by AJ Stewart
The Final Tour
A Jacques Fontaine / John Flynn Thriller
AJ Stewart
Jacaranda Drive
For the servicemen and women everywhere who protect our freedom and liberty
And for Heather and Evan
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
Baghdad, Iraq, September 2011
The sky was the same featureless white in Iraq as it was in Afghanistan, and the sun was the same molten orb, penetrating even the full-blast air-conditioning of the Toyota Highlander. They took two vehicles. Not because they had much gear but because two vehicles had been sent to collect them from the airport. The whole area was one big military base—Camp Victory. Jacques Fontaine liked the name, even if it was bestowed prematurely. Begin as you intend to continue was the way he approached things, and entering into a campaign with anything less than victory as the goal was a complete waste of effort.
The base was busy. Military bases usually were. Troops and vehicles and equipment were never where they needed to be so bases were in a constant state of momentum, but this base was busier than most. There were a lot of flights in, and a lot of flights out. But the flights in were mostly empty, and the flights out were full.
The two white Highlanders headed away from the airport, down the heavily guarded strip of land that carried the road into the Green Zone. There were a lot of military vehicles on the road, but a lot of civilian vehicles as well. Or perhaps not civilian. Perhaps paramilitary was a better term. They stopped at a checkpoint just outside the cordoned-off area, but they had the kind of paperwork that got them through those kinds of checkpoints.
Inside the checkpoint was like a different country. The Green Zone was an oasis in the Persian desert. There were still plenty of military. And private military, or private security contractors, as he recalled they preferred to be known. They looked more or less the same, except the military wore standard desert combat uniforms in the US military’s latest camouflage configuration. The PSCs wore uniforms with the same look but without the camo. And without flags on their shoulders. The same sort of plain khaki that Fontaine and his team wore.
“What is your name?” Fontaine asked his driver in English.
The man was thin, with a concave chest and heavy stubble. He wore the ubiquitous mustache. He held the steering wheel with hands that were hairy and strong.
“My name is Yusuf, sayidi.”
“Yusuf. Bon. Where are we going, Yusuf?”
“Your hotel, sayidi.”
A large dark man leaned over from the rear seat of the SUV. He might have been Iraqi himself, but he had passed for everything from Italian to Moroccan. It was the latter that his team suspected he originated from.
“At-il dit hôtel?” asked the man.
“Oui, Babar,” said Fontaine. “He did say hotel.”
The SUVs pulled up outside a hotel that would have brought a frown to the face of a business traveler in Europe or America but was as fine as things got in Baghdad. The five men stepped out of the vehicles and stretched in the sun. The flight from Bagram Air Base to Camp Victory had been typically noisy and typically uncomfortable. It was a NATO cargo flight and they were the only cargo. The Boeing C-17 was piloted by Hungarian crew and would return to Bagram with a full payload. Operations may have been winding down in Iraq but it was still full capacity for now in Afghanistan.
The men walked tall, heads high and alert. Not marching but not far off it. The lobby of the hotel was open and airy and considerably cooler than the outside. The floor was an intricate tile and the stairs opposite the entrance had gold balustrades. On the right was a lounge. There were men in shirtsleeves and khaki trousers sipping tea or coffee and talking in close quarters. None of them looked local. On the left was a small reception desk, staffed by a well-dressed man. The man’s eyes watched the room, sweeping back and forth as if he expected trouble to break out at any time. Fontaine didn’t see what he wanted to see so he approached the desk. The man eyed him with suspicion. Fontaine spoke English.
“My name is Fontaine,” he said.
“Monsieur Fontaine,” said the man without a smile. “Welcome to the Royal Babylon. You are expected.” The man made a call on his desk phone and then hung up. “Please. You are welcome to take a seat in the lounge.” He gestured to the other side of the lobby.
Fontaine nodded and directed his team to the lounge chairs. They appropriated chairs to make a tight circle of six, one each plus one spare. They sat in silence. Silence was something they did well. It was one of the few things that hadn’t been needed to be drummed into them at basic training. The diaspora of languages and backgrounds had created suspicion, which led to cliques based on common language, and then as a group lots of silence. Basic training had broken down the barriers of mistrust and rebuilt them as one unit, but the comfort with silence had remained.
The man called Babar saw the officer come down the stairs and cross the lobby in their direction so he was the first to stand. When the other four men saw him stand at attention they followed suit without bothering to look. Like his men, the officer wasn’t in uniform. He reached the circle of chairs and took each man’s eye in turn.
First the big man, Babar. Then to Babar’s right, the smaller man called Gorecki, all pale sharp angles and long Slavic nose. Then another giant of a man, Manu. He looked like a rugby player from some South Sea island and was the only member of the group to smile while at attention. Then Thorn, his blond Nordic hair sticking out like a beacon in a nation of dark-featured people. The officer’s eyes stopped on Fontaine. As usual, his protégé looked serious and ready.
