But again, Jo encountered a brick wall: “I have no information on that,” replied the Marseille gendarme.
“Pull rank,” said Ramshawe. “Tell ’em who we are. And then tell ’em we want to know precisely how many people were killed in the mass murder at L’Union because we believe at least one of them may have been a United States citizen.”
Jo went right ahead, beginning, “Sir, this is the Director’s office in the National Securty Agency of the United States of America in Washington. You may call back to verify if you wish. But we want some answers, and if necessary we will go to presidential level to get them. Please bring someone of senior authority to the telephone.”
“Un moment, s’il vous plaît.”
“Beautiful, Jo. That’s my girl.” Lt. Commander Ramshawe grinned. And in the background they both heard a voice say,
“Sécurité Americaine.”
And then a new voice came on, speaking excellent English. “This is Chief Inspector Rochelle. How may I assist?”
Ramshawe took over. “Thank you for coming to the phone, Chief Inspector. My name is Lt. Cdr. James Ramshawe and I’m the assistant to the Director of the National Security Agency in Washington. I thought I was calling L’Union restaurant, but we came straight through to you. I would like to know exactly how many people died in that shooting in the restaurant two months ago. We have reason to believe one of them was an American citizen.”
“Non, monsieur. That is not the case. There were two members of staff, one of them the headwaiter, both French, killed instantly. And then two more staff members died in hospital. They also were French, and both known to me. No member of the public injured in the shooting died later in the hospital. That’s four people dead altogether, all French. The whole thing was drug related.”
“I see,” said Ramshawe. “And what about the men who came into the restaurant and carried out the shooting. Were they arrested?”
“Unfortunately not, sir. They all got away. Three of them. And our inquiries have led us to a drug gang in Algiers, where we are continuing the search. The perpetrators of the crime are known to us. And have been for several years. But these people are very elusive.”
“Are you absolutely certain that no one else except members of staff were killed?” asked Ramshawe.
“Absolument,” replied the Chief Inspector. “You see, only the staff were standing up. Everyone else was sitting down. The bullets hit the waiters.”
“Do you think the Algerians got their man?” said Ramshawe.
“I think so. One of the waiters was very suspect to us. But I am not at liberty to name him, for obvious reasons. However, we think the assassins achieved their objective.”
“Very well, Chief Inspector,” said Ramshawe. “Thank you for being so helpful. I will make my report on the basis of the information you have given me.”
He replaced the phone, saying under his breath, “That is one lying French bastard.”
“I’m sorry, sir?” said Jo.
“Oh nothing, really. It’s just that when you get told that a renowned international intelligence agency has just had two of its agents murdered on a certain day, at a certain time, in a certain place, there is an extremely high likelihood of that being true. When a French policeman then tells you it never happened, there is an extremely high probability of that being a fair dinkum whopper.”
Jo laughed. “Well, the first man we spoke to was obviously in a defensive mode. But the Chief Inspector seemed relatively forthcoming.”
“No doubt,” replied Ramshawe. “But he was still telling a flagrant lie.”
And then he said, “Jo, I’ve got a plan. You go and rustle up a couple of cups of coffee, and we’ll see if we can get one of Langley’s finest around to that restaurant.”
Four minutes later he was outlining the story to the European desk of the CIA, who had a good man in Marseille. In fact they had two, both in residence. Sure, they’d get right on it, especially if the Big Man was interested. They’d do some snooping, see if anyone knew anything, maybe someone who was working on the refurbishing of L’Union.
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 4:00 P.M. (LOCAL)
RUE DE LA LOGE
MARSEILLE
Tom Kelly, a Philadelphia-born newspaper reporter, was twenty-nine years old and preparing to marry a Bryn Mawr history teacher when he fell in love, helplessly, with one of her French students. She was Marie Le Clerc, aged twenty-one, from Marseille.
Kelly bagged his job, bagged the history teacher, and followed Marie home to France. There he married her, found himself a job as news editor on a local paper, and moved to head up the political desk of Le Figaro in Paris. From there he drifted into a close relationship with two CIA agents, mostly because he was a fountain of knowledge about politics in the capital city.
At which point the CIA requested he come to Washington, where he was cleared for security and then stationed back in Marseille with a very useful freelance contract from the Washington Post. Kelly was thirty-six now, and he and Marie had two children and lived close to her parents, in the western suburbs of the city.
Right now he was making his way along Rue de la Loge toward L’Union. He could see it about fifty yards ahead. There was a white truck outside, and two ladders were jutting out through the wide open front door of the restaurant. Men at work, he thought.
When he reached the entrance, he turned left, up the steps and into the main foyer. There was a strong smell of paint and a deafening screeching sound from the main dining room, where two men were “sanding” the oak floor. Up above him were two painters, on scaffolding, working on a beam, which he did not know had recently been decorated with a long line of bullets from an AK-47.
