The Chimera Sanction (16 page)

Shielding his eyes, Dulac entered the stifling room and reluctantly shook the general secretary’s proffered hand. Close up, Dulac noticed its owner already exuded an odor of gin.

‘Well good afternoon. Glad you could drop by,’ said Harris.

‘The flight was delayed,’ said Dulac, unruffled.

‘Have a seat,’ said Harris, offering Dulac one of the leather chairs as he returned to behind his desk. ‘Sun bother you?’

‘Yes.’

Harris lowered the venetian blind and sat down. ‘You’re one lucky sonofabitch, Dulac.’

Dulac disliked the tone of the qualification. ‘Oh? Why is that?’

‘I’ve been busy all night and this morning brokering a deal between the Vatican, the Italian Minister of Defense and the US Department of Defense. We muscled the Germans into lending us one of the Comanches.’ Harris reclined in his swivel chair and continued. ‘A certain commander Klein will go to Paris to pick up Lescop, then on to Rome tonight to refuel and pick you up before going on to Benghazi. They’re clearing the flight plan as we speak. He should—’

‘Did you say pick me up?’

‘Yes, you’re going to get the Pope out of Libya. You—’

‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

‘Absolutely not. I’ve discussed this whole matter, and all the options with Legnano and the Italian prime minister. By the way, the $5 million dollars were deposited in Gazzar’s Swiss account last night and the clock is ticking. They want to get His Holiness out quickly and discreetly. The usual diplomatic options are out, because everybody’s afraid of the
possible
debacle and Kargali’s unpredictability, so they’ve decided to go in sub rosa, low key, under Kargali’s nose. With Gazzar’s ultimatum, the only chance we have is going in tonight under the cover of darkness. Besides, the faster we do this, the better chance we have of avoiding a leak. Lescop will back you up.’ Harris’s voice had that dangerous ring of finality coming from a man who can shift the blame on someone else if things go wrong.

‘This is crazy. This—’

‘You’re going to Benghazi, Dulac. It was your idea in the first place. It’s your ballgame. Besides, I cannot think of a better man: your
knowledge
of Arabic could come in handy on the ground.’ Harris swiveled his chair towards the computer and eyed the screen. ‘Quite amazing, this Comanche helicopter. It will arrive at 10 p.m. tonight at the Guidonia Air Base. Plenty of time for you to get to Rome.’

Dulac got up, put both fists onto the desk and leaned forward into Harris’s face. ‘You are sending me, with only Lescop, to get the Pope out of Libya?’ he shouted. ‘Have you all gone completely fucking mad? This is a job for SISMI, or the US SWATS, not a couple of overweight,
middle-aged Interpol agents.’

Harris leaned back in the swivel chair and, his hands in the form of an arch, tapped his fingers together. ‘Out of the question. The Italian prime minister can’t take the chance they’ll screw up again. Also this operation has to appear politically neutral.’

Dulac stood back for a moment, then started pacing back and forth in front of Harris’s desk. ‘This is absolutely insane, Harris. There is not one shred of evidence that de Ségur will keep his word. I—’

‘In that case, we’ll have wasted a night flying you and Lescop in and out of Libya and a bit of the Italian’s taxpayer’s money. They are footing the bill, by the way. End of story.’

‘You are completely, utterly mad.’

‘Think of it as a diplomatic mission.’

Dulac stopped and glared at Harris. ‘I’m no damn diplomat.’

‘The Italians believe Interpol best represents the interests of its members, including Italy. You may not know this, Dulac, but they’re a big contributor to our budget. It also diffuses the responsibility if things go belly up and—’

‘Your confidence in this upcoming fiasco is underwhelming me.’

‘I don’t have time to argue. We have less than eighteen hours left to get His Holiness out of Libya. You’re going to Benghazi, Dulac. Tonight. We both know there’s no other option.’

Dulac sat back down, feeling the inevitable hand of destiny
squashing
his shoulders into his chest. For a moment, both men stared at each other in silence.

‘Jesus,’ exclaimed Dulac finally.

