The Chimera Sanction (23 page)

Dulac awaited the fateful phone call from the Vatican as he sat
drinking
the last of his Glenlivet, listening to Maurizio Pollini’s rendition of Chopin’s Prelude No. 14 in E flat minor. The phone rang.

‘We accept, Mr Dulac,’ said Legnano, his voice barely audible over the loud, dizzying arpeggios.

‘Just a second, I’ll lower the volume. There, that’s better. So you’re going ahead?’

‘We have no choice.’

‘So I can call Roque—?’

‘No details, Mr Dulac. Just get the job done. Oh, and by the way, you will receive one million dollars for your troubles, Mr Dulac, upon delivery of the goods. It will be credited to a trust account here at the Vatican bank. If you agree, of course.’

Dulac sat in stunned disbelief. ‘Mr Dulac?’

‘Yes?’

‘Is that acceptable?’

Dulac hesitated, his mind reeling at the offer, yet fighting within the innermost depths of his professional conscience to hold onto the remnants of his fundamental values. After a moment, he said, ‘Your Eminence, your offer is most generous, but I cannot accept it. I’m still an Interpol agent, an officer of the law. By taking the money I’d be putting a definite end to my career.’

‘I see,’ said the cardinal, resignation in his voice.

‘I am not prepared to do that.’

‘I understand, Mr Dulac. Most commendable. Does that mean you refuse the mandate?’

‘Monsignor, I still want to see de Ségur behind bars.’

‘Good.’

The line went dead.

Dulac flipped his phone shut and turned off the CD player. I must be absolutely insane. I’ve just committed the crime of conspiracy to kidnap, even if this doesn’t get off the ground. With a bloody cardinal
no less. And to top it off, I’ve just refused more money than I will ever see for the rest of my life!

Dulac went to the bar, poured himself another scotch then returned to the sofa and sat down. After a long swig, he deposited the glass on the small table beside the sofa. On the opposite wall, his mother, her reproachful stern stare frozen in a mix of pastel and charcoal, stared back at him as if to admonish him. Well, Mother, now what should I do? Suddenly a gust of wind swooshed through the open window and sent the paper score off the Steinway’s music support fluttering to the floor. He rose, put the Polonaise piece back onto the support, went to the window and closed it. Below in the courtyard, children were
scurrying
about, gathering their toys before the impending storm. Dulac went back to the sofa, sat down and took another gulp. He felt in every bone of his body the fatefulness of his next decision.

Then the images of de Ségur’s victims flew briefly before his eyes: Romer, the rosy-complexioned, taciturn Swiss Guard; Aguar.

He put down his glass on the table, picked up the phone and dialed Roquebrun’s number. ‘Dulac. My principal agrees. When can we discuss planning?’

‘I’ll meet you at 7 p.m. in the lobby of the Hotel Durocher. I’ll give you the deposit instructions.’

Dulac hung up, put a hand to his chest and felt palpitations through his shirt.

An hour later, the Glenlivet having mellowed his mood, or numbed his brain, he didn’t care to know which, Dulac hailed a cab and rode through the evening smog to the hotel.

‘I reserved a suite, so we can spread out,’ said Roquebrun in the lobby, as he led Dulac towards the elevators.

‘Spread out?’

‘I knew your client would accept. I have a map of the area, plus a preliminary report on de Ségur’s habits, ins and outs, location of guards, etc.’

‘You don’t waste time.’

They took the elevator and Dulac felt his palpitations start again. This seemed wrong, definitely wrong. His instincts were telling him to turn and run. He didn’t listen to them and followed the mercenary
down the corridor into the room. Roquebrun took off his worn, brown leather jacket and threw it onto the sofa. He put on his glasses, opened an attaché case and unfolded a map on the table.

‘It’s a 1:32,0000 topographical map of the Mayan Mountain Range in Belize. De Ségur is probably near here,’ Roquebrun said, pointing to a mountain. ‘It corresponds to the satellite latitude-longitude you gave me. I know that area. Mount Margaret is the most remote, difficult part of the jungle to access.’ He pointed to a section of the map. ‘If you look closely, there is a small road there. It’s the only way in.’

‘What’s your plan?’ said Dulac, feeling inextricably drawn in.

‘We know that they allow a fuel truck in past the guard house, for the bimonthly delivery of diesel fuel. They’re due for a delivery in two days.’

