by J E Higgins
“I didn’t think you even knew where I was.” Crane finished looping his belt.
“Please. The people you go to, to help you move about discreetly are the people I introduced you to,” she responded indignantly. “They may cut their throats before telling your enemies or the police anything, but they’ll give you up to me easily just for the price of a smile.”
“Sounds about right.” Crane felt a little stupid for asking the question when the answer was obvious.
Madeline continued. “I get that you like living like a pauper, the whole mercenary rebel image. However, you know I always keep a room for you at my bar. I was surprised you didn’t take it when you got back.” Her expression changed to a genuine look of concern. The question was definitely meant to be more probing. She seemed distraught at this change in his routine.
“I was getting around to it,” Crane lied. “I just felt the hotel was a good place to stay for a few days. The last job was a bit dicey, and I figured it best not to hang around my usual haunts for a bit and let things die down.” It wasn’t true. In reality, he had wanted some time to himself before making his presence known. There had been a rather heated exchange of words between them just before he set off on this last mission. He wasn’t yet ready to confront her again.
She studied him for a time, her eyes told him that she did not believe his answer, but her shrug suggested that she was inclined to drop the issue. “The thing is you got a message,” she continued. “One of your contacts reached out and left a message at the bar.”
Madeline ran a small bar called the Danjou, in honor of the Captain Jean Danjou who led a company of fewer than sixty-two Legionnaires against a force of three thousand Mexican rebels back in the 1860s. It was one of the most legendary battles in the history of the Foreign Legion. She had named her bar in his honor. It had become something of a common hangout for ex-military personnel who enjoyed some nostalgia over drinks. It also had become the unofficial hub for mercenaries. People wishing to hire independent contractors on the black market knew the place to go in France was to the Danjou.
Many mercenaries moved around ─ they didn’t want to be found. They made dangerous enemies doing the jobs they did and maintained little in the way of a stable residence. It was common to give Madeline’s bar as their permanent address and receive their mail and messages there. Mercenary business and intrigue were often discussed in her establishment. It was said by one member of the Police Nationale, “In France, more covert operations and global intrigue are discussed in her establishment than at the Elysee Palace.”
He finished dressing and walked over to where she sat. Taking the seat next to her, he reached for his shoes and proceeded to slip them on. “Was it important, or were you just looking for an excuse to track me down?” He saw her eyes widen at his remark though she kept her attention fixed to a magazine she had found on the table.
“A little of both,” she replied indifferently though her mannerism told him something different. “I was interested in seeing how you were doing.” Despite Crane’s ability to speak near-perfect French, Madeline, for some reason, insisted on speaking to him in English.
“And, the message?” Crane reminded her.
She exhaled with a hint of exasperation. “A man who looked like a lawyer dropped by two days ago. He wanted me to let you know your old friend wishes to see you. According to the lawyer, he expects you in a week.”
“Huh,” Crane smirked. “I do love when Maurice summons me.” He said sarcastically. “Anything else?”
“I don’t like that man,” she stated curtly. “He’s an elitist who likes to remind people how important he is.”
“He’s a broker who finds me work,” Crane replied.
She shook her head while flipping through the pages of the magazine. It was an issue from Raids, a French military periodical. “You know how it works with guys like him. They never divulge more than absolutely necessary. The message is always short and only what you need to know.”
Crane exhaled and shook his head, as he sank back in his chair. “Let’s get a bite to eat, I’m starved.”
At that Madeline dropped the magazine and leaped to her feet. “First reasonable thing I’ve heard today.” She grabbed hold of his arm and began pulling him out of the chair. “You’re buying, it’s your penance for not seeing me the second you were back in town.”
From those words, Crane knew the meal was going to be expensive. She led him toward the door. He marveled at her as she moved. She was a beautiful girl in her mid-twenties with a long mane of dark chestnut hair that hung straight down her back. She had brown eyes, light-colored skin, and an hourglass figure that she showed off wearing tight-fitting T-shirts that captured every contour of her torso and low hanging bell bottom jeans that drew attention to a perfectly framed ass and well-shaped legs. A brown leather jacket with tassels and a bandanna tied around her head finished the sixties flower child look that she was going for. Crane could only think that when she worked her bar, she looked very much out of place walking amongst a room full of mercenary and pirate types.
As he had predicted, she took him to the priciest café she could find near Prado Beach. While ordering, she made a point of choosing the most expensive meal on the menu along with an equally expensive bottle of wine.
She sat across the tiny circular table from him, focusing her attention on the view of the coastal scenery which she repeatedly commented on while savoring her meal. Each bite was executed in the most audacious way possible to ensure he saw it. It was a reminder to Crane that this was his penance for taking so long to see her.
The pain was felt in both his gut and eventually his pocketbook when he received the check and she happily pushed it towards him with a twinkle in her eye. Forking over several euros he glared at her as she finished her dessert with a sly smile, looking back at him playfully.
“I have to say I was surprised,” she began. “I didn’t think they would come looking for you so soon after your last job.”
“It’s the nature of the profession,” Crane reminded her.
