by A. M. Murray
“Is the victim male or female?” Slade’s lungs stopped functioning. Vivid images of Isa lying dead, this time on a platform of a French railway station, flashed through his mind.
“I don’t know. The office asked the Nice police department to send me a photo of the body. It’s coming in now.” Fontaine started the download. “Jeez, it’s slow. I need to upgrade my phone,” he said, drumming his fingers on the table.
When the download was complete, he looked up. “Well, my colleagues made the right call. It’s connected to our case.” He showed the cell phone’s screen to Slade and Roche.
“Tony Hewitt is a US citizen?” Slade stared at the screen, his breathing returning to normal. “That’s unexpected. I assumed he was British. Where’s the body now?”
“Still on the platform. The local police haven’t moved it. They’ll have done their crime-scene forensics, but don’t want to antagonize the US authorities, so they’ll let us see it in situ. They won’t hand over jurisdiction, but will keep us in the loop to avoid diplomatic fallout,” Fontaine replied. “My car’s parked over there in the Avenue de Monte Carlo. We can reach Nice station in less than thirty minutes.”
They left money on the table before the waiter returned with their order and ran to Fontaine’s late-model Renault coupe. They jumped in, and Fontaine revved the engine, hooked a screeching U-turn, and took off, rear tires laying rubber in a power drift that shot them down the hill.
Twenty minutes and several sliding curves and mounted curbs later, they shrieked to a stop in the parking area of Nice’s historic Louis-XIII-style station building. Slade and Roche stared at each other and shook their heads, relieved at arriving unscathed.
“One hell of a drive, Ben.” Slade brushed away a late-season mosquito as he walked through the passenger hall, taking note of the historical decorative balconies. He’d have to come back another time for a closer look.
A local police officer directed them to the far end of the platform, where disembarking stragglers had discovered the body soon after the train from Monaco arrived. They ducked under the tape cordoning off the crime scene and entered an area enclosed by a blue plastic sheet to conceal the gruesome sight.
Hewitt’s face was covered in congealed blood from a deep gash, in all probability the result of falling after the attack. His eyes stared upward; the eyelids looked bluish and the lenses opaque. His mouth gaped open in what might have been surprise at seeing his killer. A single bullet hole had penetrated his crisp white shirt just below the left pocket over his heart. The shot had been fired at close range.
“The Nice Police Department’s ME has ballparked the time of death at no more than five hours ago. That’s when the train arrived at seven twenty-two, so it’s a pretty safe estimate. The hit must have gone down just after he got off and walked along the platform to the exit,” Fontaine said. “No one came forward to report witnessing the incident or even hearing a shot.”
“I’m only guessing at this stage, but from the entry wound, I estimate the bullet diameter to be in the seven-to-eight-millimeter range,” Slade said. “The killer might have used a Chinese Type 67 pistol, which has a built-in silencer, or perhaps a Russian OTs-38 silent revolver. The quiet sound of their shots could be covered by the noise of passengers talking and wheeling luggage along the platform.”
“The police searched the area but didn’t find a bullet casing. The killer took meticulous care to avoid leaving a trace,” Fontaine said.
“The hallmark of a professional hit,” Slade said. “The assassin knew what he was doing, similar to the three kills in Tokyo.”
“I’ll ask our tech guys in Marseille to see if they can run Hewitt’s and Carol Palmer’s phone records and see who they talked to within the last twenty-four hours. The killer obviously knew his travel arrangements.” He pulled out his phone.
“Ask them to run Isa’s too,” Slade said. “A presumption of not guilty does not mean innocence given the circumstances. They traveled on the same train to Paris via Nice after all.”
He knew that he wanted to spend more time with Isa, much more time. The slippery concept of settling down now seemed to have made a hairline crack in his personal agenda. He hoped her phone records would erase any lingering doubts he held about her.
Fontaine and Roche talked with the local detective in charge, Inspecteur Détective Dubois. There were no bags with the body, but Dubois did not discount the theory of a secondary crime by an opportunistic petty thief. Slade thought that unlikely, though, since the police had found Hewitt’s passport and wallet containing money and credit cards in a pocket of his jacket.