‘I think I know where you’re going with this.’

‘We’ll have to hijack the truck. Once we secure the target, we’ll pick him up with a rented chopper. You’ll be there. You’ll be in the helicopter that picks us up.

‘Me, pick you up? In a helicopter? No way. I’ve had just about enough of helicopters, thank you very much.’

‘That’s the deal. You’re my safety net. I don’t want to be shot at by the Belizean army once we secure de Ségur and we’re flying him out of Belize.’

‘So you’re asking me to secure the Belizean government’s support?’

‘Only their non-interference.’

‘But I have no contacts with the Belizeans.’

‘Actually you do.’

Dulac looked quizzically at Roquebrun.

‘Juan Garcia. Juan is enjoying some snorkeling there as we speak.’

‘I see,’ said Dulac.

‘So. Do we have a deal, Mr Dulac?’

Dulac felt his unease and distaste about contacting Garcia mounting. ‘Well, in for a penny….’

‘Good. I’ll notify Garcia. Oh, and before you go see the government officials, get yourself some kind of cover. De Ségur probably has his men watching all over the place.’

‘Cover?’

‘You’re on vacation. Don’t you have a girlfriend who wants to do some snorkeling? It’s the best in the world after Sharm-El-Sheikh.’

‘I have good news and not-so-good news,’ said Dulac over the phone to Karen.

‘I’ll bite,’ she said.

‘Remember I offered to take you on a trip to Costa Rica?’

‘Thierry, that was two weeks ago. You were dead drunk. I won’t hold you to it. I’m surprised you even remembered.’

‘First the good. I have two tickets to Belize, instead of Costa Rica. Is that OK?’

‘Beggars can’t be choosers. And the not-so-good?’

‘We leave tomorrow.’

The Airbus 360 landed smoothly and Dulac felt the loosening of his grip on the arm rest of the business class seat. He mopped the
perspiration
off his brow with the airline’s perfumed face cloth he’d held, up till now, tightly clutched in his fist. Beside him Karen, relaxed, returned the travel brochure to the seat-back in front of her.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Belize,’ said the Air France, long-legged stewardess. ‘We apologize for the delay. Please have your passport ready before proceeding to clear Customs at the main terminal.’

‘We’ll be picked up by Juan Garcia,’ said Dulac, turning to Karen.

‘The same guy you went to see in Florence?’

‘Yes. His father is the Venezuelan ambassador to Belize. Juan spends a fair bit of time snorkeling here, that is when he’s not racing his Dragon in Douarnenez or getting his adrenaline fix in one of his Ferraris,’ said Dulac, as he rose and felt the sharp tingle in his numb legs.

‘Sounds promising.’ Karen smiled warmly, gently squeezing Dulac’s arm, her face aglow with anticipation.

As Dulac and Karen started towards the entrance of the airport, Dulac noticed a black limo to his left, a few dozen yards way. Suddenly a chauffeur wearing a tan-colored suit erupted from the limo’s front door and intercepted them.

‘Mr Dulac?’

‘Yes?’

‘Please come this way. Let me put the luggage inside the car.’

‘But we haven’t passed Customs,’ said Karen.

‘That won’t be necessary. Mr Garcia’s diplomatic immunity extends
to members of his family and their guests.’

As the chauffeur, Karen and Dulac approached the limo, the rear door opened and a sun-glassed man in a pink open shirt and beige slacks stepped out.

‘Thierry my friend, how was your trip?’ said Garcia, with a smile as wide as the Rio Orinoco.

‘Terrible, thank you. Juan Garcia, meet Karen Dawson.’

‘Delighted, Madame. Please.’ As Garcia bowed slightly, he gave her a lecherous smile and ushered them into the limo’s backseat.

The threesome exchanged banalities on the weather, Belizean beaches and the tribulations of flying, while the Mercedes glided silently along the sparsely travelled road through the subtropical countryside, the
turquoise
ocean to the right, the jungle’s dense green to the left. Fifteen minutes later, the imitation ante-bellum, gray stucco columns of the Hotel Mirador’s presumptuous façade surged into view.

After check-in, Garcia led them through the lobby into the adjacent, pink walled lounge. ‘Did you receive my e-mail?’ asked Dulac, as they settled into the brown wicker chairs.

Garcia waived the waiter over. Turning to Dulac, ‘I’ve looked into it. It will be difficult. The people I’m thinking of are expensive.’

