The Chimera Sanction (19 page)

‘Grab the trail and get on de Ségur’s goddamn tail. I want results, Dulac, not excuses.’ At that moment, the taxi pulled up before the hotel’s entrance. Dulac got out first.

‘Thanks for the appreciation,’ he said, starting towards the hotel and leaving Harris to pay the cabbie.

After contacting Dieter and Boning, Dulac, his nerves jangled by the confrontation with Harris, retreated to the hotel’s lounge and ordered a glass of milk and a ham sandwich. Sitting at the bar, from the corner of his eye, he’d occasionally catch a glimpse of the comings and goings of the hotel’s patrons in the lobby. Moments later, Harris’s voice at the front desk caught Dulac’s attention. He’s leaving, finally.

It wasn’t until he saw Harris cross the lobby and walk through the rotating doors that Dulac felt a wave of relief. He phoned Karen in Paris.

‘Congratulations! The Pope’s rescue is all over the news on TV. Tell me all about it. I can’t wait to hear how it went,’ she said excitedly.

‘Later. I’m a bit frazzled right now.’

‘Understandably. I thought you’d be asleep.’

‘Can’t. Too tired.’

‘How did it go with Harris?’

‘Don’t ask. It’s getting worse. He can’t make it through the morning without a drink, many drinks. It’s affecting his judgment,’ said Dulac.

‘How is that?’

‘He’s constantly jumping to conclusions. Wrong conclusions. He thinks de Ségur is still in Benghazi. God knows why.’

‘Is that so unlikely?’

‘Trust me. If you’re not an Arab, Libya is a pretty small place. As Westerners, de Ségur and his goons would stick out like red carp in a fish barrel, waiting to be picked off by the Libyan security force. The man might be a psychopath, but he’s not stupid. With de Ségur’s Cairo contacts, he’s probably headed to Egypt.’

‘So why aren’t you in Egypt?’

‘Timing and geography. He left Suluq yesterday. If all went well, he’s out of Africa by now, headed to God knows where, probably to his safe haven Belize. If not, and assuming de Ségur plans to leave by air, which is far from certain, we’ve only got two agents to cover the whole of Egypt. With Boning, three for all of Libya, Tunisia and Sudan. Ever try to hold water with a fish net?’

‘Difficult.’

Dulac signaled the bartender. ‘Coffee with milk….’ Then,
uncovering
the phone’s mouthpiece, he continued. ‘Sorry. As I was saying, the only way to catch de Ségur is to be one step ahead of him, not chasing behind him all over hell’s half acre. Realistically, unless he’s still in Africa and we catch him in the desert by satellite tracking in time for the local police to move in, we’ll have to wait for new developments. In the meantime, I’m working this side of the investigation.’

‘In the Vatican?’

‘Correct. I just wanted to say hello. Call you.’

Dulac returned to his room to catch some much needed sleep. He’d just entered some lustful ruminations of his subconscious when the buzzing of his cellphone broke the spell and jolted him awake. He leaned over, grabbed the cell and saw the dreaded Interpol’s encrypted number
flashing
insistently on the LCD. Harris again. Bastard doesn’t let up.

‘Have you read Dieter’s preliminary sat recon report?’ said Harris, his tone aggressive.

Asshole is trying to make me feel guilty, thought Dulac. ‘I wasn’t expecting it until later this evening, tomorrow morning even.’

‘It’s on your computer. Read it.’

Naked except for his boxer shorts, Dulac went to the desk and turned on his computer. ‘Got it. Give me a minute.’ He started to read.

‘Dulac?’

‘I’m just finishing reading.’

‘Result negative, result negative. That’s all I need,’ said Harris.

‘I warned you yesterday that our chances of finding them with a sat recon—’

‘Yes, yes, I know. Any news from Boning?’

‘Negative.’

‘So basically we’re still nowhere.’ A moment of silence, and Harris continued. ‘You should have gone to Cairo.’

‘Didn’t I hear someone say recently Benghazi? He’s got to be in Benghazi?’

‘I don’t need your smart-ass sarcasm.’

Another pregnant silence. ‘You know, Dulac, I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’s time we got some new blood in the file.’ Harris’s tone had become conciliatory, dangerously so. ‘Besides you’ve earned a good rest. I’m seriously thinking of giving Lescop a chance to take on more responsibility. I think—’

Dulac felt the axe coming and beat Harris to the swing. ‘Piss off, Harris. You’re looking for any fucking excuse to dump me. Now that the Pope is safely back in Rome, now that the spotlight has been turned off, I can do what I want with old Dulac. He’s expendable. Let’s put the old nag out to pasture.’

‘I will disregard that comment, in the memory of your deceased father for whom I had the greatest of respect. You will hand over the file
to Lescop.’

‘That’s one hell-fire way of getting it further stalled.’

‘One more comment like that and I’ll—’

‘You’ll what, Harris, you’ll what. You’ll fire me? I’ll have my lawyer in your office within minutes.’

