Diamondhead (27 page)
Authors: Patrick Robinson
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Political, #Thrillers, #Weapons industry, #War & Military, #Assassination, #Iraq War; 2003-
“What was it?”
“He said, ‘Damn, I’d really hoped this wouldn’t start happening yet. Poor kid. He can’t last six months.’”
“Didn’t you say he’d reacted like that before?”
“Yes, a couple of times while you were away. But nothing like so bad as today. Anyway, I asked the doctor if this was as serious as it seemed, and he told me the disease was moving far too fast into his nervous system. He said the trouble was, Tommy was so strong and active and healthy. It seemed to get worse quicker in kids like that. He virtually told me that if we could not get him to this clinic in Switzerland, we would all need to accept that Tommy has a terminal condition.”
Back in Marseille, Raul was convinced he had a real live client for two million U.S. dollars on the hook, ready to be reeled in. He’d already hired a helicopter and dispatched Jean-Pierre and Ramon to take a fast look around Rennes. He’d instructed them to get the lay of the land, check out Foche’s house, check his office, make a few local inquiries. When Morrison called back it was important that FOJ looked professional, as if they knew what they were doing.
Raul had just spoken on the cell phone to Jean-Pierre, who had done productive work. He had been across the street from the Gaullist Party’s political office when Foche arrived. He’d checked out the Mercedes, written down the registration number, photographed both Foche and his two bodyguards, one of whom, the one wearing the brown suede jacket, was the driver. He thought the other one had a gun beneath his leather jacket.
While Jean-Pierre kept watch on the office, Ramon had located the Foche residence. It had taken only a few minutes to get the address, posing as a courier at the local delicatessen. The newspapers had published many times the area in which he lived. And now Ramon was busy with his camera, photographing the house from several angles, back and front. He snapped pictures from doorways, behind trees, from the front yards of other houses. He worked only when the coast was clear.
He waited in the area until Foche returned home, at around seven o’clock, not having noticed Jean-Pierre’s tiny rental car following him back to Anne-Marie’s apartment, where he had remained for around one hour. Ramon photographed him as he got out of the car outside his own home, and he noticed that Marcel did not walk to the front door with him. This pleased the FOJ hit man, pleased him a lot, and he once more considered whether a sniper rifle might be the best weapon to use.
The light was fading now. But in a very few hours, Raul’s men had gathered some important data. There was much more to accomplish before one of them actually pulled the trigger. But there was not much more that could be accomplished this evening.
They checked into the comfortable Hotel des Lices and had dinner there, in readiness for an early start in the rental car right up the street from Foche’s residence, first light. Their brief had been precise: Keep feeding data to the head office until four o’clock that afternoon. Then return to the Marseille base, by train.
Henri Foche arrived at his political headquarters shortly after nine. The campaign staff was already there, trying to finalize slogans for the great Gaullist revival that they anticipated would sweep him to power. Stretched across the far wall of the big workroom was a twenty-foot banner:
HENRI FOCHE—POUR BRETAGNE. POUR LA FRANCE!!
For Brittany. For France. On the laid-out tables were large posters, each one dominated by a photograph of Henri Foche. Beneath each picture there were varying slogans—The Man Who Can Make a Difference; The Politician for Industry; The Politician for Jobs; Foche: The New de Gaulle; The Statesman Who Believes in France.
HENRI FOCHE—POUR BRETAGNE. POUR LA FRANCE!!
For Brittany. For France. On the laid-out tables were large posters, each one dominated by a photograph of Henri Foche. Beneath each picture there were varying slogans—The Man Who Can Make a Difference; The Politician for Industry; The Politician for Jobs; Foche: The New de Gaulle; The Statesman Who Believes in France.
Foche gazed at the creative work with satisfaction. He’d masterminded almost every word himself, but he liked to give credit to his people, especially these people, who were doing it all out of unpaid political enthusiasm, trying to pull it all together in readiness for the national launch in two weeks.
Across the street, Jean-Pierre wondered whether a bomb right in the middle of that room, five minutes after Foche arrived, might be the cleanest and neatest way to accomplish the assassination. He realized it might unnecessarily wipe out a half-dozen other people—but the bomb had several major advantages. The first of these would be to deflect the attention of the police in their hunt for the murderer. A bomb is a much less personal weapon than an assassin’s bullet. After all, it might have been thrown into the room by enemies of the Gaullists, by rabid left-wingers, furious that their grip on power was being eliminated. Also a bomb can be detonated by remote control. A timing device would not work, because no one knew if and when Foche might show up. The assassins would need to be on station and hurl it straight through the window or, alternatively, plant it carefully in the office during the wee hours and then detonate it from across the street as soon as Foche arrived.
Either way, the bomb eliminated the problem of passersby spotting a marksman aiming a bullet at the head of the next president of France. In Jean-Pierre’s opinion, the assassination should be conducted from the open air. Rennes was a busy town, full of tourists, and the police would be on the scene very quickly. But no one would notice a man with a small detonator, pressing a red button and setting off a blast a hundred yards away.
And the six innocent people who would most certainly be killed or maimed when the device blew? Well, that had nothing to do with Jean-Pierre or Ramon, did it? Their task was to kill Henri Foche, pick up four hundred thousand dollars each, and make a clean getaway. A lot to do, right? No time for details.
