“Monsieur Ricci had a meeting with another gentleman who I’d not seen before last night. They were discussing another man spying on a policewoman in Marseille. Seems their man was arrested since he got careless with his assignment,” Phillip explained.
“And what made you think it’s important for me to hear this, then?”
“They likewise discussed the disappearance of the Algerian, Hakim Talib. You know, the one related to your partner who was always working with François.”
“And what did they say about him?” Gregory asked, his attention now focused.
“They mentioned he was last seen being flown from Algiers and handed over to the police in Marseille. But their sources in the department do not know where he’s being held now.”
“You did well to let me know, Phillip. I want you to be careful now; don’t let Giuseppe know you listened to their conversation,” he warned.
“I’ll make sure not to raise any suspicions,” the young man replied. “For all he knows, I’m a just a dishwasher with a wandering eye for the new waitress.”
“Since you brought up her name, how are things with you and Sophia?”
“Ah, well, things are pleasant,” the younger man answered. “She’s very busy working for your friend Geno so we don’t spend too much time together except when working the same shifts. But I’m doing my best to make sure nothing happens to her like you asked.”
Gregory’s mind shifted between seeing the two young people embraced like lovers to siblings who could barely tolerate each other’s presence. “I appreciate the effort you are undertaking Phillip. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, Monsieur Arsenault. Nothing comes to mind. But thank you for asking.”
Before Gregory could ask another question, one of his trusted colleagues, Julien LeBlanc, walked up to the table.
“Thank you for letting me know how things are, Phillip. I’ll call you in a few days,” Gregory said, ending their conversation. Turning to look at Julien, he asked, “What is it?”
“Louis just took a call from Pierre,” the former medic answered. “It seems he wants a raise in his monthly pay to continue working with us.”
“Really, he wants a raise now? Did he mention how much?” Gregory recognized the banker was important to Papillion Transport and its clandestine payments for shipping indiscriminate goods throughout the Mediterranean.
“No, Louis didn’t mention an amount, but after hanging up, he looked rather frustrated with what he heard.”
“I’ll have a talk with him as soon as I get back to the office,” Gregory promised.
“So, how is young Phillip handling things in Toulon?” Julien asked, alluding to the earlier phone call from his cousin.
“He says all is well. But he mentioned the Italians are considering the activities of a policewoman here in Marseille,” Gregory responded before finishing the last of his coffee.
“And why do we care about a policewoman here in Marseille?”
“Phillip was bringing it to our attention since it included talk of Nazim’s cousin and his disappearance from the police.” Gregory tossed a few francs on the table before walking away from the café, Julien following close behind him.
***
Following up on a lead provided by both German and Spanish authorities about a wanted drug smuggler, Detectives Nicolas Berger and Guy Masson strolled through crowds of tourists milling near the entrances for the cruise ship terminal. Each one was scanning the crowd for a glimpse of the suspect matching the drawing submitted by the Spanish Guardia Civil.
As he watched a group walk off the large Prevost tour bus, the detective turned to his partner. “Any luck?” Guy asked.
“Not yet. Who realized we’d have trouble finding a Spaniard with black curly hair and dark complexion?” Nicolas replied, looking over a group from Estonia. “Especially amongst all these fair-skinned tourists.”
“Do you think the Spanish got their description wrong?”
“It's not possible. The sketch and the photo they provided from their surveillance were almost spot on.”
“Look over at the group near the entrance. Someone looks out of place,” Guy said suddenly, describing a person in the crowd.
Standing amongst businessmen and their wives from Cologne, Germany, wearing gray sports coat and slacks, Guillermo Ochoa didn’t stand out because he didn’t try. The biggest issue was not having Nordic or Slavic features that allowed him to blend in with the crowd. His complexion and coal black hair were not altered.
Just six months earlier, Ochoa was masquerading as a ship’s engineer from a freighter docked in Marseille. Using his undercover identity, he plied the waterfront cementing his role as a petty drug dealer amongst the tourists. The last time I was here I was trying to make a sale, he thought while pulling his passport out.
Since they’d spotted their suspect in the crowd, the French detectives moved along the outskirts of the group. Nicolas walked along the fence line towards the terminal gates while Guy moved forward along the street.
As the tour groups were moving closer to the customs entrance, a woman bumped Guillermo, causing him to drop his passport on the ground. Crouching over to pick it up, Nicolas saw his chance to advance on the suspect without being noticed. He passed through the crowds in a matter of seconds, and soon stood over the Spanish drug dealer.
Guillermo noticed the feet of the detective come into view and glanced up. “Can I help you?”
“Monsieur Ochoa, I've got a few questions for you,” Detective Berger said, holding his credentials out.
“You must be mistaking me for someone else, officer. My name is Javier Gomez, not Ochoa,” Guillermo replied, showing Nicholas his fake identification for review.
As Nicolas was confronting the Spaniard, Detective Masson had walked up from behind, standing ready to help his partner.
Nicholas scanned over the passport issued by the government of Paraguay, noting the name and picture. “Monsieur Gomez, how did you enter Germany from Paraguay?”
