The Diva Crusade (John McRae Book 1)

by Phoenix Ford

  “Good,” she said. “Tomorrow morning I’m flying to Paris to try to slow down the Americans. We can cover up some of the explosives sales with bogus seismic records and try to pass off the rest as missing inventory and poor accounting. I have much to do, so I must go, but I will call you Monday afternoon from Paris to find out about the supplies. After you determine what is needed I will arrange shipment from Paris to a freight forwarder in Cyprus, the one used by the Greek Orthodox Church. And from there I will leave it to sympathetic members of that church to make arrangements in secret to get the supplies to the Syrian Christians. It’s nice to see you again, old friend.” Eleanora took the last sip of her cappuccino, stood up, smiled and gracefully made her way out of the bar, leaving the divine scent of the Kyoto fragrance from the ancient farmacia at Santa Maria Novella in Florence in her wake.

  CHAPTER 3

  At 8 AM Monday the Chatelet metro station in Paris was jam-packed with people rushing down long passages, many stairs and escalators to the various Metro lines which intersected in one of Paris’ largest Metro stations. John McRae had taken two different lines to get here from the Hotel Langlois in order to board an RER train to Auvers-sur-Oise, a small town 35 kilometers to the north of Paris. It was famous as the burial place of Vincent Van Gogh, but John was going to the offices of Angolaturbine in an industrial park several kilometers outside the town. He had negotiated equipment supply contracts for projects in Angola several times with Angolaturbine in the past, but today he would be negotiating with another Angolaturbine team including the chief financial officer of Angolan Fabrication Française for the purchase of the stock in the company managed and operated by the French, the largest stake holder in the company. They were badly strapped for cash and were being forced to sell a lucrative business by their Board of Directors.

  The Chatelet station can be confusing to non-Parisians. It took John a while to find the RER. A group of men played Hungarian music on string instruments in a corridor nearby and sang in a loud booming chorus. They were collecting lots of donations in an open violin case on the floor in front of the group as people rushed past them. The music added a festive tone to the busy atmosphere. He bought his ticket, waited almost ten minutes on the platform in a crowd of people and then boarded the train for the 60-70 minute ride.

  Once the train started and John was relaxed in his seat he pulled out his preliminary draft of the letter of intent which would define the most fundamental requirements between the parties for the French shares to be sold to the Americans. The main requirements he had included for the French to meet were to provide clean title to their shares, settlement of all tax liabilities worldwide, an environmental indemnity for operations during their management of the company, a five-year noncompetition provision in Angola for the manufacturing of the same type of equipment made by Angolaturbine and an indemnity for all liabilities up to the date and time of purchase. The latter point was likely to be the hot point of negotiations other than price. In addition, he planned to request signed affidavits by each member of the Board of Directors that there had been no violations of the U.S. Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, a major risk for all companies doing business in third world countries. In exchange the Americans would pay the purchase price to be agreed by the management of both companies. John’s job was to negotiate the legal terms of the letter of intent with the assistance of the rest of his team, Amy Cho from Finance, Ron Hassler from Tax and Derek Larson, an engineer and one of the company’s best project managers for projects offshore West Africa. They would dial in their CFO in Houston on a conference call as needed, and he would be participating directly in the negotiation of the definitive stock purchase agreement to be negotiated at a later date. John would also assist his management with negotiations of the stock purchase agreement following extensive “due diligence” of the company, the process of methodically and completely examining every aspect of the company’s operations to fully determine not only the true value of its assets and projected business prospects but the extent of all of its liabilities and potential liabilities. The obligation to purchase under the letter of intent would be subject to certain conditions being met including mutual agreement to the terms and conditions of the definitive stock purchase agreement.

  This was John's third year with the company. He was 39 going on 40 years old, tall, lanky, with dark blond hair and generally considered nice looking. He was working hard to succeed at his job. He loved his work and did it well, but in the past personal problems had sabotaged his career. Almost five years earlier John's wife, Caroline, the woman he had loved since law school, had died in a tragic accident on his family's ranch in Central Texas. They had been visiting his parents who lived on the ranch in retirement. Caroline had insisted on driving the old jeep kept by the ranch's foreman to check on cattle in distant pastures. She loved driving the 4-wheel drive vehicle off road, especially over rough terrain in one section of the ranch where a small river coursed its way through a rocky area with limestone outcroppings. He warned her to slow down as she made an abrupt turn to avoid hitting a tree stump close to the banks of the river. "We can do it!" she had gleefully screamed with delight as she pulled the steering wheel sharply to the right. He had warned her many times that the jeep had a higher center of gravity due to its short wheel base, but she was not to be deterred, smiling with the delight that rough driving gave her. The jeep had tilted precariously. For a moment he thought they would make it, but Caroline screamed as the jeep began to roll towards the river. The roll bar provided some protection, but the jeep came to an abrupt stop on the driver's side, pinning Caroline under the steering wheel bent grotesquely out of shape. He could see her left arm was broken, and there was blood seeping across her blouse. She seemed unconscious but was still breathing. He tried his best to free her but was almost on top of her with the jeep on its side. Suddenly two of the ranch's cowboys on horseback came rushing to his aid. "Get back!" one of them yelled to him. He kept working frantically, trying to push the driver's seat back to free Caroline, but he couldn't get to the seat mechanism with the jeep resting on its smashed driver's side. One of the cowboys started pulling him out of the jeep. "John, get out! Get out! We've called for help!" He resisted. He had to help Caroline! Before he realized it the two cowboys pulled him out of the jeep by force and rushed him away from it. Just as they got about ten feet back the jeep started smoking and then burst into flames as the gas tank exploded. "No!!!," he had screamed before lapsing into uncontrollable sobs.

