Planned Chance

by Robert Webb

  Chapter 5

  “Monsieur we have arrived,” the taxi driver exclaimed, jolting Tom who had been in deep thought, back to the present day Paris. If Alyse was alive, she was here. He walked through the revolving doors of the hotel and walked slowly past the table holding numerous brochures that advertised various attractions that visitors could enjoy while staying in Paris.

  The hotel was slightly upscale, but did not have the uppity atmosphere that you often find in expensive establishments. It was the kind of place that offered room service and took your bags up to your room, but if you wanted a massage or an alcoholic drink, you would have to leave the hotel. When he arrived at his room, a bellman was already waiting for him with his luggage a tow.

  "Good evening sir," the man spoke in English. The front desk must have told him I was English, he thought, but then again, it was obvious.

  "Good evening," he replied as he entered the large room.

  After he delivered the customary tip to the man, he stood for a minute in the middle of the hotel room mulling over whether he wanted to unpack his clothes, or wait and see if what he had come here to accomplish turned out.

  He sat at the desk in his hotel room going over all the intelligence information that he had gathered during his search for her; information that led him to believe that Alyse, if alive, had made it to Paris. He also knew that if Alyse was making it this difficult to find her, then someone wanted her dead. He felt his heartbeat quicken at the thought that Alyse may be in Paris, alive and well. The only question was where.

  He walked out of his hotel the next morning to a gorgeous day in Paris with its picture perfect scenery on display for all to enjoy. He was fascinated with the carefree and happy people that populated the city. They say this is the country of love, he thought, hoping to be added to the list of those fortunate souls that had connected in this legendary place.

  He was startled by a vagrant, with a rag and spray bottle, pleading with the taxi driver to let him wash the windows of the taxi for a nominal fee. This view of the downtrodden was about the only thing that he had noticed so far that Paris had in common with the states. The taxi driver mouthed something in French to the still begging man before the traffic cleared enough to let him escape and avoid continuing his rant. Tom didn't mind the delay, and used this time to clear his head, which had been deep in thought about his plans to make this trip a successful one

  "Business or pleasure?" The taxi driver asked trying to evoke a response from the silent Tom.

  "Both," he replied without further words letting the man know he was not interested in idle chatter.

  It was not long before he reached his destination, and even though he did not think of himself as a tourist this time around, he still was ending up at the most iconic place in the country. Later that day, he arrived at the Eiffel Tower wearing a blue baseball cap, just like the one he had been instructed to wear by the man who agreed to meet with him at the monument.

  This man, who he met through the back channels of espionage was said to have particular knowledge of the events that encompassed both their lives. The man was a shadowy type figure that left him feeling uneasy whenever they had spoken on the phone.

  He felt under his left arm to assure himself that he hadn't forgotten his security blanket that consisted of his forty-five caliber handgun. He trusted very few people and he was well aware of just how fast he could find himself in a life or death struggle. He had very little Intel on the man he was meeting with today, after all, information on people in this type of business, doesn’t come easy. He had no choice but trust the man, at least a little, for he had exhausted all other leads.

  He could feel his muscles tense up every time someone got close to where he had stationed himself on the observation deck, a ritual that went on for over two hours, before he realized that his contact was not going to show; he had been stood-up. Tom, who was frustrated and angry, decided to walk back to his hotel room instead of taking a taxi, in part to clear his head and contemplate his next move in this never ending chess game.

  The care free Parisians helped calm his mood as he walked the city streets, past the numerous street vendors and artists performing their craft. He partook in the festive atmosphere, until he felt someone watching him; he continued on, but thought that going to his hotel room probably would not be a wise idea. He could not see who was watching, but he felt them.

  He would have to lose them.

  He turned down a lonely alleyway that stood between a restaurant and a bar in his attempt to lose his follower. Maybe paranoia is getting the best of me, he thought, when he realized not a soul had entered the alleyway behind him. Just to be on the safe side, he made a few more evasive turns, while making his way through the busy streets and sidewalks, before he was convinced that there wasn’t anyone following him, at least not anymore.

  By the time he made it back to the moderately priced hotel where he was staying, his energy faded and he had grown tired from the day's events. Not feeling like talking with anyone, he started to head straight to the elevator to go up to his room.