‘I’ll take that as a “yes”. The Italians will provide air support until the helicopter reaches Libyan air space. After that, you’re on your own. By the way, if you get caught, we’ll disavow the whole operation, of course.’

‘Of course. Just pissing great.’

Harris reached in the desk drawer, took out his pipe, lit it, then reclined in his seat. ‘Fine. That’s settled. Now for the other item on the agenda. Why don’t you give me a rundown of your meetings with the cardinals?’

‘Why not? Nothing better to do until I fly into oblivion.’

Dulac wondered why Harris hadn’t already broken into his usual demonstration of learned culture. He didn’t have long to wait.

‘Quid?’ said Harris.

Dulac winced at Harris’s employment of his high-school Latin. He knew there’d be more to come.

‘Et in illo tempore, omnia exeunt,’
he replied, knowing Harris would be lost. He paused, while Harris, embarrassed, waited for the
translation
. Dulac said, ‘it means “and then, everybody left”. I get the feeling everybody is scrambling for cover, including some cardinals.’

‘Explain.’

‘I’m convinced de Ségur has high placed allies within the Vatican,’ said Dulac. ‘Interesting theory.’ Harris took a puff from his pipe. ‘Give me some meat to nibble on, some dramatis personae.’

‘I’ve found out that Cardinals Brentano and Sforza reviewed Romer’s application. They are ultimately responsible for all hiring within the Vatican, which includes Romer and, indirectly, Aguar.’

Harris leaned forward, took the pipe from his mouth, and rattled his left fingers nervously on the tabletop. ‘That, Dulac, is a pretty wild
suggestion
. Even for you.’

‘I have more. Romer was definitely in on the kidnapping. That’s why he had to dispose of—’

‘Woah, hold on a minute,’ said Harris, raising his pipe-carrying hand in protest. ‘Tell me,’ – he pointed the small end of the pipe at Dulac – ‘why on earth would Brentano and Sforza have Pope Clement XXI kidnapped?’

‘Ambition, for starters.’

‘Unproven. Dulac, you’re the lawyer, give me some facts.’

‘I’m trying to get a meeting with Legnano. My instinct tells me he knows more about the Pope than he’s letting on. Question is, will he talk?’

‘Dulac, why must you always complicate matters? It’s a clear cut case of extortion and ransom. Give us the money and we’ll give you back your Pope. End of story.’

Dulac felt for a moment he should tell Harris about the diary. No, that can wait. Besides, I promised Legnano I’d keep it confidential.

‘More like Plato’s Myth of the Cave,’ said Dulac. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘We see only the shadow of the story, mistaking it for reality.’ ‘Meaning?’

‘We have de Ségur, a known Cathar, member of Chimera. We have
Romer, a Cathar, who conveniently becomes head of the Swiss Guards. Brentano recommended him. Sforza was responsible for his acceptance as a Swiss Guard and didn’t identify his Cathar roots.’

‘An oversight.’

‘Aguar’s credentials and history were known to most police forces across the world.

Except Romer? Interpol has a file a mile long on Aguar. Why didn’t Romer check with us? It was his job to check before the Vatican hired him. Convenient Aguar slipped through, isn’t it?’ Dulac smiled at Harris.

‘Still but a handful of coincidences. So far, you haven’t given me
anything
that supports any other motive than ransom.’

‘If ransom is their motive, why kill Romer? With Aguar dead, Romer wasn’t about to get caught.’

‘If the cardinals were in on the ransom, what possible gain could they have? It’s not as if they could spend it,’ said Harris.

‘Which supports an ulterior motive.’

‘Or their non-involvement.’

Dulac leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands and stretched both arms above and behind his head, ‘Go to the head of the class. It’s called working both ends of the paradox towards the middle.’

‘I don’t need your sarcasm, Dulac, I need answers. By the way, since when are you qualified to give advice to the members of Curia on demands of the kidnappers?’

‘Since they asked me.’

‘Must I remind you that we are, and must be seen as non-political?’