“He carried a briefcase and a small overnight bag when I tailed him from the hotel this morning, and he still carried them when he boarded the train at Monte Carlo,” Fontaine said. “If his killer has the bags, they must contain something he or she wanted to get hold of.”
“Or didn’t want found,” Slade said. “The station must have security cameras installed, including this platform if we’re lucky. Call in a favor with the local CID and ask the detectives to collect the tapes and copy the frames where they see anyone, male or female, leaving this platform and the main exit with a briefcase and a small overnight travel bag. And include anyone who walked onto the platform used by trains departing for Paris at that time as well. Several people could be involved, and they might also be carrying their own luggage. Have them send us an edited file of relevant frames when it’s done. We should get useful photint out of that.”
“We may get photo intelligence, but at that time of day you’ll be looking at an army of people carrying bags and heading to work in Nice or traveling in the direction of Paris, non?” Roche said. “It’s a big ask. Do they owe you any equivalent favors?”
“The alternative is for us to requisition the tapes and do it ourselves at our Marseille office. I’m sure they’ll help us look for useful leads, no matter how tiresome, just to keep our hands off the primary evidence,” Fontaine said.
“We’re looking for people carrying a briefcase and a small overnight bag,” Slade said. “That’s reasonably specific. Do you remember what Hewitt’s bags looked like? Were there any remarkable features?” he asked Fontaine.
“I’d recognize them if I saw them again, but I can’t give you a definitive description of shape and size. But I remember a standard black leather briefcase and a typical black overnight bag, both with red trim on the handle and sides.”
Inspecteur Détective Dubois glanced up at the ceiling and tapped his right foot in silence when Fontaine delivered their request for a detailed review of the tapes. He took off his glasses, went through the motion of polishing them on his jacket sleeve, and put them back on again. But true to Fontaine’s prediction, he agreed and promised to send a video file with frames of potential interest to Fontaine’s computer by late afternoon.
“There’s not much we can do here now,” Fontaine said. “Let’s head back to Monte Carlo. We have a poker game to watch this evening.”
“First things first,” Slade said. “There’s a snack bar over there. I want to pick up a triple-shot cappuccino to go. I need to brace for the journey back with you at the wheel, Ben. It’s not Starbucks, but it will do.”
Roche laughed. “In France, even a station snack bar serves better coffee than an American coffee chain.”
“I’ll leave you two to argue while I bring my chariot from the car park. A double-shot espresso for me, please.”
Slade and Roche flinched at the screech of rubber on asphalt when Fontaine’s car screamed to a lightning stop at right angles to the curb in front of them at the station’s exit.
“Easy.” Slade slid into the front passenger seat. “I want to live long enough to solve this bizarre string of crimes.”
“Just yanking your chain.” Fontaine laughed and tore the car away from the curb, leaving a cloud of dust and exhaust in its wake. Thankfully, Slade thought, the drive back from Nice to their Monte Carlo hotel should be more sedate than the outbound trip.
Fontaine rolled back the convertible’s retractable roof, and Slade felt the sun on his face as they returned at moderate speed, the wind catching their hair and blowing it into shapes that mimicked their billowing jacket sleeves.
CHAPTER 27
(Sunday Afternoon— Monte Carlo)
They booted up their laptops in Slade’s hotel room—Slade and Fontaine caught up with emails while Roche put on his gray cyber-hat and checked the crew lists of the Xiandao when it left Yingkou Port and again when it left Marseille. He also checked recent arrivals and scheduled departures via Nice and Marseille airports of Chinese nationals whose journey originated from Shenyang Taoxian International Airport.
“No disparities in the crew lists,” Roche said. “Everyone who embarked in Yingkou disembarked in Marseille, and all are back on board for the return to Yingkou according to Chinese and French immigration records. There were no registered passengers. It looks like they transferred money but not personnel from the Xiandao to the Chevalier.” He looked up at Slade before continuing.
