Angels Fallen

by Francis Smith

Jim was quick to respond. “You must be reading my mind.”

  Dockside, St. Florentine, France; 100 kilometers SE of Paris

  The small town of St. Florentine sat on the lush border of Burgundy and Champagne, in the heart of France’s wine country. The town’s history dated back to ancient times, when it served as a fortress outpost on the fringe of the Roman Empire. Through time, it adapted and experienced not only an Italian influence in its stone and fresco architecture, but also some of a Germanic nature. It also had the dubious distinction of serving as a “backdoor hub” for vacationers, both wealthy and working class, eager for a barge vacation and waterway access to travel throughout Europe.

  The night before, Jim and Dan had talked well into the morning hours, consuming large quantities of scotch. Both learned a great deal, and in the future would take care not to underestimate the other.

  “I’m still at a loss,” Jim said, shaking his head. “Why in the hell did we have to take four different cabs to get to this place when one would have done the job nicely? I could have slept off this horrible hangover in peace instead of shifting to a new cab every thirty minutes.”

  Dan waited until Jim emptied the remainder of his water bottle. “Now, don’t you think the Paris cabdriver, if questioned, would remember a fare he drove for almost a hundred kilometers? Think about it, lad. That would have been a big payday for that bugger. He would have returned to his garage bragging about the exorbitant fare he charged two foreigners for such a long ride in his cab. I’m only trying to help our cause. My lifelong experience will hopefully get us through. As we agreed last night, in certain circumstances we will just listen and learn my friend. Then, and only then, shall we acquire the knowledge of a true professional.”

  “Now enjoy this,” Dan said, pointing over to the canal, its various yachts and pleasure craft in residence. “Its beauty does something for the soul, the mind, and the body. Wouldn’t you agree, Jim?”

  “Beats me, I’m still trying to reacquire my sense of smell—that along with the rest of my senses after last night,” he replied.

  Dan proceeded. “Proverbs—never try and consume beverages for the purpose of drinking someone under the table, especially an Irishman.

  “How about Ezekiel: 17? Never drink water downriver from the latrine,” Jim fired back.

  “A battle of wits—I like it,” Dan said. “If we can keep up with humor for the remainder of our trip, things will pan out. They say humor is a key ingredient for following through on tough operations.”

  “Right you are. But maybe you can fill me in on the rationale for our being in the middle of a dinky town in France, at its docks to boot, whose overwhelming fish stench is not helping my hangover.”

  Dan pointed over to where a group of three twenty-five-meter long steel barges lay tied parallel to and against the town’s dock. The barges reminiscent of its larger cousins that plowed the canals of Europe for over fifty years, giving way to tandem trucks in the late 60s. These barges were of the smaller variety used to off-load cargo from the larger barges and the cargo delivered to destinations on the shallower rivers. Most of the smaller barges eventually made their way into the lucrative tourist trade.

  “We need a boat my boy, not just any boat, a barge, a river barge,” Dan said. We can basically float over to the farm using rivers and canals, and sneak back out the same way. There are no custom checkpoints between France and Germany; hasn’t been one for years. Plus, we can enjoy the scenery and have a vacation on the side.”

  Jim looked first to the parked barges, then to Dan, allowing a smile to creep across his face. “You truly have a devilish mind, Dan. I would have never approached the operation with an idea like this. One question though. After we remove the gold and documents from the farm, how do you plan to get the gold from the barge and across the Atlantic?”

  Dan already started to walk away allowing Jim’s last comment to hang in the air for a moment before he turned back on his heels. “One trip at a time, my boy,” he said, holding up his index finger for emphasis. “One trip at a time.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  VATICAN CITY

  Father Brandon Wetzel, Chief of Vatican Internal Affairs, sat patiently through the one-hour update, choosing to politely refrain from comment until Perluci and Father Lester’s concluding remarks.

