Eight

by James R. Vance

  Rob's mind was racing as he clasped Yury's hand. “It will be a pleasure, my friend.”

  Yury nudged him, almost knocking him to one side. “Don't forget to bring the girl. You should recruit her. With those looks, she could get away with murder.” He grinned and looked at his watch again. “I must dash…need to change into something more suitable. I mustn't be late for the party.” He laughed loudly and the giant pineapple merged into the busy street scene.

  Rob dialled a number on his mobile, walked beyond the terrace and spoke for several minutes before returning to the table. Petra was both fascinated and concerned. Rob appeared more relaxed after making the call.

  Petra giggled, partly from nerves, partly from amusement. “Who the hell was that?”

  Rob sighed. “Not to worry. He's an old friend. We met in Budapest several years ago.” He ordered two coffees; their second vodkas were still untouched on the table.

  Petra awaited his reaction. “Well? Are you going to explain?”

  “That was no coincidence. It's obvious that the Russians have wind of our operation this afternoon and needed to verify it.”

  “The Russians? I thought that we now shared our counter-terrorism measures with them.”

  “Not in every case; there's a fine line. Don't forget, Russia supports Iran's nuclear programme, a country that provides funding and weapons for terrorist activities in Iraq amongst others. Russia still runs with the hare and the hounds.”

  “So, Yury was here on a pretext?”

  “Yury used a fabrication to see how I would react. To prevent him from spoiling the party, we would have to take some action. If we were not to react, it would signal that we had nothing planned.”

  “I assume your phone call concerned his visit. What's going to happen to him?”

  “I've asked for him to be intercepted at his hotel, the name of which he offered quite openly. He'll sleep until tomorrow. The Russians will guess from his silence that we've dealt with him. They'll sit back and watch the fall-out from our operation.”

  “But, isn't Yury taking a risk? You could have arranged to have him killed to stop his interference.”

  “It's a game, Petra. We go back a long way. They chose to send him because they knew that our friendship would prevent any drastic action towards him. He's done what they asked of him. This way, everyone's a winner.”

  “I don't understand. Why didn't he just ask you?”

  “By asking, it would be evident that they know our plans and therefore, we would be aware of their ability to infiltrate our security. Consequently, we would tighten any feasible loopholes.”

  “But surely, they will know that we know that they know by our treatment of Yury.”

  “Yes, but neither party is absolutely certain. For example, we have no evidence of Dumas supplying arms to the Chechens. Can we ignore that? If it is true, we'll do them a favour by taking out Dumas. If it's a lie, nothing lost… nothing gained. The Russians cannot lose. The whole charade keeps everyone on their toes.”

  Petra sighed. “I can cope with counter-terrorism, but counter-intelligence seems to exist in a bloody fantasy world.”

  “You should be an expert. Your constantly changing deception about the Manchester serial killings was a masterpiece. Why do you think that I recruited you?”

  Petra grinned. “Blame the drugs. Klara and I were off our heads for most of the time. If you hadn't come to our rescue, we'd still be rotting in prison.”

  They finished their coffees, paid the bill and engaged in some small talk before going their separate ways to prepare mentally and physically for the day's planned events.

  A couple of hours later, Massey and Harcourt arrived to pick her up from the Escale Oceania. They parked the Peugeot on the improvised parking area amongst an array of expensive vehicles: Porches, Mercedes, Jaguars, an Aston Martin and even one Rolls Royce Corniche convertible. The bogus Canal+ support vehicle was stationed close to the main entrance to the villa. Petra noticed a small unobtrusive camera mounted beneath the rooftop satellite dish. Angled towards the entrance, it gave those inside the van a view of the majority of partygoers as they arrived.

  Security was out in force. Guests had to queue to gain entry. Most visitors were dressed in attire suitable for a Royal garden party or Ascot, unlike Petra and her colleagues. Aware of their involvement in possible physical action at a later stage, they wore smart casual clothes. Fortunately, they blended in with a similarly attired younger element.