That’s it, you gutless wonder. Hide behind your textbook bullshit. ‘In the heat of battle, it’s not always that easy. The lines get blurred. Anyway, it was their decision. What’s the problem?’ Dulac said, losing patience.

‘The problem, Dulac, is your attitude. You don’t seem to give a damn about the rules. Just the other day I received a complaint from one of the members of the Curia. You’re interfering—’

‘Who could that possibly be?’

‘You’re missing the point. Who, is not important, it’s—’

Dulac felt his fuse about to blow. He leaned forward, putting both hands on the edge of Harris’s desk. ‘Fine. Pull me off. How about right
now? That way I don’t get myself killed going to Libya.’

‘Don’t get your feathers ruffled. I didn’t mean—’

‘Cut the crap, Harris. We both know you can’t pull me off. I’m in this mess too bloody deeply already and you don’t have a replacement. Otherwise you would have yanked me eons ago. Plus, the media will be down your throat in a second, asking why.’

Harris pointed his pipe at Dulac again. ‘Someday, Dulac, you’ll go too far.’

‘Right. Until then, I apparently have a Pope to rescue, with or without Brentano’s approval.’

‘How did you know it was—’

‘I didn’t. Thanks for confirming it.’

‘At 50 km-an-hour average,’ said de Ségur, pointing the map to his driver Antoine, ‘it will take us six hours to get to Al Jaghbub and two more to get to the Egyptian border. Then we go east. Plenty of time to rendezvous with the jet at 1800 hours.’

Four hours later, as the two van convoy continued to make its way into the undulating vastness of the Great Sand Sea desert, the red disc had risen well above the dunes and was pounding them with increasing intensity. Inside the vans, passengers tried to fan themselves with
whatever
came to hand. Everyone knew that soon the sun’s full power would overwhelm the vans’ puny air-conditioners and the heat would become brutal.

By 11 a.m., the water bottles had become disgustingly warm and the thermometer read 41°C. By 2 p.m., the temperature had reached 43°C. De Ségur, sweltering in the oven-on-wheels, looked at the motor’s coolant gauge, its needle heavily into the red zone.

‘We’ll never make it,’ said Antoine, conscious of de Ségur’s worried gaze. ‘The motor is too bloody hot.’

‘You’d better make sure we do. It’s a long walk for you to Al Jaghbub.’ De Ségur picked up his satellite phone and called the driver of the white van ahead.

‘We have an overheating motor. What’s your status?’

‘We’re OK.’

‘Then stop your van,’ de Ségur ordered.

The van ahead stopped and de Ségur ordered Antoine to pull up beside it. ‘Get the touareg clothes,’ de Ségur said to Antoine.

Reluctantly, Antoine gathered the clothing on the back seat behind him while de Ségur opened the door and stepped out.

‘Come with me,’ de Ségur said, pointing to the men in the rear seat of the overheating van.

Leaving Antoine and the remaining passengers in the van, de Ségur and the men walked over and entered the white van. De Ségur sat in front, while the others joined the passengers in the back.

‘That way, you’ll be lighter,’ shouted de Ségur to Antoine through the window. ‘It’ll help cool your motor.’ Turning to his new driver Jean Gaspard, he added, ‘Let’s go, we’ve wasted enough time already.’

‘Yes sir.’

The convoy started again under the flames of the killer sun. De Ségur mopped his eyes and brow with his already sweat-soaked kerchief, then picked up his bottle and took a swig of piss-hot Evian water. Suddenly, his hand started to shake violently and he dropped the bottle, spilling the contents onto his pants. ‘Damn,’ said de Ségur. He slowly picked up the bottle from the van’s floor, his hand still shaking slightly.

‘Are you all right?’ said Gaspard.

‘I’m fine. Just tired.’

Gaspard threw a glance at his rearview mirror. ‘We’re losing them,’ he said.

De Ségur turned and saw the van slowing, then caught Gaspard’s inquiring look. ‘We can’t wait. Keep going.’

Gaspard pressed on while de Ségur watched the other van gradually disappear into the haze.

De Ségur’s satellite phone rang. ‘What’s going on?’ said Antoine, panic in his voice.