“I don’t understand the relevance of the questioning, officer,” Guillermo stammered, confusion edged on his face while others looked on.
“You are traveling from Cologne but carrying a new passport. It doesn’t show you entering Germany from your homeland.”
“I was issued a new one last year since my previous one expired,” the Spaniard said, telling the well-rehearsed lie behind his fake document. “The staff at the embassy has the authority to do so.”
Detective Masson stood quiet, shaking his head to let his partner know things didn’t sound right. “You’ll be coming with us so we can verify your claim,” Guy said, grasping the arm of Guillermo.
As all this took place, tourists milled about, talking amongst themselves in hushed tones while they shuffled towards the customs entrance and their vacation on the cruise ship. From across the street, one man took special care watching the detectives escort the Spaniard away from the docks and toward their police car.
Chapter Four
With a copy of the artist’s sketch in his hand, Captain Julien Duval peered through the two-way glass into the interrogation room. “He fits the description all right,” he replied, gesturing to the three officers next to him. “But according to the consulate staff in Paris, his visa is legitimate. The document was supplied by government services in Asuncion to them late last year.”
“So, just having a valid passport establishes him as a lawful resident of a foreign country?” Detective Guy Masson asked.
“No, it means if he’s the suspect the Spanish say he is, we have two options,” the senior detective replied. “We can turn him over to the Guardia Civil and be done with him or we can keep him to see if he can present us with information about the increasing drug traffic problems here in Marseille.”
“And what charges are we supposed to file against him so we can buy ourselves time during the investigation?" Detective Masson asked.
“Suspicion of drug traffick
ing, of course,” Captain Duval offered. “Has he consented to give his fingerprints?”
“No, he has not. But if we file at least one charge against him, getting them won’t be a problem,” Detective Lemieux answered. “At the moment, Detective Benoit is down in the lab hoping the technicians can pull something from his passport. If we could get them, we might link him to something serious. Right now, we have nothing. The tour sponsor is cooperating, but even their documents prove him meeting the group in Cologne.”
Prowling about the cramped room, Captain Duval considered his choices. He rubbed the palm of his hand over his eyes and let out a groan. “Have we heard from the point of contact with the Guardia Civil yet?”
It was Detective Berger’s turn to respond to his boss. “Once we had the suspect in custody, we telephoned them last night. However, according to the watch-captain, the officer in charge of the investigation in Madrid left for the evening. I’m just waiting for him to call me back. But since we appear to have a few minutes, I’ll see if any messages were left with the Central operators,” he mentioned, leaving the room.
“Detective Masson, do we have locations where the cruise ship was slated to dock?” Captain Duval asked.
Pulling out his pad, Guy turned a few pages before reading. “Yes, he was listed on an Italian liner, the MCS Concerto which was originating in Barcelona. After stopping here, it was bound for Genoa, Naples, and later Malta. The last stop on the itinerary was its return to Barcelona.”
Captain Duval turned to Claude. “See if the tour group can produce a list of activities he might have registered for. I want to see if this gentleman might have had intentions to leave the tour along the way.”
***
As she snooped over the shoulder of the lab technician, Geneviève tried to guess the significance behind the swirls and curls the fingerprint image represented. With the ability of a plastic surgeon, the forensics technician was able to remove a complete fingerprint image from the photograph on Guillermo Ochoa’s passport. Employing a special cellophane tape and a nimble hand, she’d pulled the image without tearing the picture. Setting the tape on a slide, then under her microscope, the picture was accessible on the monitor for the police officers’ viewing.
“You are a genius, Francine,” Geneviève complimented.
“It’s not very tough. All you need is a steady hand.”
“So, is the image suitable to pass through the computer?”
"On just this single print alone?” she inquired. “It’ll take a while if you hope to receive any results from an individual fingerprint,” the woman answered, pulling off her latex gloves.
“Sometimes something is better than nothing, right?” Geneviève said.
“You better run to the lunchroom and grab us both something to eat then,” Francine powered up the computer to examine the fingerprint. Transcribing in a few directions, the computer started the inquiry based on the picture, delving into the numerous law-enforcement databases.
***
Benito Russo placed the packet of linguine in his basket as he wandered through the market. Since arriving in Marseille three days ago, he'd used too much money eating at the various cafés seeking to track his mark. Thank the Madonna mother taught me how to cook, he thought, placing a bundle of tomatoes in his basket next to a baguette. Reaching the counter, he glanced at what he was picking up and consider how he'd need to patronize the store.
“Did you find everything you needed?” the cashier inquired.
“Yes, I did,” he replied. “But I’m new in the city and was wondering if you could suggest a convenient market for meats and poultries.”
“Oh, you need to go to Marcel Roy’s market,” the cashier responded. “It’s only two blocks from here. Just go to the intersection and head towards the marina and his store is on the right side. You’ll find he’s got a splendid selection of meats.”
“Thank you. I’ll make it a point to visit later today,” Benito said, getting out cash to pay. He took up the sacks of groceries, before strolling out of the little market and wandering to the intersection to orient himself. Peering down the lane, he spotted the city bus parked a few hundred meters away. “Perfect, near the market and the bus stops close by,” he announced to himself.
