“Damn it, it just not fair,” Leslie sobbed as Sandy comforted her.
“No, it isn’t,” Chris agreed, “Which is why you and I are going to take care of Mustapha Kaddur.”
* * * *
“Good morning,” said Youssef as he joined Mustapha in the breakfast room at the Oceania Hotel.
“There is nothing good with the morning so far,” Kaddur muttered.
“What is the problem?” his assistant asked.
“I am unable to reach Tarek or Omar,” Kaddur replied. “When I call, all I get is their voicemail.”
“Perhaps they have not reached Casablanca yet,” Youssef offered.
“They have satellite phones, you fool,” Kaddur growled. “Besides, I spoke to Tarek last evening and they were less than an hour from Casablanca.”
“Perhaps there is a network problem,” said Youssef. “I don’t understand why you are suddenly so concerned. It is not because things went wrong here in Paris that there would be a problem in Casablanca.”
“Hassan is missing and Armand is dead,” Kaddur replied. “If Hassan found out I wished him dead, he knows enough about this operation to cause problems.”
“What problems can he cause?” his assistant argued. “He is a wanted man by the police across Europe and I have put the word out that you want him dead. You did look after the ownership aspects of the clubs?”
Kaddur nodded. “New backdated documents of incorporation for the shell company excluding Femme Fatale will be on record some time today. Some money had to change hands but, under the circumstances, the cost is negligible.”
“What about ownership of Femme Fatale?” Youssef asked.
Kaddur smiled. “Another shell corporation for Femme Fatale has been created showing Rashid Hassan as full owner. Records of bank loans signed for by Hassan will further support this.”
“So, I ask again, what problems can Hassan really cause?” Youssef repeated. “If we find him first, he is dead. If the police get him, there will be nothing tying you to him or the club. I suggest you forget about him for now and concentrate on the business at hand, which is selling real estate to wealthy Europeans.”
* * * *
Chris brought their rental to a stop in front of the farmhouse in Villepreux and turned off the engine.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.
“Someone has to tell him, right?” Leslie replied.
“Yes, but it doesn’t have to be you,” said Chris. “I can tell him. You can wait out here if you like.”
“I don’t like,” said Leslie. “I want to tell him and look into his eyes when I do so. I want to him to know that I hold this over his head. I want to see his pain.”
Without another word, she opened the door and got out, slamming it behind her before heading to the house’s main entrance.
Chris climbed out of the car and followed her inside, nodding to one of Lefebvre’s now familiar keepers who had opened the door as they approached.
“Bonjour,” said Leslie. “Where is he?”
“Salon,” he replied, pointing towards the living room.
They entered the room where Lefebvre sat on a couch gazing absently at the floor while his other guard sat in an easy chair reading a paperback.
Leslie walked straight to Lefebvre, stopping several feet before him.
“Normand,” she said, nothing more.
He raised his eyes and looked at her with a look of defeat, of despair. “Have you found my nieces? Are they okay?”
“Dominique and Corinne, as well as four other women who had been kidnapped are on their way back to Paris by military transport,” Leslie replied. “They were not harmed or mistreated, just kept locked up in cabin on the boat for the duration of the trip.”
“Merci, mon Dieu,” Lefebvre whispered. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me because I’m not done yet,” said Leslie, pausing to take a deep breath. “While on the boat, looking for his kidnapped daughters, Henri was stabbed and seriously injured.”
“Oh, non. Non!” Lefebvre cried and erupted into tears. “Please tell me he will be alright.”
Leslie stared at him for a moment before replying. “Your brother-in-law succumbed to his wounds an hour ago. The doctors at the navy base did everything they could but they couldn’t save him.”
Lefebvre stared at her, dumbfounded as he absorbed her words.
“Tell me you are mocking me to make me pay for what I’ve done,” he finally said. “Tell me Henri will be fine.”
“He’s dead, you selfish bastard,” Leslie replied. “Because of you, Monique has lost her husband and your nieces have lost their father. May you rot in hell, Normand.”
She turned on her heel and left the room. A moment later, the front door opened then closed as the other guard let her out.
Looking up at Chris with tears in his eyes, he asked, “Does Monique know? This is all my fault. I should break the news to her.”
“Leslie informed Monique,” Chris replied. “She and her sister are on their way back to Paris to meet with her daughters when they arrive. I think you’ve done enough.”
He nodded to the guard and left to go join Leslie.
* * * *
A tough and shrewd man used to dealing with problems in both his legal and shadier lines of business, little usually troubled Mustapha Kaddur to any great extent. However, he was now faced with a situation of growing proportions with unknown variables at play and, without any concrete answers or solutions in view, his levels of stress and panic were steadily rising.
His cause for concern was a phone call he had just received from Anouar Hamdi, president of the Trans-Med Shipping Company. When crew members had returned to the Seaworthy I that morning to commence unloading, they had found their captain, and Anouar’s brother, Omar, dead and four crewmen dazed, confused and bound in their bunks. A short while later, Tarek Chaib, Kaddur’s own man on board, had been discovered locked in an outside storage bin when his kicking, banging and shouting had caught a crewman’s attention.