‘Don’t you threaten me, Dulac.’

‘Harris, why don’t you go and do the anatomically impossible thing.’

Downing his fourth scotch, Dulac extinguished his Gitane on the edge of the glass, got up from the uncomfortable barstool and stumbled his way to the hotel’s rotating front door. Outside, the fresh air hit his lungs like the contents of a can of Febreze. He phoned Karen.

‘Hi, it’s me.’

‘Do you know what time it is?’ she said drowsily.

‘I’m free, free as a goddamn bird. So come fly with me, fly me to the moon, to paradise. I left my love … in Costaaa Ricaaa….’

‘I strongly suggest you keep your day job.’

‘Is my shinging that bad?’

‘You sound plastered. Any particular reason?’

‘No reason, no problem. I’ve been shus … suspended.’

‘Again?’

‘In and out. Comes with the job. He’ll call back and apologize.’

‘Really?’

‘He needs me. If he thinks Lescop can do a better job in finding de Ségur, he’s shadly mistaken.’

‘So what’s this about Costa Rica?’

‘The best diving in the world. Great trekking too.’

‘Yeah, sure.’

‘See the jaguars, see the jaguars and Dulac, before they’re both extinct. Wanna go?’

‘Call me when you’re sober.’ She hung up.

The Bombardier’s steep banking onto final approach awoke de Ségur. He looked out the window in time to catch a glimpse of Belmopan’s main landing strip before the Bombardier leveled again and the Rolls-Royce engines slowed to a quiet purr. A welcome change from hell, thought de Ségur. The jet landed, taxied to the small terminal building and stopped. Moments later, the steward opened the Bombardier’s
passenger
door and de Ségur stepped down the steep boarding ladder. A lone Customs officer was already waiting at its base, clipboard in hand.

‘Good afternoon Mr de Combel. Welcome back,’ said the
overweight
, short man, with a hint of a British accent. ‘How was your trip?’

‘Fine, Fernando, fine.’

‘How many passengers?’ he said, eyeing the open doorway of the jet.

‘Six, counting myself.’

‘Anything to declare?’ the Customs officer said perfunctorily. ‘No, nothing to declare. How are the wife and children?’

‘My young one, Esperanza is in the hospital. She broke her arm playing soccer. And Anna, the older—’

‘Kids. They recover quickly.’

‘And my wife Isabella, she is trying to make ends meet. It is very hard with the children…. They eat us right out of the kitchen…. Ah, but that is not your concern. I’m sorry….’

The officer paused, cleared his throat and continued. ‘Mr de Combel, as usual I am required to check your passports before you proceed to Customs control at the gate.’

‘Yes, yes, of course, Fernando.’ De Ségur took the Customs officer by the arm and walked with him towards the other side of the ladder, away from the line of sight of the terminal building. ‘You know, Fernando, some of these passengers would rather be discreet about being here in Belize. Depending on who you are, a Belizean stamp on one’s passport could be, well, misinterpreted.’ De Ségur smiled. ‘I’m sure you
understand
. Plus, some of those passports are a bit past their expiry dates.’ De Ségur paused. ‘I have a little something here that isn’t.’ He put his right
hand on the Customs officer’s shoulder, brought him close and with the other, took out from his vest a thick, white envelope and slipped it into Fernando’s pocket.

‘Thank you Mr de Combel.’ Fernando smiled, quickly stuffing the envelope deeper into his pocket. ‘Then you are checked through.’ He initialed and handed de Ségur six cards. ‘When you are ready, present these at the gate.’

‘Actually, Fernando, we would rather be more discreet. Is there a way we can avoid the gate altogether?’

‘Is the jet staying here?’

‘It will refuel and go on to Costa Rica.’

‘Then wait until darkness and go through the guard station at the hangar.’ He pointed to the corrugated metal building to the left of the terminal. ‘My brother is on guard until midnight. I’ll let him know.’

‘Excellent.’

‘I’ll tell the officers at the terminal that the plane is in transit, waiting to refuel.’

Good man, that Fernando, thought de Ségur, as he watched the Customs officer walk back to the terminal building. De Ségur made a cellphone call and climbed up the staircase to the top. Suddenly, he felt dizzy and grabbed the handrail. It’s getting worse, he thought, as the dizziness slowly dissipated. He regained the interior of the cabin and addressed the Cathars, sitting anxiously in their seats. ‘The van will pick us up at 8.15. In the meantime, everybody relax.’

Back at de Ségur’s compound that evening, a general unease
permeated
the Cathars’ dinner conversation, occasionally peppered with banal exchanges on the unusually hot weather. De Ségur’s phone rang. He left the table to take the call. After a moment, he returned and addressed the Cathars. ‘Gentlemen, I have good news. Antoine and the others made it safely to Cairo. They will return to France in the morning. Now let’s go to the salon. We’ll be more comfortable there.’