Benito put away the items he bought at the market as he walked through the door of his leased flat. Relaxing at the table against the window overlooking a small park, he opened his laptop computer to jot down his observations. Next, he opened a file with a timeline associated with his target. At 0600, leaves the residence to jog; 0715, come back to the flat; 0830, grabs the bus; 0845, enters the building, reading the entry. “The target has performed this two of the three days I’ve been here,” he stated to the vacant room.
He’d yet to capture the target returning to the flat at a steady time each morning. “Well, she is a law enforcement officer; can’t demand her to have a typical nine-to-five schedule, can I?” Closing the computer, he snatched his jacket and left the residence. Once again, he roamed the narrow streets, scrutinizing his plan to seize the woman worth one hundred thousand euros to him.
***
The awkward silence gnawed at the young lab technician sitting at her desk. Mustering up some courage, Francine finally asked her lunchtime companion the question she yearned to have answered. “So, what can you tell me about Detective Berger?” she asked Geneviève between bites of her sandwich.
“Nicolas? Well, he’s rather handsome, as I’m sure you've noticed,” Geneviève answered. “Over the last four weeks of working with him, I’ve learned in the few conversations we’ve had that he’s not seeing anyone serious. Oh, and let see ..., he regards himself very athletic. He’s always talking about spending his free time running the boardwalk,” she added. “Perhaps showing off his physique to the tourists, I imagine. And just the other day, he mentioned trying his hand at windsurfing in Nice for the first time.”
“So, no one special,” the technician said, more a statement than a query to the police officer.
“Not that I’m aware of ... he’s mentioned no one by name. He hasn’t even mentioned going on a date recently,” Geneviève responded before finishing her soup and tossing the dish in the trash. “Francine, he’s not the timid type; you should go up and chat with him.”
“Are you saying that’s how you and your Monsieur Dupont met?”
“What… oh no,” she replied, shaking her head. “We met as part of an investigation. It has been all business since the beginning,” Geneviève said. “Listen, you just need to be yourself with Nicolas. That’s all I’m saying.”
“It’s easy for you to mention being myself. He might find it simple talking in public, but I’m not comfortable around men. I mean, at least when it comes to starting a conversation.” Francine squinted over the detective's shoulder at the computer, reading the flashing dialogue box. “Looks like our fingerprint got flagged,” she announced, wheeling her chair in front of the console.
Spinning around, Geneviève saw the flashing notice, but couldn’t make out the printing. “What does it say?”
“It seems the gentleman’s print has flagged a file at INTERPOL. The message reads ‘Priority status confirmation needed for access,’” she explained, referring to the screen.
“INTERPOL? As in the international police agency?”
“Yes, that one; unless you know of another,” the technician answered. “And I’m sorry to say I can’t do anything past this point without having the access code,” Francine sighed pushing her glasses back.
“Can you print the message from the screen? I need to take it to Claude and Captain Duval,” Geneviève requested. “Oh, don’t forget and store the fingerprint image to the file on the suspect; we may need it again.”
“Give me a minute and you’ll have your printout,” Francine said, keying in the command. Pacing around the workshop apparatus, Geneviève looked over the figure of the lab technician, sizing her up for her colleague. She’s got a nice figure, good com
plexion. Looks like she keeps herself in decent shape, and nothing is out of the ordinary the way she dresses. Just means Nicolas would enjoy having his hands on her, she thought.
“Here you go, and I saved the print image to the files.” Francine proudly handed over the screenshot.
“Thank you, Francine,” the detective replied. “Oh, and I’ll give you call when you can ‘bump into’ Detective Berger.” She smiled at Francine as she left the room.
***
Going to the café near the bank where Pierre Segal worked would have taken just minutes for Gregory Arsenault, but he preferred to discuss matters with Louis first. Making his way up the stairs to the second-floor suite of Papillion Transport, Gregory caught Hector walking out of the room.
“Gregory, I’m glad you're back,” hardly containing his excitement.
“Why, did I miss something?” Gregory asked, walking past Hector and into the room.
“I was leaving the old offices near the waterfront and I swear I caught a glimpse of that punk Ochoa. He was lining up at the customs entrance for the cruise lines with a bunch of tourists.”
The name of the former ship engineer caused Gregory to stop in his tracks. “You saw the Spaniard here in Marseille?” he asked. “Are you sure it was him?”
“Yes, he was being escorted by police away from the cruise ship terminal,” Hector said. “He was well dressed, like a businessman. The people with the tour group he was traveling with said he joined them in Cologne.”
Gregory looked at his friend and fellow Legionnaire. “Anton will be happy to learn he’s alive,” His heavy dose of sarcasm did not go unnoticed. After the first officer of Joan of Arc learned of the Spaniards’ arrest in Hamburg, he swore he’d make Ochoa pay for their problems with the German authorities.
“Why do you think he returned?”
“I’m not sure. It would be nice to find out though. But I was hoping not to use my contact for a few months,” Gregory said as he headed into his private office that overlooked the harbor. As he was sitting down, his friend and partner in business came limping into the office to sit across from him.
Obscure Intentions Page 3
