Hunter Killer (2005)

by Robinson Patrick

  Lt. Commander Ramshawe knew there were always reasons for things. When someone was in any market, buying heavily, there was always a solid reason. Just as when someone was out there selling there was always a reason. And in Jimmy Ramshawe’s global view, those reasons needed to be located and assessed. As his boss Adm. George Morris so often said, Damned good intelligence officer, young Ramshawe.

  And it did not take him long to find his answers. Roger Smythson, a very senior oil broker in London, said he could not be certain, but the buyer who was unsettling the London market was undoubtedly European. He had already run a few traces, and it looked like France.

  Orders, he said, were coming in from brokers based in Le Havre, France’s biggest overseas trading port, which contains the largest of all the French refineries, Gonfreville l’Orcher. In Roger’s view, the fingerprints of TotalFinaElf were all over some huge trades made from that area.

  From New York, the suspicion was the same. Frank Carstairs, who worked almost exclusively as a dealer for Exxon, said flatly, “I don’t know who it is, Jimmy, but I’d bet a lot of money it’s France. The orders are all European, and there’s a big broker down in the Marseille area who’s been very busy these past couple of months.”

  “That’s a major oil area, right?” said Ramshawe. “TotalFinaElf country, right?”

  “Oh, sure,” said Carstairs. “Marseille handles around one-third of all France’s crude oil refining. Terminals at Fos-sur-Mer, that’s us, Exxon. Berre, that’s Shell, Le Mede, TotalFina, and Lavera, BP. They got a damned great methane terminal down there, and an underground LPG depot the size of Yankee Stadium.”

  “That’s liquid petroleum gas, right, Frank?”

  “You got it, Jimmy. Mostly from Saudi Arabia, like the majority of French oil products.”

  “Thanks, Frank. Don’t wanna keep you. Just wondering what’s going on, okay?”

  SAME DAY, 7:00 P.M.

  CHEVY CHASE, MARYLAND

  The big Colonial house that stood well back from the road, fronted by a vast lawn and a sweeping blacktop drive, was not an official embassy of the United States. Though no one would have guessed it.

  There were two armed Special Agents, one just inside the wrought-iron gates, one in a black government automobile near the front door. There were surveillance cameras set into the gables of the house, laser beams, alarm bells, and God knows what else.

  And the visitors were legion. In any one month, the agents at various times waved through cars from foreign embassies, cars from the Pentagon, cars from the National Security Agency, cars from the CIA, and cars from the White House.

  When Adm. Arnold Morgan (Ret.) was in residence, there were a lot of people with a lot of problems who needed the advice of the old “Lion of the West Wing.” And since many of those problems had a direct bearing on the health and well-being of the United States of America, the Admiral usually agreed to give people the time of day.

  As retirements went, the autumn of the Admiral’s life was full of bright colors. The former National Security Adviser to the President was still in action, unpaid, but still growling…I wouldn’t trust that sonofabitch one inch. So much for the President of one of the richest states in the Middle East…Who? That dumbwit couldn’t fight his way out of a Lego box, never mind build a decent nuclear submarine. So much for the science and research director of the world’s fourth largest Navy.

  Admiral Morgan was like a desert sheik dispensing wisdom and guidance to his flock at the weekly Majlis. Except the Admiral’s flock was worldwide, with no racial boundaries. There were probably ten foreign armed services, allies of the United States, who preferred to check in with the Admiral before making any major decision. The same applied, often, to the President of the United States, Paul Bedford.

  Most of the Admiral’s guests came at their own request. But the guest tonight was there as an old friend, invited for dinner by Admiral and Mrs. Morgan, the beautiful Kathy, who had served as his secretary in the White House with the patience of Mary Magdalene.

  Gen. David Gavron, the sixty-two-year-old Israeli ambassador to the United States, was unmarried, though there were at least two Washington hostesses who were nearly certain he might marry them. He loved dinner with Arnold and Kathy, and he always came alone. The three of them met quite often, occasionally at their favorite Georgetown restaurant, sometimes at the Israeli embassy, three miles north of the city, and sometimes here in Chevy Chase.

  It was growing cold in Washington, and Admiral Morgan considered he was in the final couple of weeks of his outside barbecue season. On the grill were five gigantic lamb chops—which would be eaten with a couple of bottles of Comtesse Nicholais’s 2002 Corton-Bressandes, a superb Grand Cru from her renowned Domaine Chandon de Briailles, in the heart of the Côte de Beaune.

  Morgan was a devotee of the Comtesse’s red burgundy, and considered lamb chops to be utterly incomplete without it. Which meant that the chops were incomplete about a dozen times a year, because Corton-Bressandes cost around fifty dollars a bottle, and Arnold considered that a touch extravagant on a day-to-day basis.

  However, he had purchased a couple of cases of the 2002 several years ago, and he took great delight in serving it to special guests, like David Gavron, who had introduced him to the perfect, silky dessert wines of the old Rothschild vineyards fifteen miles southeast of Tel Aviv. Admiral Morgan’s cellar was never without a case of that.