“Four Chinese nationals, whose journeys originated from Shenyang Taoxian International Airport, arrived at Marseille airport on September 20 on a morning flight, the same day as the Chevalier sailed into Marseille from Monte Carlo. Richard Palmer took an evening flight from Marseille to London on September 20, giving him enough time to meet the Chinese in their hotel or on his yacht. The four Chinese men checked out of their Marseille hotel early on September 21 and left no record of where they went, but the Chevalier left Marseille at eleven in the morning on September 21.”
“It’s a pretty safe bet the four Chinese spent the next thirty hours on board the Chevalier with their high-class escorts cruising off the coast before arriving at Monte Carlo,” Slade said. “We saw four Chinese men leave the vessel with the women here in the afternoon of September 22.”
Roche looked back at his computer. “They’re scheduled to fly from Nice Airport to Shenyang September 24—tomorrow. It all seems to fit with what we know.”
Slade nodded. “Good work. If this is part of a recurring pattern from twelve months ago, it shows a well-established operation.”
“I checked that already. The same men repeated this sequence of activities every two months over the past year. The Chinese appear to be top-level military and industry personnel, which confirms the information Ben found on the Chevalier,” Roche added.
Roche lapsed into silence while he continued his research, and Fontaine spread out on the sofa while they waited for the security camera frames to arrive.
“Dan, I’ve tracked the phones that Palmer, Hewitt, and Isa used and ran them for recent calls as you requested,” Roche said. “Yesterday, Hewitt called a number registered to Aculeus in Washington. He also called Richard Palmer at BFI. Both calls lasted less than two minutes.”
“What about Mrs. Palmer?” asked Slade.
“She also called an Aculeus number yesterday. Both Hewitt and Mrs. Palmer received calls back from that same Aculeus number later that day.”
“And Isa?”
“She sent two text messages last night, one to a phone I’ve traced back to Ono the fashion designer and the other to a burner phone in Washington. No incoming calls.”
“What did Isa’s text messages say?” asked Slade.
“The same message to both phones. Arrive London late tomorrow night.”
“So nothing incriminating.”
Forty minutes later, Fontaine said, “The station video frames are in. Let’s plug into a flatscreen in the hotel’s conference room. We can spread out and get a better look.”
They hooked up Fontaine’s computer to a screen in the business center and watched the first file with frames showing people leaving the platform immediately after Isa and Hewitt’s train from Monaco pulled into Nice Station at seven twenty-two.
“There’s Isa, struggling with her luggage,” Slade said. “Those look like the same bags she left with. Can you see either of Hewitt’s bags among them, Ben?”
“No. Her bags are steel-blue, not black. She’s in one of the first frames, so she must have gotten off at the front of the train close to the exit of the platform. Hewitt took the bullet when she was passing the security camera.”
After they watched several more frames and found nothing of interest, Slade said, “Wait. Go back and re-run that last frame.” He stood closer to the screen. “Look at that guy with the flattop. He looks just like the heavy-handed security contractor jerks who work for Aculeus. From my experience, they’re a bunch of ultra-right-wing activists and extremists without a conscience. His looks fit the stereotype. Do you recognize the overnight bag in his hand? It looks like black leather with red trim.”
Fontaine paused the frame and looked at it up close. “It could be Hewitt’s bag. But where’s the briefcase?”
“If this turns out to be an Aculeus hit, there could be two or more men involved,” Slade said.
Two frames further on, Slade said, “How about this dude with the black briefcase? It’s got red trim, and he looks like another Aculeus jarhead.”
“He’s not French,” Roche said. “He just shoved that woman in front of him, practically knocking her over. I swear he said, Get out of my way, bitch.”
“Let’s see it again, and Ben, check the briefcase,” Slade said.
“It looks like Hewitt’s. Black with red trim. And the size is about right.” Fontaine peered at the screen. “And he definitely said, Get out of my way, bitch.”
