The Vatican's Last Secret

by Francis Joseph Smith

  CHAPTER 34

  FRENCH MINISTRY OF DEFENSE – PARIS

  In the two months since assuming his position as Undersecretary of Defense, the Honorable Jacque La Tour was still acclimating himself to the workings of the position. He already aligned himself with the ruling party, settling in comfortably with the fold. Regular golf outings and expensive dinners were the norm. Of course, contractors or lobbyists always made sure the bill never found its way to him.

  Short in stature with the build of a wrestler, roughly handsome to most, always impeccably attired, Jacque La Tour had been educated at the Special Military School of Saint-Cyr otherwise known as the French Military Academy, the equivalent to the United States West Point. Since graduating many years before, he had assumed a number of increasingly influential posts, mostly diplomatic, culminating with his most recent position upon military retirement.

  He adjusted a set of family pictures that lay on his hand-carved oak desk, mentally remarking how blessed he was to have a beautiful wife and four lovely children; all of this accomplished at the relatively young age of 43.

  Yes, he was undoubtedly a rising political star in the French government.

  His brief interlude was interrupted by his secretary walking into his office, pointing to his phone.

  “Mr. La Tour, you have a call on your private line. It’s from an American named James Dieter, who, if I may so bold, speaks horrible French. Shall I say you are busy, sir?”

  Jim always did speak atrocious French thought Jacque, slapping his hand on his desk, laughing aloud. “No, please put him through. He is a dear old friend.”

  Jacque picked up his ringing phone. “Jimbo, you old, crusty sea dog; how are you doing? I haven’t heard a peep from you since you retired from the Navy,” Jacque said, reverting to English, one of three languages which he was fluent, Arabic being the other. “I was a little perturbed that you did not invite me to your retirement party.”

  “I would have enjoyed nothing better, Jacque, but your wife would have killed me, especially since the ruckus we caused last time we were together. Come on, you didn’t already forget, did you?”

  Jacque paused for a moment reminiscing about the “fishing trip” they had went on -- well, almost went on. They did happen to cross over a river to visit four separate bars, finally stumbling home at 3:00 a.m., waking Jacques’ wife and the kids in the process. “Yes, I remember. How could I forget? Monica didn’t speak to me for three nights after that little episode. Okay, my friend, you are absolved this time. So to what do I owe the privilege of this phone call? Need a place to stay in Paris?”

  “In that house of yours? Are you kidding? It’s already laden down with three children running amuck,” Jim said, remembering his last visit.

  “Correction,” Jacque replied. “Four right now. Monica had the latest addition to our happy clan last month.”

  Jim felt like a heel for not remembering, making a mental note to send some flowers and a case of wine when he returned to the states. “That’s right, four. I apologize. Time flies, Jacque. The last time I had the privilege to talk with you, Monica was eight months’ pregnant. Just do me one favor, keep it in your pants so you won’t have to worry about number five coming along.” He felt sorry for poor Monica. She was stuck with four kids while Jacque flew from country to country representing the French Department of Defense.

  “Not all of us can be independently wealthy like some people I know,” Jacque said.

  “You’re right. I spoke out of turn. I didn’t mean to imply anything. I’m still the same old sailor I always was, just a little more round in the middle, if you get my drift.”

  “The next time you are on this side of the pond, I am going to fix you up. Yes, that’s it. Monica has many pretty friends. You can get married and join the club and stop looking in the window.”

  Jacque provided Jim with the perfect opening for Dan’s fabricated story. He utterly disliked having to lie to a trusted friend such as Jacque, but he had no choice at this juncture. He would make amends at a later time. “As fate would have it, that’s one of the reasons I am calling, Jacque. I happen to be outside Paris as we speak. I flew in for a couple of days with some outrageously rich bastards to visit Paris.”

  “You don’t say. You are moving up in the social circles. Now a private jet, eh? Must be nice. Even as an Undersecretary I am required to fly coach.”