  “Monsieur, you have a message,” the desk clerk exclaimed, while waving a slip of paper in his hand, which was clearly the message in question.

  He walked over to the desk where the young bellman was stationed, and retrieved the folded piece of paper.

  “How did this message come in,” he asked.

  “A young boy delivered it, Monsieur.” The man answered. “But he has long departed.”

  He tipped the man for the information that he had been given, albeit very little information. He put the message in his pocket, and hurriedly proceeded to his room, feeling a hint of excitement about what the note may contain. Unable to wait any longer, he pulled the note from its resting place as soon as he closed the door to his room. Delicately unfolding the small note that he had been given, he quickly read the single sentence that had been written:

  “I had to check you out to see if you were trying to set me up.”

  Tom, for all his anger that he had for being stood-up earlier at the Eiffel Tower, understood why the man would be cautious. I would have done the same thing, he thought to himself as he ripped the paper into pieces and flushed them down the toilet.

  The escalating talk of murder, intrigue, and secret meetings made him feel as if he were becoming a character in a mystery novel, a role he was not particularly fond of playing. He opened the door to the brown mini-refrigerator in the corner of the room, and was about to sample one of the alcoholic beverages that the hotel staff had stocked, when he heard the rustling of paper. He turned in the direction that the sound was coming from, and noticed a piece of paper sliding under his room’s door.

  Tom, not knowing whether the person delivering the paper was friend or foe, grabbed his gun and silently eased up to the door, quickly snatching the heavy door open and bursting out into the hallway. To his dismay, whoever had placed the note had already disappeared out of sight.

  Disappointed, he grabbed the note in the doorway and closed the door behind him, sat down on the edge of the bed, and opening the covertly delivered message. It was yet another one-line note that simply read, “Same time, same place, now!”

  He took a deep breath into his lungs, taking in all of the aromas of Paris as he walked out of his hotel. He was not sure what to expect when he arrived at the meeting location with his source that had re-contacted him, but one lesson that he had learned the hard way, in his line of work, was to expect the worst. It did not take long for him to get a taxi, it is amazing what holding American dollars up in the air will do for you, he thought as he stepped to the curb, watching the race that had already begun by the taxi drivers to see who could get to him first.

  The race was a short one for the drivers, and he entered the taxi of the winner, instructing the driver to head to the Eiffel Tower. The taxi was an equally clean taxi as the one he rode in earlier in the day, which seemed to be the norm in France. He welcomed the security
that the small passenger compartment of the taxi afforded him, for he knew he had reached a very dangerous point in his search for Alyse; they had unwittingly stumbled onto something bigger than either one of them, a secret for which the people were willing to kill.

  He stepped from the taxi at the base of the tower onto a wet sidewalk that appeared freshly washed, causing it to glisten off the lights of the tower. The mammoth landmark’s size made him feel small and insignificant, and he was awed and mesmerized by its glowing beauty against the jet-black night sky.

  Here it goes, he thought to himself as he placed his foot on the first metal step and started to make his way up toward the top of the tower. It was taking some time for him to make his way up the many steps of the tower, when he realized that it was not a smart idea to walk straight up the stairs like everyone else would, so he began to look around for an alternative route. After thinking for a moment, he remembered noticing a separate stairway located just a couple flights below his location. It was closed off by a large iron gate; obviously to keep all members of the general public out, some sort of maintenance stairway.

  He made his way back down to the closed off stairway and made quick work of picking the lock on the gate, a task that had been easy to him for some time. He opened the gate slowly because of the squeaking it was making from lack of oil on the hinges. Ironic, he thought, a maintenance stairway lacking in proper maintenance. He made sure to shut the heavy gate back behind him, if anyone were following him, they would not be any the wiser that he had taken the route. He had to take extra care and time on each step as he approached the observation deck, trying to make as little noise as possible.

  The observation deck’s visibility improved with each step, and as he took the last flight of stairs, he was able to scan the deck. To his surprise, the only person standing on the observation deck was a man in his forties dressed in a white shirt and jeans. More importantly for Tom, he wore a blue hat, the article the informant said he would be wearing for identification. He did not immediately approach the man, and took his time to observe him for any clue to his character or reason for meeting with him. The man, who did not fit the stereotype of the typical spy, stood silent at the railing of the deck and appeared to be in deep thought as he stared into the night.  

