by Steve Richer
He hailed a cab and, in his best French, asked to be driven to the Grand Hotel Lafayette Buffault, and to be quick about it. He especially enjoyed uttering that last part; it made him feel like an attention-grabbing character in a Len Deighton novel. His life was an ocean of monotony and any ripple that could lift him up a little higher over it was welcome.
He knew that perusing classified documents on airplanes was a big security no-no. Nearby passengers could have visual access to papers they weren’t authorized to see. Some intelligence agencies bugged their national carrier’s planes to collect such sensitive information. Some of those agencies were from Western countries.
Halfway through the flight Jeff had stopped caring. And now he was glad he had. He had become familiar with the files his new boss had handed him before he’d left Ottawa. And he had been able to play a little Tetris too.
The Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, the French secret service, had become aware that several of their ministers were corrupt. Although it was a domestic matter and not really in their jurisdiction, the DGSE had conducted the investigation at the President’s request.
While most of them had been found out and been shown the door to avoid further embarrassment for all those concerned, there remained doubts about two of them. Doubts was what it was called when everyone was certain, but had no proof.
Because the operation was so hush-hush to begin with, there was no getting a warrant for the electronic surveillance of the crooked politicians. Forgoing the warrant would not only make the surveillance tapes inadmissible in court, but it would force a criminal investigation toward the DGSE. It was so in every Western state.
This was where Jeff came in.
When these situations arose, it wasn’t uncommon for a country to solicit the help of a foreign government. That country’s intelligence agency then went over for a visit, making sure to bring their surveillance equipment with them. Jeff would stay in Paris a day or two, indulge in a little spying, and all this on the French taxpayer’s money. The twenty-seven-year-old wished it were a lot of money.
Bellamy had told him that the French had booked him a room at the Grand Hotel InterContinental but that he had declined the offer, electing instead to choose another one. One that the French wouldn’t know about. Jeff had figured that the two hotels would be roughly equivalent in quality; he had heard great things about the InterContinental.
He took a second to gaze at the wonderful building before paying the cabbie. It had arches and columns, carvings and sculptures, topped off by a magnificent dome that pointed at the black sky. He didn’t know much about architecture, but guessed the building dated back to the imperial days of Napoleon.
Something Jeff had always loathed was the feeling of utter deception that being let down by high expectations brought on. The lobby of the hotel reflected in absolutely no way the luscious exterior. The luxury extended to some ordinary linen couches and a few mirrors. The walls were plain, painted in a boring flat white, and so was the ceiling.
Jeff was positive the other Grand Hotel was much better than this one. This was nothing above a two-star hotel. Of course, he had seen much worse, but for the life of him he didn’t understand. How could this be? Weren’t they both Grand Hotels? It wasn’t the lack of opulence that bothered him, but rather that the French Government had offered a much more prestigious dwelling and his boss had declined in favor of a less expensive one. Why are we concerned about saving them money? Jeff reflected.
“Bonsoir. You must be monsieur Tremblay,” the clerk said in his native French, which hinted at Southern upbringings.
Jeff opened his mouth to correct his identity, but quickly remembered that the passport Bellamy had issued him listed his name as Jean Tremblay from Montreal, a graduate student at the Sorbonne. “Oui, bonsoir,” he told the young man.
“Room 12 is waiting for you.” As he turned around to get the forms and the keys, he noticed a slip of paper in the mail cradle. He read it and nodded. “Also, we received this rather large parcel for you this afternoon.”
When Jeff was done signing the card and picking up his key, he noticed the clerk bend down behind the counter. He hadn’t expected the package to be waiting for him, but he was glad it was there. He took the parcel, which was wrapped in brown paper, under his arm and took off toward his room, declining the services of a bellhop.
The room fared a little better on his senses, resembling ninety percent of the hotel rooms he’d ever visited. The television set, all fourteen inches of it, was bolted near the ceiling and Jeff couldn’t help but feel he was in a hospital. What the hell, he thought, I’m not here for a Spectravision marathon.
He tossed his suitcase on the twin beds, which had been pulled together, and went to work on the package. He removed the brown paper and made out another layer of paper underneath. He inspected the latter to find the initials TR scribbled across the seams.
This was meant to deter potential snoops. Jeff knew the initials corresponded to his contact at the embassy, Terry Raper, but had no way of knowing whether it was the guy’s handwriting or a forgery. He had never been paranoid by nature and wasn’t going to start now. He ripped off the second layer of paper.
By having his own agency select his hotel, Jeff was a step ahead of enemy agents. A lot of hotels were bugged, especially those that hosted many foreigners who had important government ties or were associated with successful businesses. Some hotels even had an office in the basement occupied by intelligence officers. Those that didn’t usually had bellhops and clerks who reported to them.
The first lesson that every intelligence officer working abroad learned was that they should always assume they were under surveillance. No precaution was ever unnecessary. Jeff was aware that this was a friendly nation and that he was here on their request, but this couldn’t encourage him to let his guard down; the most vicious spy games were played between friendly countries.