Though also disoriented and having no recollection of what had transpired over the last day or so, Tarek did remember why he was on the ship and had rushed, to the best of his ability, to check on Kaddur’s special cargo. He had found the doors unlocked, which in a sense was good since he no longer had his keys, but the six women gone.
For obvious reasons, the authorities had not been contacted and Anouar and his men had cleaned up any traces of foul play. However, Anouar had clearly expressed that he held Kaddur responsible for the ghastly incident and demanded a face to face meeting to discuss further compensation for his loss and the obvious risks his company was taking to support Kaddur’s extracurricular activities. Failure to comply could lead Anouar to divulge sensitive information to the authorities.
Left with little choice, Kaddur made his decision and placed a call to book the next available flight back to Casablanca. Having to miss the first day or two of the show did not please him, especially since his was one of the largest participating firms and a major sponsor. However, Youssef and his representatives could handle the traffic for the first two days and he, Kaddur, should be back for the weekend which always proved to be the busiest and most lucrative time.
His flight booked, he called Youssef to inform him of the situation then called the front desk to request transportation to Orly.
* * * *
Though the Porte de Versailles Exhibition Centre was buzzing with activity when Chris entered with Leslie on his arm, the couple still managed to turn heads as they arrived at the Moroccan real estate show. At fifty, Chris still cut a striking image with his boyish good looks, dirty blond hair slightly laced with silver and fit body draped with a light grey Jay Kos pinstripe suit for the occasion. The showstopper, however, was Leslie, sporting a backless cascading dress of scarlet silk chiffon, ending at mid-thigh over sheer black hose with black patent leather ankle-strapped four inch heels. Platinum diamond pendants dangled from her lobe
s and her flaming mane was stylishly piled atop her head and adorned with Oakley sunglasses.
“You’re causing a stir,” Chris murmured as they casually strolled into the exhibition hall.
“I’ve noticed several approving ogles aimed your way too, darling,” said Leslie, hugging his arm, “Shall we start shopping?”
“Indeed,” Chris replied. “That’s what we’re here for.”
Over the next hour, they visited various kiosks, chatting and exchanging with real estate agents and property development representatives, all doing their best to convince the couple that acquiring a Moroccan residence via their respective organizations was the only sensible thing to do.
With a variety of flyers, pamphlets and business cards from competitors in hand, they finally sauntered into the Kaddur Residential Development kiosk. A major developer and sponsor of the show, KDR boasted a larger space with display cases of photographs and miniature scale models of planned developments. A half dozen sitting areas intended for comfort during sales pitches were strategically scattered about the space for privacy and several were currently occupied.
A well dressed gentleman in his thirties approached them with a smile as they arrived.
“Bonjour,” he said, his eyes mostly on Leslie. “I am Youssef Dris. Welcome to KDR.”
“Enchanté, Youssef.” Chris replied. “I’m Barry and this is April.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” said Youssef with a slight bow. “How can I be of service?”
“I’ve been thinking of buying a second home in a warmer climate,” Chris replied, “And April suggested I look into Moroccan property while I’m in Paris.”
“That is an excellent recommendation,” said Youssef, beaming at Leslie. “Morroco’s economy has been improving for several years, tourism is on the rise and more and more Europeans are choosing Morocco as their retirement destination.”
Chris laughed. “Well, I’m not looking at retiring just yet but our winters in Minnesota seem to be getting tougher and since I spend a fair amount of time in Europe, Morocco’s just a quick flight away.”
“What are you looking for?” asked Youssef. “We have a variety of units available, from small condominiums to larger individual villas. Time shares are available if you wish to minimize your investment.”
“No, I don’t want a time share,” Chris replied. “I’ll want the house available whenever I decide to go there.”
“Of course, that is not a problem,” said Youssef. “And, if I understand correctly, you want a house, not a condominium?”
Chris nodded. “That’s right. I’m a private person and like having my own lot, my own space and lots of it.”
“I am certain we can accommodate you,” Youssef replied. “The standard lots for our larger villas are one thousand square metres.”
Chris thought for a moment and frowned. “Hmm… That’s less than eleven thousand square feet. I’m thinking of a house of about that size so I’d need a bigger lot.”
“I see,” said Youssef. “I don’t think that would be a problem but that is something which would have to be discussed with Mr. Kaddur. He looks after all custom projects personally. Unfortunately, he had to return to Casablanca to deal with some matters but should be back on Saturday.”
Chris thought for a moment and shook his head. “That won’t work for me. Would Mr. Kaddur have time to see me tomorrow if I went to Casablanca? My plane is at the airport so, at his convenience.”
Youssef’s eyes showed impressed surprise as he smiled. “Let me see if I can reach Mr. Kaddur. Please, have a seat.”
He led them to one of the vacant sitting areas then moved off to a private corner at the rear of the kiosk and got busy on his phone.
“This kind of throws a curve in the plans,” Leslie murmured.
Chris shrugged. “No big deal. Here or there makes no difference to me. In fact, we might be able to learn more about the man’s business on his home turf. Oh, our friend is coming back.”
