The Bombmaker: A Michael Thomas Thriller

by Gavin Reese

  “Of course, Your Eminence, it would only be a further betrayal to keep such information from you.” Harold waited patiently for direction.

  “So, it appears the matter in Vienna is concluded, at least for the moment.” Paul set his coffee cup back on its saucer and brushed a lint speck from the front of his plush robe. “Whole sweaters can be unraveled by tugging only a few threads, Harold. If we find such problems, we must outsource a competent tailor capable of salvaging what remains of the garment. Speaking of loose ends,” he offered, looked up, and stopped brushing the robe. “Has Thomas been moved?”

  “Yes, he has, soon after my discussion with John. The details of the failed rescue plot are moot now that the traitor remains firmly within our control and influence.”

  Paul again looked out the window, distracted by the promise of tomorrow. He noticed that Harold followed his gaze.

  The assistant spoke but maintained focus on Vatican City. “It’s all working as you foresaw, Your Eminence. God has sequentially opened and shut all the doors necessary for us to draw ever closer to the precipice of your appointment. All is now within reach, just over that wall.”

  “I hope you took my advice and kept your bags packed. Provided that we tread delicately among the cassocked vipers, we won’t live outside Vatican City for much longer now.

  Hoffaburr looked back at him with a curious expression on his face. “Am I to understand that you know something more than Your Eminence has shared?”

  Paul couldn’t help but flash a knowing, Cheshire-cat smile. “All in due time, Harold. For now, I can only say there is a substantial play afoot on our behalf. God’s hand is truly at work in our lives.”

  The subordinate smirked as a humorous epiphany struck him. “Well, you know the ironic consequence of your ascension being God’s intended plan is, of course, that our failure to fulfill His objectives may risk our very damnation.”

  “Salvation and damnation each require the other. Neither exists on its own, Harold. Failure and damnation don’t concern me, though, not with the new and clear understanding to His mysteries that God has revealed to us.” The sun broke through some high, unseen cloud and shone down on Saint Peter’s Basilica. If the desire to become the American President is only cured with formaldehyde, what must it take to relieve a man of his want to succeed Saint Peter as the head of a nation-state and spiritual leader of all the faithful millions across the globe? Presidents are remembered and praised in history books, but popes are remembered and praised in prayer for all eternity.

  “No, Harold, we need concern ourselves only with being ready when the moment is upon us. That will assure our ascension, both to the papacy and God’s eternal kingdom.”

  May 6, 08:43am

  36 Quai des Orfèvres. Paris, France.

  On his way to a safehouse rented for his current investigation, Gerard had to stop into the main Task Force office to sign paperwork from a previous case. Located within the municipal administration buildings near the west end of a natural island in the Seine, known as the Ilé de la Cité, Gerard’s Task Force held a sizeable and secure portion of the fifth floor. The beloved Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris occupied the east end of the small island. Even though it doubled his drive time, Gerard chose a convoluted route necessary to drive past the famed and fire-damaged cathedral.

  Just as he’d done every day since the heartbreaking April 15th fire, Gerard slowed as he approached the cathedral and its surrounding cordons. Select members of the military and his counterterror unit stood in camouflaged uniforms with slung rifles to protect the vulnerable site from looters and opportunists who wished to denigrate the cathedral or steal its remaining relics and property. A pair of guards recognized his sedan and swung two stanchions open for Gerard to pass directly in front of the main entrance.

  He waved at the men, further slowed, and wished he had time to stop. Despite the constant and sometimes loud throngs of disrespectful tourists, Gerard had always found tremendous peace inside. I prayed inside Notre Dame for the last time on April 14th, and I doubt I’ll experience its tranquility again for another decade. After passing through an open stanchion on the other side of the cathedral, Gerard sped up and continued on his detour. The Ilé de la Cité had been the center of Paris since its founding and held many of its most iconic structures. While hunting a parking spot for his undercover police sedan, Gerard remembered how he’d been so awed by the island and its history when first assigned to SDAT. After years of fighting endless traffic, rude visitors ignorant of his people’s history and culture, and politically appointed administrators, he’d grown cynical about his work in the National Police and the monument that held his office. Gerard entered the building unimpressed by his surroundings and longed only for a productive day.