No one took a blind bit of notice as he strolled across the room inspecting the refurbishments. He did not look so far removed from being one of the workers. He wore dark blue trousers, a matching wool sweater, and a light brown leather jacket.
Eventually someone noticed him and came over, inquiring if he could help. Rene was his name, an electrician by trade.
Kelly’s French was excellent, and he came straight to the point, identified himself, and told Rene that he was trying to find out how many people had been killed that August night, since his government believed one of them may have been an American citizen.
There seemed to be no one around in any authority, and Rene was glad of the break and happy to help. “I don’t really know myself.” He shrugged. “But Anton, up the ladder with the paint-brush, he may know. His brother was a friend of the waiter who died in hospital…let me call him down.”
Anton descended from the ceiling by way of the scaffolding, and shook hands with Kelly. “There were six people died in here that night, including the two guys who came in with the Kalashnikovs. One was shot and one had his throat cut.”
“Anton, how do you know that?”
“Because we all went to the funeral of Mario, and another guy who worked here saw the whole thing and he told us at the reception. He said the two guys who came in with the guns were both killed—he thought by the men they had come to assassinate. He said they weren’t just crazies. They were professionals who had come to kill someone specific.”
“And Mario was still alive when he they carried him out?” asked Kelly.
“Yes. Unconscious but still alive. But the guy at the funeral said there were six bodies carried out. He remembered because only four of them went in an ambulance. He said the other two were taken away in a police van.”
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1300 (LOCAL)
NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY
Tom Kelly’s report came in from the CIA’s European desk immediately after lunch. It confirmed what had been obvious to Lt. Commander Ramshawe from the start. There were not four people killed at L’Union. There were six. The French police had gone in and cleared out the bodies of the two Mossad agents and were saying nothing about it to anyone.
And, if they knew, they were most certainly saying nothing about the man the a
gents had come to kill. Admiral Morgan’s man had been sure those two assassins had come for Major Kerman.
And if, thought Ramshawe, it was straightforward, why hadn’t the French authorities simply admitted there had been an attempt on the life of the ex-British SAS Major, which had failed, and somehow Major Kerman had made his escape?
Only one answer to that, was Ramshawe’s opinion. The bloody French knew darned well the Major was in that restaurant, and probably at their invitation, since they had taken very large steps to hush the whole thing up.
So why did France arrange a secret meeting with the most wanted terrorist in the world? That was a question to which there would be no answer. The French were not admitting Kerman was in the country, not admitting someone had tried to kill him, and very definitely not admitting he had more than likely killed one of the assassins.
This was, the Lt. Commander knew, the end of the line. The French were saying nothing. The two Mossad men were dead. And no one knew where Kerman was. Or the men he was having dinner with at L’Union restaurant. To pursue the matter further would be a monumental waste of time, especially since the Mossad would not wish to publicize the death of its agents.
Nonetheless, Ramshawe logged all of the information onto his private computer files and downloaded a copy of the CIA report to show Admiral Morgan at dinner that night.
SAME DAY, 7:30 P.M.
CHEVY CHASE, MARYLAND
Lt. Commander Ramshawe and Jane Peacock were in luck tonight. Admiral Morgan was a friend of both their fathers, and he elected to push the boat out one more time with a couple more bottles of Comtesse Nicholais’s Corton-Bressandes. Ramshawe’s eyes lit up at the sight of the bottles warming gently by the log fire in the study.
He helped the Admiral barbecue the steaks, mostly by holding an umbrella over him in the chill late-November rain, then moving in to receive the steaks with the wide platter Kathy had kept in the warming oven.
The four of them knew one another well. Jane, who looked like a surf goddess right off Bondi Beach, loved to go shopping with Kathy in Georgetown because the Admiral’s wife kept her on the straight and narrow fashion-wise, helping her choose items she knew would please Ambassador Peacock, dispenser of the allowance, financer of the ruinous college fees she annually required.
Don’t be ridiculous, Jane, your father would have a fit if he saw you in that.
Kathy hated having live-in help and preferred to manage her own kitchen, and after dinner she and Jane tackled the clearing-up while the Admiral and Jimmy retired to the study.
They sat in front of the fire, and Arnold Morgan came swiftly to the point. “Okay, Jimmy, tell me what you found about the murders at L’Union restaurant.”
“All calls to the restaurant are routed directly to the Marseille central gendarmerie. When you call, a policeman answers the phone. And when he does you are told nothing. No one knows anything. There’s a Chief Inspector Rochelle who seems helpful, but is lying. He says there were four deaths that night. All French, all staff. Two died in the restaurant, the other two in hospital. There were not four deaths. There were six.”
“How’d you find out?” asked Morgan.
