[John Flynn 01.0] The Final Tour

by AJ Stewart

  “You sure? Easier to disappear at night.”

  Bradshaw opened up his folder and removed a photograph and handed it to Fontaine. It was an image of a desert landscape taken from a satellite. There was a lot of dirt, pockmarked by shrubs. A road ran diagonally across the image, bottom right to top left. It was a decent road. There were occasional tracks coming off it at right angles. Dirt tracks that were barely discernible from the surrounding landscape other than a slight difference in color tint, and a lack of any shrubs.

  “The Baghdad road,” said Bradshaw. “Or as I call it, the Bermuda Rectangle.”

  Fontaine and Hutton both looked over the image. Other than the road and the tracks and shrubs there was nothing to see. No rivers, no buildings, no oil wells.

  “Dennison has made numerous trips out to the region in the last months. In a small transport usually. Moving what, we don’t know. Doing what, we don’t know.”

  “Where does he go?”

  “That’s the thing. He drives out there on the main road. We have satellite shots of him on the road. It’s about a hundred clicks south of Baghdad. He goes out there. Then he disappears.”

  “What does that mean, disappears?” Hutton asked.

  “Just that, ma’am. We can place him leaving Baghdad. We have shots all the way south to Basra on this trip. But in this region we can’t see him anywhere once he gets there. Like I say, it’s the Bermuda Rectangle.”

  “Can’t you follow him on the ground?”

  “No manpower. I’d need to get men for that. Paperwork, orders. And someone is watching.”

  Fontaine looked the major. “They’re not watching me.”

  “Exactly.”

  They agreed on a plan and the major offered them dinner at the base Pizza Hut but they declined. Major Bradshaw called for a car and they waited in the office until it arrived. A jeep pulled up beside the major’s portable and a private knocked on his door and Bradshaw asked the private to escort Hutton out to the vehicle.

  “Just give us one moment, please Special Agent Hutton,” he said.

  Hutton frowned and then nodded, and followed the private to the jeep.

  Bradshaw turned to Fontaine.

  “I trust your colonel and he trusts you,” said Bradshaw.

  “You said,” said Fontaine.

  “But there’s more. I know what you did.”

  “What I did, Major?”

  “In Pakistan. I’m not at the top of the pole, but I am military intelligence. I know.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Major.”

  “Of course not. But it was big. I know you found him. The whole world was looking, and you found him. And you could have had the glory. You could have taken him out. But you didn’t. I know you passed the location to the CIA, and I know they checked it out, and then they sent SEAL Team Six in, and that’s how it went down. It was important for us. For our boys to do that. To be the ones to get him. It meant a lot to our country, to our people.”

  Major Bradshaw offered his hand to Fontaine and they shook.

  “You forget, Major. Your people are my people.” Fontaine nodded and stepped over to the jeep and got in. He didn’t look at Bradshaw. He didn’t look at Hutton.

  “What was that about?” asked Hutton.

  “A reminder. There are a lot of people here who might get hurt if we don’t stop it from happening.” He leaned over to the private. “You know where our vehicle is, Private?”

  “Yes, sir. We offered your driver some chow. He’s at the mess hall. We’ll be there directly.”

  Bandy made the call.

  “They just left the American base,” he said.

  “They were inside?” asked General Thoreaux.

  “Oui.”

  “And the American, Dennison?”

  “Oui.”

  “Did they confront him?”

  “I do not know. I am not inside.”

  “Of course. And now?”

  “I am following. They are headed for their quarters.”

  “Hmm.”

  “The American was with someone. A local I think.”

  “On the base?”

  “In the market.”

  “What happened?” asked the general.

  “I was watching Fontaine. One of his men followed the local man.”

  “And?”

  “Fontaine’s man did not make it.”

  “The local man killed him?”

  “No.”

  A pause. “And Fontaine?”

  Bandy considered telling the general that Fontaine had spotted him as he watched the police cordon off the area but he saw no advantage in it.

  “He was unhappy.”

  “So he went to confront the American.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “It must be. He has no business on a US base.” The general was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Keep on Fontaine.”

  “Oui,” said Bandy, and he ended the call.

  General Thoreaux called his contact. He reported what Bandy had told him.

  “How do you know this?” asked the man.

  “You are not the only one who is connected.”

  “D’accord. Merci, mon Général.”

  “Fontaine is too close.”

  “To what?”

  Thoreaux heard the mocking tone in the man’s voice. They both knew the general had no idea what Fontaine was after, or what the American was up to.

  “To you,” Général Thoreaux said.

  There was silence at the other end for a moment. “If we require anything further, we will let you know, Général.”

  General Thoreaux didn’t put the phone down. He listened to the vacuum on the line, the echo of his own breathing. He had the sense that things were moving around him, and he knew that if he was not pivotal to events the likelihood that he would get out of Africa was slim to none. He had to be more proactive. He just had to figure out how.