  At the time of Caroline's death John worked in the law department of a major oil company. He was so overcome by grief he had a total emotional breakdown. He had been unable to even call his boss at work. Suddenly nothing had mattered anymore. He felt he should have saved her. The guilt he felt for surviving with hardly a scratch when Caroline was burned to death blotted out all reason. The Episcopal funeral was only a blur in his mind. His parents insisted that he stay with them for a while, but he only wanted to be alone. He was inconsolable. For days on end he could not even leave his house. Sometimes he spent entire days sitting in a room with the drapes drawn staring into space, often forgetting to eat because he had no appetite. He disconnected his home telephone, turned off his mobile phone and laptop and started drinking. Then he found he couldn't stop. Even worse he didn't care. His employer contacted his sister, but even after she came to his house he could not think about work, much less go to the office. Instead he cratered. Nothing mattered anymore. Fortunately there had been no children. He sold the house and rented a one room beach cabin on stilts in Port Isabel, Texas, where he got drunk every day for months. Finally one day as he walked drunkenly down the beach he realized he needed help. He called his cousin, and by the next day he was on a plane to a treatment facility in Arizona.

  In treatment they started him on a twelve step program for alcohol abuse and sent him to grief counseling sessions. He stayed in that facility for three months. Before he was released he was required to contact a twelve step group
in Houston and make arrangements for a particular person to meet him for a meeting that same night. He was also required to see a therapist three times per week. Because he had sold the house he would be staying at a hotel until he rented an apartment. He no longer had any family members living in Houston. Once he landed a new job he would start looking for a home to purchase, perhaps a condominium this time.

  As it turned out, John had better friends at work than he had realized. His former boss, head of his section of the oil company's large law department, as well as two other people high up in management found his new job for him within two months of his return to Houston. With their recommendation he was hired by a large equipment manufacturer at the same salary he earned at the oil company plus he would be included in a management incentive bonus plan that awarded bonuses each year according to profitability of a completed fiscal year. The annual bonus had never been known to be less than ten percent of a participant's annual gross pay and was usually more. After he had imploded with grief, tried to numb his pain with alcohol and then walked away from a good company which had depended on him, it was now extremely important to John to prove that he was trustworthy and reliable at work. He understood he was an alcoholic and attended at least three meetings per week including when he was out of the country, provided there was an English-speaking group in the city where he was staying. Despite continuing moments of grief that felt like a hot poker piercing his soul he managed to do his work. After three years with this company he had established a record of success. It was important to him to keep things that way.

  John glanced out the train window as the train raced down the rails, suddenly reflecting on the close call he had with the falling cement mixer six months earlier and wondered if it had all been his imagination that someone had been trying to kill him. He had arrived in Paris the past Saturday morning, and there had been no incidents. At times he did have the uncomfortable feeling that someone was following him. Sunday afternoon he attended a baroque concert at Saint Chapelle, the exquisite Gothic Church built by Louis IX known as Saint Louis. It was specifically constructed to house the Crown of Thorns which the king claimed to have brought back from the Crusades. The 49 ft. stained glass windows in the upper level were a magnificent setting for the crisp Haydn and Telemann music.

  Just as he was arriving at the church he saw a man on the sidewalk quickly look away when he turned back to look behind him. By itself it seemed like nothing, but then when John arrived at the Metro stop near his hotel he saw someone standing partially behind a news kiosk that looked very much like the same man. Maybe John was just spooked by his experience six months earlier.

  When the RER reached Auvers-sur-Oise John made his way up the escalators and stairs to the street and caught a taxi to the offices of Angolaturbine a few kilometers outside town. The company’s headquarters and most of the company’s operations were actually in Angola. All they had in Paris was an administrative office and a warehouse, but because the French made all the real decisions this Paris office was really their de facto main office. It wasn’t far from the large French group of companies that owned most of Angolaturbine as well as one other company in Angola.

  It was almost 9:30 AM when John entered the reception lobby. They were expecting him and already had his ID badge ready so that he could enter the offices of Angolaturbine. Angelique Chevassas, their CFO’s secretary, came out after a few minutes to escort John to a conference room where they would be meeting. Antoine duBois, the large balding and overweight CFO, met them in the conference room in his jovial manner. He and John already knew each other from past business transactions. “How nice to see you again, John” he greeted in his booming voice as John entered the room.

  “It’s nice to see you too,” smiled John. "Are we going to be able to reach a deal we can all live with?”