  He climbed the stairs, two at a time, up to the fifth floor and placed his RFID access card against a scanner outside the Task Force office’s heavy steel doorway. A quiet, simultaneous thunk and hiss announced the multiple locks had retracted into the surrounding steel frame, and Gerard pushed his way into the private working area. Assigned to individual inspectors, thirty-two desks arranged in four columns of eight extended down the length of the room, each of them in some manner of disarray. The unit’s various supervisors had private offices around the outside of the desks. Two conference rooms and a small kitchen stood at the far end of the room.

  One of the only officials present in the room stood at a desk just ahead of Gerard, his hands rifling through a stack of file folders that didn’t belong to him. Lieutenant Mahmoud Algeri wore a dark gray suit, creme silk shirt, and bright blue tie, as well as a matching blue taqiyah, a traditional skullcap worn by Muslim men. He looked up at Gerard when he heard the door open, and a slight smile broke across his face. Most of the other desks sat abandoned, the inspectors assigned to them out on investigations. And, since Algeri’s assignment, most have decided it’s best to be out of the building and out of sight.

  Gerard had learned blue was a color of protection in the Muslim world, which explained why his boss always wore something blue to work. Is he trying to protect himself from us, or the criminals and terrorists we’re appointed to pursue? He nodded at the man and tried to walk past without a conversation, but his superior stepped across the walkway to block his path.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Inspector Antlé. Your case, it is now closed.”

  Gerard couldn’t stop his outrage. “Closed? How?! Did the suspect detonate himself overnight?” This wasn’t the first righteous investigation the political appointee had shuttered in the past months.

  The callous lieutenant smirked at him. “No, thankfully he did not. I reviewed the reports and determined that we have insufficient cause to continue.”

  “Insufficient cause? Are you certain you read my case file, Lieutenant?”

  The humorless man’s smirk devolved into a disdainful glare. “I am quite certain of it. Our agency and government have long used these terrorism investigations to harass peaceful citizens, immigrants, and refugees who’ve committed no offenses. I took over this unit to stop this practice, and that’s what I’m doing.”

  Gerard quelled his anger, and he worked to differentiate his supervisor from the man’s faith. His policy in one-way ‘tolerance’ and subjugation is NOT the way of the rational, moderate Muslim world. He took a deep, calming breath and gave himself one last reminder before he spoke. This maniac’s an anomaly.

  “Sir, with respect, I must protest! All the signs are there, and the suspected bomber could be operational only days or weeks from now! We don’t have time to wait for new evidence that allows us to begin the investigation all over again! The next complaint in this matter will follow his detonation!”

  Algeri set his jaw. “There is no other way, well, at least, no other legal way. You do not advocate we violate this man’s constitutional rights, do you?”

  Gerard understood the position Algeri had forced him into, and his limited ability to change it. I have few options to keep the
suspect from killing while I’m still on the Task Force. I can do far less from the soup line.

  Algeri stared at him, still awaiting a response.

  “No, sir. Of course, I do not wish such a thing.”

  “Then report to Sergeant Le’roux. He is heading up efforts to apprehend unlicensed taxis in the tourist districts.” He looked up and down at Gerard’s taxi driver outfit before stepping in closer so that no one else overheard him. “It appears that Allah selected your costume this morning. Le’roux’s investigation must be where you’re most needed.”

  Gerard watched his arrogant boss walk away. He exhaled, strode toward his desk, and prepared a list of his most urgent necessities. I’ll do what I must to protect my assignment and access to Task Force resources, but I’ll be damned if I stop investigating a suspected terrorist to chase unpermitted cabs.