  “Well, here’s the scenario,” Jim started, the lie fresh in his head from practicing with Dan. “One of our passengers is traveling incognito. She’s a big movie star who is going through a messy divorce, and she doesn’t want her whereabouts publicly known. We have to keep everything hush-hush. Do you catch my drift, Jacque?”

  Jacques secretary silently slipped in bearing documents for him to sign, depositing them on his desk in order of importance, withdrawing as efficiently as she had made her entrance. Jacque waited until she had departed before continuing. “You’re her squeeze, aren’t you? Come on, you can trust me. Which big star is it? Come on and tell me, Jimmy. I need to hear some exotic stories,” he pleaded. “Just one little tidbit to get me through the day.”

  Jim pictured Jacque on his knees in some angelic pose. “Calm down you old horn dog. Next time I’ll have some juicy details for you beyond your wildest imagination.” He paused, weighing the possible repercussions his friend could expect if caught, deciding it best to push on. “But back to more important matters at hand. I would consider it a personal favor if you could get airport clearance for our party to bypass customs so we can vacate the premises as soon as possible.”

  Jacque was taken aback for a moment, but quickly reconsidered; realizing Jim would not make a request if it weren’t important. “No problem, my friend. One of the perks of the job,” he replied. “Tell me your airport location, final destination, and the tail number of the aircraft. I will then magically use my newfound power to do my first illegal act and get my friend and his Hollywood starlet back to their love-nest.”

  There, it was done. Jim took a deep breath before proceeding.

  “You French are all the same, always with sex on the mind. Then again you haven’t changed a bit, Jacque,” he said, laughing loudly. “All right; you have your pen ready? We are departing from Paris-Dulerie to Newark International, New Jersey. I will need you to fax the tower at Dulerie with the documents and the U.S. Immigration office in Newark.”

  Jacque scribbled the information on his new letterhead, still admiring his official title. “No problem, Paris-Dulerie to Newark, New Jersey,” he mumbled as he wrote down the information. “I will have my secretary draft a letter for my signature and then fax it to the tower and immigration within ten minutes. Jim, next time call me before you get to Paris so we can get together. I can’t wait to tell Monica about your famous Hollywood starlet. She will be amused, to say the least. Take care, my friend.”

  Jim hung up the phone feeling ill at having to deceive a friend. Turning to a patiently waiting Dan, him having monitored the whole conversation from across the table. “All right, we are clear for takeoff. Jacque is using his diplomatic leverage to allow us an orderly exit before some customs’ official wanders by.”

  “Excellent news; you’ve done well, my boy,” Dan said. “This calls for a libation. I know we have a bottle of Irish on this plane somewhere. Will you join me when I find it?”

  “Find me the pilot you promised first,” Jim said, wanting to get underway. “Then I’ll join you.

  “Who needs another pilot? I’m still qualified to fly,” a smile creased his face. “Well I’ve never flown anything this big or with two engines, but it shouldn’t be too hard if you can find me the instructions.”

  “You can’t be serious little man?” Jim said, not knowing whether to believe him or not.

  “Jimmy it’s just part bravado and bullshit which equates to an Irish emergency plan, but no worries,” pointing over toward the control tower. “Speak of the devil and who shall appear.”

  Walking towa
rds them was a tall, athletically built gentleman in an awkward-fitting traditional blue blazer, starched blue pants to match, leather World War II Air Force style hat tilted to one side, and a pair of aviator sunglasses. Only a scarf around his neck was missing to complete his ensemble.

  Eian Doherty, all of six feet and pushing a solid 220 pounds. His once handsome face attested to the fact that he loved to play a decent game of rugby. As he approached, a grin was apparent from ear to ear.

  “Daniel Flaherty, you old sod, good to see you, my friend,” Eian said, playing up his Irish brogue, heavier than ever as he extended his hand in greeting. “Now stop being a pain in the ass, load your product, and I’ll take care of the flying business. This is no little trucking operation driving into Dublin. And another thing, I refuse to fly the plane until I have met all of its passengers.”