  As they strolled along the tree-lined driveway, they observed an enormous circular marquee to the right of the main house. Many guests had congregated in that area to sample the aperitifs that were on offer from a central bar. They walked on, noting the general layout.

  The main marquee in front of the villa served principally as a dining area. White cloths adorned the tables. Black serviettes, crystal glassware and silver cutlery added a sense of finery to the display. Black and white drapes hung from the outer extremities of the structure, creating arched openings that bedecked three sides of the vast arena. A temporary floor of black and white squares in a chessboard design complemented the colour scheme. Along one complete interior wall, four chefs in their immaculate white jackets and chequered trousers stood ready to serve a magnificent buffet. A mass of bouquets and baskets of freshly cut flowers fronted a raised platform at the far end.

  Beyond the main marquee, stood another immense tented zone set aside for the evening entertainment. It contained a stage, a raised black and white dance floor, banks of spotlights, cluster lasers, scanners and sound equipment. Ample seating, consisting of white chairs clustered around black tables encompassed the whole area. Relaxing background music from speakers mounted in trees pervaded the landscaped gardens as guests mingled and socialised.

  Massey suggested that they should blend in by accepting the aperitifs on offer. They could then wander amongst the groups of guests, at the same time acquainting themselves with the general layout and the level of security. With a glass of Champagne in her hand, Petra wandered leisurely into the villa to check the access route towards the library. Having studied Rob's sketch plan, she found it quite easily, but was surprised at the amount of space in the anteroom leading to the library door. She tried the door. It was locked. She turned to leave.

  A thickset brutish looking individual in a suit approached her, questioning her presence and her intentions. She asked directions to the ladies loo. He guided her brusquely towards the exit, pointing out the portakabins beyond the bar marquee.

  Meanwhile, Massey and Harcourt had wandered towards the pool area where they could study the covered walkway and its access to the rear door of the library. All three of them reconvened near the dance marquee.

  Massey turned to Petra. “What d'you reckon?”

  “Access is fine. My only concern is, if the guards are stood in front of the library door, they will see me approaching as soon as I step into that corridor, giving them ample time to stop me before I reach the ante-room.”

  “You'll just have to use your persuasive personality to convince them to allow you through,” Massey replied, somewhat sarcastically.

  Petra ignored him, trusting that his resentment would not get in the way of his professionalism. “I'll have to be ready to hit the corridor as soon as Cathcart sets off that device. Hopefully, the explosion will distract them enough before they realise that I'm in the ante-room.”

  “We've had a brief look at the walkway and the rear vestibule,” Harcourt said. “The layout at the rear of the building seems to be as depicted on the plan. The path to the archway, however, is quite short, so the helipad could probably be reached in less than a couple of minutes.”

  “Let's hope their timing is spot on,” Massey said. “It seems critical. Talking of timing, we have fifteen minutes before Cathcart starts his tour of duty by the pool area. Let's have another wander, so as not to look too conspicuous hanging around an empty marquee. Let's mingle with the crowd.”

  Bloody h
ell, thought Petra. Finally, Massey's beginning to assert himself. Perhaps he is committed after all.

  Thirty minutes later, they had returned to loiter near the empty disco area. The bogus camera crew had arrived on the scene and had already commenced filming the events taking place in the main marquee. Some guests, unable to find sufficient seats, stood watching from various vantage points in close proximity.

  Petra checked that everyone was engrossed in the special ceremony before she slipped unobtrusively behind the back wall of the marquee earmarked for the evening disco. She crept through an arch of bougainvillaea before stepping cautiously out onto the flagstone terrace leading to the swimming pool. A quick glance to her right confirmed Cathcart's report as correct. The security cameras were not in her line of vision.

  Suddenly she stopped in her tracks. Bobo was sitting on the bunker. He stared at her; as usual, he was smiling. He waved to her. She returned his wave, but as she drew closer, she realised that he held something in his other hand. He was holding a handgun.