  Short in stature, his skin pasty white in color, head shaven bald, Father Wetzel resembled a chemotherapy patient whose prognosis was not encouraging. He also despised the Vatican’s discrete use of personnel such as Perluci, but he realized world events necessitated their presence.

  Father Wetzel hand-picked Monsignor Sims and Father Lester to oversee Perluci’s Sodaitium Pianum or Special Action Team. It was his duty to make sure that the strict Vatican guidelines were always followed to a “T” during its various missions. If it were up to Father Wetzel, he’dthrow the whole lot out on the street—but he was only following orders from above.

  “What do you mean we’ve lost our contact?” Father Wetzel yelled. “Are you telling me that this Flaherty has left us high and dry, and he has not communicated with us in over a week?” He tossed his plastic coffee mug against a slate board containing maps Perluci had hung up; the cup’s contents creating streaming paths through the details. He turned to face Perluci, his puffy face now crimson in color. “Didn’t you inform me that we owned this Flaherty person—that he damn well knows the routine? He is your responsibility, Mr. Perluci. Now what are you going to do about this?” He turned toward Father Lester, his disappointment showing, but realizing Perluci was mainly to blame.

  Standing in front of Father Wetzel’s Spartan desk, Perluci was at a loss for words. After all these years of loyal service, he was being hung out to dry because of one lousy screw-up. Looking back at Father Lester then to Father Wetzel, he knew he had to admit fault, even if it were to a jerk that had no idea how hard it was to work the streets for information.

  “Yes, when I am wrong, I will admit it, sir,” Perluci said meekly. “I do believe your assessment of Flaherty a fortnight ago was correct.” He formed a tight fist with his aged calloused fingers, slowly opening his hand to reveal his palm for Father Wetzel to view. “I thought I knew our Irish boy, but he slipped through my fingers. As you suggested earlier, I will activate our special action teams. I will call our offices in London, Paris, Madrid, and Berlin and assign a priority code red to this assignment. Eventually we will know every detail on these gentlemen: where they sleep, crap, and shave. We won’t care how our people get the information or whom they have to use. They will just complete their mission.

  Father Wetzel handed the well-worn file to Perluci. “What’s your personal take on this, Mr. Perluci? Why do you think Flaherty has turned on us and hitched his oars to this man?”

  The tone of the meeting had changed, evidently, in his favor. This was significant in itself. Possibly his position was safe for the moment.

  “In the dealings I’ve had with Flaherty, I found him to be a retread from the knightly ages of the past, sir. He’s a most eloquent man who could charm you to wits end, and then simply stick a dagger in your back. And you would not feel the sensation until it was too late. So you can see why this Flaherty can be a tough man to figure.”

  Father Wetzel pointed back to the file Perluci had handed him. “According to your report,” he took the file, opening it, “when this man Flaherty bombed that Irish seaside hotel in 1978, he could have eliminated all traces of the Protestant families involved. In the process, he could have killed all twelve Protestant children staying there. He chose to wait until most of the children adjourned to the beach for a little swimming before he destroyed it.”

  “Yes, sir. That would be the knightly part of him,” Perluci replied. “He does have a weak spot in his heart. But he is ex-IRA. I think his motivation is greed. That could be the only logical excuse. I almost feel sorry for the other gentleman he is traveling with.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would this,” he referred to his
note pad for the full name, “James Dieter worry about Flaherty? Aren’t they friends? Isn’t he a friend of the father?”

  Perluci nodded. “As I understand Flaherty, this is a man who will not leave any witnesses for his ugly past deeds. He will not allow himself to be apprehended by the authorities, most of all not our people, and leaving behind witnesses only increases that chance. I know this type. One thing I am sure of. He is going to kill Dieter and not leave any bones for the wolves to pick over.”

  Canal side, St. Florentine, France

  Jim walked the barge’s topside teak deck. “This is a beauty,” he said to the salesman. “This boat resembles a fully loaded motor home only she’s lacking the wheels.” Jim now admired the kitchen, outfitted with a glass double-door refrigerator and stainless steel quad-burner stove among its many amenities.

