Obscure Intentions

by Anthony J Harrison

  “Was there anything on his female companion?” Gregory asked, changing the focus of their conversation.

  “Yes, she seems to be well-liked,” Claire said. “She’s being lavished with VIP treatment while the paparazzi are being kept at bay. Seems she went into seclusion somewhere near Plan-de-Cuques.” That was the district where the police training area was located. “It seems an Italian consortium bidding for her services has sent a second suitor to negotiate.”

  As Claire provided Gregory with the information on Hakim Talib’s location and the Italians’ effort to abduct Detective Benoit, his mind was racing through the possible actions. If the police found out about the warehouse, what else did they learn? he asked himself. And what of the woman, how can I use her against Nazim or his mentor, Omar Khalid. So many options, and so little reward.

  “Gregory, did you understand me?”

  “I’m sorry, Claire. What did you say?” he asked, embarrassed for ignoring her.

  “I was asking how Sophia was. Have you heard from her or the young man since the last time?” the young woman’s mother asked.

  “Both her and Phillip are doing well,” Gregory said. “She’s keeping busy at a local restaurant. And Phillip is close by making sure she stays safe. I can arrange for you to see her if you’d like.” As he waited for Claire to respond, Gregory caught a glimpse of a man waiting to be seated near the hostess’ podium.

  Walking up to the entrance ahead of Benito Russo, Giuseppe Ricci looked in on the patrons enjoying their evening. As he scanned the men and women, including several children, he froze as he recognized one. Spinning away as casually as he could, he pushed Benito toward the street.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We need to leave now,” Giuseppe replied, reaching the curb. “I saw someone I didn’t expect to see,” he explained, striding down the sidewalk and hailing a passing taxi. “We’ll find somewhere else to eat.”

  Peering back at the entrance, Giuseppe was hoping the former Legionnaire didn’t recognize him and his companion. If he was found out, he wasn’t sure he could explain being in Marseille and the business he was doing for Alberto Scuderi.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The sound came from behind, splashing through puddles gathering on the sidewalk as the rain intensified. Eerie shadows cascaded across the street alternating between their source of lights. As she passed the shop entrance shrouded in darkness, Geneviève felt a hand grasp her arm, pulling her down as she screamed at the intruder.

  The weight of her assailant pressed her down onto the shipping pallet as calloused hands tore at her blouse. The rough-hewn material scraped her flesh as she attempted to free herself, her legs refusing to move under the shadowy figure.

  As her heart pounded heavy in her chest, the screams continued until she realized they weren’t hers. Opening her eyes, Geneviève found herself in bed, covered in sweat. Another scream came, this time subdued from outside the villa. Clambering out of bed, she grabbed her pistol and bolted out of the building.

  A glint of light shone to her right from a small stand of trees, showing movement when she heard the muffled scream again. Rushing towards the noise, she soon came upon a man dressed in dark clothing trying to subdue a female cadet.

  The sound of approaching footsteps caused the assailant to let go of the woman and take off in the opposite direction. Turning to see if he was still being followed, he didn't realize Geneviève had cut across his path and was now upon him.

  “Freeze!” she yelled, leveling the pistol at his head.

  Staring down the length of the weapon, the man stood still, his chest heaving as he tried catching his breath.

  Standing near the man, Geneviève noticed he looked like the cadet she encountered earlier in the evening. “On your knees, hands on your head,” she yelled as her breathing slowed down from sprinting after her prey.

  Finally, two patrol vehicles came towards her, their spotlights illuminating the scene. “Identify yourself,” an officer ordered as he came close to the detective, his own weapon drawn and poised.

  “Detective Geneviève Benoit,” she said.

  “Where are your credentials?” he asked, glancing at the woman’s lack of attire.

  “Back in my villa, number 4,” Geneviève replied, keeping her weapon on the suspect.

  Soon, two of the other officers approached, handcuffing the assailant and allowing her to lower her pistol. “Did you come across a young woman back there?” she asked.