  8888

  A satellite had tracked the Etoile Olympique. Its movements were relayed to the command and control centre. This was located in a more remote area of the Bouches-du-Rhône not too distant from La Campagne Pastre and the villa. The U.S. submarine had taken up station a few miles from coastal waters to where the SEALs detachment would transport their captives later in the captured yacht.

  Perhaps as a precautionary measure, Dumas had ordered Dimitri to head for Sormiou, a picturesque but remote cove. It was not destined to dock at Marseille. The yacht anchored out in the deeper waters of the narrow inlet to the bay. A dinghy fitted with an outboard motor took the guests, mostly young females, ashore. Dumas's helicopter was waiting on the quayside ready to airlift them together with Dimitri to the celebratory party. A skeleton staff, including the two sailors who crewed the dinghy, remained behind to safeguard the yacht.

  Informed of this unexpected anchorage by the command centre, the submarine had re-positioned itself by moving farther inshore towards the small islands and creeks along the rocky coastline. This new development also favoured the SEALs. A cove, busy in the summer months but now quiet out of the tourist season, was less likely to attract attention than a full-scale assault in the old port of Marseille.

  The raiding party slipped smoothly from the submarine in a Zodiac combat rubber raiding craft. Passing the Calanques, the rugged limestone cliffs that dominate this stretch of coastline, the SEALs powered unnoticed between the uninhabited island of Riou and the small creek of Marseilleveyre. As they rounded the headland, the yacht came into view. With both outboard motors shut down, they drifted alongside the Etoile Olympique as it swayed in the gentle swell of the cove.

  The SEALs overcame the crew within minutes of boarding the yacht. Most had taken advantage of the lull in activity to take a nap on their bunks. The action took them completely by surprise; the navy SEALs roused them by prodding them with Heckler and Koch MP5 machine pistols. The few locals in and around the harbour had been too interested in watching the departure of the helicopter to have witnessed the takeover. The captors confined their prisoners below deck, placing them under guard in one of the guest rooms. The new incumbents withdrew to the upper deck to await further orders.

  8888

  Petra looked around in the hope of seeing Cathcart. He was nowhere in sight. Bobo beckoned her. He appeared excited and pleased to see her as he slid down from the bunker.

  “Regardez, missi, regardez.” He waved the gun at her. “Boom, boom,” he cried.

  Shit, thought Petra. If he pulls that trigger, even if he misses me, he'll alert everyone in earshot. Bobo lifted the lid of the bunker, reached inside and withdrew two more handguns. His smile broadened. Petra was now two metres from him, desperately hoping that none of the weapons contained their magazines. Her mind was in overdrive. Rob had said that Cathcart would stash the guns ‘with their magazines’. Did that mean loaded or separately? She had to take the risk.

  “Donnez-moi les pistolets, Bobo,” she said quietly but firmly, holding out her hand. “Give me the bloody guns,” she muttered under her breath.

  Bobo shook his head from side to side and backed away. His smile disappeared as he pointed one of the weapons at her. “Non, je tiens,” he shouted. “Ils sont à Bobo.”

  Petra glanced around again. There was no one in sight. “Il faut donner les armes à Monsieur Dumas,” she whispered. She drew closer to him. Please God, let them not be loaded.

  Bobo backed away further, shaking his head and tightening his grip on the weapons. The mischievous smile returned.

  Bloody hell, I'll have to act quickly, she thought. Control is vital, even if I have to attack him physically. He was quite small and wiry. She was taller and fitter. She had to get closer to overpower him, to prevent him pulling that trigger, even if he were to fire the gun accidentally.

  Suddenly, she had an inspiration. Kneeling down, she reached into her shoulder bag and took out her small but bulky cosmetics bag. She emptied the contents onto the flagstones. Thank goodness for gadget technology, she thought, sorting real cosmetics from fake ones.

  Bobo watched intently as she selected the component parts of the makeshift handgun. Shiny silver metal tubes and black resin sections slotted together to form the completed weapon. Bobo moved closer, fascinated by her creation. When she had completed the assembly, she held it up for him. His dark eyes widened saucer-like.