  A thousand pardons,” Dan said. “Mr. Eian Doherty meet Mr. James Dieter, the man who is paying our passage and employing you in this most humble yet modest of undertakings.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dieter,” Eian responded sincerely, crushing Jim’s hand with his grip. “I don’t know how you got yourself mixed up with this man,” pointing over toward Dan, slapping him on the back in jest. “But if I were you, I would keep an eye on your wallet. He’s a known card thief.”

  Dan turned serious for the moment, taking offense to Eian’s off-hand comment. “Now, Eian, that’s no way to talk to your master. You lost that last poker game fair and square.”

  Eian displayed a passion for playing cards, badly, with poker being his favorite way to go down in flames. He was known to wager an entire paycheck on a single game. Unfortunately, he sometimes had to borrow money from the local bookies or loan sharks in order to meet his losses. Presently he owed $22,000 dollars to a small-time Philadelphia hustler named Mickey Dolan. Dan knew of Eian’s need to score a quick payday thereby avoiding the “bone breakers” Mickey employed to perform his debt collection services.

  Eian rubbed his hands over the dirt-encrusted wooden boxes, trying to acquire a sense of what was inside. “Then I want a rematch when we get back to the States with my cut from whatever product you’re loading here.”

  “You’re on,” Dan replied.

  Eian pulled out a clipboard that contained his flight plan and an empty aircraft manifest sheet. “Okay, what lie should I put on the aircraft’s manifest under product so we can get this junk into the States without much notice?”

  “Just say antiques and religious articles. That should fly for now,” Dan said, allowing a quick wink.

  “Antiques and religious articles, oh yeah, I got you,” Eian replied, annotating the manifest. “Oh, you’re a real comedian, Dan. What do you really have in these boxes here: C-4 explosives, grenades? Come on, you can tell me, Danny boy,” as he puts his arm around Dan pulling him closer.

  “We go back a long way, Danny and I do, Mr. Dieter. Danny, do you remember the time we had the O’Malley twins out on that amusement pier? That was an unforgettable night.”

  “Alright, Eian, the cockpit awaits your grand entrance, so hop to it, eh,” Dan said, realizing this was neither the time nor the place to reminisce.

  Amused at Dan’s obvious discomfort, his feathers having been ruffled, Jim said, “Eian, you’ll have to fill me in on that adventure while Dan’s sleeping.” He glanced over at Dan, him now busy moving the remaining boxes onto the aircraft.

  “It will be a pleasure, Mr. Dieter,” Eian said, tipping his hat as he moved off to the cockpit.

  Jim walked over to assist Dan with the final few boxes, not wanting Dan to experience a heart attack from his recent exertions, with the digging, all-night driving, and now the heavy loading, tapping him on the shoulder, pointing to the aircraft stairway, indicating for him to rest.

  Dan appreciated the respite and didn’t protest.

  “Dan, where the hell did you ever meet up with that Eian fellow? He’s a character from another era or another time. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Don’t be fooled by that act he puts on, my friend. That man is as smart as a fox and as dangerous as a rattlesnake. A word of warning; don’t get on his wrong side.”

  “Most of the people I happen to meet with you are from the wrong side of the tracks, and believe me, I wouldn’t want to cross any one of them.”

  “Let me give you a little info on our boy Eian. I first met him back in 1971, during a little trouble in the homeland. Eian was part of my ten-man cell, or unit, as your American military would call it. He was the man responsible for flying in our light weaponry; 45s, M-16s, and the occasional explosive devices from France. It may sound easy to you, but Eian,” he looked up to ensure Eian was not within listening distance before continuing, “had a habit of flying his aircraft at 20 to 30 meters above the sea to avoid the British Army radar sites based in England. I can personally vouch for the man, because I was included on one of his little flying adventures from the French coast. We were flying so damn low the plane actually had seawater in the cockpit. Eian had to keep the windscreen wipers on due to the ocean spray obscuring his view. All the time this crazy bastard is singing Irish Folk tunes at the top of his lungs for all to hear. The boy even had the nerve to ask me for his fishing pole as he was flying along, as if he were actually going to drop his line in the water while he was flying. Crazy bastard! When we made it to our destination of Tully Meade, they said I was white as a ghost. I did not remember the landing, because I passed out after he turned the aircraft sideways to empty the water out of his plane before setting it down.

