There had been no update for eight hours. Mack Bedford was delighted. Norman Dixon would have fired someone. All Mack could do was to thank his lucky stars that nothing had happened. He fell only slightly short of actively congratulating himself when the newscaster mentioned that police had appealed publicly for any information leading to the arrest of the alleged Gunther Marc Roche, the bearded Swiss boat thief, who remained their number-one suspect.
Throughout the night they had been inundated with phone calls and emails from members of the public who had definitely seen the man, from Paris to Cherbourg, on to Saint-Nazaire and all stations in between. They’d seen him driving, walking, running, robbing, hiding, kidnapping and fighting, in places as diverse as seedy late-night bars to the crypt of a cathedral, from the main street of Rennes to a poledancing club in Paris.
“No wonder I’m still tired,” said Mack to the empty room. He switched off the television and opened the door to his room. There on the corridor carpet was today’s Le Monde, Étienne’s headline blazed across the width of the front page:
HENRI FOCHE SLAIN BY ASSASSIN’S BULLETS.
“That was a hell of a rifle,” he muttered. “Pity I had to leave it at the bottom of the goddamned harbor.”
He shaved and dressed, and decided to find some breakfast at the airport, which the hotel guidebook told him was out at Merignac, seven miles west of the city, thirty euros away.
He handed back his key, checked there was no further money owing on his bill, and asked the doorman to call him a taxi. It arrived almost immediately, and Patrick Sean O’Grady of Herbert Park Road, Dublin, climbed aboard.
The city was busy in the morning rush hour, and it took a half hour. Life was not much quicker at the ticket desk, either. They did run a direct flight to Dublin but not until noon, which was neatly in time for Mack to miss the only two daytime flights Aer Lingus ran from Ireland to Boston.
Not having any choice, he purchased a first-class ticket in cash from Bordeaux to Dublin. He showed the girl his passport, and she replied, “Thank you, Mr. O’Grady. Enjoy the flight.”
Then he wandered off to the restaurant and ordered an omelet with toast and coffee, his first hot meal since the night before last, the grilled fish in the workmen’s cafe near the shipyard.
On the arrivals board he had noticed an aircraft was in from London at 10:00 am and he wondered if it had brought the morning newspapers to France. For some reason there were no English publications in the rack at the airport store, but there was a copy of USA Today, the entire front page of which was dedicated to the assassination of Henri Foche. In a black box in the center of the page was a short list of French airports in the Northwest where long delays could be expected while police searched for the killer – Rennes, Saint-Malo, Quimper, Lorient, Caen, Cherbourg, Nantes, Saint-Nazaire, Tours, Le Mans, Rouen and Paris.
Inside the newspaper, on page four, crushed by the events at Saint-Nazaire, was a story on which most US publications would normally have splashed –
SIX MORE US SPECIAL FORCES BURNED ALIVE BY DIAMONDHEAD MISSILE
UNITED STATES DEMANDS ANSWERS FROM FRENCH GOVERNMENT
Mack Bedford was horrified. The attack from some lunatic group of insurgents had been launched from the wreckage of an apartment block in the northern suburbs of Baghdad. Of the six men who died, four of them had been SEALs, guys he almost certainly knew. SEAL Team 10, Coronado.
The missile had blasted out of a downstairs window, crashed straight through the fuselage of the tank, and incinerated all the occupants. If that thing hit, no one had a chance, and its heat-seeking guidance system was so powerful, the bastard never missed. At least that was how it seemed to Mack.
There was a statement from the United Nations Security Council expressing its “intense displeasure,” deploring the use of the missile, and issuing formal reprimands to both the Islamic Republic of Iran and to all Shiite Muslim militia leaders in the Middle East.
“As if anyone gives a shit,” murmured Mack. “There’s only one effective way to deal with these fucking savages, and that’s well documented in the navy’s record of my court martial.”
The fury of the US military was barely contained in a statement from General Thomas, the US C-in-C on the ground in Iraq, who was quoted as declaring, “This illegal killing has gone far enough. It is beyond our understanding why no one, and I repeat no one, seems capable of tracing this missile to its source, the factory that makes it, and stopping the production.
“We’re getting reports that six of them have just been fired at US forces in Afghanistan, fortunately on armored personnel carriers that turned out to be empty. We have Intel on possible Diamondhead stockpiles in Iran, and it is the opinion of both myself and my senior commanders that we should take them out with an air strike and the hell with the consequences.”
The final words of the American C-in-C were the words of a very angry soldier. “Everyone knows the damned things are made in France. Checking the explosive and chemical is nothing less than elementary. The Diamondhead is as French as the Eiffel Tower, and it’s time someone was forced to admit it. France is, I believe, a founding member of the UN Security Council.”
“Hey,” breathed Mack, “they finally managed to make old Ben Thomas good and mad. And that means the president will pay attention. They were at West Point together.”
It was still another hour before the flight to Dublin was due to be called, and Mack whiled away the time in deep thought. Inevitably, he found it impossible to cast aside the vivid image of the burning tanks on the bank of the Euphrates. But another more urgent issue was muscling its way into his mind – how and when to contact Anne and Tommy.
He had vowed to himself that he would never use Harry’s magic astronaut cell phone unless it was a matter of his own life and death. There would be no footprint left, anywhere in France, to prove Mackenzie Bedford had ever left the shores of the United States. He knew the phone was as secure as modern aerospace science could make it. But he also knew there is no such thing as 100 per cent security for anything, anywhere, anytime. Jesus, you could put the most highly trained group of US combat troops, armed to the teeth, in a battlefield tank that the record says is impregnable, and a bunch of crazed, illiterate tribesmen, guys dressed in fucking sheets, somehow find a way to wipe everyone out.
The superphone was still the superphone, but would Mack risk leaving even the most fleeting set of footprints right here in France at this stage of the game? Answer: no, he would not. He would call immediately after he arrived in Boston, not before. So he just sat in the restaurant, sipping a second cup of coffee and fighting back the obdurate truth that he had no idea whether his little boy was alive or dead.
But he couldn’t be dead; the greatest surgeon in the world wouldn’t let him be dead. No, Tommy was alive – he had to be alive. They’d go fishing together very soon. “Hang in there, kid. I’m nearly there.”
* * *
Senator Rossow was in his office in the Capitol when the telephone rang from Paris. “Monsieur Jules Barnier on the phone,” called his assistant.
The senator picked up the phone, and said in his naturally rather sophisticated manner, “Good morning, Jules. Do I have the pleasure of speaking to the next president of France?”
The full impact of murder, assassination, shock, and sorrow had not hit Washington, D.C., as it had France, essentially because citizens of the USA are inclined to think France is just another country full of goddamned uncooperative foreigners.
Jules Barnier was startled at Stanford Rossow’s somewhat flippant attitude to a crime that had stunned his nation. But the two men had been friends for many years, and the ex-Lazards Bank chief understood that many powerful Americans lack just a little savoir faire in certain matters, particularly of the heart.
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 US 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 chateaus 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 10,000 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 per cent 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 pm 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 pm local time, arriving in Boston a little before 10:00 pm.
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 5,000 euros. Never in his life had Mack Bedford done anything that extravagant, and he quite liked the feeling. So he hopped into a breath-takingly 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 cafe 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 turned 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 act
ions 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.”
Diamondhead Page 44