The Bombmaker: A Michael Thomas Thriller

by Gavin Reese

  Their footfalls lightly echoed in the narrow stone corridor, and Father Luc turned back and spoke to ease his anxiety. “Have you ever been to our cathedral?”

  Michael cleared his throat, still unsure of where to balance his need for operational security and anonymity against trusting his fellow clerics with the most benign information. “No, I have not.” I can’t be an emotionless asshole to this guy, especially when he’s volunteered helpful information.

  “You should return for one of our tours, but we offer only two in English each month. I imagine we’ll soon offer many more now that tourists and pilgrims may no longer choose to visit Notre Dame over us.” The local priest opened another door that took them into the private rectory where the parish priests lived. “Please, sit,” he offered and motioned to a tired set of worn furniture.

  “Thank you.” Michael had grown accustomed to spending time on chairs and couches that should have been replaced decades ago. For the vast wealth and power of the Church, its most ardent and important supporters see little such benefit. They enjoy only a reasonably functional roof and living inside a monument to God and His people for a short time. He stepped across the small room and sat on a short couch, while Father Luc took up one of the unstable dining chairs nearby.

  “How shall I begin?”

  “With reconciliations, Father Luc, I find it often best to begin at the beginning.”

  “Oh, yes,” the younger man blushed and crossed himself, so Michael repeated the ritual. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been eight or nine hours since my last confession, and I’m still failing to safeguard peace in my heart.”

  Without the intel packet he normally acquired and read at these contacts, Michael had nothing to do but listen. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees, and focused on remembering everything he heard. It’d be silly and dangerous to take notes. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

  “I hold anger and hatred in my heart, and I wish vengeance to befall a brother.”

  “God commands us to not to act against charity,” Michael confirmed. “What caused your anger and hatred?”

  Father Luc explained in surprising detail that an unnamed, lifelong friend worked as a counter-terrorism investigator and operative for the French National Police. The unit’s new supervisor seemed to fulfill early allegations that his appointment was a political appeasement to France’s Muslim community and its long-alleged grievances of discrimination and prejudice within the police and military antiterrorism units. The supervisor had forced a growing number of legitimate investigations closed after declaring their basis in Islamophobia and racism, rather than reasonable suspicion, evidence, or probable cause. He had even accused his subordinates of attempting to subject the nation’s Muslims and refugees to the baseless beheadings and murderous hysteria that followed the French Revolution.

  Within the last few hours, the supervisor closed out an investigation into an alleged bomb maker who lived nearby in Seine-Saint-Denis, a strong Muslim enclave in Paris, and the investigation needed only days or hours to determine the man’s involvement.

  “What was this missing piece,” Michael asked.

  “They knew what building he lived in, but still, not which apartment. It is narrowed to only four or five dwellings, and the investigators expected to soon identify the exact flat. Their other efforts kept getting them closer, but Ger--, err, my friend, expected they would locate the exact apartment at any moment. As worried as I am with my anger at this man, who is so willing to endanger the public because of his religion, my friend is having a far tougher moment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Father Luc cleared his throat. “He left only a few minutes ago. I don’t think he’s ever visited during a workday, and I feared something terrible had happened in his personal life. He confessed his ceaseless anger, which even he admits is growing to open hostility. My friend feels betrayed and powerless, which is never good for a man with his training and responsibility, and knowing his suffering and temperament, in turn, anger me for him and his circumstance. The distrusted supervisor reassigned him to a trivial case well beneath his skills and training. If the police are correct, and this alleged bomb maker is just that, I fear my friend will soon act outside the legal and moral laws to prevent those detonations.”

  Michael cocked his head. “You mean...”

  “I believe he will kill the suspect, and perhaps, his supervisor. He may even think himself justified in doing so. Even now, he is risking everything that matters in his life. Despite his orders, he refuses to accept the new assignment and is instead continuing the unauthorized investigation of a guest of the nation of France, and maybe even a French citizen. He stands to lose everything, even if he is later found to be right.”

  “Did he say that to you?”

  “Not in so many words,” the priest explained while the aging wood chair creaked beneath his shifting weight. “But I understood his tone and intent just the same.”

  “Do you think it curious that he’s provided you with all this detailed information?”

  “Yes, and no. I should have better explained our relationship. We are friends, that is true, but we’ve grown up together our whole lives. We trust each other absolutely, and it helped him to unburden even the smallest details from his conscience. I asked few questions and have let him say whatever he needed to me.

  “He is afraid,” the priest continued, “that his Muslim superior is either aiding such men, or he’s so blinded by his own belief system that he can’t accept that some among his own faith wish to commit grievous harm, violence, and evil.”

  “You’ve now twice avoided saying ‘innocent.’”

  “I believe in original sin, Father Andrew. None of us is truly innocent. Even the secular court systems are only willing to find us ‘not guilty’ or ‘acquitted,’ but they never say ‘innocent.’”

  “Fair enough.”

  “May I presume that you’re armed and prepared to defend yourself?”