As they sat down in the wicker chairs set about the rustic
surroundings
, a macaw perched on the feeder outside on the veranda began to crow noisily. De Ségur put down his cognac, went to the window, and closed it. He returned and stood facing the tired and jet-lagged Cathars, moroseness etched onto their faces. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I have advised
the families of our fallen brothers and sisters about the sinking of the Bellerophon. Their kin are taking it very hard, some of them blaming me for the loss of their loved ones. I assume that responsibility entirely. I will leave for France next week and see each and every family. That is the least I can do.

‘In the meantime, you are surely wondering if we should proceed with our mission. I cannot blame you for having your doubts.’ He grabbed the back of the wicker chair before him and leaned forward. ‘But I ask that you keep your focus on the overall goal. We must
continue
. Otherwise, the sacrifice of our comrades’ lives will have been in vain. The reality is that we will recruit others and rebuild the core. Our ancestors suffered much worse, and they prevailed. We can also. These setbacks will not halt our mission. Our success depends on all of you returning to your dioceses and recruiting new faithful. I ask that you continue to trust me. In turn, I promise you this: the prophecy will be fulfilled. Our time will come.’ He paused for a moment, eyeing each of the Cathars one by one. ‘Are you with me?’

‘Yes,’ they answered in unison.

‘Good. It’s time for Phase Epsilon.’

Karen hadn’t heard from Dulac since his drunken phone call ten days earlier. He hadn’t returned her many phone messages, and she’d given up repeating the obvious. Although he wasn’t the most punctual of message returners, it was uncharacteristic of the man not to give any sign of life whatsoever. Her annoyance had eventually given way to concern, then worry. She decided to drop by his apartment.

Karen hailed a taxi and made her way to the 16 arrondissement, and to the entrance of Dulac’s third story flat. The well-worn stone staircase reminded her of their many late evening dashes toward a night of intense lovemaking. She went up, rang and waited. No answer. She rang again. Nothing. She looked down at the bottom of the door and through the space between it and the floor, thought she saw a shadow cross the light. ‘Thierry, are you there? It’s me Karen.’

The shadow crossed the light again, in the opposite direction. She
pounded on the door. ‘Thierry, I know you’re in there.’

‘Go away.’

‘What’s the matter? Why won’t you let me in?’ Worry was rapidly changing to resentment.

‘Nothing to do with you.’ Dulac’s voice was hoarse, almost unrecognizable.

‘Thierry, I’m not going to stand here talking to you outside your damn door. Either you let me in and we discuss this like grown adults, or I’ll leave you to enjoy your childish tantrum. Your choice.’

Karen heard the latch unlock and the door opened. ‘My God!’ she gasped.

Dressed in an old nightgown, long oily strands of hair hanging limply over his ears, a ten day scraggly beard covering his face, Dulac stood at the door, glass in hand.

‘Not quite. Come in.’ He shuffled over to the living room amidst the newspapers littering the floor, cleared some of the books strewn on the sofa and offered Karen a small space. ‘Been catching up on my Dostoyevsky,’ he said as he went over to the bar. ‘Drink?’

‘No thanks.’ Still trying to absorb the shock, she sat down amid the books while he poured himself a drink. ‘Why haven’t you returned my calls?’

‘I’ve been busy,’ he said, not bothering to look at her.

‘Doing what? Drinking yourself into oblivion?’

‘That too,’ he said, seating himself in the recliner across from her.

‘Thierry, I know this thing with Harris has been hard on you, but this is not going to solve the problem.’

‘What problem?’ He took another swig of the scotch.

She got up and walked over, standing and glaring down at him. ‘Do you realize what you’re doing? You’re becoming another Harris. Is that what you want?’

Dulac shot up, standing a few inches from her face. ‘That’s going too far.’

‘Not at all.’ She crossed her arms, returning his hate-filled stare.

Dulac backed away. ‘I thought I’d get some support. Not criticism.’

‘Listen, if you want to drown yourself in alcohol and self-pity, that’s your business, but don’t look at me for help.’ She looked around. ‘Just look at this mess. How can you live like this?’

Dulac glanced about at the stacked dishes overflowing in the sink, his shirts and jacket hanging from various kitchen chairs, an old t-shirt strewn onto the dining room table. ‘Pretty bad, I must admit.’

‘Thierry, you’ve got to pull yourself together. If you go down this road, you’ll go it alone. I had an alcoholic father and I won’t—’

‘Whoa! I’m not a bloody alky.’

‘I’m sure that’s what Harris says also.’

‘You’re pushing your luck, lady.’

‘Thierry, you’ve got some serious decisions to take.’

‘Like what? Getting ready for my asshole boss to summon me back? So I can lick his boots again while he cracks the whip?’

‘Maybe you should think outside of the box. Look elsewhere. Surely Interpol isn’t the only place for a damn good criminal investigator.’

‘I suppose.’ Dulac looked at her with a vague air of interest. ‘Maybe I could sell my story to the press, write a book even.’

‘Good idea. In the meantime why don’t you shave, take a shower and put some clean clothes on. I’ll buy breakfast.’