  “Of course we are!” Antoine replied with a broad smile.

  “Well, much will depend on whether you have settled your tax dispute in Angola or the protection you will give us if the tax dispute in unsettled. “

  “We have much to discuss and negotiate, John. I assure you that on our end we will do everything we can to be reasonable, but you must keep in mind that unless we get a certain return for this company there won’t be much point in selling it. It makes lots of money year after year because as you know it’s the only company in Angola technically qualified to manufacture certain equipment that all the offshore deep water installations need.”

  “We are well aware it’s a good company. Obviously that’s why we want it.”

  “Then why don’t you come in, and let’s get started.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Eleanora Ravasini had been in Paris for a week staying at the Novotel near Chatelet-Les Halles. She wasn’t fond of it, but her company had such a big discount on rooms that it was the preferred choice for business trips to Paris. It was also well situated being so close to the Chatelet Metro and train station. She could easily go anywhere In Paris and its environs.

  In Rome she had created a whole series of bogus seismic work orders for Angola and forged the signatures of a project manager who had been fired for accepting a bribe the week before. Once she got to Paris she went to Angolaturbine’s warehouse at night with the orders, created fake shipping receipts for their records and had all the explosives and blasting caps loaded onto an eighteen wheeler, to go to a nearby freight forwarder marked for Angolaturbine in Angola but in actuality being shipped to another freight forwarder in Cyprus used by a Greek Orthodox monastery on that island. Eleanora had bought the silence of the night guard and had made under-the-table arrangements with the freight forwarder. The fake shipping documents would be replaced with the real ones before the truck arrived at the other freight forwarder’s facility. Once at the monastery the explosives would be concealed in crates of candles and other religious supplies for the Greek Orthodox Church. A secret pact had been formed in Beirut between a priest from Rome, a Greek Orthodox priest and a group of priests from the Syrian Orthodox Church whose small membership was being mercilessly slaughtered in Syria by the Islamic State which also destroyed their ancient monasteries and churches. The Pope as well as the Patriarch of the Greek Orthodox Church and other top hierarchies were intentionally had no knowledge of any of these activities as it was crucial that they maintain total deniability.

  Due to the desperation of the situation in Syria certain members of the Syrian Orthodox Church, mostly old people, had agreed in Lebanon to sacrifice their lives in an attempt to stop the madness. They were sewing suicide vests to wear under their clothes. The plan was that on a certain Friday more than two hundred suicide bombers would simultaneously explode themselves in crowded mosques during prayers in Al-Raqqah and throughout other parts of Syria controlled by the Islamic State. Once this event occurred it was thought that the Iranians and the Kurds would start the same suicide bomber tactics. The plan was to bring the same terror to the Islamic State that it was inflicting on everyone who didn’t share their extremist version of Islam. The Islamic State was like a disease that must be eradicated to protect the people.

  Eleanora’s close family relationship to the Vatican put her in a unique position. When she first read of the murder of Syrian Christians by the Islamic State she was enraged that such medieval atrocities could be committed in today’s world, especially on the basis of religion. She had known Monsignor Polombo since childhood and knew she could discuss anything with him. One Sunday she had invited the Monsignor to lunch at her villa. It was a beautiful day, so they ate al fresco at a table under a magnificent tree with a view of the river. It was a place they could talk, assured that nobody could hear them. When she expressed her deep anger about the Islamic State and its persecution of Christians she was surprised when Monsignor Polombo so readily agreed with her. “Yes!” he said. “Christians must fight back against evil. After all, this is not the first time we have had to fight them over our religion. All of Europe today might be Muslim if Christians had not fought b
ack in the 15th, 16th, and 17th centuries. There’s no reasoning with the the Islamic State type of mentality. It is basically gross ignorance, lack of education and poverty that drive their extreme positions. When millions are so impoverished they are more likely to listen to those who will use religion to control the people and hold all power. Religion is only the catalyst. The Islamic State game is really about power.”

  Eleanora had explained that she was in a position to get explosives and asked Polombo what he thought about the idea of blowing up mosques in Al-Raqqah. “Well, as you know the Roman Catholic Church regards suicide as a mortal sin, but because this is actually a war blowing yourself up in a crowded mosque is an attempt to win or end the war and save thousands from a certain death at the hands of the Islamic State. Surely this would not be considered a sin in the eyes of God. And soldiers killing the enemy are not committing murder. Of course we can never disclose any of this to the Pope. He’s not stupid and will likely figure some things out on his own, but it is of paramount importance that he maintain total deniability. The Vatican can have no connection to the events which occur.”

  “Well, what about funding? I can obtain the explosives, and the shipping costs can be lost due to accounting irregularities. But there will be considerable other logistical expenses. There will be travel expenses, freight forwarders to pay, supplies to make the vests and much more.”

  “Leave that to me,” replied Polombo. “There are at least ten other old Roman families with lots of money who will be only too happy to make large donations for a cause so desperate. These are people who can be trusted to never disclose the truth. I won’t tell them any of the details anyway. I will request cash donations so that there is no trail. How much do we need for the first coordinated explosions.”