  Tonight it was a very relaxed dinner. The wine was perfect and the chops were outstanding. Afterward they each had a slice of Chaume cheese and finished the Burgundy. By 11 P.M. they had retired to the fireside in the timbered book-lined study, and Kathy had served coffee—a dark, strong Turkish blend that Gavron himself had brought as a gift.

  They were discussing their usual subject, terrorism and the sheer dimension of the pain-in-the-ass it caused all over the world, the cost and the inconvenience. Which was, after all, what the terrorists intended.

  Quite suddenly, General Gavron asked, “Arnold, have you heard anything more about our old friend Maj. Ray Kerman?”

  “Plenty,” replied the Admiral. “Too damned much. Volcanoes, power stations, and god knows what. But we never really got a smell of him. He’s an elusive sonofabitch.”

  “We nearly had him, you know,” said the General. “Damn nearly had him.”

  Morgan looked up sharply. “What do you mean, nearly had him?”

  “Darned nearly took him out.”

  “You did? Where? When?”

  “Couple of months ago. Marseille.”

  “Is that right? I never heard anything.”

  “I’m not surprised. But do you remember a major gangland killing in a restaurant? Bullets flying. Customers injured, staff dead?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  “No. The French police covered it up pretty tight.”

  “You’ve lost me, David—what about Kerman?”

  “The night before the killings, we picked up Kerman arriving in Paris. On an entirely empty Air France flight, big European Airbus-Boeing. Then we located him again at the French Foreign Legion training base at Aubagne, just east of Marseille. Remember, we want Kerman just as badly as you do.”

  “And then?”

  “We sent two of our best agents in.”

  “Assassins?”

  “Agents, with a…well…flexible agenda.”

  “And what happened?”

  “They were both killed stone dead in some kind of a shootout. But of course no one knew who they were. The French police announced it was a gangland killing, involving drugs, tried to blame one of the dead waiters.

  “We never even knew what was going on till we saw police pictures of two dead men being carried out of the restaurant. They were never even released, far less published, but one of our field officers saw them, and instantly identified one of the bodies on the stretcher, throat cut wide open.”

  “Christ!” said Morgan. “What about the other agent?”

  “Also dead. Tw
o bullets to the back of the head, fired from a semi-automatic Browning high-power pistol…nine millimeter. The SAS has used them for years, but not many other modern forces do.”

  “None of this was in the newspapers, right?”

  “Certainly not. For some reason the police, or the French government, someone, wanted this thing played right down. We of course were not anxious to have the names of our dead agents plastered all over the place. And they carried no identification with them. We just decided to let it ride. And the French kept it quiet for us. The bodies apparently vanished. And no one ever heard anything more. But it was Kerman we were after. And Kerman, I believe, whose finger was on the trigger of his trusty Browning service revolver.”

  “You think he cut the other agent’s throat?”

  “No. That must have been his buddy, whoever that was.”

  “Jesus. Sounds like another SAS man,” said Morgan.

  “Doesn’t it? But Hereford has reported no one else missing. Whoever it was, it was a very professional response. We have never before lost agents, armed to the teeth with AK-47s, to a couple of amateurs having dinner, armed only with a sheath knife and an old-fashioned pistol.”

  “You think Kerman’s still in France?”

  “I don’t know. But he left from Damascus. That’s where we logged on to him. But our people did not see him return. He could be anywhere.”

  General Gavron could not of course have known about the devious way General Rashood made his escape from France—the long car journey back to Paris; the first-class seats onboard a regular, crowded Air France flight to Syria; the French Secret Service steering the Hamas assault chief through security, complete with his Browning 9 mm; the two accompanying bodyguards from the First Marine Parachute Regiment, all three wearing traditional Arab dress. It all looked too normal in Damascus Airport, way too normal to attract the attention of Daniel Mostel.

  “Kerman,” said Morgan. “He’s like the goddamned Scarlet Pimpernel.”

  “Well, the trail’s gone cold,” replied the Israeli General.

  “So we’re back where we started,” said Morgan. “He might be in Syria. But it could be Jordan, or Iran, or Libya. Or even Cairo. And now France.”

  “Yes. But that was a damn funny business in Marseille, Arnie,” said the General. “I mean, what’s Kerman doing in France in the first place? And what’s he doing in Special Forces aircraft? Landing at a Foreign Legion base? And who was he dining with? And how come he has the obvious protection of the French police, not to mention the French Government?

  “That restaurant was the scene of a colossal crime. And the police refused to release any information whatsoever. A lot of people were hurt, some killed, but they would not even name the dead. I mean my agents.”

  Admiral Morgan smiled. General Gavron still regarded himself as the head of the Mossad, even though he retired from that position several months before. But I guess, thought Arnold, when you’ve fought a tank battle alongside Bren Adan in the Sinai, been wounded, decorated for valor, and literally laid down your life for Israel, you’re apt to take even its minor problems very personally.