‘You’re holding us up. If we wait for you, both of us won’t make the jet. Not much sense in that, is there? If you don’t get to Al Jaghbub by 4
p.m., head south. Go to the border at Noma. There’s less chance they’ll stop you there.’

‘But we won’t—’

De Ségur turned off his phone.

The sun had started its descent towards the desert’s haze-covered dunes when the irregular outline of Al Jaghbub’s few palm trees appeared on the horizon. De Ségur looked at his watch again: 5.25 p.m. It’s going to be tight.

As they entered the town, Gaspard looked at the fuel gage. ‘We’ll have to refuel.’

A few moments later, they spotted a half dozen Berbers, sitting beside their 45 gallon gasoline drums. One of them rose, signaling to the van, a wide grin on his face.

‘Must be his turn,’ said Gaspard. Rolling down his window, he spoke in Arabic: ‘How much for 50 liters?’

The scraggly-bearded man came closer, then peeked suspiciously inside the van. ‘Hundred liters minimum,’ he said.

‘How much?’ asked Gaspard.

‘900 dinars.’

‘What? That’s—’

‘Pay him,’ said de Ségur.

A toothless grin formed from the corners of the old Berber’s mouth.

‘Absolute robbery.’ said Gaspard, reaching in his pocket and counting out the 900 dinars.

The Berber took the money, went to the rear of the van, and slowly started to fill the white Izuzu’s gas tank with his small rotating hand pump.

De Ségur looked at his watch. ‘Get out and help him.’ De Ségur’s satellite phone rang. He recognized Antoine’s edgy voice.

‘We’re stalled. Our motor just quit. I think it’s seized.’

‘What is your position?’

‘We’re about 25 km south of Al Jaghbub.’

‘How far to the Egyptian border?’

‘About 15 km due east.’

‘How much water do you have?’

‘About twenty liters.’

De Ségur took a detailed map from a side pocket of the van and unfolded it. ‘Head north-east. You’ll come to a dirt road leading to Siwa. You’re bound to come across a caravan.’

‘And then?’

‘Once you reach Siwa, there’s public transportation to Mersa Matruh, then to Cairo.’

‘We’re filled up and ready to go,’ interrupted Gaspard.

‘Good luck.’ De Ségur shut off his phone and signaled Gaspard to drive on. The white Izuzu rumbled to life and they exited Al Jaghbub, past the decaying remnants of the Senussi fortress and into the Great Sand Sea desert again. The temperature read 39°C on the van’s outside thermometer. De Ségur mopped his brow with his wet kerchief. He turned to Gaspard and said, ‘We must get to Siwa before dark.’

‘Can’t the pilot wait till tomorrow morning?’ Gaspard said.

‘That plane makes a fat target for US reconnaissance satellites.’ De Ségur looked at his watch. ‘We must leave tonight.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Gaspard. ‘How are the others in the—’

‘They’ll be ok.’

Suddenly, the front of the van started to shake and de Ségur shot an anxious glance at Gaspard.

‘We’ve got a flat,’ said Gaspard. ‘The left front tire has gone.’ Gaspard brought the van slowly to a stop.

‘Jesus Christ. That’s all we need. How far to Siwa?’

‘About 90 km.’

De Ségur looked at his watch, then turned to Gaspard. ‘What are you waiting for? Get out and fix it.’

Gaspard started out of the van and de Ségur ordered the others to do the same.

After a moment, Gaspard returned from the back of the van looking sheepish. ‘Ah … we … there’s no spare.’

De Ségur felt the blood rush to his temples. ‘No spare? You mean you didn’t check before leaving? This is the goddamn desert, not the Champs-Élysées.’ De Ségur grabbed the satellite phone from his pocket and phoned the jet’s pilot. ‘De Ségur. We’re stranded about 90 km from you. We’ve got a flat.’

‘We can’t take off after dark. The runway is full of pot-holes and—’

‘I know, I know.’

‘—and they’re hard to see already.’

‘We’ll make it. Wait for us.’

De Ségur closed the phone and turned towards Gaspard. ‘Let’s go.’

