Authors: Patrick Robinson
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Political, #Thrillers, #Weapons industry, #War & Military, #Assassination, #Iraq War; 2003-
Diamondhead (55 page)
It was seven o’clock, just as Mack Bedford turned onto the north-bound walkway over the gigantic Saint-Nazaire toll bridge, when the French police got their first break. The incoming night attendant at the parking garage noticed the Peugeot. On a normal evening, between five o’clock and six, there was a mass departure of cars owned by shoppers and businesspeople. This usually left the lower level almost bereft of vehicles. And the new man always walked down to see what was still parked. If there was nothing, he cordoned it off with heavy wooden barricades, thus restricting his duties to one single level. Tonight there was just the Peugeot, and he strolled down the line to check it out.
The first thing he noticed, of course, was that it had no plates. So he walked back up to his kiosk and phoned the security line direct to the head office of Français Nationale Parking in Paris. It took him just a few moments to report:
suspicious car, dark blue Peugeot, no registration plates, parked on its own, deep in the underground section, Place des Martyrs de la Resistance, Saint-Nazaire, Brittany.
suspicious car, dark blue Peugeot, no registration plates, parked on its own, deep in the underground section, Place des Martyrs de la Resistance, Saint-Nazaire, Brittany.
The duty officer thanked him and punched the information into the computer link, sending the warning instantly to the antiterrorist desk at the Prefecture de Police on the Quai Marche Neuf on the banks of the Seine River. Automatically, the e-mail ripped through cyberspace into the police headquarters at Rennes, with a copy arriving simultaneously in the Saint-Nazaire Commissariat de Police.
The antiterrorist men in Paris immediately requested Saint-Nazaire to investigate, while the duty officer in Rennes almost had a heart attack since he’d heard nothing but the words “dark blue Peugeot” for as long as he could remember.
Every available city police patrol was ordered to the garage on Place des Martyrs. Four of them arrived within five minutes, and a bomb disposal squad from Nantes had already been dispatched.
Because of the shipyard’s close proximity to the town, the Saint-Nazaire police had a number of resident experts in the field of high explosives. Every last one of them was ordered to Place des Martyrs. They swarmed all over the garage, surrounding the Peugeot. But it took an hour to establish that the vehicle was clean, and not in any way likely to blast the city to smithereens.
The police then drove a tow truck into the garage, and hauled the Peugeot out onto the street and on to the station, where they were tasked with finding out whether it was indeed the one sold to Mr. Gunther Marc Roche in faraway Val André that eventful morning.
They opened the door with a master key and permitted the forensic department to search every inch for fingerprints. There were none. But under the hood they located the chassis number, and checked in with Monsieur Laporte that it matched the official registration certificate he still had in his possession. This was the car. This was the vehicle purchased by the bearded hijacker, who was wanted for two murders in Val André, and was suspected of intent to murder Monsieur Henri Foche.
The head office of Brittany Police telephoned the home of Monsieur Foche to impart the gravest possible news to his dinner guest, Pierre Savary. . . .
Sir, the Peugeot has been found. It’s in Saint-Nazaire.
Sir, the Peugeot has been found. It’s in Saint-Nazaire.
“Jesus Christ!” As far as Pierre was concerned, the roof just fell in. He walked back into the dining room, where Raul and his host were sipping superb burgundy, Corton-Bressandes Grand Cru from the Domaine Chandon de Briailles. He apologized for the interruption but felt that everyone needed to know the dark blue Peugeot had been located in a public parking garage in Saint-Nazaire, the license plates removed.
“That, Henri, heightens the danger tomorrow, probably by about 1,000 percent,” said Pierre. “Because that Peugeot means that Gunther, or whoever the hell he is, is headed for the fucking shipyard, which is only about eighteen miles long with about thirty-seven thousand places to hide.”
Pierre paused, and then said gravely, “I am asking you to call the Saint-Nazaire speech off.”
Henri Foche stared at him, betraying just a little of the character that may one day make him an extremely effective president of France. His expression was serious, but his eyes were blazing. “Nothing,” he said, “nothing in this world, would persuade me to call off that speech. This is my homeland, I am from Brittany, these are my people. And a very great deal is expected of me. There are hundreds of jobs in that shipyard, hundreds of men dependent on those jobs. I am going to Saint-Nazaire to assure them personally that when I reach the Elysée Palace, those jobs are safe. That there will be work, ships to build, French ships for French workers, for French families. Nothing, and I repeat nothing, will be made for my government, either civilian or military, beyond the international borders of France. That’s my slogan, that’s my belief, those are the words written on my heart. Those are the words that will carry me to victory.”
“Vive la France,”
grunted Pierre. “Hopefully not in a hearse.”
grunted Pierre. “Hopefully not in a hearse.”
“Ignore him, Raul,” said Foche. “What’s your view?”
“I’m afraid I’m instinctively with Pierre,” said the former British colonel. “That you should not go. But I understand that is not an option. So we’d better fight the war we’re in rather than the one we’d like to be in. And the first thing we ought to ensure is you have the absolute maximum security in terms of numbers. By that I mean government troops, and every police officer they can draft in . . . ”
Pierre pushed back his chair and stood up. “I’m calling Homeland Security right now. If I have to, I’ll speak to the president. But we’re not going to come up shorthanded in Saint-Nazaire.”
He left the room again, and Henri Foche continued to question his new chief of security. “No more clues about this Morrison, I suppose.”