  Only two minutes later, Gerard exited a heavy, metal exterior door and stepped out onto the street beside the government building. He checked his watch. No time to eat or to be a father, but I do have time for a smoke. Even though French and Parisian law didn’t forbid cabbies from smoking inside the taxis, the hazy smoke and residue damaged the audio-video equipment concealed inside the undercover police car. Gerard had intended to report to the safehouse by 9:30, but that no longer mattered. Even without a specific deadline or destination, he decided to burn only a single Gauloises. Gerard retrieved the red pack and lighter from a pants pocket, lit up, and examined the useless warning label.

  The last four generations of Antlé men had smoked the same brand since World War II when Gauloises had become patriotic. The French cigarette had been associated with the underground resistance while his great-grandfather and his compatriots took subversive and overt action against the Nazis. More recently, larger-than-life figures such as Pablo Picasso, Jean-Paul Sartre, even the author Albert Camus had smoked or endorsed Gauloises. Gerard inhaled a multigenerational symbol of his second, closely held religion of devout nationalism.

  He used the quiet moment to calm himself and consider how to proceed. This little island has been the seat of power in Paris since the Romans defeated the Celts and housed their governor here in 52 AD, right where the Palais of Justice now stands. That Roman governor ruled this entire region, and now, another political appointee seeks to protect his own minority of people by persecuting and manipulating everyone else. I suppose nothing’s changed then.

  After holding the tobacco smoke in his lungs, Gerard glanced across the street as he exhaled. A flyer for a band called Coup D’avertissement clung to a nearby light pole and rustled in the light morning breeze. Warning Shot, that’s a great name for a band. Typical of almost every building throughout the city, spray paint graffiti adorned the brown plaster across the street. Gerard read the fresh silver and black paint like a “street newspaper” and spat toward it. If I could catch one of those little shits in the act, just one, I’d make an example that would forever stop graffiti all across the city. The band flyer and its surrounding graffiti monopolized Gerard’s attention until his Gauloises gave up its last draw. He dropped the tobacco roach to the sidewalk and crushed it beneath his shoe. Maybe they need a backup drummer. I could use a side-job to keep my lights turned on, at least until I’m lucky enough to have a benefactor like Claudette.

  He rechecked his watch and decided he had time for a quick, second cigarette. Where the hell do I have to be anyway? After Gerard lit up, he looked over the white Peugeot four-door model that pretended to be his cab today. Last chance to make certain everything’s in order before I step ‘outside the wire,’ as the Americans say. A white sign sat on the roof, which read “Taxi Parisien” and helped make him indistinguishable from the other fifteen-thousand cabs in the City of Lights. A fake cab company name, “Le Trajet,” appeared in yellow-and-black decals on both front doors, and bright yellow decals across the top of the windshield and back window displayed the company phone number.

  Gerard smiled in pity at the thought of the long-suffering administrative cop who caught that assignment. Besides submitting the licensing and permit paperwork necessary to make the company appear legitimate in public records searches, that particular cop also provided the first convincing layer of deceit by pretending to be the company’s dispatcher. Anyone investigating the veracity of the cab could call the phone number, talk to a live person, even confirm the individual cab number, its current driver, and arrange for a pickup. Common criminals are lazy, and they rarely made greater efforts than that. The ruthless men I pursue, though, are both thorough and tireless.

  The Task Force administrators had long-established protocols that constituted the most effective and proven methods to defeat countersurveillance. Every member of their unit, even those who weren’t strictly operational field agents had acquired taxi permits and a driver’s license in their respective cover identity. The unit enjoyed greater flexibility to keep changing out drivers and cars as needed, especially during high profile operations and the month of August when most of the nation went on vacation. None of it matters when Algeri shutters our investigations, though…

  As he finished his smoke and cast it aside, Gerard stepped over and entered the undercover Peugeot. After moving from the parking spot, he spied Lieutenant Algeri’s assigned vehicle, a white Citroën, parked just ahead and rolled down his window. Gerard spat phlegm onto it as he passed. Screw him. I’ll do the right thing regardless of what that imposter orders, and I’m sure two or three teammates feel the same way. As he considered his next steps, Gerard thought of the words inscribed on one of the personal seals Thomas Jefferson used while serving as the US Commissioner and Minister to France: Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God.

