’ll value them even more. And I like the . . . er . . . cross-pollination between our defense industries, that we buy and sell from you and vice versa. Warships and missiles. I want to increase that, not shut it down.
“Stanford, I’ll tell the navy to order three of them, keep Mr. Remson busy for ten years, and then you can be carried shoulder-high through the town as the great savior of the shipyard!”
“I like that, Jules. I like the way you’re thinking.”
“Listen, Stanford, I have to go. But don’t worry about that frigate anymore. You can consider it done. And tell your Mr. Remson I’m coming down for a visit, to see my new ship, just as soon as you find my new house.”
“’Bye, Jules, and bonne chance.”
The Air France passenger jet took off into a light southeast wind, banked hard right, and flew up the left bank of the muddy Gironde River estuary, high above the greatest wine-producing châteaus in the world. They passed over the little port of Pauillac, which is surrounded by the fabled appellations of the Haut-Medoc, Margaux, and Saint Julien. There are eighteen crus classes around Pauillac, including the world-famous Rothschilds’ Lafite, and Mouton, and Château Latour.
Mack Bedford was oblivious to the splendor below. He was staring out to the west, out to the Atlantic, and he could feel the aircraft inching its way toward the ocean. In a few moments, he would be clear of the French coast, and somehow safe from the ten thousand police and security forces currently searching for him.
On reflection he considered his masterstroke was in moving so quickly, so far to the south of Saint-Nazaire. It was obvious now that the police had written off entirely the possibility of anyone making the south bank of the Loire. Every broadcast, every newspaper stressed that the search was concentrated in the northern part of the country. Especially the Northwest.
As a strategy, that was 100 percent wrong. Henri Foche’s assassin had headed due south immediately after his mission was accomplished, and that decision had allowed him to make an almost serene getaway. Aside from the policeman at the bus stop, nobody had challenged him, because no one was looking in his part of the country.
And now he was on his way out, beyond the reach of the goddamned gendarmes, back to Ireland and then home, leaving no trace. It was thus a relaxed flight, past the great hook of the northwest coast of Brittany, up the Irish Sea, and into Dublin at 2:00 P.M. sharp.
Mack just held up his Irish passport, the one bearing the name and identification of Patrick O’Grady, and the immigration officer waved him through. He walked across the airport to the escalators and traveled up to the second floor. He had the document for his first-class open return ticket, and now he changed for the last time, slipping into the men’s room and fixing his Jeffery Simpson wig, mustache, and spectacles. This rendered him precisely the same person who had entered Ireland almost two weeks previously.
He walked to the Aer Lingus ticket desk, and asked if there was space on the evening flight to Boston. He was told it was half empty, and five minutes later he had a boarding pass and a seat in the front row of the aircraft, which would depart at 7:30 P.M. local time, arriving in Boston a little before 10:00 P.M.
Mack showed his passport. The emerald green-clad Irish ticket assistant handed it back with a smile. “Have a nice flight, Mr. Simpson.”
Which essentially left Lieutenant Commander Bedford with four hours to kill. But Dublin was a big airport with outstanding shops, and Mack still had a pile of euros in his leather bag. So he passed through security and then went shopping, taking care to purchase nothing that would betray even to Anne that he had been in Ireland.
He bought her a bracelet of green tourmaline stones with a gold-chain pendant to match, which knocked a serious hole in five thousand euros. Never in his life had Mack Bedford done anything that extravagant, and he quite liked the feeling. So he hopped into a breathtakingly expensive ladies’ store and bought his wife a dark green silk Christian Dior shirt that he would later inform her had cost more than the Buick.
He strolled along to the café in Terminal B and unloaded the jeweler’s boxes into the trash. He put the bracelet and pendant into his jacket pocket, and then removed from the shirt the Dublin wrapping, dumped that into the trash with the boxes, and folded the shirt neatly into his bag.
Assailed by doubts that he had “somehow tu
rned his wife into a fucking leprechaun, with all that green,” Mack ordered a plate of Irish sausages and scrambled eggs and settled in the corner to read the Irish Times.
And once more the enormity of his actions was brought home to him.
The front page offered nothing except varying accounts of the death of Henri Foche. Inside there were two full-page broadsheet photograph displays of the Gaullist politician and his wife, their home in Rennes, and the shipyard on the Loire estuary.
He finished his “lunch” and went to the Aer Lingus first-class lounge and attempted to watch television, which someone had tuned to Fox. The twenty-four-hour American news channel was concentrating on nothing else, but constantly updated its coverage with accounts of the police search switching to different areas where the giant Swiss murderer had been sighted.
But thanks to the hard-driving Norman Dixon, Fox also had a scoop. They screened an interview with the two fishermen from Brixham, the ones who had been thrown overboard, Fred Carter and his first mate, Tom.
Fred was still outraged. “It was just piracy,” he said. “This bloody great hoodlum dragged me out of the wheelhouse and flung me overboard. Christ! Was he ever strong! I’d just hit the water when Tom came over the side as well, landed about twenty yards from me.”
And did he just leave you to drown?
“Well, not really. He backed the boat up and threw lifebelts over to us. They landed real close, like he may have been a seaman himself.”
Were you scared?
“I was a bit. Because we both had sea boots on, and they can fill with water and take you under. But we kicked ’em off and started swimming.”
Was it dark?
“Yes. But we could still see the lights on the shore. I’d say we were two miles out.”
Would you recognize the attacker again?
“I’d recognize him anywhere. He had a big black beard, and he spoke with a foreign accent. Supposed to be from Switzerland, they say.”
Any idea why he stole your boat?
“Stole it and lost it! The Eagle’s never been seen since.”
You were fully insured?
“Oh, yes, all fishing boats are well insured. We get pretty good rates because we don’t often lose a trawler. I’ve claimed for the night’s catch as well.”