Under that brown paper was a large briefcase, one of those aluminum sample cases. Opening it he found an array of electronic equipment and bugging devices. Every Canadian embassy had one of those cases which they lent to CSE agents. It kept the agents traveling light and this way they avoided being compromised in airports. Jeff hoped he remembered how to work them all.
Chapter 3
Just North of Atlanta, in the foothills of the Georgia Mountains, was the small affluent community of Roswell.
Originally inhabited by Cherokee Indians, whites took over the land in 1802 and their hold on it became paramount when gold was discovered in 1828. While the US Supreme Court had considered the move illegal, President Jackson turned a deaf ear and ordered the Cherokee removed from their territory.
Ten years later Roswell King established a cotton mill and a town was born. Although the Civil War had been hard on the town – Union troops had destroyed the factories and arrested some of the citizens – it had managed to bloom again once the conflict ended. Many sumptuous homes and plantations remained.
Bradford Harker knew all this. That was the primary reason why he had joined the British Special Air Service fifteen years ago. He loved traveling and finding out about the locations he visited. He had been in civilian life for almost five years, but he had kept the habit. He told himself that if the information he learned didn’t benefit his intelligence needs he would store it in the tourism file.
He was staying in an Atlanta motel and had spent the last hour reading all the brochures. Technically, there hadn’t been any need to rent a room and endanger himself in this way. He could have made a roundtrip from Atlanta Hartsfield International to Roswell and saved himself a lot of trouble. But he expected to do some sightseeing and that made it worth it.
It was almost five and he had to hurry. He grabbed his satchel and left the room. He drove his Audi rental north up Atlanta Street. He then turned onto Alpharetta Highway where he soon spotted the Ferrari dealership.
Harker browsed through the impressive showroom until a salesman cam
e his way.
“Can you feel it speaking to you?” he asked him, noticing him checking out a 550 Maranello.
“Speaking? It’s singing!” He exaggerated his British accent, almost going Cockney to make sure the salesman figured out he was a foreigner. He hated chitchat and detested being pleasant even more. But he had to play the game to get what he wanted.
“Don’t I know it? You in the market right now?”
“I’m afraid I am. I’m sure you’ve notice my hired car outside.” Harker pointed at it through the glass pane.
The salesman had noticed it; it was how they decided whether the client was worth approaching or if he was just another Sunday browser.
“Yeah, not too shabby. S8 Quattro?”
“I’m not sure. I asked for the most expensive they had in the lot. You see, last weekend my nephew was visiting from London and he persuaded me to let him drive my beloved Carrera 4. It turns out it was his first time driving on the right side of the road. The steering wheel was virtually the only thing I could salvage.”
“Well, that’s a bummer. You’re looking to make the change from German to Italian?”
“Yes, I don’t like to stay too long in the company of the same people.”
They shared a chuckle and Harker resumed his browsing, knowing too well the salesman would follow.
“Did you have a model in mind?”
“You mean besides Cindy Crawford? Uh, no actually. I don’t want a convertible though, it’s something I’ve learned from my previous vehicle.”
This he didn’t have to invent. A few years back he had inherited his brother’s sporty MG when the latter had won a trendy Rover on a TV game show. Convertibles were the devil to heat in frosty temperatures.
“Do you have an idea of the amount you’re ready to spend?”
“Money is no object.”
“My favorite sentence.” They tittered again and Harker followed a few feet away to a groovy piece of automotive art. “This is a 360 Modena. For my money, this is the most beautiful model Ferrari currently makes. V8 engine, aluminum frame, 400 horsepower, and we can even get you this model with an F1 gearbox. Goes zero to sixty in 4.5 seconds. This is a friend maker.”
This was the one Harker had come for. “Lovely. Would there be any way for me to test drive it?”
“There certainly would! You’ll need to come with me for some paperwork though.” He led the way to his office where he drew up some papers. “This is a popular ride, let me tell you that. Just this morning we had someone take her out for a spin.”
Harker wasn’t the least bit surprised. He even knew who that person was. He gave the man his fake Georgia driver’s license and credit information which had required a man’s death a few days before in the neighboring state of Florida. Following a hefty deposit, he was ready to get on the road. As the salesman took the car out of the showroom and put a license plate on, Harker went into the Audi to retrieve his satchel.
“Uh, what uh, what are you doing?” asked the uncomfortable salesman.
“I don’t want to appear like I’m stealing the car, believe me. But I have a liver condition and I’ll need to take my medication shortly.”
He reached inside his bag and pulled out a couple of pill jars. He was sure the man wouldn’t notice the M&Ms inside.
Three minutes later, he was southbound on Atlanta Street, heading for the 400. Ferrari claimed the 360 Modena could reach speeds above three hundred kilometers per hour and Harker put it to test. He was going almost twice as fast as the posted limit, but he had to be back in an hour.
He told himself that if cops pulled him over – if they could catch up with him, that is – he would claim that as an Englishman he was confused by the absence of the metric system. It wasn’t much of an excuse, but it would have to do.
Within twenty minutes, he was parked on Forsyth Street, in front of the downtown Atlanta Greyhound Bus Terminal. Before entering the building, he reached inside the glove compartment and felt around the top. His fingers came across an irregular bump. He didn’t even smile as he found what he was looking for. He ripped the tape off and examined the key.
