by David Graham
“But that’s crazy. Why is he doing this?”
If it had been anyone else she would not have been so frank but with Campas she felt secure enough to answer honestly. “Well, I’ve had some disagreements with the way he’s tackling this operation, which hasn’t helped our relationship.”
“What kind of disagreements?”
“I’ve pointed out that all he’s effectively done is use our manpower to supplement regional and border law enforcement. They’re trying to predict where trouble is likely and take whatever action they can to avert it. We’re not really doing anything to address the underlying cause.”
“That’s it? A difference of opinion and he’s sidelining you?”
“There’s more. Do you remember when I first visited you in Mexico? The plans I had as head of the new department, TAIT?”
He nodded.
“From what I’d been led to believe, we were going to have a significant role to play in DEA operations. I couldn’t believe my luck in securing the post, especially considering the other candidates but ...”
“When we last talked you said there had been some delay in finalising the funding?” Campas pressed.
“I don’t believe TAIT was ever meant to be anything more than an expedient way of convincing external critics that the DEA was taking them seriously.”
“What do you mean?”
“‘The criticism was we’re not proactive enough. So, the DEA’s response was ‘Look, here’s a newly formed strategic analysis team to prove we’re listening.’ But being realistic, if they were truly committed, would they have appointed someone so unproven?”
“And that’s why you think Samuels doesn’t take you seriously?”
“Exactly. Even if he did rate me, which is debatable, he can’t be seen to let a token appointee take a prominent role in the investigation.”
Mesi knew he could see how demoralised she was but he respected her too much to try to offer meaningless consolations. She was certain there was a basis for her suspicions around her appointment.
“I don’t know whether there’s anything to your theory about third-party involvement, I’ll do my best to look into it and see if I can convince Samuels that it’s worth some time.” He looked at his watch. “I’d better get back to Mayorga or he’ll start sending out search parties. I’ll call you when I get back.”
She forced a smile and wished him a good flight home.
The cold sea wind whipped across the low fields adding to an inhospitable environment. There were signs across the landscape of the late spring bloom but these were muted by a sky full of ominous grey clouds. While the ancient stone walls bordering the patchwork of fields could be picturesque during the summer, at that moment, they only added to the oppressiveness. Two of the men in the open field had their hands dug deep into the pockets of their overcoats and stomped around in circles trying to combat the cold. The third man leaned against a wall, smoking a cigarette, lost in his thoughts and apparently inured to the weather. They had just returned from his daily exercise – a brisk ten-kilometre walk – and he was reluctant to go indoors just yet. He had been there for ten days and was beginning to feel claustrophobic. Not that he would complain too strongly, given the alternatives. Girard had told him there would be another visitor this afternoon. He wished he didn’t have to go over it all again; each time was a stark reminder of what he had committed himself to.
One of the other men approached, interrupting his reverie.
“Come on Tuur, we’re freezing our balls off here while we could just as easily be inside where it’s warm.”
He pushed himself off the wall and led them down the gentle incline to the stone cottage. Once inside the back door he removed his coat and pulled out a chair to sit at the kitchen table. His companions rushed through to the living room, where a warm fire was waiting.
A slightly overweight, middle-aged man, who had been standing by the sink washing some dishes, turned around to talk to him. “Well, Richard, our latest guest should be here any minute. I’d say after this we’ll be almost done.”
Richard Tuur didn’t make much of an effort to disguise his irritation in the gaze he directed at Girard. “Honestly, Julian, it’s that simple?”
“I don’t see why not. You’ve met your side of the bargain so far. Keep it up and we’ll reciprocate.”
Julian Girard reached for an open bottle of wine, poured two glasses and gave one to Tuur. “I don’t know why you insist on being so downbeat. A fortnight in a farmhouse in Brittany, enjoying the countryside, and then a helping hand to build your new life. It seems like a good deal to me.”
Sometimes he appreciated the fact that Girard had such an easygoing nature; the confinement might have been much harder to deal with otherwise, but in this instance it was grating. The sub-directorate inspector should have known that when this was over, Tuur would have some real concerns about his safety, and by dismissing these so casually, he was being deliberately provocative.
Girard looked down at Tuur’s balled fists. More than a few people had been unfortunate enough to experience the strength of those hands. Luckily the Dutchman knew better than to give in to his impulses at the moment.