“Not really. I have had another word with our Central Africa chief, a former British army major, very reliable, and he had a slim lead via Alabama in the American South. But it was only a vague contact, no number, and he was not dealing with a principal. It turned out to be just a blind alley.”
“We’ve had quite a few of those today,” said Foche. “Do we have an overall strategy?”
“It’s a very simple and safe one. I will have seven of my men, plus myself, watching every relevant inch of that shipyard, every window and doorway, every potential hiding place, every rooftop, every gantry, every half-finished hull. If he’s there, we’ll stop him. Each one of my guys will be assigned a specific area to check, recheck, and check again. And remember, sir, every last one of them is as ruthless a killer as he is.”
Henri Foche nodded. He missed Marcel, but this man from Marseille was making an excellent attempt to replace him.
“One more question, sir. Should one of my men locate him, his orders will be shoot to kill. If we do take someone out, do you anticipate any trouble with the French police? Because there may be no time to do anything else.”
“No trouble whatsoever. You will earn their undying gratitude.”
“And—I have to ask this—what if there should be a mistake? An innocent person is injured in the general melee? Does that represent trouble with the police?”
“Only if they would all like a massive pay cut when I become president,” replied Foche with a wry grin.
Even the slightly fraught Raul had to smile at this naked use of overwhelming power.
“And finally, sir, I must ask about money. I am already incurring heavy expenses, flying the guys in. When do I see the first million?”
“How about Wednesday morning? Right here in Rennes. Before we leave for the shipyards in Brest.”
Raul tried not even to think about the possibility of death tomorrow afternoon. He replied, “Perfect, sir. That will suit me very well.”
At this point Pierre Savary returned to finish his dinner and his wine. “It’s settled, Henri,” he said. “The president has ordered a thousand security forces into the Saint-Nazaire region tomorrow morning. I have told them there will be a briefing from myself and Raul at 2:00 P.M. I’m assuming you will arrive at 4:45.”
“Correct,” replied the politician.
By 8:30 P.M. Mack had been walking the streets for ninety minutes. He had located the big main gates and the tall steel framework that proclaimed right across the top in letters of cast iron:
SAINT-NAZAIRE MARITIME.
There was a poster outside announcing the speech of Monsieur Henri Foche late the following afternoon. But it warned:
Restricted Entry—Shipyard Staff Only.
SAINT-NAZAIRE MARITIME.
There was a poster outside announcing the speech of Monsieur Henri Foche late the following afternoon. But it warned:
Restricted Entry—Shipyard Staff Only.
Mack read it on the run, not wishing either to stop or to be noticed in any way by the gate men. He had established his bearings, and was about to establish his base. But first he went into a delicatessen and purchased a baguette, a salami, sliced cheese, and a pack of butter, plus two bottles of Perrier in the lighter plastic containers.
About three hundred yards along the street from the main shipyard entrance there was a bright, inexpensive restaurant, and at nine o’clock Mack set himself up at a window table, placed the toolbox under the chair, and ordered his dinner.
It was impossible to look more unobtrusive. He was plain in his shipyard overalls and boots, like everyone else. He gave the appearance of a mild-mannered, quietly spoken, fair-haired man, wearing rimless spectacles to read the afternoon newspaper. He could easily have been an electrical engineer, or even a sonar or radar specialist. But not a laborer. Definitely not a laborer.
There was, so far as he could see, no mention of the two men murdered in Val André. But there was a story speculating on the level of security being put into place for the visit of Henri Foche to Saint-Nazaire the following day. Readers were warned to expect roadblocks and delays throughout the afternoon.
Accepting the proprietor’s advice, Mack ordered a fillet of sole, off the bone, with french fries and spinach. He ate slowly, impressed with that special touch the French manage to give their cooking, from the highest level down to . . . well . . . this, a workmen’s café, outside a shipyard. It was delicious, as was almost every other morsel he had tasted since he’d arrived with such a thunderous, if accidental, impact fourteen hours ago.
The bastards were going to kill me,
he pondered.
And Tommy wouldn’t have liked that.
The bastards were going to kill me,
he pondered.
And Tommy wouldn’t have liked that.
Up ’til now, there’d been no time to work out how the French were on to him with such alacrity. He understood the coast guard was only reacting to an SOS from their British counterparts, that someone had made off with the
Eagle.
Eagle.
Those two characters carrying loaded revolvers in Val André were not in the police or the coast guard, but they were expecting me, they knew my name, and their task was to get rid of me. Well, who the hell were they? Either the French police or the coast guard had tipped someone off, because I should have faced just instant arrest, not a couple of dodgy hit men ready to gun me down.
Mack pondered the problem. And he came up with only one answer. Someone must have tipped off Henri Foche that a highly dangerous character was coming in from England, with orders to assassinate him. There was no other explanation.
The two guys I took out must have been paid by Foche. And the only man in all the world who could possibly have alerted him to the danger was that scheming little prick Raul. It must have been him. No one else knew, except Harry. Raul tells Foche there’s a threat; the coast guard tells Foche, here he comes. Simple, right?
Mack was secretly rather pleased with his powers of deduction. He sat in the window of the dockside café, wondering what the hell he would face, if he made it into the shipyard tonight.
Outside there were intermittent groups of workers leaving the yard and walking along the street, almost all of them dressed like him. Some even carried toolboxes like his, but few, he guessed, had the interior lined with black velvet.
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