“Fontaine,” he said.
“Colonel Laporte,” Fontaine said.
The colonel continued in French. “Sit men, sit. There is no ceremony here.”
The group waited until the colonel had taken his seat before taking their own. They watched him expectantly. He knew they had questions, but he knew they were used to not getting many answers.
“First, as I have not seen you since your previous operation, congratulations are in order. Fine work, fine indeed. Our American cousins are very happy. They took out the target in Pakistan and relations have improved much as a result. President Sarkozy would send his many thanks.” The colonel looked around his men but saw no flash of pride.
“Second, you are wondering why once again you do not wear your uniform for this operation.” This time he received a couple of nods. “The reason, as always, is political. You are used to working in difficult positions, and this is no different. As you know, France has no operations in Iraq. Our government declined to be part of the American force and as a result relations with them have not been good for some years. Your work has gone some way to repairing this damage, but still, it is decided that it remains impolitic for
French forces, even Legion forces, to conduct overt operations here.” The colonel took each man’s eye again and then continued.
“As you will know, the basis for France’s refusal to engage in Iraq was the lack of evidence of nuclear weapons and terrorist activity here. We are engaged in Afghanistan because evidence of such terrorist activity exists. However, I have been working in back channels with my American colleague to track both the terrorists you hunt and their operations. With the Americans now pulling out of Iraq a vacuum is being created. There is no capable domestic force. We believe that terrorist organizations are looking to fill that void, and that they are bringing arms into the country as we speak. Our intelligence suggests these arms may even include biological weapons.”
He stopped and let that sink in. He knew these were proud men. Although as a unit they were used to it, they would not be happy about hiding their allegiance, so he wanted to ensure they comprehended the reasons.
“You are the men that found the worst of the worst. Now you must find these weapons before they can cause havoc. What say you?”
All the men looked at Fontaine.
“Oui, mon Colonel,” said Fontaine. “We’re on it.”
“D’accord. Bon. Now, if you go to the reception, they will show you to your rooms.”
The men traded glances. The Nordic soldier, Thorn, frowned.
“Mon Colonel?” he asked. He never understood French jokes. His brothers in arms figured him humorless.
“It is no joke,” said Colonel Laporte.
“We are staying in the hotel?” asked Gorecki.
“Oui.”
All the men smiled. Even Fontaine. As a group, they were used to roughing it. The French Foreign Legion was an elite fighting force, trained to within an inch of each soldier’s life, but it did things old-school. They had none of the fancy resources of the US Army. From basic training at Castelnaudary, through operations in Africa and South America and the Middle East, they had grown used to living hard. They had slept in barns and trees and holes in the ground. Folding cots were a luxury. A hotel room was unheard of.
“For our purposes you will act as private contractors,” the colonel said. “You will not claim to be such, but you will not dissuade anyone of that assumption. And the contractors, they stay in the hotels.”
The colonel stood and his men followed suit. He dismissed them and they carried their packs to the reception desk. Fontaine remained in the lounge with his CO. Both men watched the team walk away and then retook their seats.
“Speak, my friend,” said the colonel.
“Mon Colonel, what are we doing here?”
“You do not understand the subtext?”
“Of course, mon Colonel. As ever it is money. I am sure there are many companies fighting for business here—the oil, the rebuilding—and France wants its share. Is there not a legitimate reason for France to enter the country? Perhaps NATO peacekeepers?”
“Of course, you are right, my friend, but back then, after 9/11, there were many things said on both sides. Things that proud men remember, and other proud men do not wish to take back.”
“That is not pride, mon Colonel, that is hubris.”
The Lieutenant Colonel smiled. “Yes, Aristotle, of course. It is such a thing that prevents a change of direction. And even an official Legion operation will be seen as embarrassing to these men. That is why I have been working back channels. Such hubris exists on both sides, but the job still needs to get done.”
“Oui, mon Colonel.”
“You believe that this is a minor task, my friend? I see it. Do not suffer from the hubris yourself. You found the man no one else could find, the man everyone wanted. You did that. And you can never speak of it. I know this frustrates you. You handed him over to your own people and let them do what had to be done. Now they live with that glory. And you feel you did not get, what do you call it? Your fifteen minutes of fame?”
“Non, mon Colonel.”
“Oui, it is so. You should not be afraid of such things. Pride is necessary to be your best. Pride in yourself, pride in your uniform, pride in the Legion. Yet as you yourself say, beware the hubris. After your last operation every other will seem less, but the fight continues and so must you. You will find these arms, you will find the men responsible and then we will do it over again. And again. And why?”