“They’ve just pulled into the drive,” one of the others called from the living room.
“Well I suppose that glass will have to wait until later. Do you want to go into the living room while I greet our guest?”
Girard opened the front door and saw one of his men who was stationed at the front of the house opening the door of the car that had just pulled in. A tall red-haired woman climbed out.
“Good afternoon. I’m Inspector Girard – Julian. Agent Mesi, isn’t it? I hope you had a good journey?”
“Great flight. The short notice meant business class,” she replied smiling, going over to shake his hand. “Diane.”
Girard took a moment before entering the house. “You’re aware of the circumstances surrounding Tuur being in our custody?” he asked.
“Arrested after a nightclub altercation and a background check revealed he’d deserted the Legion eight years ago, pending an investigation into some stolen ordinance. He managed to convince the authorities that he had information that was germane to the violence sweeping the drug community. That’s when the sub-directorate entered the picture.”
“Yes, we agreed to listen to him and, if we were interested, look at the possibilities. Initially, his story seemed not only far-fetched but unrelated to our investigations. When he expounded on his theory, however, we decided he might have something. My superiors authorised this,” Girard gestured at the house. “He’s required to put himself at our disposal for as long as necessary, and in return we’ll help him to start over. Anything you hear, though, has to have the proviso added that we’re dealing with a man who was facing serious charges that he would probably go some way to avoid.”
“You mean he’s making it up?”
“No, but I wonder if he hasn’t embellished it a little. I’ve no doubt there’s a kernel of truth to his story but, at the same time, he knew the situation he found himself in required something special. We can discuss what you think afterwards.”
Tuur was standing with his back to the fire and his physical presence dominated the room to such a degree that Girard’s men had unconsciously positioned themselves around its edges. Mesi resisted the urge to remain just inside the doorway and, following Girard’s lead, sat on the couch facing the Dutchman.
“Richard, this lady is from the US Drugs Enforcement Administration. She’s here to discuss what you’ve told us,” said Girard.
Mesi reflexively smiled in greeting at Tuur, whose stare did nothing to disguise his hostility. Everything about him, from the hostile look to the tension in his heavily muscled frame, reminded her of a guard dog, bred for violence, its training barely keeping it in check. Details of the altercation which had led to Tuur’s arrest came to mind and she pitied the unfortunates who had encountered him during the nightclub fracas. Brea
king their stare, she looked down to consult her notes.
“Now, Mr Tuur, you’ve given an account of how you were recruited for an operation in July of last year, could you run through it again?” she asked.
“I’ve gone over it more than once already. You have the notes; why don’t you just ask what it is you want to know?”
“Richard, I’ve explained to you that in order for our various associates to feel secure in your story, they need to hear it first-hand.” Girard spoke as one might with an uncooperative child. “There’s a chance that a fresh perspective may yield something new. We’re all here to help one another. I know you want to make us happy and that can’t happen until we know our colleagues are satisfied.”
Mesi sensed that the inspector was annoying the mercenary and she wasn’t sure it was unintentional. She was not convinced of the wisdom of such a tack but it was Girard’s show.
“Let’s start with how you were recruited,” said Mesi.
Tuur gazed at her sullenly for what seemed a long time before beginning. “Since leaving the Legion, I’ve worked privately. Security sometimes but mostly ... other work. Africa, the Balkans, wherever. I was recommended for a place on a four-man assignment when someone dropped out last minute. There was a month’s prep beforehand.”
“Who hired you?”
“A man called Lorcy. He was the fourth member of the team. He organised a down payment of €60,000 and travel to Morocco to begin preparation.”
“The payment, how was it made?” asked Mesi.
“An off-shore bank account was set up for me in Jersey and the money lodged.” He glanced over at Girard.
“We’ve recently verified this,” said the Inspector. “We were able to get help from the British authorities. After some pressure, the off-shore affiliate of the mainland bank allowed access to their records. Richard received that transfer and another one two days after the alleged incident, both from the same source. A company called Perseus Enterprises, located in the Bahamas.”
“Anything on them yet?”