She folded her arms and pursed her lips as if she were about to pout. “You should take some time to rest, and not just go rushing away so soon.”
“I doubt it’s a job,” he said trying to calm her. “Knowing Maurice, he wants to be a professional officer and debrief me on the operation I just completed. Nothing to worry about.”
Unsure whether to believe him or not, she studied him for a while as she continued pouting. She had grown up in the business of warfare. She was no stranger to the military world and understood very well the nature of the mercenary business. Her father had been a career soldier until his death somewhere on the Dark Continent while on a mission.
Having been reared on old war stories told by their father and his friends, her brother Rene had chosen a similar path. Instead of joining the French army outright, Rene chose to try his hand at the fearsomely known Legion Etrangere (Foreign Legion). Because of French law prohibiting its citizens from joining the Legion directly, Rene, like so many native citizens, enlisted claiming citizenship of some other French-speaking country. In his case it was Belgium.
After his selection at Aubagne and basic training at Castelnaudary, he made his way to the training grounds of Calvi and the home of the 2e REP. He was sent to 4th company, the Destruction and Sniper Company. The company that specialized in behind the line’s reconnaissance and sabotage. It was there that he met Devon Crane.
At the time, Devon Crane, the name he had been given when he joined the Legion, was a Welshman who had gotten into some legal trouble in his home country. He’d joined the Legion for lack of any viable opportunities at home. The two became fast friends. During their first deployment to Iraq, they were often paired to do recces in hostile areas feeding intelligence on enemy movement and taking out high-value targets or providing support for friendly troops.
They continued for the next few years working closely together in similar hot spots ─
a rotation in Afghanistan and another back to Iraq and the deadly streets of Fallujah. It was on the streets of this deadly city that Rene met his end when they were caught, by chance, exfiltrating an area and got pinned down in a gunfight. An explosion from an RPG ripped Rene’s leg off and led to him bleeding out. Crane managed to fight his way to safety along with some of the remaining members of the team.
Afterward, it was Crane who brought Rene’s personal effects back to his sister. He had gotten to know her when Rene dragged him along on visits multiple times, and he became a virtual third member of the family.
Crane sat for hours as Madeline cried bitterly while holding the necklace she had gotten Rene just before he set off for basic training. After that, they became the only real family each other had.
After Rene’s death, the 4th company didn’t seem to hold much for Crane anymore. He tried out and got accepted to the elite Groupe de Commandos Parachutes or the Para-Commando Group, the Legion’s special commando unit. It is a force that operates at roughly the same level as the British 22nd Special Air Service or the US Navy SEALs. He spent the next few years earning his pay going on numerous operations ranging from high-level intelligence gathering in preparation for larger military operations, hostage rescue, and counter-terrorism missions in hostile countries. Then there were the routine chores of eliminating assorted hard value targets and enemy facilities.
He thought very hard about making a career out of the Legion until the wars began to die down and more pacifistic leadership began to overtake the French government. When it came time to renew his enlistment, Crane, like many others, opted to get out and try their hand at civilian life. But it was during the time of the Francois Hollander government. France was gripped in the tight reigns of a socialist administration that drove businesses away from the country leaving few or no jobs to be had.
Having a hard time finding work on the outside, Crane didn’t hesitate when he was approached by an old acquaintance. Maurice Lahier was a former army officer he knew from Iraq who contacted him and asked to meet him. Over drinks in the back of a small out of the way bar, Lahier made an offer to the former Legionnaire. It was a job of a military nature that required a man of his skills and experience doing a mission in Cameroon. The money, a hundred thousand dollars US, and the promise that no questions would be asked by any pesky tax officials.
At first, the whole thing seemed dubious. But then, Crane remembered that Lahier had been with the 1er Regiment Parachutiste d’Infanterie de Marine or 1st Marine Infantry Regiment, the French army’s equivalent to the British SAS. He also knew that in Iraq Lahier had been part of some secret intelligence unit running all sorts of clandestine operations in the country and seemed to command enormous clout. Crane was aware of this because of the number of clandestine missions he had undertaken on orders from this man.
At the time, Madeline had finished her economics degree at the university but was having trouble finding a job. She had been waitressing at the Danjou. With few other prospects in sight, she had inquired into buying the place from its current owner. But, being devoid of money, she was hard-pressed to make an offer.
Seeing his and Madeline’s futures looking dismal, Crane took Lahier’s offer. Very soon he was plying his trade in Africa, operating in dangerous territory and reporting on the activities of the notorious Islamic insurgent group Boko Harem. Those activities included delivering a lethal dose of harassment to their ranks through sabotage and targeted assassinations.
He proved so effective in his tasks that upon completion he received a twenty-five-thousand-dollar bonus on top of the initial fee. The whole time he was operating, Crane got the sneaking suspicion that though the military mission was officially contracted by the Cameroon government, the strings were quietly being pulled by Paris.
It didn’t matter though. Madeline got the money to buy her bar, and Crane once again had money in his pockets. Soon, more ‘informal’ job offers were pouring in. Apparently, there was still a demand for old-fashioned dogs of war, mercenaries who operated in the black market where no names were given, and money was paid under the table in backrooms or shadowy bars.