  “Yes, she’s being taken to the infirmary,” the officer, a sergeant as his uniform suggested, said. “She’s shaken up, a few scratches, some bruises,” he said, “and very grateful for your quick response.”

  Watching the other officers place the suspect into one of the patrol cars, Geneviève realized how cold the early morning air had become. “Can you give me a lift back to the villas please?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

  “Of course,” the sergeant said, showing her to his vehicle.

  Showing up at the villa, she rushed in, coming out five minutes later clothed and cleaned, knowing she need to assist the officer while he filed his report. “I’ve seen the suspect before,” she said, sliding into the passenger seat. “Earlier in the evening. He’s a cadet.”

  “Really?”

  Over the next few minutes, she related the events from earlier where the cadet had caught her off guard while she was walking to the villa. “Officer Cote saw everything,” Geneviève said. “She was standing in the front of the Admin office.”

  “And how do you know Officer Cote?”

  “She was instructing the courses on victim psychology and negotiation techniques,” Geneviève said. “They were very interesting. I was surprised at the length of time a hostage can succumb to ‘Stockholm syndrome’ while in captivity as well.”

  “She seems to relish her role here,” the officer said, sliding the report in front of her. “If you can just sign at block 16a, I’ll see you’re escorted back to the villa.”

  Geneviève took the pen the officer held out for her and turned the paper to one side. With a flourish, she signed as witness to the assault, recalling how her signature had evolved from the first police report she signed twelve years ago.

  ***

  A cup of coffee sat steaming on the table in front of Giuseppe Ricci as his guest prepared a small breakfast for them. Seeing the former Legionnaire in the restaurant was a surprise, but hardly unexpected.

  “So, this acquaintance of yours, he’s the one helping you against the Corsican mafia?” Benito asked. “If what you say is true, I can understand why you wish to avoid being seen as an ‘agent provocateur’ to them.”

  “The worst part is after they helped me, I was asked to check on a possible partner for them,” Giuseppe said. “Turns out the man they were looking to associate themselves was part of the ‘Maghrebi’ organization. His name is Nazim Aziz, and he’s fronted out of Algiers by a ruthless sheik who is partnered with the Corsicans,” he explained, sipping his coffee. “It’s a vicious circle.”

  “I don’t understand,” Benito said. “What makes this such a bad situation?” he asked, cooking several eggs to go along with the bacon.

  “Their partnership soured after a shipment of hashish was stolen from a freighter bound for the United Kingdom,” Giuseppe said. “Nazim blamed Gregory of collusion with an Irishman to steal the drugs and keep the money he was paid to alter the shipment. As it turns out, Alberto learned from contacts in London, an Irishman was trying to work a deal against South Americans who were muscling themselves into his region.”

  “So why doesn’t Scuderi turn everything over to the Corsicans and let them handle things?” Benito asked, serving up the food. “Why should we be placed in the middle of a turf war? We have our own issues in Milan.”

  Taking a bite of the eggs and bacon, Giuseppe washed it down with some coffee before answering. “There’s something between Scuderi and this Algerian,” he said. “I haven’t
been able to figure it out though.”

  “Why would you?”

  “It’s never a bad thing to have an idea who is working for whom,” Giuseppe said. “Plus, if I ever come across something for the don which could cause conflict, I want to make sure I’m on the right side.”

  Benito sat across from his guest, pondering how he could put the information he’d heard to good use, either for Scuderi or the Algerian Giuseppe was describing. Dipping his toast into the egg yolk, he considered his options.

  “Now, back to our situation,” Giuseppe said. “What is your grand plan to avoid being detected when we abduct the policewoman’s suitor?”

  Getting up from the table, Benito retrieved a case from the bedroom and opened it to display the contents.

  “What the hell?” Giuseppe whispered. Inside he was looking at the makings of an artist’s makeup stand. “A theatre kit, am I right?”