“Mr. Kaddur would like to speak to you,” said Youssef, “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Chris replied before taking the phone. “Hello, Mr. Kaddur. Barry Taylor here.”
“Hello, Mr. Taylor,” said Kaddur. “I apologize for not being there to meet you in person.”
“We all have our business to take care of,” said Chris “Would you have some time for me tomorrow? I’m considering buying a property in Morocco and I’m impressed with what I see of your developments.”
“Thank you,” Kaddur replied. “Yes, I would have some time for you and I understand from Youssef you have an interesting project in mind. What time would be convenient for you?”
“We’d fly out early enough,” said Chris, “So mid to late morning would be fine. Where would you like to meet?”
“I can pick you up at the airport,” Kaddur offered.
“Don’t bother,” Chris replied. “I don’t want you wasting any time waiting for us. We’ll take a taxi.”
“Very well,” Kaddur replied. “We can meet at our offices. Youssef will give you my card. I’ll expect you sometime tomorrow morning. We can discuss what you are looking for and I can take you to lunch.”
“Sounds good, Mr Kaddur,” said Chris. “Looking forward to seeing you.”
“Looking forward to our meeting as well,” said Kaddur. “Have a good day, Mr. Taylor.”
* * * *
Since Leslie and Chris had left the farmhouse in Villepreux several hours earlier, Normand Lefebvre had remained seated on the couch, motionless, seeming almost catatonic. He had not replied when his guard had asked him if he wanted lunch, a cold cup of coffee sat on the side table untouched and he had not even gone to the bathroom.
“I should eat something,” he said in a monotone, his first words in hours.
“What do you want to eat,” the guard asked, rising from his armchair.
“Just a sandwich,” Normand mumbled. “I’ll make myself a sandwich.”
“Come on,” his guard replied, almost sympathetically. “Some food will do you some good.”
Normand stood and headed towards the kitchen, his gait that of a man much older than he was. The guard watched him approach for a second or two, then shook his head and turned towards the kitchen ahead of his prisoner. Though not at all planned, Normand saw an opportunity at that moment and decided to seize it.
Sprinting forward, he slammed into the guard’s back, knocking him to the floor. As the man fell, extending his arms by reflex, Normand grabbed for his pistol, yanking it out of its holster.
The guard landed and rolled then crawled backwards a couple of feet, his eyes on Normand, trying to sense what their captive’s plan might be. He was on his own for this, unable to count on his partner’s support who was sleeping in a room at the back.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” he warned. “If you shoot me, it will wake Victor and you’ll be finished.”
Lefebvre gazed at him and offered a sad smile. “You have nothing to worry about, my friend. I have no intention of harming you. Thanks for looking after me over the last few days.”
He then put the gun barrel into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
* * * *
The Spanish Air Force CASA C-212 Aviocar touched down at France’s Vélizy-Villacoublay Air Base eight miles southwest of Paris slightly before three in the afternoon. The transport had been organized discreetly and efficiently thanks to Jonathan’s contacts, the heads of organizations similar to his own in Spain and France.
Onboard were Jonathan, Dominique and Corinne as well as the other four kidnap victims. Calls had been made and relieved family members and loved ones waited anxiously to rejoin with the four other women. A car had been requested to drive Jonathan and the two sisters back to the Petit home in Paris where they would reunite with Monique and Jacqueline who had returned from Caen.
While they waited for their ride to arrive, Jonathan excused himself from the grieving sisters to call Chris who had just left the exh
ibition centre.
“Hi, Jon,” Chris answered. “I’m in the car with Leslie. I’ve got you on speaker.”
“Hey, guys,” said Jonathan. “How are things on your end?”
“We just left the expo,” Chris replied. “Kaddur is still in Casablanca but he agreed to meet with us over there tomorrow morning. Feel like flying?”
“I’m at your service,” said Jon. “I’ll get things lined up for the plane in a bit. We landed at an air base just outside of Paris about twenty minutes ago. Monique and her sister are back home so we’ll be heading there.”
“Okay, we’ll head over there as well,” said Leslie. “How are Dominique and Corinne doing?”
“As well as you might expect,” Jonathan replied. “They aren’t that shaken up about the actual kidnapping but they’re devastated about Henri.”
“This won’t be a joyous reunion,” said Chris. “How are you holding up, buddy?”
“I’m fine but I’m angry,” said Jonathan. “I regret accepting Henri’s request to come with me but, what’s done is done.”
“It’s not your fault, boss,” said Leslie. “It was his decision to go, not yours and you could have been killed as well or instead of him. Henri’s death breaks my heart but I’m happy you’re okay.”
“Thanks Les,” Jonathan replied. “By the way, I received a call from the house in Villepreux just after we landed and I’m afraid I have some more bad news.”
“What is it?” asked Chris.
“Normand Lefebvre managed to get a gun off one of the guys and shot himself.”
“Oh my God,” Leslie exclaimed. “Is he dead?”
“He’s definitely dead,” Jon confirmed. “Look, the car just arrived so I’ll let you go for now. I’ll see you in a bit.”
“Later, Jon,” said Chris before cutting the connection.
They drove on in silence for a couple of minutes until Chris spoke.
Femme Fatale Page 13