  He looked into the wide, tanned, open face of the Israeli. And he probed into those bright blue eyes for a sign of disquiet. And he found it. David Gavron was bitterly unhappy that one of Israel’s greatest enemies might be planning another operation.

  Morgan could see almost straight through the former Israeli battle commander, as if the unacceptable thought were reflected in those piercing eyes…What the hell was Kerman doing in France, smuggled in, and probably out again, all with government protection?

  The following morning, Lt. Commander Ramshawe’s phone rang before 0800. He recognized the voice instantly. “Morning, sir,” he greeted the former director of the National Security Agency.

  “Jimmy,” said Admiral Morgan. “Do you remember a couple of months ago reading anything at all about a gang shooting, something to do with drugs, in Marseille?”

  “No, sir. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “It was pretty big. Like fifteen injured and maybe six dead in a real bloodbath in some restaurant near the waterfront.”

  “Still doesn’t ring a bell, sir. But I’ll get right on it, check it out. Do you have a more precise date?”

  “It was in the last week of August. Restaurant called L’Union. Police apparently wanted it kept quiet. They released very little. But the Mossad lost two agents, both killed in the fight. One of them had his throat cut. They reckon the other one was shot by Major Ray Kerman.”

  “Jeez,” said Jimmy Ramshawe. “Here he comes again.”

  “Precisely my thoughts. See what you can dig up. You and Jane want to come over for dinner later? We’d be glad to see you. And we’re getting to the end of the grilling season. How about some New York sirloin steaks? Keep your strength up.”

  “Sounds great, sir. We’ll be there. Second dogwatch. Three bells, right?”

  “Perfect. 1930. See you then, kid.”

  Jimmy Ramshawe had absolutely no idea why, but whenever the Big Man came on the line, a ripple of excitement shot right through him. The unerring instinct of Admiral Morgan for real trouble was infectious. And so far as the young Lt. Commander could remember, the Admiral had never been wrong.

  And another thing. What was it with this Marseille bullshit? He’d never even thought about the place for years on end. And now he’d heard it big time, twice, in twenty-four hours. The bloody frogs are up to something, he surmised. The ol’ Admiral doesn’t come in with requests unless something’s afoot.

  But the trouble with France was, he couldn’t really read the language. What he needed was an English-speaking newspaper that might carry the story. He keyed into the Internet and whistled up the foreign pages of the London Daily Telegraph.

  Result: one big fat zero. Not a bloody line about a mass murder. Bloody oath, they’re getting slack over there.

  James Ramshawe was born in America, but both his parents were Australian, and he still spoke with the pronounced accent of New South Wales. His fiancée, Jane Peacock, was the daughter of the Australian Ambassador in Washington. Both of them loved to have a go at the Brits for being incompetent and inept. And an unreported mass murder in the next-door country would do Jimmy fine for a few hours.

  Bloody pom journalists. Wouldn’t know a truly significant story if it bit ’em in the ass.

  He actually knew that was not true. But it amused him to say it, even under his breath. Anyway, beaten by the system, he sent for a translator and keyed his Internet connection into the news pages of Le Figaro, last week in August.

  The big French national daily was better than the Telegraph, but not by much. It reported a serious shoot-out at L’Union restaurant in Marseille, a French city historically known for its connection to crime, drugs, smuggling, and other nefarious activities. The newspaper claimed that fifteen people had been admitted to hospital and some of them had been released that night. It also believed that there were only TWO fatalities (Jimmy’s caps in his report) when it was clear there were more. Because they named the dead waiters, but not the Mossad agents.

  The whole drift of the story was an inter-gang battle involving drugs—professional villains—killing each other. It was of no significant interest to ordinary citizens. And the innocent bystanders caught in the cross fire? They would receive generous compensation from the restaurant’s insurance company.

  The headline in Le Figaro was over just one column, on page seven. It read: GANGLAND KILLING IN MARSEILLE; DINERS AT L’UNION RESTAURANT WOUNDED IN CROSS FIRE.

  There was no follow-up on any of the next five days.

  “Well, I guess that’s the bloody end of that,” said Ramshawe.

  Well, nearly. Because the young intelligence officer, who enjoyed the ear of the mighty, had received this story from the mightiest of all, Admiral Morgan himself. And the great man does not go real strong on half-measures, Ramshawe thought. He called me because he wants some bloody answers. And he want
s ’em quick, like by dinnertime tonight. That’s why we’re going to his house, right?

  He immediately told his interpreter, a twenty-three-year-old civilian graduate named Jo, to get on the line to directory inquiries in France and get the number of L’Union restaurant in Marseille. He then told her to make the call and to put it on the speakerphone in the middle of his desk.

  He listened with interest as the phone rang on the faraway south coast of France and was answered on the fourth ring.

  “Préfecture de police, Marseille.”

  “Tell ’em you want the restaurant, not the bloody gendarmes,” hissed Ramshawe.

  Jo struggled boldly, but was told firmly, “The restaurant is closed. We have no information about its re-opening.”

  “Tell ’em you don’t understand why a closed restaurant has its phone calls automatically diverted to the police station,” hissed Ramshawe.