  “Very good,” Benito said. “My sister was part of a local troupe and she taught me a few things so I could help her get ready,” he explained, pulling out several wigs. “I’ve gotten good at doing my own disguises: wigs, false teeth, small scars and a few nose corrections,” he said with pride. “We can walk through Monsieur Dupont’s complex wearing these and when we’re done, no one will be the wiser.”

  “I’m impressed, Benito,” Giuseppe said. Taking up one of the wigs, he considered what he might look like wearing it. “I always fancied the blonde look,” he said, glancing in the mirror. “What about clothes?”

  “Our normal clothing should be fine,” he said. “Remember, we’re part of a consulting firm taking a survey on how well the patrons like their complex.” Pulling out his satchel, he retrieved the generic forms they would use. “See, we just need to fill in their names, apartment number, and check a few boxes off. Once we get to Dupont’s door, we’ll strong-arm our way in, subdue him, and then leave later in the evening.”

  “You make it sound so simple,” Giuseppe said. “There must be fifty units to approach. How do you plan to time it when he’s there?”

  “It’s simple. But more important, it works every time,” Benito said. “I’ve done eight such abductions over the last four years for Alberto like the one I just described,” he explained as he closed the case. “It works.”

  “How much time do you need to prepare both of us?”

  “An hour for each of us, maybe 90 minutes,” Russo replied. “Not much more since it’s just wigs and makeup.”

  “We’ve got to make this happen by Friday,” Giuseppe said. “The transport for the woman will not linger; we’ll be delivering her on the move.”

  “Are we tossing her from car to car?”

  “No. We’ll be meeting several members of mine from Toulon at the marina. She’s being taken by speedboat to a passing merchantman,” Giuseppe said. “And the ship won’t be stopping. It has a scheduled arrival in Genoa on Saturday morning which can’t be missed.”

  “So, we literally can’t miss the boat,” Russo chuckled, shaking his head.

  “Not if you wish to see your chunk of the bounty, we can’t.”

  “Then I suggest we go over the routine we’ll use,” Russo said. “Because tomorrow, we’ll begin our charade, say about 10 o’clock. We can take a few samples and then meet near Dupont’s unit before hitting a few more. This way, the patrons will get used to us being near the unit without being suspicious.”

  “If this is the plan, I’ll inform my man to be ready after sundown on Thursday evening,” Giuseppe said. “Now, what do you have for weapons beside the Taser?”

  ***

  Stepping out of the bedroom, Geneviève slid her feet into her shoes before grabbing her blazer from the foot of the bed. She’d contacted the desk sergeant after returning to the villa, securing a ride to the police station, and looking at her wristwatch, she noticed she was cutting things close.

  Walking into the small kitchen, she poured the last of her coffee into a paper cup as a knock came at the door. “Coming!” she shouted, putting a splash of milk in the cup.

  Rushing to the door, she nearly forgot her sidearm, forcing her to go back to the bedroom to retrieve it. Getting to the door, she was surprised to see her partner standing on the porch. “Claude, I didn’t expect you,” she said, pulling the door closed.

  “I’m getting used to phone calls in the early morning about your escapades,” he said.

  “The patrol sergeant called you?”

  “Yes, after you took up residence, I instructed them to let me know if you ever cause a problem,” Claude said, sliding behind the wheel. “Seems running around the grounds half-naked with your gun is out of the ordinary, don’t you agree?”

  “I woke up hearing screams, what would you want me to do?”

  Pulling out of the training facility, Claude swerved to miss a passing trolley. “How about getting dressed for one thing,” the older officer said. “And then call for backup before you go chasing down people in the early morning darkness.”

  “I was more concerned about stopping the crime than being in uniform,” Geneviève said. Watching the buildings pass them by, she realized they weren’t heading to their office. “Where are we going?”

  “It seems your assailant’s family has a checkered past,” Claude said. “We’ve learned his uncle has been associated with one of the African black gangs here in the city. It would be interesting to see if he’s part of the drug smuggling.”