  “Enough,” Jim said, shaking his head, wondering if only half of the story were true. “The man’s as crazy as you are.”

  CHAPTER 35

  FRENCH MINISTRY OF DEFENSE – PARIS

  Mrs. Lafier waited patiently before deciding to approach Jacque in his office.

  “Mr. La Tour,” she said apprehensively, wondering how he would accept her brashness. “I know you are still new with the position and are still getting acclimated with the workload, but I noticed you haven’t reviewed the Top Secret message traffic log in a week or so. The former Undersecretary, Mr. Chavier, read his message traffic every day. It’s not my area to suggest such things to a man in your position,” she stammered, looking to the floor, averting his piercing gaze, “but it might benefit you to know what is going on, sir.”

  Jacque was taken aback at first. Allowing a few seconds to pass before realizing that maybe he could learn a thing or two from her. Hell, she was in the employ of the previous Undersecretary for two years.

  “No, no, you are right, Mrs. Lafier,” he replied in an all-is-forgotten tone. “Sometimes I get overwhelmed with all the duties assigned to this position and forget the little things. Let’s start fresh. From now on I want you to bring me the top-secret message traffic list first thing in the morning. That means I’m at least a week behind, so we better start right away.”

  “I happen to have them right here, sir,” she said, proudly presenting six red folders, each with Top Secret emblazoned across their covers.

  Utilized by the Defense Department’s upper level management, the message-traffic system allowed them to keep abreast of domestic situations that could affect national security.

  “If I could direct your attention to the top two folders, sir, they came in via special courier almost a week ago,” she said, opening them both. “The first is from General Sinclair, and the second is evidently from a Mr. Perluci of the Vatican Security Force, which is unusual, because we normally receive all of our messages of this nature through our security service. Apparently it was rushed through other channels about a week ago.”

  He casually glanced at the General Sinclair message detailing the escape and manhunt for an Algerian terrorist who has promised a bombing campaign as revenge for his time spent in captivity. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Lafier. I’m sure they weren’t too important to our little office,” he said, quickly picking up the next folder, one that detailed an extensive Vatican, British,
and Interpol manhunt for an Irishmen named Daniel Flaherty and one American named James Dieter; both wanted for questioning concerning an IRA incident that had occurred many years before.

  Jacque face turned a ghostly white.

  “My God, this can’t be my friend, Jimmy,” he said aloud, brushing aside the rest of the files including everything else that happened to be present on his desk. “Mrs. Lafier, get me the tower at Duliere immediately.”

  DUE TO A SERIES of wide-sweeping government cutbacks, Renee Dupree was the sole air traffic controller on duty at Duliere Airport.

  The last thing she needed now was any form of trouble from a government ‘big-wig.’ She already made mistake number one by picking up the tower’s phone and not letting it go to voicemail.

  She hadn’t even had her first cup of coffee yet.

  “This is the Department of Defense Undersecretary Jacque La Tour calling from Paris. I am trying to locate a particular aircraft that may be at your facility. Can you tell me if any planes have taken off in the past half hour or so?”

  Renee picked up her binoculars to monitor the only aircraft she had on site, now assuming take-off position at the end of runway 26. “No sir, it’s been pretty slow today. I do have a corporate Boeing 777 ready to roll.”

  La Tour exhaled a sigh of relief. “I need you to stop that aircraft in the name of French National Security,” he ordered. “Do not allow that plane to take off. Do you hear me? Do not give them clearance. Tell them to return to the terminal and await further instructions. Just make up some excuse. Any excuse. Tell them the air space is closed for military aircraft maneuvers or something along those lines.”

  Jacque let a sigh of relief escape.

  Renee’s hand started to twitch for the first time since she had first worked the tower at de Gaulle airport, Paris’s main airport, many years before. “But, sir, I have received a direct order from the Office of the Aviation Director himself, Mr. Trottier. I cannot countermand his order,” pausing, “it would be my job.”