A rare day to be associated with London in the month of June: sunny and mild; two words that never seemed to click in the London weather vocabulary. The kind of day that could seduce office workers to leave the office a little early for a round of golf, or perform some long overdue gardening.
For most office workers in London, this would have been an acceptable notion to consider, the exception being the staff at MI-6. National security was a twenty-four-hour-a-day mission for Britain’s Intelligence Service.
Most of the MI-6 workforce suffered from what the British commonly referred to as the “coal miner effect.” Workers who entered their workspaces before the sun rose and left after it set.
One such employee who suffered from the “effect” was Roscoe Hopkins: tall and gangly, pale skin the sun had rarely kissed, bald as a cue, cauliflower ears from his amateur boxing days.
His office lacked windows due to his boss’s level of importance. Another measure put into place in a constant effort to improve security. This prevented any sort of eavesdropping or assassination attempts from street level nine floors below.
Employed as an executive assistant to Sir Robert John, Director of MI-6, Hopkins was intimately associated with most of the top-secret operations and events that transpired not only in the United Kingdom, but also worldwide. Even the Prime Minister was not aware of most active operations.
Hopkins busily arranged the morning’s messages and newspaper clippings. The clippings were courtesy of the morning duty officer. Hopkins arranged them by operational theater, just the way his boss preferred: Europe, the Americas, and so on.
The duty officer had also delivered a red folder with “Top Secret, Director’s Eyes Only” stamped across its face. The normal color for interoffice director correspondence was blue. The significance of the red folder marked this as a sensitive issue, usually involving a terrorist incident or a political assassination of some kind. Hopkins immediately picked up the red folder. He walked up to Sir John’s office, knocking lightly to announce his presence, waiting until his director had looked up from his morning newspaper before entering.
“Sir Robert, sorry to bother you, but you have a red message,” Hopkins said. He walked over and laid the folder on Sir John’s desk. “I took a peek, sir. Evidently, one of our communication stations outside of Cheltenham intercepted a message indicating one of our Irish hooligans has surfaced on the continent—possibly Paris or Berlin.”
Sir Robert John provided Roscoe Hopkins “carte blanche” on reading message traffic, allowing him to review all messages no matter what level stamp, thus weeding out all of the unnecessary and trivial traffic before reaching his desk. Sir Robert leaned back in his chair, wondering what could possibly make his day even more interesting. “Come now Hopkins, we are down to only what, fifteen brethren still out of touch? Is it someone I know personally?” not bothering to open the folder.
“It’s an old timer, Sir Robert—Flaherty, Daniel Flaherty,” he responded. “Flaherty disappeared over thirty years ago after blowing up the Breakers Hotel in Margate. We suspect he went into hiding either in Canada or the States. Nothing has ever been confirmed.”
Sir Robert sat back casually puffing on a fresh Cuban cigar, one supplied by a private source in the Cuban Embassy. “Flaherty, Daniel Flaherty, yes, I remember that bastard. A rather ruthless one if I remember correctly. He totaled the whole damn hotel, but not until most of the children had vacated. How could I forget a person like that? The papers had a field day, calling him the terrorist with a heart.”
Most found Sir Robert to be a gentleman’s gentleman; head shaven bald, tall and fit, ruggedly handsome to most, along with a touch of old English charm, with an elegance long forgotten; well respected in the circles he moved, both professionally and personally. He recently celebrated his forty-third year with MI-6—recruited out of Oxford University by the legendary Sir Newton Clive—former head of the MI-6 Overseas branch, long since departed.
After readily accepting Sir Clive’s rather generous offer for employment, he was quickly put to work. First was the breaking of codes or ciphers, as they were then known, before being sent to a posting at the new communication’s complex outside Cheltenham. After ten years of tedious desk-work duty, he received an assignment to work in the former West Germany. He penetrated the “Iron Curtain” on eleven separate missions culminating with the turn of an East German Army General whom he personally escorted across the border. This led to a real intelligence coup for the western powers. For that distinction, he received the honorary title of “Sir” by the Queen. Moving up through the ranks rapidly, he naturally assumed the directorship of MI-6 when the sitting director retired several years before.
“Yes, I would like to get my hands on that bastard and bring him home” Sir Robert said. “What or whom is the source of our information intercept?”
“The Vatican in Rome sent out the equivalent of an encrypted all-points bulletin on our boy Flaherty, which we easily intercepted and broke at Cheltenham,” Hopkins replied efficiently, his boss not having to search for information. “If the information is to be believed, they say he may be in Paris or Berlin. There is also a side note that may be of some importance, Sir John. He was also known to be traveling with an American, one James Dieter from the State of New York.”
“Ah, one of our Irish lads has taken up company with an American traveling partner. I do not like it one bit, Hopkins,” Sir Robert said. “See what our cousins in the CIA have on this American, then get Rufus Sneed to pay me a visit in thirty minutes. Let’s see if we can arrange a nice reception for our prodigal son who has obviously come home to do no good. Also, call General Parker at the Ministry of Defense Headquarters. Have him alert the Special Air Service Team for possible action, either here or across the channel.”