  “I wasn’t aware of their involvement in drugs,” she said. “All the reports I recall seeing associated the black gangs with racketeering efforts along with the Corsicans. The last big raid was against Les Caids des Cites here in the city.”

  “They’re spreading out and flexing their muscles,” Claude said. “One of the undercover operations also identified their possible involvement with the groups associated with Maghrebi crime families in Lyon, Lille and here in Marseille.”

  “If they are, we should see more movement, but we’re not,” she said.

  “A lot of the gangs’ action would be in the less desirable areas of the city,” Claude said, pulling into a neighborhood known for Maghrebi gang activity, “such as this part of town.” He waved his hand at the graffiti riddled buildings. “We’ve always been assigned to the more glamorous areas, like the waterfront, for our investigations.”

  Glancing at the boarded-up storefronts and spray-painted symbols across the building facades, the outlook for the area was bleak. “This looks like a war zone,” she said, dismayed at the scenery.

  “It is in a large part,” Claude said. “As local gangs gain strength in their members, they move the weaker elements out.” He stopped, pulling in behind a marked police car. “Keep your eyes open to anything and everything,” he warned her.

  Getting out of the car, Claude approached the uniformed officers standing behind their car. “Good morning, Andre,” he said, shaking the officer’s hand.

  “Bonjour, Captain Lemieux,” the officer replied.

  “I appreciate you taking time for my partner and I this morning,” Claude said. “This is Detective Geneviève Benoit,” he introduced, motioning to the woman beside him.

  “Bonjour, Detective,” the officer said, acknowledging Geneviève. “Your call was a surprise this morning, Claude,” the officer said. “Monsieur Bolaji was never considered a contributor to the crimes here in the neighborhood.”

  “His nephew is being investigated into an assault,” Claude said, following the officer down the sidewalk. “There was a flag on his file about possible connections with one of the Corsicans’ families.”

  Turning into a small grass area, the officer lead Claude and Geneviève to a flat piece of granite inscribed with a name and two sets of dates. “Here lie the remains of one Monsieur Bolaji,” the officer said. “Unless there’s someone else posing as him, the report you have has been tampered with by someone.”

  The detectives each shared a glance between themselves before Geneviève spoke. “Now what do we do?”
/>   Chapter Twenty-Two

  Gregory Arsenault sat at his desk, reviewing the communiques from his contacts in Istanbul and Naples. Each one relayed similar information: the groups stood committed to Papillion Transport activities and vowed to continue having the freighters move their cargo.

  Steadying two cups of coffee in his hands, Louis Clement entered the office, his limp becoming less noticeable. “Can you grab one of these?” he asked, extending the cup towards Gregory. Taking a seat across from his friend, he noticed the papers on the desk. “Are they good news or bad?”

  “Oh... these; they’re good news for us,” Gregory said, holding the telex. “Reading these, our customers in Turkey and the Italians in Naples have confirmed their continued support. Now, it’s a matter of scheduling the freighters,” looking at the board behind his desk identifying each of the ships that comprised Papillion Transport.

  “We just moved Sebastian and the De Gaulle,” Louis said. “Once he off-loads in Toulon, we can have him make a pickup in Naples, can’t we?”

  “Not until we get a bill of lading for goods,” Gregory said. “I’m not going to commit to anything until I know we’ll see money coming in to account for the action. It’s time we think more like a regular business, remember?”

  “I remember,” Louis said. “So how did dinner go with Claire last night?”

  “Enlightening to say the least. She found information on Hakim,” he said. “It turns out the police have him holed up on Ile d’If, but the only structure is the chateau. Which makes little sense since it’s a tourist attraction now days,” he continued, sipping his coffee.

  “Maybe he’s chained up in the dungeon. Can you imagine it, just like Laurence of Arabia,” Louis laughed, alluding to an old silent movie? “But why there?”

  Glancing at his partner, Gregory considered the question too. “You ask a very good question: why hide Hakim there, and for what reason?” He swirled the remaining coffee in his cup.

  “Do you think he talked?”