  “And as you will notice, sir,” the salesman replied snootily in flawless English, only a slight French accent detectable, “all of our vessels meet the highest French Maritime standards in accommodation. Our corporate office recently received three stars from your American Mobile Guide for excellence. This model in particular earned extensive praise in that booklet.” Not missing a beat, he continued with the tour, one of many he had clearly provided. “This barge has two bedrooms, each with in-suite private Jacuzzi baths.”

  The salesman offered Dan and Jim a quick glance in the area before hastily moving on.

  The salesman continued. “As you can see, the galley and dining areas are exquisitely paneled with American cherry wood and equipped with the latest in the Sony surround-sound entertainment equipment. I must also note that they come with an impeccable selection of music I personally chose.”

  Jim and Dan exchanged brief glances. Obviously new selections of music would be in order.

  “And notice the floors. We have modest oriental carpeting located throughout the barge protecting the fabulous teak wood floors.”

  The salesman moved on as if he had another appointment waiting. “If I can direct your attention over here,” he said, pointing to an elaborate digital control panel the size of a paperback book mounted on the wall. “You will notice our central air-conditioning system. It is rare for the European environment, but we think it is a requirement that should be afforded to our, shall we say, higher echelon clientele. Now, over here is the bar area with, as you Americans say, ‘top shelf’ selections. All are standard and would be included in a signed rental package agreement.”

  Dan eyed the liquor selection with obvious disdain. He walked behind the bar’s solid walnut veneer, picking up a blue bottle of liquor by his forefinger and thumb as if it had some type of fungus growing on it, placing it back on the shelf.

  “Let’s get something straight. Irish Whisky and Irish Mist. You can toss the rest.” He casually turned to Jim. “Would you prefer a few bottles of Canadian Club to go along with my selections for the ride?”

  “Canadian and Irish whiskey should do nicely and throw in a few cases of Beaujolais and Burgundy wine for our dinners,” Jim replied, smiling at the salesman before looking back at Dan. “You did say the trip should take two weeks—right?”

  The salesman lips quivered in apparent disapproval of Jim and Dan’s tastes. “Very well, sir. If you decide to rent our product, I can clean out the bar area and restock it with several bottles of your selected whiskeys and your vintages. Now that we have the bar selections, we can complete the tour.”

  In a hushed tone, Jim said. “I do think we offended the snot—wouldn’t you say?”

  “Just a tad,” Dan replied.

  The salesman walked toward the middle of the barge with Jim and Dan in tow. “And as you can see, the top deck is also richly appointed in teak and mahogany woods. And this is where I conclude the tour,” he said, standing by the barge’s aluminum gangway.

  Dan removed a crisp, new, fifty-dollar American bill from his wallet, admiring its off-center picture of Ben Franklin as he held it up to the light to observe its watermark. It also had the desired effect of catching the attention of the salesman.

  “Thank you, Monsieur Dobet, for an excellent tour,” Dan said, casually slipping him the bill. “You have quite a majestic product here. I think we may want to procure for her for several weeks’ time.”

  The salesman had an uneven smile upon his face. Most people just thanked him and were on their way.

  “Our terms are simple. I will provide you with a cashier’s check for full payment in Euros by 11:30 a.m. today,” Dan said, looking at his watch before continuing. “That’s about two hours from now. We will expect to shove off around noon. That is 12:00 noon today. Do you foresee that to be a problem?”

  Taken aback at such rudeness, the salesman stubbornly crossed his arms in response to such a foolish request. From Americans he could expect such a demand, but from an obviously educated and refined Irishman, there could be no excuse.

  “But, sir,” he spat out. “That is only two hours from now. I cannot possibly have the liquor and food delivered by that time. The logistics of such a request is too incredible. I simply cannot do it.”

  It was a fishing expedition, surely, on the part of the salesman. The first tip received, he now required a bit more bait. Dan had planned for as much.