‘My client understands.’

The waiter, a white-haired man in his seventies, wearing a worn black suit and a morose scowl, ambled over. ‘Yes?’

‘Miss Dawson?’ said Garcia.

‘Perrier, no ice.’

‘Thierry, my friend?’

‘Scotch on the rocks.’

‘And I’ll have a Campari soda,’ said Garcia. The waiter shuffled away towards the bar.

Turning to Dulac, Garcia said, ‘If you insist, I can arrange a meeting.’

‘I do. But I’m a bit worried,’ said Dulac, leaning towards Garcia.

‘What about?’

‘How can I be sure they won’t double-cross me and warn him?’ Dulac could feel Karen’s increasing discomfort, as he continued to ignore her and concentrated on Garcia.

‘Trust me. They won’t,’ Garcia said.

‘Why not?’

‘Because the ones I’m thinking of work for my father.’

‘Then do it.’ Dulac could hardly believe the sound of his own voice, and that he was getting in so deep, so quickly.

‘Not so fast. Remember, we are in Belize. You’ll have to be patient. Don’t look for the wind. The wind will come to you, as we say in the sailboat racing game,’ said Garcia.

‘I have until tomorrow,’ said Dulac.

Karen leaned forward and glared at Dulac. ‘Hey, am I supposed to just disappear, or do you mind telling me what this is all about?’

Garcia looked at Dulac in unease.

‘No, I didn’t brief her,’ replied Dulac, timidly returning Karen’s angry stare.

‘Brief me? Brief me about what? This is a vacation, isn’t it?’ Karen bent forward again, eyes ablaze. ‘Well?’

‘Sort of,’ said Dulac meekly.

‘Sort of? This takes the goddamn cake.’

‘Calm down, will you.’ Dulac looked around as guests at other tables started to stare. ‘Of course it’s a vacation. Just a little side business, that’s all.’

‘I’m sorry, Ms Dawson I didn’t mean to ruin your—’ said Garcia.

‘Mr Garcia, you’re not ruining anything. He’s doing the ruining all by himself,’ she said, pointing an angry finger at Dulac. ‘I’ve obviously been led down the garden path, thinking I could spend a relaxing
vacation
with your friend here.’

‘I, ah, I really don’t know what to say,’ said Garcia, fumbling with his napkin and wiping the perspiration from his brow.

‘I’m waiting,’ Karen said, her stare still locked onto Dulac, her arms crossed over her pale-blue blouse.

‘Groundwork. Call it preliminary groundwork,’ said Dulac.

Karen rose abruptly from her chair. ‘Do all the groundwork you want. I’m going snorkeling.’ She rushed towards the exit.

‘I’m terribly sorry. I thought you had told her,’ said Garcia.

‘About it all being a front? No.’

‘Lots of character,’ said Garcia. ‘You’re a lucky man.’

An afternoon in the warm, cobalt waters off the Belize Barrier Reef and swimming amidst schools of blue tang, yellow parrotfish, angelfish,
lazy groupers, and large loggerhead turtles had managed to dull the edge off Karen’s wrath. After Dulac’s purchase of two bottles of Veuve Clicquot, the most expensive Hermes scarf in all of Belize City and a scorching night of reconciliatory sex, Karen had absolved Dulac of his sins of omission. The following morning, Dulac’s meeting with the Belizean government officials had been cordial, expensive, but fruitful: the promise of a $5.2 million US dollars anonymous donation to the Belizean Horticultural Development Corporation had secured their non-interference in Dulac’s plans to abduct de Ségur from Belizean soil. His mission accomplished, Dulac had had to apologize to Karen, yet again. He had to return to Paris on urgent business. ‘Suit yourself. I’m staying here,’ had been her reply to his query as to what her plans were. He’d taken the afternoon flight back to Paris.

The next morning Dulac, tired and jet lagged, was finishing the last of his bowl of café au lait and croissant and about to call Roquebrun when the France 2 announcer attracted his attention on TV:

Really? Dulac thought. Dulac always preferred the written word to the sensational, truncated news on TV. He turned off the monitor, dressed quickly, walked to the newsstand on the corner of the street, and was soon standing in a tumultuous line-up, people jostling about for the few remaining copies of
Le Monde
.

‘Sorry, no more,’ said the harassed looking vendor to the clients, as Dulac saw a young boy buy the last copy.