Raul was delighted with their efforts. They phoned him and talked him through places on the tourist maps of Rennes. They had addresses, phone numbers, locations. They even had the address of Foche’s local mistress, but not her name. If the contract went through, they would carry out a similar recce in the streets of Paris, if Raul could somehow come up with an address for Henri. The media usually referred to his home as “an apartment near avenue Foch, 16th
arrondissement.”
arrondissement.”
Armed with his notebook and maps, Raul awaited the call, the big-money call, and Mack Bedford was right on time. Up in the attic two technicians worked feverishly to trace the cell phone, but, as ever, when Mr. Morrison came on, there was a total electronic blank-out. The trackers screamed, the technicians swore, and still no one knew, within ten thousand miles, from whence Mr. Morrison was calling.
Raul had long accepted the London base Morrison had first mentioned was probably accurate. London, with its new multiculturalism, its insane laws protecting criminals and terrorists, its dishonest, lightweight politicians, its totally out-of-touch police force, and its distinct lack of traditional Britishness was now Europe’s hotbed of international intrigue. The British population had given up caring what happened, and mostly could not be bothered even to vote. The police were totally consumed with traffic offenses, and the left wing of the ruling government was more or less devoted to helping those who commit unforgivable crimes and are usually named Abdul, Mohammed, Mustapha, or Khaled. London sounded right to Raul.
“Hello, Mr. Morrison,” he said. “On time as ever. And I have some interesting stuff to report, assuming you still require our services.”
“You may take that as definite,” replied Mack.
“Very well. I have spent a long time speaking to my colleagues, and we have decided unanimously that, while this project carries unusual dangers, it is not impossible, and my men are confident we can achieve the correct result.”
Mack thought he sounded like a supermarket sales manager about to conduct a survey of the customers in the parking lot.
“We have already made a recce of the city of Rennes where the target lives. He has an accessible house, and is probably vulnerable two or even three times a day. He also has a girlfriend in the town and visited her twice yesterday, both times without his security men, who left in his car and returned to collect him around an hour later.
“The political office is in the central part of the town, on street level, with large windows and a staff of perhaps six people. Right now my men are inclined to favor an explosive device rather than a bullet. If you decide to go ahead, we will recce Paris this week, since the target does have a residence there, in a very public area in the center of the city. Paris would not be our first choice.”
“Thank you, Raul. You have been very active. And you know what they say, ‘Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted.’”
“Yes, I have been sure from the very beginning that you were ex-military, Mr. Morrison.”
“Have you now? But I expect you know I protect my identity with considerable care.”
“I had noticed. Which brings us to the small matter of fifty thousand dollars in payment for our preliminary work. Have you given this some thought?”
“Raul, I’ve done a great deal more than that. The money is in Geneva in U.S. dollars, and will be available for you to collect starting tomorrow morning. I will let you have the lawyer’s name and address within twelve hours. The bank has not yet decided which law firm to use. It’s important the lawyer does not know either party and that the bank does not know you, correct?”
“Absolutely. And now perhaps I should mention that the degree of danger in this project is very high indeed. The target is under the protection of armed bodyguards almost all of the time, although we have not yet ascertained the level of security inside his house. My firm would be ruined if this went wrong, and in light of that we would be looking for three million U.S. dollars in order to complete the work.”
“Guess you’re going to have to look somewhere else, pal,” replied Mack shortly. “I’ve told you from the very start we’d go to two mil, if we had to, but no further. And you said it was firm. I’ll call tomorrow to give you the name of the Swiss lawyer—meantime, sorry it didn’t work out. . . . See ya, Raul.”
“WAIT, WAIT, MORRISON!”
Raul was not actually panicking, but he was doing a very reasonable imitation of someone who was. “These matters are negotiable, and naturally I must try to obtain the best price for the men who are actually running the risks.”
Raul was not actually panicking, but he was doing a very reasonable imitation of someone who was. “These matters are negotiable, and naturally I must try to obtain the best price for the men who are actually running the risks.”
“No problem, Raul. But you’re not getting it from me. We have already spoken to another operation like yours, based in Romania. They’ll do it for one million. I don’t think they have your finesse, but if you want three, then I’ll take a chance on them. They
could
fuck it up, and then get him the second time, and I’d still be better off than I would paying you three million dollars. Sorry, Raul, you just priced yourself out of the market.”
could
fuck it up, and then get him the second time, and I’d still be better off than I would paying you three million dollars. Sorry, Raul, you just priced yourself out of the market.”
“Then perhaps you might allow me to price myself back in. Two million it is. I just thought that for a state-sponsored crime, we should be entitled to more.”
“Raul, you don’t know whether it’s state sponsored or not.”
“I’d be surprised if it wasn’t. The target is an international politician, and in those cases it’s nearly always a government that wants him removed.”
Other books
Highway Don't Care (Freebirds) by Vale, Lani Lynn
New Adult Romance 2-fer by Stone, Ella, Sloan, Eva
Made to Break by D. Foy
Broken Shadows by A.J. Larrieu
Inquisición by Anselm Audley
Voluptuous Vindication by Rose Wynters
The Stone Witch by Benjamin Hulme-Cross, Nelson Evergreen
Los Nefilim Book 4 by T. Frohock
Frigid by J. Lynn
Four Lords of Diamond - Book 1 by Jack L. Chalker