The colonel smiled.
“Honneur et Fidélité,” Fontaine said.
Colonel Laporte stood. Fontaine followed and they shook hands.
“D’accord?” asked the colonel.
“Ça va.”
The colonel slapped his protégé on the shoulder.
“I’m proud of you, my friend.”
“Merci, mon Colonel. Will you stay?”
“I would enjoy nothing more than one of our long talks, my friend, but my presence is required in Calvi. I will leave today. On your next rotation through, yes?”
“I look forward to it, mon Colonel.”
The colonel hesitated before he spoke again.
“The winds of change swirl around us, mon ami. Your work has done much good for our relations with America, but as always there are those who will find it convenient to turn from friend to foe. This part of the world is about to undergo an upheaval the result of which no one can predict. What we can predict is that there will be many trying to profit from whatever happens. Your previous deeds will be conveniently forgotten if it becomes expedient to do so. Do your work and be prepared.”
“So business as usual.”
The colonel smiled and the two men shook hands again before Fontaine collected his pack and headed toward a long overdue shower. Colonel Laporte watched him go and sat down again. He took out a phone and made a call.
“I have feet on the ground,” he said.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” asked the man at the other end of the call.
“They won’t get in the way.”
“I’ll be watching.”
“Of course.”
“There’s a lot at stake.”
“Yes, my friend, I know,” said Colonel Laporte. “You want this business concluded before everyone is gone from this place.”
“Don’t you?”
“On this, mon ami, we are on the same page.”
“Keep in touch.”
“Always.”
Colonel Laporte closed the phone and stood and walked over to the reception desk where his duffel bag lay waiting for him. His driver rushed forward to collect it for him and they walked out into the searing heat.
Chapter Two
The five men showered and reconvened in the bar, which was filling as the sun fell and men came in from their visits to the oil fields. Alcohol was generally forbidden in the predominantly Muslim city and many of the stores that had sold alcohol outside the GZ had been bombed or burned by Al Qaeda. But beliefs were bent where there were dinars—or better still dollars—to be made. Especially when the drinkers were non-Muslim westerners. To placate sensibilities the hotel had set up the bar in an annex next door to the main hotel building.
The men each sat with a bottle of Farida lager in front of them, except for Fontaine, who sipped Iraqi coffee from a small cup. It was thick and bitter and it calmed him, slowing his breathing that had gotten rapid as he crossed from the main hotel to the annex. His men understood his problem—there were no secrets between men who lived the way they did. His men did, however, think him crazy for always drinking the local coffee in the oppressive heat, but such was his way.
In a city with only intermittent electrical power, most cooking was done over fire or in clay ovens. The hotel prepared the Baghdad specialty of masgûf, a dish of seasoned, grilled carp. The fish was prepared on a large, circular fireplace, where apricot tree logs were burned to embers on a base of sand. The fish would be deboned and splayed open, and then placed on stakes around the perimeter of the fireplace. When Fontaine and his team strode out of the rear of the main hotel the fireplace was being pre
pared for that evening’s dinner. Logs had been tossed around the circular fireplace like hands on a clock. Flame leaped high into the sky. Babar gave his adjudant a sideways look as they passed through the space between the two buildings. He would not speak of it but he, like the other men, knew of Fontaine’s fear. Babar considered Fontaine a good leader, a great friend and a better man. But even Achilles had a heel.
Fontaine did all he could to not look at the fire as he strode by. He kept his eyes front and center on the door to the annex that housed the bar, but he felt the heat. The orange and yellow flames caught the periphery of his vision and he immediately felt his chest tighten and his heart start pumping harder. He kept on moving and Thorn pushed open the door so the other men could file straight into the bar.
It wasn’t rational, Fontaine knew this, but it wasn’t completely irrational, either. Fire burned, fire killed. It didn’t do it on purpose, however. He knew the flames were not out to get him personally. It just felt that way. He had read widely on the subject—consuming more psychology texts than most professionals—but solutions eluded him. It was a fear that was insidious. He held no such feelings as a child. And the theater of war that was his adult life thus far held many greater dangers. He had been shot but did not fear to hold—or face—a gun. He had seen the destruction of entire towns by artillery bombardment but did not break into a sweat at the sight of a brick of plastic explosive or a missile hanging under the wing of a fighter jet. But the reasons for this irrational feeling were rational enough in their origins. Fontaine knew this and had developed coping mechanisms. The first mechanism was to stay away from fire. He served primarily in hot climates—the Middle East, North Africa, South America—so that wasn’t as difficult as it might have been in Europe. The second mechanism was meditation, which would have to wait. The third mechanism was thick, tar-like coffee.