  May 6, 10:12am

  Hotel Grimod de la Reynière. Paris, France.

  PSSHH

  Michael turned toward the impact in time to see shards of a thick water glass careening across the white marble patio behind him. A waiter in a black long-sleeved dress uniform and starched white apron apologized profusely to an elderly couple, so Michael returned his focus to the next objective.

  He’d positioned himself at an umbrella-shaded bistro table in the back corner of an upscale hotel’s sundrenched patio. Facing southwest, he held a commanding view of the Seine and the Place de la Concorde, both ahead and to his left, as well as Avenue Gabriel to his right. An open hardbacked novel laid on the cozy table in front of him. In concert with his dark sunglasses, the table’s oversized blue canvas umbrella helped him linger there while obscuring his appearance from any potential onlookers.

  To better blend in with the crowds of pedestrians and tourists, Michael had acquired a few items after landing in Paris that morning. He now wore a dark blue camp shirt popular with both hikers and tourists, but the dark hue helped him hide among the native population and its notorious dark attire. Gray travel pants provided hidden pockets to conceal the items he might need today, and a new pair of Rockports offered stability and speed across uneven terrain without a tactical appearance. Michael had also bought a dark gray backpack that now held his smaller black duffel bag and its contents. He’d placed the backpack in the wrought iron bistro chair opposite him and pulled it under the table to discourage opportunistic thieves.

  Michael occasionally sipped at a cappuccino, but he hadn’t touched his chocolate croissant for the last half-hour. The Oremus, the hotel where he was ordered to check-in today, sat a half-block up Avenue Gabriel to his right and across a one-way residential street from his present location. A white Peugeot sedan drove by the hotel patio, ambled up Avenue Gabriel, and again stopped in front of The Oremus. Same license plate. That’s three times since I sat down. If he’s not a cabbie or an Uber driver, something’s wrong.

  Picking up a pen from the table, Michael made a few coded notes about the sedan on his novel’s off-white paper and turned the page before setting the pen back along the novel’s spine. He gazed at the building to his right, a massive, neoclassical pastiche structure. Why would John order me to stay in a
hotel across the goddamned street from the U-S Embassy? Everything that moves within a hundred yards of that place is under surveillance. Stupid.

  A police whistle commanded his attention, and Michael glanced to the massive Place de la Concorde in front of him. A traffic cop waved his arms to encourage traffic flow. When I became a cop, I thought I could have done so much more to protect my neighbors from the dangers in society. Turned out there’s a lot of opportunity to serve, but not so many to protect. I spent five years as just another cog in the criminal justice meatgrinder and envied the local parish priest for his manner of service. After becoming a priest, I realized how I missed the badge and gun, and my ability to directly confront evil. That led here, to this assignment, so I have to believe I lived through all that for a very specific reason and purpose.

  Michael nonchalantly glanced around and, finding that nothing else caught his suspicion at the moment, he casually flipped to the last few pages of his book. With pen in hand, he considered the list of numbers he’d already begun there: 1075, 1178, 1450, 1460, 1523, 2265, 2269, 2280, 2284, 2307. He softly tapped his pen against the page to call forth further inspiration.

  Each number Michael had included in his list represented a section of the Catechism of the Catholic Church that justified his actions to defend mankind by directly combating evil. If I ever write that letter to Merci, I need to explain every possible reason I’m not stepping outside the scriptures and our understanding of God’s word. It’s so important that she has a chance to accept and understand this, but, in the meantime, I can also use the occasional reminder that I’m not just some maniac killing in the name of religion.