“We are going to nail this bastard to the wall once and for all. Hopefully, I’ll be there to see it.”
Paris, France, Vatican Counsel Mission Office
In an indiscreet townhouse situated in the 11th arrondissement, Father Francis Jenkins sat sipping his cappuccino, reviewing the morning’s email traffic. It was already his third, one of many he would consume before day’s end. Having picked up the nasty habit as a special assistant in Rome over fifteen years before, it provided him with the boundless energy he required to complete his customary ten- to fourteen-hour shifts.
A bookish 55 year-old, whose hair had already turned prematurely gray, his doctor pleaded with him to put some weight on his six foot, 140 pound frame.
Father Jenkins sat staring at his computer screen for several minutes, digesting what he had read, re-reading the short email text several times yet again. “I can’t believe it. The Vatican has sent us a priority red. This is highly unusual,” he said aloud. After re-reading the message from Rome for a sixth time, he looked over at his lay assistant. “I have not seen one of these since 1983, when our Holiness was shot by the KGB in Vatican City.
Standing up in order to gather his composure, he walked away from his assistant before quickly turning back and allowing his trained reflexes to take over. “We have to act quickly on messages like this. I will need you to call Interpol and the local police who are in favor with us. See this message gets the proper attention it requires. You will inform them of our need for a full electronic search, meaning credit cards, airport tickets, banks, and the other assorted areas. Inform them the Vatican has provided us with a list of, looking back at the email for confirmation of the names, “one Mr. James Dieter and one Daniel Flaherty, credit card numbers and recent photos. I want copies of these pictures distributed to all of our friends.”
Father Jenkins’ young assistant looked a bit perplexed before responding. “I will be happy to oblige. But can you explain to me what exactly a priority red is? I am casually aware of the priority yellows and greens, but not a priority red. This is new territory for me.”
Turning slowly toward his young apprentice, placing a paper copy of the message on the table in front o
f him, Father Jenkins nodded. “Yes, we are still in the early stages of your training. You are obviously too young to remember how hectic it was with the assassination attempt on the Pope in 1983. You have only been exposed to our typical business here for, what, two months? Much has changed from that troubling time in 1983.”
He motioned for his apprentice to sit down. “As you are still in training, let’s reminisce with the codes shall we? Only this time, I will enlighten and expose you to one additional color in our system. Our priority codes are assigned three colors, not just the two that you were previously exposed to. As you are already aware, yellow translates to a low level search, usually indicating a robbery of church property with only local assistance required. Green is for crimes committed against a member of the church’s faculty. This would involve our council offices in the general area of the crime. Priority red means find at all costs. We use every office and person at our disposal, worldwide. It is only used when one of our higher-ups are affected, usually a bishop or cardinal, but it could even involve his Excellency, the Pope.
It was a little overwhelming for the young apprentice as he sat up from his prone position. “You must forgive me Father Jenkins, I am only used to dealing with the local police,” he said. “You say we retain a worldwide capability and capacity to actually locate people such as this? How can this be?”
Father Jenkins enjoyed reverting back to his former role as an instructor, if only for the moment. “We have people in such places as the local police, Interpol, American FBI, and various military personnel who are friendly to our religious cause. They all work together to complement our own security services at the Vatican. We place a call, the operation goes into effect, and we usually have our suspect within a few days or a week at tops.
“I understand the sensitive nature of the business, and the information stays with me,” the apprentice said. “But does it always work?”
“I would say nine times out of ten. That’s a percentage better than the American CIA, the Israeli Mossad, or the British MI-6. Our targets tend to slip up somewhere, whether it is using a credit card or a money transaction via a bank in their own name. You know how everything is recorded on the computer nowadays. We also recently started working hand in hand with the Israeli Mossad to expand our intelligence into Arabic countries, thus providing us with a more global resource.”
The young apprentice picked up the message, “So I contact this number at Interpol and our part of the operation just goes into effect?”
“Just contact that person and relay our message with our code number and the network goes into action,” Father Jenkins said, pointing to the name listed at the top of the page. The same message is being sent to all of our networks in Berlin and London. After you contact Interpol, then call this number in the military and this one at American Express. We will cover all of the bases.”
“So the net is being cast,” said the apprentice, admiring the simplistic nature of the system.
“Yes, it is,” Father Jenkins replied. “We are the fishermen—let us reap the bounty.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ABOARD THE SAILING BARGE “JACOB”
The barge was traveling at its rated speed of six knots per hour—putting them at a distance of twenty-five kilometers downriver of St. Florentine as they approached the farming village of Tonnerre.
As they were still on the “shakedown” portion of their cruise, they were getting used to the barge and its eccentric quirks. The only inconvenience to surface so far was the engine’s tendency to “hiccup” a dark plume of exhaust every thirty or forty minutes.
Jim sat enjoying the scenery from the top deck, reclining on a chaise lounge, sipping whiskey from a short frosted glass. Leaning back, he raised his glass in mock salute to where Dan stood in the pilothouse.
“Dan, if someone had told me about this type of luxury boating years ago, I would have gone out and bought my own barge by now. Hell, after getting out of the Navy, I promised to never set foot on another boat, but this baby is something else.”