  Michael couldn’t hide his immediate concern. “Why is that important?”

  “Saint-Denis is a Muslim enclave well on its way to becoming our seven-hundred-and-fifty-third ‘no-go’ zone. We still enjoy some police, fire fighting, and medical services in this area, but not for much longer. The police won’t enter with less than four officers, and this historic cathedral is near the top of the terrorist wish list. In the eyes of our aspiring oppressors, destroying this site and its faithful would prove Mohammed’s supremacy over both the French nation and Christianity. My fellow priests and I live under constant fear of assault and attack. I cannot wear clerical clothes outside the cathedral, and no one but the local rabbi will shake my hand. Anyone else I meet will, at best, offer me their wrist.”

  Michael sat back on the couch, shocked by the priest’s testimony of his personal experiences inside the French capital. Goddammit, that’s why John had the weapons dropped to me, why he keeps talking about this being such a dangerous assignment. It’s gonna be pretty damned ironic if I get killed because I wasted so many hours today preparing for a threat from John. Dammit.

  “If not for this cathedral and its associated university, I believe the police and emergency services would have already turned it over to the Salafists.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “My friend. His colleagues in the uniformed police services lament not having yet abandoned it. They risk their lives to serve the needs of people who wish them and their children dead and damned to hell.” A weak smile appeared on his face. “Who can blame them? Even their employer, the French Republic, refuses to acknowledge or address the problem.”

  The priest grew silent and stared at the floor. Michael sensed he held something back. “What is it, Father Luc?”

  The man inhaled a deep breath, held it, and exhaled before he looked back up and met Michael’s gaze. “My friend, a brother in all but blood, believes in his heart and in his head that a violent terrorist attack is underway. If he�
��s correct, at an unknown but imminent moment, a bomb will destroy the lives of dozens, perhaps hundreds of my countrymen and our guests. There is little time to stop whatever is to come, few chances to do so, and almost no option absent violent, uncompromising intervention.

  “I quietly notified my monsignor and hoped that he knew how to help, how we could avert this without breaking our vows and endangering our very souls. I took that risk, and now, you are here. Just you. One man. And, apparently, a fellow priest who suffers the same limitations as I.”

  Michael held the man’s intense gaze, unsure where the sadness in his eyes and the angry tone in his voice would lead.

  “So. Father Andrew. I asked for help to save my brother’s life, and to save him from himself. And, if possible, to save the unknown innocents from injury, suffering, and death. What can one man do to stop a flood? I hope that you’re capable of more than prayer. That hasn’t yet proven effective against this particular ailment.”

  Michael did his best to offer the resolute confidence this man needed to hear, regardless of what he knew and felt. “You’re right. I am but one man, but I’m never alone. I can’t yet tell how this will go, but my skillset extends well beyond reconciliation and prayer.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, Father,” Luc offered, although with no change in his expression or voice. “I could never admit this to one of my parishioners, but you’re walking into a lion’s den. Even if you are not alone, your destination, in my experience, demands far more swift and lethal tools than prayer.”

  May 6, 3:47pm

  13 Rue de Corbillon. Saint-Denis, France.

  Gerard sat in a dim office suite before a long folding table and watched a bank of ten large computer monitors arranged in two rows of five. Because the suite had no windows, a bare overhead bulb and the monitors offered his only lighting and view of the outside world. At the array’s far left two monitors for cameras 9 and 10 remained black, but Gerard intended to resolve that in the immediate future. A small reception area stood just beyond the door to his right, but that space only had room for a few chairs and a water cooler. Peeling paint, furniture scuffs, and water damage alternately covered the walls, and dozens of water marks on the threadbare carpeting confirmed the extent and history of the recurring problem. A plastic bucket stood in the corner to his left that Gerard planned to use instead of risking interaction with neighborhood residents every hour or two. It’s best I’m running solo. The second guy would have little room to work, and I don’t know many who would share my fifteen-liter water closet.

  Three of the Task Force’s IT techs had finished the install only half an hour ago, and Gerard had just completed his diagnostic and operational checks. The original seven cameras still worked, and the tenants haven’t yet found or destroyed the replacement at number 8. He smiled at his good fortune, despite the recent setbacks. Perhaps in spite of Lieutenant Algeri, God is smiling on me for the moment.

  Instead of following his lieutenant’s dangerous and misguided order, Gerard found and leased a vacant office inside a three-story parking garage across Rue de Corbillon from their target. Although he preferred a greater stand-off from his suspects, Gerard’s sudden lack of personnel demanded he position himself as close as possible. In addition to the suite’s proximity to his target, its metal exterior door and surrounding frame provided absolute privacy after he changed both its locks to high-end Medeco deadbolts that couldn’t be copied or picked. Without getting a flat in the same building, this is the best we can do. ‘We,’ as if I’m not swinging on these gallows alone. Thank God Lucas’s men moved the monitors and set them back up without losing the video-audio feed from a single camera.

  His cellphone vibrated on the desk’s surface, and his current ringtone, a rock song from the recent American remake of A Star Is Born filled the small space.