  “Monsieur Dobet, I apologize for the short notice,” Dan said. “We would not dream of inconveniencing someone of your stature.” Dan looked around to see if they were being observed. “Maybe we could achieve some type of understanding.” He removed five, American one-hundred-dollar bills from his wallet, placing them one by one into the salesman’s now open hand. “Would this tend to move things along at a more ambitious pace?”

  The salesman pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the perspiration from his brow. “I will personally see to the operation, sir. You can count on me. Should you require anything else, anything at all, please let me know. Yes?”

  “If I need anything else, you are the man, Monsieur Duvet,” Dan said. “Thank you for your time.”

  The salesman patted his pocket as he watched Dan and Jim walk down the gangway. Thanks to his newfound customers, he was going to dine on solid food tonight.

  Once clear of the salesman Jim turned to Dan. “Do you believe that guy? He changed his mind pretty quick when you produced the big bills.”

  “That and then some,” Dan replied, gauging the remainder of his billfold. “Ah, yes, and how about that tour? That look on your face was priceless. For a while, I thought you were going to die when you viewed the accommodations.”

  “Are you kidding me? I would have done forty years in the Navy if we had ships outfitted like that. Just mount a couple of fifty calibers, and we would be in business. I am curious about one thing though. You seem to know your way around a boat. You ever do a little sailing in your day?”

  Steering Jim over to the canal’s edge, Dan wanted to get a full view of the barge from afar.

  “Your observation skills are still in excellent form, my friend,” he responded. “You are right. I have done a little sailing in my time. In what seems to be another life and another time, I had the opportunity to utilize boats similar to this one for operations in Ireland.”

  Moving closer to Jim’s position by the canal’s iron railing, he looked around; satisfied no one was about, before proceeding. “The British Army patrols were very efficient in closing the roads, searching vehicles for weapons and such back in 1975. It was then that the river rose up and spoke to me.”

  “Use the pleasure boats as a way to move about”.

  “A bloody brilliant idea that was just waiting to be unearthed. I took a few basic boating courses. After that, I was able to move more product to the boys up north via the inland waterways. For some reason, the Brits didn’t pay much attention to the river areas. I guess they thought the Irish bastards couldn’t learn to sail. On the one occasion that they did happen to patrol the river and chose to board my boat, I had secured the perfect place for hiding my illegal cargo. I had placed twenty Ak
-47s and five pounds of C-4 explosives, all enclosed in shrink-wrap, mind you, in the boat’s shitter before I left the dock. There was no way they were going to open that baby up and search. Using this particular mode of operation, I was able to ferry in weapons up and down the river for various operations.”

  Jim shook his head. “You really have a checkered past, a regular man for all seasons. I’m surprised you agreed to go on this little operation my father dreamed up. You could be taking a chance.”

  “You mean with me being a wanted man in, what, three or four different countries? Dan replied.

  “Exactly. I didn’t want to put it that way, but yes.”

  “Well, it’s only four if you count my newly adopted homeland of the good old USA,” Dan said. “But have no worries about me tipping the operation that would alert the police. A little bird informed me they only have one photo of me, and it’s from 1978. I was thirty pounds lighter, and my hair was a bit browner and thicker. It makes moving about a lot easier since I have been in hiding for thirty years. I have turned into one of the forgotten few. This is one of the reasons your father entrusted me to assist you with this operation. Your father knew if anyone could perform an operation such as this, it would be someone like me, for I can be a ruthless bastard when need be.”

  Dan pointed back to the barge, changing the subject. “Who would suspect two tourists to be transporting illegal cargo on a vacation barge? More importantly, we are also covering our tracks from any snooping souls. Who would expect us to be boating on a luxury barge through the rivers of France and Germany to our Weimar destination?”

  “Only someone who thinks like yourself,” Jim replied, before repeating it in a much somber tone. “Only someone like yourself.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  MI-6 HQ – LONDON