Private military companies posed the problem of formal contracts and overt contacts that made them impractical for more controversial jobs. Such jobs required plausible deniability. The skilled, battle-hardened Legionnaires getting out of the service and looking for work, or just unable to adjust to a normal civilian life, made perfect recruits.
The Danjou was already a hangout for current and ex-Legionnaires. In time, it became the unofficial center for such activities. Nightly, one could walk through the low-lit establishment and see ex-soldiers having hushed meetings at tables. Those meetings were often with shady characters, spies, or ex-spies brokering deals for their old intelligence services.
Crane and Madeline figured this all had to be done with the unspoken blessing of the French government. Despite all the illicit deals being done on a regular basis, never once was she approached by either the Police Nationale or the SDECE, the French intelligence service, inquiring about the goings-on in her establishment. Nor, did there appear to be anything remotely looking like surveillance of any kind in the streets or buildings nearby. If there was, it was well hidden.
After lunch, Crane walked with Madeline for a little while touring the streets. Eventually, they returned to his hotel where, at her insistence, he gathered his things and checked out. She wouldn’t take his excuses, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer as she unrelentingly trotted him back to her bar.
Chapter 8
A few days later Crane grasped the edges of the porcelain washbasin as be bent over, bringing his face within inches of the mirror hanging on the wall. He didn’t know what he was looking for in the reflection, yet he took his time, examining every inch of his face. After a while, he retreated across the room to a hardwood chair. Plopping into it, he breathed a heavy sigh as he eyed the room. The accommodations were not much different from his hotel ─ dirty brown walls, a bed that reminded him of his basic training days, and a few scraps of furniture that had been haphazardly collected before they had found their way to their current location.
There was no threat, a fact he already knew. It was the idea of what was about to happen that had him reluctant and taking his time. In two hours, he would be at his arranged meeting with Lahier for the usual thorough debriefing. Frankly, he just wasn’t in the mood to be grilled over the execution of his latest operation.
Deciding he couldn’t stave off the inevitable any longer, he started getting dressed. Being a stickler for a professional appearance, Lahier would not tolerate Crane’s usual attire ─ jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of boots or practical shoes — so today it would be slacks, a collared shirt, and a brown sports jacket.
Stepping outside, he scanned the escape exit that was at the end of the hall directly adjacent to his. Ensuring that the door was locked tight, he secured his own room and started down the hall. The level above the Danjou was a collection of rooms that Madeline occasionally rented or loaned to trusted customers as a means of temporary lodging. They were all attached by a long hallway. She kept the room at the very end for Crane. She had specifically chosen the location because of its proximity to the fire exit that would allow him a quick escape in case he had to leave suddenly.
Making his way down the hall, he skipped down the narrow stairwell and exited out a door beside the bar. Madeline was walking back and forth behind the long counter tending to a large number of customers sitting on the stools lining the other side of the bar. They were mostly ex-Legionnaires and other ex-soldiers enjoying an afternoon exchanging war stories. She took no notice of Crane as he walked by.
He steered through the gauntlet of small tables that littered the establishment and the patrons occupying them. At the street entrance, it took him a couple of tries to flag down a cab going in his direction.
Lahier kept a nice apartment in the upscale Le Chapitre district of the city. It was one of the ma
ny houses he used for business. None of these properties were in his name. Instead, they were purchased under the names of close associates who, for a tidy sum, happily put forth the cash and placed their name on all the proper documents. Crane had never been to this residence.
The five-story, brownish white building wasn’t noble, but it was well kept and certainly comfortable for a man of means who didn’t want to attract too much attention but still live well. Crane exited the cab and walked a short distance up the sidewalk. As he neared the building, he saw two men pretending to talk to each other but kept glancing in his direction. From their features, he figured they were East Europeans, Ukrainians, or Georgians who were probably ex-Foreign Legion. Lahier liked to hire ex-Legionnaires who were East Europeans for his security detail. They spoke French, were well trained, and could escape to a country with no extradition treaty or had bribable officials if a bad situation arose that required them to escape.
He was met at the door by a short, hobbit-like woman in her mid-sixties with fuzzy black hair. She gave the mercenary a pleasant smile as she stepped aside and allowed him to enter. He walked past her giving her equally gracious pleasantries in return, then proceeded up a staircase. The complex consisted of five different apartments. Lahier lived on the top floor. The building was old with an elevator that was unpredictable. It was somewhat of a climb to get to the top floor.
He was met by a short, bulldog-like man who stepped out of the corner he was perched in to meet him. The man was of Nubian extraction, with black skin, a roundish head, and thick lips. Crane knew the man simply as Markus, and that he was from Gambia. He also knew that the man was very astute and possessed a fervent loyalty to his boss.
Markus approached him with a wide smile on his face displaying a set of shiny white teeth. “How are you, Masseur Crane?” His French was flawless and well spoken, the sign of a man who had received a good education. He wore a slightly over-sized sports jacket that when it flapped open Crane caught sight of the butt of an automatic pistol.