“Well, I spoke to the Marseille cop myself. Then I had Langley put one of their guys on it in the city. And he did a damned thorough job. Got into the restaurant and interviewed one of the workmen painting the place. And the workman had met a member of the staff at the funeral of a waiter. This was a guy who was ducked behind the bar during the shooting. He told the CIA agent there were six dead men altogether. He saw four of them carried out to ambulances, and two others loaded into a police wagon. Anton, that’s the workman, saw the whole scene. He says two guys came in with Kalashnikovs, started shooting, and were then both killed by the guys they had come for. I brought you a copy of the CIA report.”
“Well, that fits in exactly with the story I was told originally,” said Morgan. “And I’m afraid it’s the end of the trail. The French are never going to say anything. And neither the Mossad, nor even the Israeli government, could possibly ask them.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Ramshawe in his rich Aussie brogue.
“‘Oh, by the way Monsieurs, we just sent a couple of hit men into a crowded restaurant in the middle of Marseille, and after they’d shot half the staff and half the customers, they ended up dead themselves. Anyone know what happened to ’em?’”
Admiral Morgan chuckled. Young Ramshawe’s keen, swift brain often gave way to a rough-edged Aussie humor. And it always amused him. But right now he was pondering a far, far bigger question.
“The thing is, Jimmy,” he said, “we have to believe the Israelis when they say they located Kerman in France, and certainly the savage response to the Mossad hit men bears all the marks of that particular terrorist. But the main thing for us is to find out what he was doing in France. Who was he seeing and why?
“A guy like Kerman, or General Rashood—whatever the hell he calls himself—must understand the lethal nature of any kind of travel. He could be spotted by anyone. He’s obviously better off skulking around the goddamned casbah or somewhere in the desert. But he made this journey. Apparently in an otherwise empty Air France passenger jet. A damned great Airbus all on his own. Someone at a very high level in France wanted to see him quite badly. And they are never going to admit it. Any inquiry from us would be like talking to the Eiffel Tower. We’ll get nothing. And quite honestly, Jimmy, I think it’s just a waste of time to pursue this further. Let’s just file it, and watch out for the slightest sign of further developments.”
“Guess we can’t do much else, sir. But Christ, wouldn’t you just love to know where that bastard is right now?”
“I dearly would, Jimmy. But I’d guess he’s not in France anymore. Not after that uproar in Marseille.”
At that precise moment, 11 P.M. on the night of November 20, Admiral Morgan was entirely correct. Less than three months later he would be wrong.
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 2010, 2300
10,000 FEET ABOVE THE SHORE
SOUTHERN FRANCE
Gen. Ravi Rashood was in company with eight of his most trusted Hamas henchmen, three of them known al-Qaeda combat troops, plus three former Saudi Army officers. They were just crossing the Mediterranean coastline in a AS-532 Cougar Mk I French Army helicopter, a high performance heavily-gunned aircraft that had just made the 380-mile ocean crossing from Algeria.
The big Cougar had taken off from a remote corner of the small regional airport of Tebessa, which sits at the eastern end of the Atlas Mountains, where the high peaks begin to smooth their way down to the plains of Tunisia.
General Rashood and his team had made a deeply covert journey that day, from Damascus, in a private air charter flight, unmarked by any livery, straight along the north African coast to Tripoli. And there the Cougar Mk I had met them and flown the 250 miles to their first refueling point, at Tebessa.
Right now they were coming into Aubagne, the Foreign Legion base where the General had been six months before, on the day of the shootout at L’Union. Tonight, however, no one would disembark. The helicopter was immediately refueled for the flight north to Paris.
Under cover of darkness they would land at around 0300 at the French military’s Special Ops base in Taverny, north of Paris. This would be their home for the next two weeks.
At this point, all of the Arabian freedom fighters accompanying the General were in Western civilian clothes, mostly blue jeans, T-shirts, and sweaters. But it was an intensely military journey. All of the men had maps and they were all studying the same thing, the huge King Khalid Air Base, beyond the Saudi Arabian military city of Khamis Mushayt.
The helicopter made a wide circular sweep around the west of Paris, crossing the Seine, and heading in to land across the foggy fields above the Oise Valley. They grabbed their bags the moment the helicopter touched down, and were shown immediately to a barracks not one hundred yards from where the Cougar had landed.
It was 0245,
and Gen. Michel Jobert, the Commander in Chief of the entire base, was there in person. He smiled as he shook hands with General Rashood, to whom, in a sense, he may already have owed his life. They had not seen each other for six months.
They boarded an Army staff car and drove to the French commandant’s residence, where the Hamas C-in-C would live during this period of intense training. In the morning they would meet for the first time the forty-eight highly trained combat troops of the First Marine Parachute Infantry Regiment, with whom they would fight in the forthcoming battle for the airfield at Khamis Mushayt.
Rashood and Michel Jobert sat before a log fire sipping a warming café complet, the thick dark French coffee with a dash of cognac. Each of them was amazed at the way the French government and indeed the police had kept the lid on the murders at the L’Union. And each of them understood only too clearly the dangers of General Rashood’s traveling beyond the Arab world.
Hunter Killer (2005) Page 11