  “Black eyes open wide,

  It’s time to testify.

  There's no room for lies,

  and everyone’s waiting for you!”

  Gerard saw the call came from Task Force Headquarters and considered not taking it. My chance of success is greater, though, if I don’t yet have to go to ground. Maybe it’s best I keep up communications with Algeri and his cronies. He sighed and accepted the call. “Antlé.”

  “Gerard, it’s Lucas,” his friend and longtime colleague announced in French. “I understand you’re keeping close watch on some of my equipment. That’s very gracious of you, especially when you know how few functioning camera systems I have.”

  He ignored the man’s sarcasm. “I like the way you’re seeing this. I expected your call, but I hoped your men could keep their mouths shut for at least a day or two.”

  “Fuck that, they know better than to bullshit me. You’re damned lucky I don’t have to deploy them on another investigation right now.”

  “What investigations? Algeri’s closed everything but his goddamned meter maid projects! Perhaps I should thank him myself for leaving your equipment unused, what do you think?”

  “How did you set this up, Gerard? I heard Algeri killed your case.”

  “That might have been his intent, but he made the mistake of not using those exact words.” Gerard cleared his throat of the lie. “The orders he sent to me and your technical crews commanded us to close the old safehouse. He didn’t order me to return the equipment to you, or specify that I could not open a new safehouse.”

  Lucas scoffed through the phone. “How long can you keep this up?”

  “If all goes very well, or very badly, only a few more days. I rented the office suite with an undercover credit card, so Finance won’t question it for a month, maybe six weeks, when the itemized bill shows up. If I’m still here by then, I will have converted and begun attending the mosque across the street.”

  His friend chuckled at the notion. “I can let you watch my gear for now, but, if we get orders to set up a new operation, I’ll have to come for it. I don’t have spares lying around.”

  “Thank you, Lucas.” Now confident in the lack of resistance or confrontation from his friend, his Gerard focused his attention back on the cameras. He should come out soon, and I probably won’t get another chance for another three days if I screw this up.

  “I get it, Gerard. Algeri won’t hear it from me or any of my men, but they’ve already put our necks out if the lieutenant realizes it.”

  “Hmmph.” Gerard manipulated the cameras with a mouse to set each at its optimal focus for the current lighting conditions.

  “Gerard? Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes, of course.” He looked down and tended to the conversation for a moment. “If he looks into this, I’ll be out on the street, so, as far as it concerns your men, I ordered them to follow my directives as the lead investigator.” Gerard looked back at the monitors, but only scanned for his target. “They never knew I wasn’t acting with the lieutenant's direct orders and approval. No sense in putting anyone else in the soup line.” Every three days, just like clockwork, he comes out, and today’s the day. Unless he comes back with an extraordinary amount of groceries, it confirms the number of stomachs in his apartment hasn’t changed. That alone should mean no new players have stepped onto the field with us. He’s unlikely to let any partners stay elsewhere, there’s too much risk in doing so.

  “I’m sorry to hear about you and Claudette. I only just found out this morning, Gerard, honest, or I would’ve said something sooner. You two were always a great couple.”

  Movement. “Have to go, Lucas, my guy’s coming out.” Gerard started a timer on his watch and ignored his friend’s condolences.

  00:15:00

  00:14:59

  “Be safe, Gerard. We’re cheering for you, even if you can’t hear us doing so.”

  Gerard ended the call. The silence of their cheers is deafening. He put away his discontent about having stepped out into the arena alone and hoped that would last only until word of his efforts spread. If I prove Algeri’s dangerously misguided, not even the
politicians running the police service can support his position. Let them relegate that asshole to investigating unlicensed cabs in the tourist districts. As expected, he watched the suspect descend through the interior stairwells of his apartment building and move toward the street.

  After locking both office doors behind him, Gerard walked through an interior hallway and then out onto the ground floor of the parking garage. Located just a block away from his target, only the top parking level offered a line of sight to 8 Rue du Corbillon, but the lack of cover and concealment up there made the perch useless. Gerard began his counter-surveillance routine by hurrying across the entire floor and checking on both vehicles he had stored there, a blue Fiat hatchback and the white Peugeot that had posed as his taxi earlier that morning. A casual look over each showed no evidence of new damage or tampering.

  Among the reasons he’d chosen the vacant office suite had been the building’s close parking access and lack of interior cameras. Although one device tried to record the vehicle, face, and license plate of everything that drove out of the garage, Gerard could maneuver around the floors and pedestrian entrances without creating a digital log.

  Gerard looped back to the blue Fiat, opened his rear hatch, and removed two large door-sized magnets that displayed the name and logo of a fake grocery delivery service called Ferme A Table. The Task Force had also backstopped this business to ensure it passed an initial inspection by any countersurveillance team. Maybe I should go out for my own groceries later, just to show the same logos on a different car in the neighborhood?

  With his subterfuge in place, Gerard drove out of the garage, hid his face from the lone camera, and checked his timer as he drove toward his target. 00:12:13.