  Chapter Eighteen

  They held the service behind the hotel. There were no prayers or hymns. There were no wreaths. There were no speeches. There were six bowed heads in a tight circle around a drum that once held olive oil. Fontaine held the beret that belonged to Babar. In other circumstances Babar’s kepi blanc, the traditional white hat of the Legionnaire, would take pride of place at the impromptu ceremony. But they were not in uniform. They were in a country their army was not supposed to be in. Not a completely unusual circumstance for their unit, but one that at that moment left them each feeling naked and alone.

  Fontaine put his lips to the beret. He could smell Babar in the wool. He could picture him in his mind’s eye, drawing him completely just from the scent memory. He had heard that smell was the last sense to go. Long after people lost their hearing or their sight or even their minds, they could still place themselves in a location decades earlier just from scent alone. Fontaine drew it in, felt Babar flow through him. Then he passed the beret to Yusuf, and the ritual was repeated. Hutton. Manu. Thorn. Each felt the softness of the fabric and the smell of the fallen man.

  The beret ended its rotation with Gorecki. Fontaine stepped away from the tight group and into the hotel. Manu lit a match and dropped it into the drum. The paper within flickered to life until the tips of flames reached out from the top of the drum. Gorecki kissed the beret gently and then held it out. He looked each of the others in the eye and found they were all looking into the crackling fire. He dropped the beret. It drifted rather than fell, settling into the fire. The fire lapped at it and they stood and watched the flames take it, back to ashes or carbon or dust. The fire crackled on. No words were said out loud. Each spoke their own eulogy in their mind. Those who knew him well and those who knew him only briefly.

  They adjourned to the lounge where Fontaine was waiting. They sat in small fluid groups and told tales about the big man they knew as Babar. Fontaine knew the men would enjoy some wine in the Legion tradition, but they made do with tea and coffee and cake. Fontaine sat for a while wi
th Manu and Thorn, listening to their stories but finding no desire to tell any of his own. Later he sat with Hutton and Gorecki, until Gorecki moved on to share stories with Manu.

  “Are you okay?” Hutton asked.

  Fontaine shook his head.

  “It was a nice ceremony,” she said.

  Fontaine nodded.

  “Is that a tradition?”

  “Perhaps a unit tradition. I don’t know if everyone does it like that. I first saw something like it in Burkina Faso. There are a lot of different folks in our regiment. Different languages, different religions. Plenty with no religion at all. All that stuff seems pointless. Everyone has their own thoughts, their own way of passing through the eye of the needle.”

  Hutton nodded but said nothing.

  They sat in silence for a while, and then Fontaine pushed himself up out of his chair.

  “I’m just going for a walk. Be back soon.”

  Hutton watched him walk out the front door. The men paid him no mind.

  Fontaine wandered down the street. The air was warm and the night quiet but for the hum that all cities gave off. A mix of human and mechanical vibrations. He walked past a couple of stores until he came upon the one he had visited before. The store with the crucifix on the wall above the counter. Muslim store owners wouldn’t sell alcohol. Christian store owners would. Sometimes. They didn’t promote it. They didn’t have neon lights in the window or beer displays in their store. But they did have ways and means. And it wasn’t against their religion. The store owner recognized him.

  Fontaine asked, “You have something for me?”

  The store owner gave him a sorrowful look, as if he could see inside Fontaine’s guts and read the turmoil in his soul. He stepped into the back room and returned with a paper bag. He handed the bag over and took the cash.

  “Okay?” the man asked. He didn’t seem to be asking if the transaction was satisfactory but rather after Fontaine’s welfare. Fontaine nodded and offered half a smile and walked back into the night.

  When he reached the lounge only Gorecki and Thorn remained. He offered a nod and bonne nuit, and headed up the stairs. As he walked up he pulled the bottle from the paper bag. Bourbon. The same brand. Not good but fit for the purpose. He wrapped his hand around the neck and continued to his room. He needed to face his demons. They would be strong tonight. Babar’s death would add fuel to the fire in him. He wondered if tonight he would fall, if the scent of the bourbon alone would not be enough.

  He pushed open the door and stood still, and then he heard the creak on the stairs. Turned to see Hutton standing there watching him. She was in her blue t-shirt and tan trousers. Her feet were bare. The expression on her face was neither here nor there. No happiness in her eyes, no sadness in her mouth. She looked at the bottle in Fontaine’s hand and then at his eyes.

  Fontaine stood still and said nothing.

  “I don’t want to be alone,” she said.

  Fontaine looked at her. She was small and lean but in no way fragile. He turned away into his room and dropped the bottle onto the bed. Then he stepped back out into the hallway. Hutton was still on the stairs, still watching him. He walked over to her and she offered her hand and he took it. Hutton led him up the stairs to her floor. A whole floor to herself. She padded into a small bedroom. The bed was bigger than Fontaine’s cot, but not by much. She flicked off the light. He unbuttoned his coat and let his trousers drop to the floor. She stepped aside so he could slip into the bed. He pressed his back against the wall. It felt cool through his t-shirt. Hutton slipped in beside him. She was facing away from him. She was pressed hard against him. There was no other option. The bed wasn’t big enough for anything more. She pulled the sheet across them and snuggled her buttocks against him to get comfortable.

  It brought forth an ancient memory in Fontaine. A cold European city with leafless trees. The smell of an oil heater and damp. His mother, slipping into bed with her small boy, wrapping her arms around him against the cold. Spoons, she called it.