Moments later, he faced a wall of lockers inside the terminal. He located the one corresponding to his key and upon opening it he found a briefcase. He pulled it out, unlocked it using the code he had memorized a week earlier, and opened it.
He removed the thick manila envelope and inserted it into his satchel. He yanked out a similar packet and put it in the briefcase. He replaced everything as it was, dropped a quarter in, and marched out of the terminal.
He glanced at his watch and estimated he had a half hour to tape the key back in place and return the car to the dealership. His heart was pumping hard.
He had never thought that walking around with nine hundred thousand dollars would ever make him this nervous.
Chapter 4
Time was flying by too quickly for Jeff.
Midnight was fast approaching; his notes pointed out that the club where the meeting was to take place closed at that time. He had half an hour to plant the bugs, have a cigar and a drink, and look good doing it. With the end of the 20th century had come a trend that had never really gone away. Cigar lounges had popped up like mushrooms and now every city had at least one that catered to the rich, powerful, and influential.
La Fumée des Dieux was Paris’ most prestigious sanctuary for cigar aficionados. Technically open to the public, it had a strict dress code that turned many away. It didn’t advertise much nor did it welcome newcomers with open arms. It made money on the exorbitant prices it charged for drinks and cigars.
Jeff had never been one to wear suits to work. He only had two, the first he had bought at a department store to be appropriate for a job interview. It was his mom who had begged him to buy the second one.
His cousin was getting married and his mother had objected to him wearing the production line special. She had taken him to an upscale downtown boutique and had paid for the navy pinstripe. It was his second time wearing it and he couldn’t wait to remove it.
The maitre D’ had almost frowned when Jeff walked through the door. But Jeff had decided just to be himself and not give two shits about it. He had enough to worry about as it was.
Retaining his Quebec French dialect as per his cover, he greeted the man. “Good evening, how do you do?”
Without leaving enough time for the man to retort, Jeff slipped him a bill through the suave handshake he had seen so many times in gangster movies.
Jeff was escorted to the lounging area by a much more hospitable host. Although it had been built a mere ten years ago, the place had an old world feeling. Oak paneling, leather chairs, and impressive bookcases lining the walls all contributed to the elegant atmosphere.
He took a seat apart from a couple of elderly gentlemen who were in a deep conversation. It was late and he had to act fast. He ordered a Montecristo A and a Hennessy Timeless cognac, glad that it all went on his expense account. They were the most expensive items on the menu and Jeff expected a bill flirting with the four-figure mark. He had to look respectable for the part.
The first sip of the amber liquid sent him to cloud nine. The taste was zesty yet guarded, evoking aromas of fruits he couldn’t pinpoint. He swirled it around his mouth hoping to get everything out of it. Jeff was afraid it could be addictive. How could he support a habit that cost five grand a bottle?
He had a little more luck with the cigar since he had little experience with them. He puffed on it like he saw the others do, making sure not to inhale. It would look really bad if he choked himself to death.
He discreetly reached inside his pocket and pulled out a small device the size of a quarter. It was a microphone that could pick up conversations in a fifteen feet radius. The top was adhesive and it allowed Jeff to stick it underneath the table next to his chair. He was glad that he had passed the reputability test; the employees weren’t paying him attention anymore.
He stood, taking his drink
and Cuban along, and began meandering around the room. He took a huge drag off his cigar to produce a large quantity of ash and approached a table that hosted a crystal ashtray on the far side of the room.
He stuck another bug under the table as he made use of its ashtray. He surveyed the room and knew that a third bug would have to be planted in order to have a perfect coverage. The ideal spot for it was where the two gentlemen sat.
“Fantastic weather we’re having, isn’t it?” Jeff said with a big smile plastered on his face.
“You’re from Canada?” the younger of the two men asked.
I’m from Mongolia, you dumb shit, Jeff almost said aloud. He was getting tired and his patience was wearing thin.
“Why, yes! How did you know?”
“I’ve worked in America during the seventies.”
Jeff wanted to correct him but had to restrain himself. Many Europeans saw no difference between Americans and Canadians and didn’t understand the insult they proffered.
“Very glad to meet you.”
His plan called for Jeff to shake the man’s hand and he felt a wave of relief when he offered it. He grabbed his cigar with his left hand and lowered his glass to the table with his right. He shook both men’s hands and moved to get his glass back. He made sure to blow smoke in their faces as he planted the third bug.
“It sure is a nice lounge though, uh?” Jeff wandered away as he continued exploring the lounge. “Have you been coming here long?”
The men stood as they downed the last of their drinks. “Too long it seems sometimes,” said the man who hadn’t yet spoken.
“It sure is nice. Look at those books!”
For the first time Jeff didn’t have to feign his enthusiasm, he really did have a soft spot for books.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, sir. Do enjoy yourself in our beautiful city.”
“I most certainly will, thank you. Good night.”
Jeff went to a bookcase in a corner of the room as the men left. He was now close enough to the books to notice they were simply leather bound classics made out to look like first editions.