  “Pour vous, Bobo…un cadeau pour vous,” said Petra, hoping that the novelty would grab his attention.

  Instantly, the smile broadened. Placing the Sig Sauer handguns on the ground, he reached out for the shiny new gun that he had watched her assemble.

  Petra attempted to visualise the impact on his mind. Maybe he thought that this is far more interesting. It comes apart like a toy, but it looks for real. Perhaps he imagined that he could show his friends.

  The smile became a wide grin as he grasped his new toy. “Merci, mademoiselle.”

  Petra put her forefinger to her lips. “Shush! C'est entre nous. Dites rien…compris? ” Please tell no-one, she wished inwardly.

  Bobo nodded and copied her by putting his finger to his mouth. He shook his head again. “Je dis rien. Merci.” Clutching his special gift, he turned and ran across the terrace, disappearing into the shrubbery near the cabin.

  Petra sighed with relief. Her heart was pounding to such an extent that she looked about her expecting to see someone striding towards her in heavy boots. She quickly checked the handguns. They were not loaded with the magazines. Reaching inside the bunker, she found the magazines, closed the lid, placed the weaponry in her bag and scooped up the rest of her cosmetics. She made a final check before strolling casually back to rejoin Massey and Harcourt.

  8888

  The camera crew chatted to Dumas, explaining that their back-up team in the support vehicle would quickly edit the film that they had shot. They would invite him later to preview it before transmission. They shook hands, picked up their equipment and headed for the main gate.

  “When did they plant the device?” Petra asked as she stood and watched with the two detectives.

  “Whilst you were collecting the firearms,” Massey replied. “The cameraman moved towards the bushes to make adjustments to his camera. I presume that's when he planted it. Anyway, what kept you so long?”

  “Tell you later. It's nothing to worry about.” She turned to Harcourt. “Let's go across to the loos, where we can load the mags and share out the weapons.”

  “What about me?” Massey asked.

  “You'd better come too. Don't worry; we won't be dropping our pants.”

  They followed the pathway to the portakabins installed beyond the circular drinks marquee. Having found three adjacent cubicles unoccupied, Petra passed the equipment through the gaps beneath the partitions.

  “This is all very well,” Harcourt protested, “but how do you operate the damn thing?”

  Petra joined her in the cu
bicle to give a quick demo on loading and using the firearm.

  Harcourt grinned. “If we're seen coming out of here together, they'll think were a couple of dykes.”

  Petra was unconcerned. “This is France. Anything goes here.”

  Massey became the unofficial timekeeper to watch the clock until it was time for action. By six o'clock, they had manoeuvred themselves towards the main entrance of the villa. Dumas was running late. He was supposed to be in the library, but was still socialising amongst the guests.

  At six fifteen, Petra decided to wander towards the walkway to check with Tom Cathcart. If he set off the explosion before Dumas was in the library, they would have to abort the whole plan. She spotted him standing by the vestibule door. He appeared to have a grasp of the situation. When she caught his eye, he pointed at his watch and gave a thumbs-up to acknowledge her concerns.

  She walked back to rejoin the others. Shit, she thought, was that signal to indicate that he was ready or aware of the delay? She called Rob on her mobile…no answer. Leaving Massey and Harcourt outside, she entered the villa and turned towards the library. The two armed guards were already in position. Distracted by a noise behind her, she spun round. Dumas approached flanked by several smartly dressed men.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle.” He greeted her warmly. “We must speak later about your business. I introduce you to a useful contact, yes?”

  “Thanks,” Petra said, slightly flustered. She wanted to check her watch. Not now, she thought.

  “You search for something?” Dumas asked pointedly.

  “Er, I need a toilet,” she replied in a low voice.

  “Ah, là-bas, near the bar.” He pointed towards the far end of the villa.

  “Merci.” Petra turned away as they walked down the corridor towards the library. Relieved, she reached the main entrance.

  Massey glanced at his watch. “They're cutting it fine. It's six twenty five.”