  Fontaine wound his arm around Hutton and she took his large hand and brought it into her chest. He felt her warm breath on his arm. Her breathing slowed, low and easy. He stared at the back of her head. Her hair smelled like dust and cinnamon. He lay waiting for his father and flames and Babar to come and haunt his dreams. He closed his eyes.

  The flames didn’t come.

  Chapter Nineteen

  General Thoreaux placed his brandy snifter on his desk. He had come up with a plan. His assistant sat in the outer office but he did not ask the lieutenant to place the call. He took care of it himself. It was not a number that was recorded anywhere in his papers. The line took forever to connect to France.

  “Henri,” a voice finally said.

  “Bonjour Henri, c’est Général Thoreaux.”

  “Mon Général. What can I do for you?”

  “Henri, I have some delicate information to pass on to command.”

  “Of course, mon Général. What is your information?”

  Thoreaux took his time. He had laid out his thoughts before the call and he did not wish to stumble now. Henri was the secretary to General Papin, the chief of staff of the army, the head of the army. Technically General Thoreaux outranked Henri, but Thoreaux knew that Henri was the old man’s eyes and ears and words to him may as well have been spoken directly to the old man himself.

  “There are men of the Foreign Legion on the ground in Baghdad. Reports have come in linking them with an American who is arming insurgents.”

  “Legion men, you say?”

  “Oui. One of Laporte’s units.”

  “Laporte?”

  “Oui, you know him?”

  “I have heard of him. How do you come to such information, Général?”

  “As you know we are constantly battling to keep arms out of the hands of insurgents in Africa. It came to my attention that some of those arms may have come from Iraq. I inserted a man. He has tracked Laporte’s men. They are stealing arms from the Americans as they leave Iraq and are sending them here and to Afghanistan to be used against our own men.”

  There was a pause. “That is grave, mon Général.”

  “I thought it important to inform command right away. It’s Laporte and his foreigners. They give the French Army a bad reputation.”

  “Merci, mon Général. Your diligence is greatly appreciated. I will inform command immediately.”

  General Thoreaux played his trump card. “Merci, Henri. And I believe the land command post in Lille is coming vacant. Do you know anything?”

  “I have heard the rumors. We will need a good man there.”

  “I agree.”

  “Merci, mon Général.”

  “Merci, Henri.”

  The general hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. He picked up his glass again. It was empty so he took a bottle of VSOP from his drawer and poured a little more. The land forces command would be a major promotion, a step too far for Thoreaux. It was a post held by a three-star, but one with a lot more time in than Thoreaux had. But when one position needed to be filled it cascaded down. That was one good thing about the military. It didn’t recruit from outside except at the bottom. So when a general was plucked from below to fill the land command post then another general would need to be promoted to fill that new vacancy, and so on. General Thoreaux knew that the most likely candidate to fill the land command post was currently commanding the army’s 3rd division out of Marseilles. When he moved up to land command in Lille, Thoreaux planned to be front and center in the minds of those making the decision about who to take over command in Marseilles. He liked the idea of the south of France, warm summers cooled by Mediterranean breezes, mild winters and less than two hours on the TGV to his home in Lyon. He wondered if his wife would be thrilled by the company or disappointed. He sipped his brandy and smiled. It didn’t matter. The diversions were many in a city like Marseilles.

  Henri looked out at the drizzle outside his window. The autumn
rains offered a glimpse of the winter to come. He liked autumn, as the leaves turned bright and then dropped. It was dark outside his window and he looked at the smudges of light through ancient panes. He had a dinner date to get to but first he had a call to make. General Thoreaux’s news demanded immediate action. Henri picked up his mobile phone and called. His boss, General Papin, had left the office some hours ago to attend a function. But Henri wasn’t calling General Papin. His call was headed straight for the center of Paris.

  “Deschamps,” said the voice.

  “Bonsoir, Deschamps. C’est Henri.”

  “Henri? Long time no speak, bon ami.”

  It was true. It had been some time since he had spoken to old his university pal. Their days at Sciences Po felt like it had been another life. Henri had been put through his graduate program by the army and he had gone back to its ranks after graduation. His friend Alex Deschamps had gone into public service, culminating in his current role as aide to the president of France, Nicolas Sarkozy.

  “You are right. I apologize for the circumstances. What do you know of the 1st Foreign Parachute Regiment?”

  “I know it was disbanded after the Generals’ Putsch in ’61. I know it was reconstituted in secret under Chirac. I know President Sarkozy is very happy with them right now, but I don’t know why.”

  “They are an antiterrorist unit. They found someone. Someone important. I cannot say more, but the current US administration is in our president’s debt as a result of it.”

  “D’accord.”

  “So we have a situation. The men who did this thing for us are operating in Iraq.”

  “We are not in Iraq, Henri.”

  “Exactement. They operate under the radar. It has been reported that they are arming insurgents there.”

  “Is this true?”

  “Of these men, I find it most unlikely, but I will confirm.”

  “This could be most embarrassing.”

  “I agree. I need you to mention it to your man. I need to know which way the winds blow.”