  “Hello Tom,” the man said without even turning around. You could hear in his voice that he felt superior that he had the ability to know what was going on around him without actually seeing with his eyes. He was uncomfortable from the moment he stepped onto the deck, and felt like a sitting duck on the almost completely open platform; he just wanted to get the information that the man possessed and leave.

  "Let's get this over with," he said in a matter of fact voice, hoping the man would think that this covert style operation was an everyday occurrence for him.

  He recounted, to the man, the surveillance operation that his task force had been performing in New York, an operation dealing with the group of terrorists and their possible planning of future attacks against the United States. He also recounted the first time he and Alyse had met, ending with her abduction in Germany. He explained that she appeared to be part of the group of terrorists that he and his team had been investigating, but explained that she turned out to have infiltrated the group to get close to their leader.

  “We caught them.” Tom said. “She was said to have died in a car chase with police.”

  "If you think the people you were investigating were already caught or killed, why are you still investigating the matter?" The man asked.

  He was sure that the man knew the answer to his own question but he played along anyway.

  "We only caught the foot soldiers, not their leader.” He explained. “And I don’t believe Alyse was the woman killed in the car chase.” Once again, he could feel himself get excited at the thought of Alyse being alive. The man looked at him intently, for what to him, seemed forever. 

  "Let me start by warning you to drop this inquiry and go back to the states," the man pleaded. He knew the man did not think for an instant that he would ever quit his search after coming this far.

  "You know I can't," Tom replied

  The man nodded and immediately began to tell him that he was correct in his thought that the leader of the terrorist cell escaped.

  "He was not caught because he never existed," the man surprisingly said. Tom puzzled at the statement and shifted his head to the right much like a puppy does when a high-pitched sound is made.

  "This thing that you have stumbled upon goes all the way to the top of two countries," the man exerted,  going on to explain that the President of the United States and Prime Minister of Canada had formed a commission on terrorism, shortly after the two leaders met at a North American summit.  

  "I know the Joint Commission on Terrorism,” he said.

  "What you don't know, is the committee's real reason for being formed. They were not there to prevent future attacks by analyzing data and intercepting…,” the man's voice was halted by a gunshot that rang out, piercing the silence of the night. Tom immediately could tell that the shot came from his rear, and instinctively dropped to the cold steel floor of the observation deck, rolling towards a metal box that gave him some cover and removed his body from the line of fire.

  The large metal box that he hid behind provided an almost impenetrable cover, and seemed to hold some type of machinery used in the facility. He noticed that his informant lay motionless to his right, with a hole in the middle of his forehead.

  "Why couldn't you just stay out of it Tom?" The shooters voice asked.

  He instantly recognized the voice as his best friend and most trusted member of his team at the FBI. He could not help the feelings of intense anger and disgust swell up inside of him.

  "You son of a bitch, I trusted you with my life.” Tom’s disgust for Frank was clear. “What did they have to pay you to turn on your country?"

  "Spare me the righteous condemnation, when are you going to learn that everyone in this world is out for themselves; there's no such thing as dying for honor or ideology anymore.” “So, yes it took cash; a whole lot of cash, and while you’re lying in a grave, I will be lying on a secluded beach with no worries, other than what my next drink will be."

  Tom lifted his head slightly above the metal box, which caused Frank to release a barrage of bullets in his direction. Seeing an opportunity to escape after Frank’s weapon misfired, Tom jumped from his safety spot toward his former friend, striking him in the chest with extreme force, causing him to fall backwards. Unable to control the momentum from the strike, Frank hit the railing of the observation deck, and fell over the ledge. Tom raced over to the railing to see Frank holding on to the top railing of the deck with both hands, but before he could grab him and pull him to safety, his friend lost his grip on the railing. Frank looked him in the eyes, with horror, while falling off the side of the tower to the concrete below, killing him instantly.

  He glanced down at the man lying on the sidewalk below with sadness, but knowing he did not have time to collect his emotions; he ran down the stairs and disappeared from the edges of the tower grounds running into the night.