Dan decided to dock the barge alongside a line of trees that ran parallel to the canal bank. Easing the beast into a position was easier said than done, reversing its engine three times in order to get out of the main waterway. Satisfied, he yelled down to Jim. “And to think this morning you thought I was crazy suggesting we go by barge. I think your exact words to me were,” ‘you’re not getting me on the damn water again. I did my time in the Navy.’ But alas, then I showed the amenities to you.”
“I didn’t know it was like traveling by a floating hotel with a full bar to boot. I feel as though we are on vacation instead of searching for something in my father’s past.”
With the barge safely secured to the canal bank, Dan withdrew from the pilothouse, sitting down on the chair next to Jim. “But we are on a vacation, my friend, so just enjoy it. By the way, this is the low end of the vacation barges if you can imagine that. They even have one with a Jacuzzi, a sauna, a chef to cook, and a captain to pilot you downriver.”
Dan proceeded to pour some whiskey into a glass for himself, offering to top off Jim’s before replying. “I’m sure anything could have been arranged with enough notice.”
“How long did you say we would be renting this tub—one week or two?
Dan took a sip from his glass, enjoying the view for a few seconds before choosing to respond. “I have the pleasure to announce that we have are booked for three weeks. It’s only going to take about two for a round trip, and that if we proceed at a snail’s pace. That would leave almost one full week of leeway for us to enjoy. So to make this trip pleasurable, I would suggest we pull in wherever we fancy and be the proverbial tourist.”
Again raising his glass in toast, Jim said. “Dan for a reformed terrorist you really know how to travel in style.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Dan said, popping open a bottle of a local burgundy, skipping the glass and sipping it straight from the bottle.
A slight grin signified it was to his satisfaction. “To tell you the truth, I don’t like the word terrorist—I prefer renegade. It sounds more romantic then terrorist. He raised his bottle in mock salute.
“For I am the last of the true Irish renegades.”
Lyon, France: Office of Interpol
Inspector Louis Jacko’s large girth was comfortably ensconced in his well-worn Moroccan leather chair, his legs lay propped up on his imitation Louis XIIII desk as he calmly spoke on the phone.
“But Father, I am busting my back working sixteen-hour days on petty cases trying to cover for someone who is out on vacation. I also have my own work piling up, and you expect me to drop everything to start a search for these two people,” he said, awaiting the response. After a slight pause, he seemed to understand the severity of the situation, nodding. “My apologies, I did not realize it was a priority red. I will assign a detective to work the situation full-time on my end, with others available in a part-time role. I will personally lead the hunt from my end. The net will be cast as soon as I get off the phone. I can also activate highway and airport police using the guise that two terrorists from the Red Army faction are on the loose. That should have everybody up and on the alert. If they are here, you have my assurances that we will find them. Count on my organization, Father.”
Aboard the “Jacob”
After spending a dreary, rain-whipped night at their impromptu canal side docking space, Jim and Dan arose to find a brilliant sunrise greeting them. The previous night’s activities could now be felt in earnest. Even with this unfortunate factor working against them, they were able to start motoring by 9:00 a.m.
Dan resumed his post of steering the barge while Jim stood beside him consulting a maritime map and drinking one of Dan’s “hangover specials,” consisting of tomato juice, egg whites, Tabasco sauce, and horseradish.
Jim savored the last of the drink, actually enjoying the bite it provided. “How did you ever come up with a concoction such as this? He i
nquired, puckering his lips at its unique taste. “Somebody’s bar room no doubt.”
Dan steered around a log floating in their path, looking ahead at the narrow lane his barge had to traverse before answering. “A bar room is it now? “Would you believe the recipe was from an old Benedictine Monk?”
“With you, anything’s possible,” Jim responded.
Dan ignored him as he continued. “I was on a religious retreat back in the late eighties, trying to get rid of some old demons that pay me a visit every blue moon or so. I happened to be walking the open grounds of the monastery when I stumbled across this old monk in a brown robe who resembled Friar Tuck of Robin Hood fame. You know the type: short, stout, hair clipped as if someone placed a bowl on his head. He was on the losing end of a struggle with a wheel barrel full of barley. The old guy was having a hard time emptying its contents through a basement window into the cellar. Of course, I gave him a hand. In appreciation, he showed me his private beer vat and provided a little tasting of the vintage he had already brewed. Well let me tell you, the old monk and I drank from the conclusion of evening vespers until breakfast the next morning, a good nine hours. Then he drinks this “hangover special” mixture, and the old goat was as good as new. He was like a recharged battery.”
“Coming from anyone else but you, I wouldn’t believe it,” Jim said. “So I guess you are sober enough to take control of the wheel then?”
Focusing through the pilothouse window, Dan points down the river to what appears to be the end of the waterway. “I think we have a much bigger issue looming.”
Jim dashed out of the pilothouse in time to view a canal lock coming up fast. “Damn it, this lock was supposed to be ten kilometers further downstream,” he said aloud.
Dan reversed the diesel engines to slow the barge. With their forward progress slowed to an acceptable speed, Dan switched off the engine.
Angels Fallen Page 10