Did they pay?
“Not yet. They say, how can they pay out for a cargo of fish we never caught? I told ’em we would have caught. There were haddock out there, thousands of ’em. And they owe us the bloody money. That’s what I pay the premiums for.”
The interviewer smiled, and asked one last question: Do you think they’ll catch the pirate?
“I’d be surprised if they didn’t. He was as big as a bloody house and as hairy as a bear. They can’t hardly miss him. He looks like King Kong.”
Mack was unable to stop chuckling, taking cover behind the Irish Times.
They called his flight at 6:45, and he slept almost the entire way across the Atlantic. He was still exhausted from his long swim across the river, the swim that had undoubtedly earned him his freedom and completely baffled one of the top police forces in Europe.
The aircraft was already over Massachusetts Bay, a few miles to the east of Boston’s Logan International Airport, when the flight attendant finally awakened him and asked him to fasten his seat belt.
Because of his front seat he was one of the first to disembark, and he made straight for the glass booths where the immigration officers scrupulously inspect every visitor’s passport, photograph them, check their visas and fingerprints. This was Mack’s last hurdle, Jeffery Simpson’s exquisitely forged document.
But American passports are not nearly so scrutinized. The officer opened the passport, checked the photograph against the bearer, noted it had first been issued in Rhode Island years ago, and said, “Welcome home, Jeffery.”
Mack walked through and went downstairs to the baggage area. Only then did he realize it was a quarter past four in the morning in Switzerland. And anyway he could not possibly go home to coastal Maine right now, so he walked outside and picked up the bus to the Hilton, which stands less than a half mile from the terminal.
He checked in with impeccable honesty, Lt. Cdr. Mackenzie Bedford, U.S. Navy. It was the first time he had told the truth to a hotel receptionist in living memory. He ordered an alarm call for 4:00 A.M., when he would call the Nyon Clinic.
The hotel bar was quite busy, and he asked for a Scotch and soda, the way he drank them with Harry. The television was on above the bar, and he was astounded to see the French police had made an arrest in connection with the murder of Monsieur Henri Foche. The man was a Swiss national from Lausanne who had been picked up in Saint-Malo, where he had been enjoying a brief holiday with his wife and two children on board a chartered yacht. His name was Gunther, and he was six-foot-four and bearded.
However, his lawyer claimed he was a coach to the Swiss national soccer team, had never fired a gun in his life, had never even heard of Saint-Nazaire, and had been having coffee with his family on the Saint-Malo waterfront at the time of the assassination. He added that on Gunther’s behalf, he would be suing the French police for an undisclosed amount of money, for wrongful arrest, loss of reputation, mental anguish, and God knows what else. Meanwhile, Gunther was very much in the slammer, awaiting a court hearing. Brittany’s chief of police, Pierre Savary, said he was hopeful they had the right man.
“Stupid prick,” muttered Mack uncharitably.
That night he slept only fitfully, mostly because he was worrying about Tommy. And when he was awakened by the hotel alarm call, he dialed the number of the clinic with considerable trepidation. He identified himself and was swiftly put through to the office of Carl Spitzbergen, and then to the great surgeon himself.
“Well, Lieutenant Commander, that’s a very fine boy you have there.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Mack. “I am really calling to find out if he’s okay.”
“He’s as okay as I can make him,” said Carl Spitzbergen. “And I have to say that’s about as okay as he can be. He’s tough and strong, and he came through an eight-hour operation as well as any young boy could.”
“I believe it was a complete bone marrow transplant?”
“Exactly, and I conduct these operations only rarely, because they are life-threatening. But it worked for Tommy. I cannot promise anything, but everything went fine, and if I had to give a professional opinion I would say we have reversed the condition. Tommy can look forward to a long life.”
“Can I speak to him?”
“Well, you could if he was here. But he recovered so fast, only twelve days, I sent him home. He and Anne left Geneva on the morning flight yesterday.”
“You mean he’s back home in the States?” asked Mack.
“I sincerely hope so,” replied the surgeon.
There was no possibility of further sleep, and Mack dressed, paid his bill, and took a cab to the bus station, booking a ticket on the first bus to Brunswick, Maine, which left at around seven.
He sat almost in a daze of happiness, reading the Boston Globe. Foche had been bumped off the front page, but an inside story revealed that the Swiss national who had been arrested in Saint-Malo had been released without charge late last night, owing to insufficient evidence.
It was a little after ten when the bus pulled into Brunswick, and Mack was the only passenger disembarking. He stood at the bus stop, waiting for the local one to come along to take him home, and it arrived ten minutes late.
It was a strange feeling returning to Maine after all that had happened. Absence had seemed to heighten the natural glory of the landscape, and Mack stared appreciatively at the long waters of the Kennebec River, flowing down to Dartford, past the coves and the bays, and below the tireless screeches of the gulls and arctic terns.
When the bus eventually pulled up at the stop at the top of his road, he climbed down and set off, wondering what the hell he was going to tell Anne—where had he been, why hadn
’t he called, and why did he want her to look like a leprechaun?
But today, nothing mattered. He marched down the middle of the lonely road, carrying his leather bag. Up ahead he could see the estuary of the Kennebec, and soon he would see the house where Anne and Tommy would probably go into shock when he walked in, straight out of the wide blue yonder. Except that he had punctuated their entire married life with sudden comings and goings. There had been so many times when he could not call, could not tell her what he was doing, where he was going, or when he was coming back.
All SEAL missions were highly classified black operations. Each mission “went dark” days before they left: no phone calls in or out of base; no contact with the outside world. Anne knew that, accepted it as the wife of a Special Ops naval commander. Anne might never ask him what he had done or where he had been. She never had before.
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