Gaspard, perplexed, looked at de Ségur. ‘But we risk destroying the bearing. The wheel will seize up.’

‘What do you suggest? That we sit here and wait for the next Egyptian border patrol to pick us up?’

‘We can transfer the flat to the rear and put the good tire on the front. At least we’ll have steerage.’

‘Then do it.’

‘Yes sir.’

As the van started again, the disc started falling into the horizon, fading away in Gaspard’s rearview mirror, blinding him. He flipped it into polarized position. ‘It’ll help if we all sit to the left and keep the weight off the right bare wheel,’ said Gaspard.

‘Everybody to the left side,’ ordered de Ségur. The van tilted slightly.

‘At least the motor is getting cooler,’ said Gaspard.

They hadn’t driven for more than half an hour when suddenly, they heard a loud explosion. ‘Christ, not again?’ exclaimed de Ségur.

Gaspard nodded silently as he struggled with the steering wheel.

‘Two, two bloody flat tires. Unbelievable,’ screamed de Ségur, throwing his hands up in frustration. ‘Keep going,’ he yelled. ‘Get this goddamn piece of shit to that plane, understand?’

‘Yes sir. I’ll try.’ Gaspard grabbed the severely shaking steering wheel and pressed on the gas, as the flop-flop-flop of the rapidly deteriorating tire accompanied the hissing sound of the rear wheel’s bare rim on the hot sand. Soon, the smoke and smell of burnt rubber invaded the van’s interior, surrounding its occupants with nauseous, toxic fumes.

De Ségur rolled down his window and turned towards Gaspard. ‘If you value your good health, you’d better make that damn jet.’

The pilot noticed the windsock near the runway changing direction. ‘We’ll have to take off from the other end,’ he said to the co-pilot.

The Bombardier’s two Rolls-Royce engines burst into life and the jet started to taxi down the runway.

‘Getting pretty dark,’ said the co-pilot.

‘Just remember any holes you see,’ said the pilot as he hit the pedal
hard and the jet swerved right, barely missing a large crater.

‘Jesus!’ said the co-pilot as he looked outside over the pilot’s shoulder. ‘That would have taken out the whole goddamn landing gear.’

They reached the end of the runway and the pilot pressed full left brake. The Bombardier swung obediently around until its nose pointed down the end of the runway into the darkening dusk. The pilot looked at his Rolex again.

‘Call de Ségur on the sat phone,’ he said to the co-pilot.

The co-pilot took the Globalstar from its leather holder and dialed de Ségur’s number. ‘I can’t get a signal.’ He tried again, to no avail.

‘What? How can that be? De Ségur just called us.’

‘Don’t know. He can probably call us but we can’t call him. Don’t ask me why.’

‘Shit.’ The pilot nervously tapped his fingers on one of the throttle levers. ‘Five more minutes, then we’re outta here.’

As the seconds ticked away, the pilot looked anxiously ahead into the darkening dusk. He glanced at his watch. ‘That’s it. We can’t wait. Get ready for takeoff.’

The co-pilot picked up the clipboard and went through the takeoff checklist. A moment later he said, ‘Ready for takeoff.’

The pilot moved the twin throttles all the way forward and the turbines intoned their high-pitched wail. The jet accelerated, shaking slightly as it gathered speed. Halfway down the runway, the pilot bore right to avoid a crater, then straightened his course, hugging the left side.

Suddenly the co-pilot yelled: ‘Christ! What the hell—?’

Dead ahead, two lights had swung onto the middle of runway and were bearing down on them on a collision course. The pilot yanked back the throttles and jammed on full brakes. The jet shuddered
violently
as it veered left, then right, the pilot trying desperately to keep it on the runway. At the last possible instant, the lights swung right, barely missing the plane’s left wingtip. As the lights swept past, the pilot caught a glimpse of sparks flying from the rear of a white van. ‘Crazy fucking bastards.’

The jet slowly came to a halt, and the pilot’s satellite phone rang. ‘You weren’t really thinking of leaving without us,’ said de Ségur.