“Look who’s in the next frame.” Slade jumped up. “Rerun that frame.” He pulled up a photo on his cell phone and examined it. “One and the same. It’s Tomofumi Sakata, the assassin-for-hire from Tokyo. Makino said he traveled to France and he’s here in Nice.” Slade showed the photo on his cell phone to Fontaine and Roche. “Makino sent me this file photo yesterday. He’s a bit older and heavier now, but it’s him for sure.”
Fontaine looked again at the still frame on the hotel’s screen. “You can see Jarhead’s elbow here. He’s the only one I’ve seen wearing a black-and-white striped shirt. It looks like Sakata and Jarhead were together.”
“Why would Sakata wear such a thick coat? It’s not a cold day. Most people are in shirtsleeves or a light jacket at most,” Roche said.
“If Dan’s right and Sakata used a Chinese Type 67 pistol, it would be difficult to conceal it in a jacket pocket or the waist of his trousers,” Fontaine said. “It’s light but has an awkward shape with its long barrel. It wouldn’t be conspicuous beneath a coat like that. Given the location, the kill must have gone down fast, and there wouldn’t have been time to conceal the weapon properly. The coat solved that problem until they moved a safe distance away.”
“If my gut feeling is correct, we have two Aculeus operatives working with a known Japanese assassin,” Slade said. “The Aculeus operatives could have been in Monte Carlo monitoring Palmer and Hewitt. Someone instructed them to eliminate Hewitt, and they followed him onto the train, calling in Sakata, who waited on the platform in Nice for the hit. The Aculeus goons would have followed their usual protocol and closed in on Hewitt from both sides, and Sakata walked from the opposite direction and shot him front on.”
Slade watched the remaining frames from the arrival platform flash across the screen. “No sign of Hewitt or the hit. The security camera doesn’t seem to cover the far end of the platform.”
Despite the warmth of the day, Slade shivered when he reflected on how the shooting went down. These men in the video frames were cold operatives, orchestrating a kill in broad daylight while they walked along a platform shared with scores of other commuters.
They’d executed Hewitt with indifference. At best, they may have believed his elimination to be necessary for national security, but it was their insouciance that Slade found chilling.
CHAPTER 28
(Sunday Afternoon— Monte Carlo)
“The good people of Nice had no idea they were sharing air and space with three lethal individuals,” Fontaine
said. “I’ll enlarge clear headshots of Flattop and Jarhead and send them to Marseille. My colleagues can run them against FBI and other law enforcement ID files to see if there’s a match.” He fiddled with his computer for a few minutes and made a quick call. “Okay. It’s done. Marseille is on it.”
Fontaine opened the next video file and said, “Let’s look at the frames from the platform of the seven thirty-one train bound for Paris and see what they’ve captured.”
“There’s Isa with her luggage again. She’s headed down the platform to the front carriage area,” Slade said.
A few frames on, they saw Jarhead and Flathead walk onto the platform together, still carrying the bags. They watched until the last frame, but Sakata did not appear.
Fontaine opened the third file of frames from the station’s exit. “There he goes, leaving the station. He might still be in Nice. There’s a small Japanese yakuza element in Nice, dealing in prostitution and drugs. They’d give him support. He might have got hold of the Type 67 from them or the local Chinese mafia.”
“I’d like to know what those thugs did with the bags when they reached Paris and what’s inside them,” Slade said.
Fontaine called Inspecteur Détective Dubois to request his Paris colleagues send relevant security tapes from the Gare de Lyon, the terminal of the Nice-to-Paris line, for a twenty-minute period after the inbound train from Nice arrived at thirteen-eleven.
“I’ll send you surveillance images of three persons of interest: two men and a woman. If your Paris guys find any images of these people, I want those frames sent to me as soon as possible.” He took the cell phone from his ear to end the call when he remembered to pass on information about Sakata. “One more thing. Tokyo CIB requested the Paris police authorities find and detain a Japanese criminal called Tomofumi Sakata. He’s a suspect in three murders in Tokyo. He’s in Nice in your jurisdiction, and we think he killed Hewitt with help from the American thugs we’re following. You’ll probably find him wherever Japanese or Chinese mafia hang out. I’ll send you his photo now as well.”