“The directors, rather predictably, turned out to be island residents agreeing to act as company officers for an annual fee. The lawyers who set up the company were being paid by the agent of another offshore company. We’ve started tracing it back but I’m doubtful it’ll lead anywhere.”
Mesi made a few quick notes and asked Tuur to continue.
“We stayed overnight in Dakhla and headed into the desert the next day. We crossed the Algerian border and arrived at a camp that was either a former barracks or training facility. Before you ask, I’ve already made it clear that I don’t have a clue as to its exact location. We drilled for a raid on a factory, which was under armed guard. Lorcy had extensive intelligence regarding the security routines surrounding the factory and had drawn up a comprehensive plan of attack.”
“What did Lorcy look like? Had you ever heard of or met him before?”
“No. He was not so tall, perhaps one-seventy to one-seventy-five.”
“About five feet eight inches,” Girard added.
“Dark complexion. I guess he might have been Greek or Turkish,” Tuur said. “Look, I’ve helped one of Girard’s men with a photo-fit; I can’t add anymore, do you want to hear about the operation or not?”
“Of course, please carry on, Richard.”
Mesi was surprised at Girard letting Tuur change the subject so easily but the inspector merely mouthed the word “later”.
“We drilled repeatedly the next four weeks. Plan was simple, direct, mostly we concentrated on infiltration and clearing the building.”
“Four weeks is a long time; you can’t have been drilling all the time. What did you do for the remainder? Did you have any breaks when you went off site? You must have gotten to know one another?”
“We spent all four weeks at the camp. If we weren’t drilling we sometimes practised long-range shooting. Otherwise, we listened to world-service radio, played cards and slept. It’s standard fare for anyone who’s served and we were being well paid for the tedium.”
“Lorcy spoke about nothing other than the immediate mission all that time?”
“I already knew one of the men and we got along okay with the other recruit, but Lorcy never socialised with us. He even slept in separate quarters. After four weeks, we were all eager to get the assignment over with. On the last day, we were told the location of the target, Conchillo, a small town in Mexico, not far from the US border.”
When Tuur mentioned the Mexican town, Mesi’s attitude to the interview was transformed. The initial invitation from the French authorities, which had arrived a few days before, must have been drafted shortly after Tuur’s arrest. It had contained little detail, no mention of Conchillo and only a reference to the Kosovars. Deluged with countless vague reports from all corners of the globe, Samuels had happily palmed it off on her.
“Tell me how you travelled from Algeria to Mexico?”
“We were each given travel documents identifying us as Albanian nationals. We all had different routes from Casablanca to Mexico City and arrived at different times. We rendezvoused in a suburb of the city at a specific road junction where two all-terrain vehicles were waiting. Girard has all the details. Within four days of leaving Algeria, we had begun on-site reconnaissance.”
She knew the documentation matched with what Campas and his team had found from examining passenger listings.
“How long did the reconnaissance last?”
“Three days.”
“Why so long? Wasn’t that dangerous?” asked Mesi.
“It was Lorcy’s call, he said we had to wait. He was in contact with someone remotely and seemed to be waiting for a signal.”
“Describe the attack.”
“We split into two pairs. At Lorcy’s signal, we took out the two perimeter guards from about ninety-five metres. Then we breached the fence and eliminated the building guards.”
“How?”
Tuur looked at her uncomprehendingly.
“Did you shoot them, bludgeon them, garrotte them? How did you kill the building guards?”
“My partner shot one with a handgun. Later, the other team member told us that Lorcy had used a knife on their guard.” Tuur glazed over for a second. “We proceeded to the surveillance room, killed the only occupant and moved on to the processing area. We killed the three men working there. Lorcy and the other team member handled the guard room and joined us.”
There was no more doubt in her mind. The confirmation that one of the guards had been stabbed convinced her that Tuur was genuine.
“What did the processing area contain?” she asked.
“Other than some basic equipment, the room was packed with heroin. I have no idea how much, only that it must have been worth a fortune. Lorcy ordered us to take up defensive positions outside while he planted the charges. Fifteen minutes later, the building had been destroyed and I was on my way home.”
“You were never curious what it was all about?”
“We weren’t paid to ask questions. If I thought about it at all, I assumed someone in Mexico had offended the wrong party and this was payback but I really didn’t care.”
“No one was tempted to take some of the drugs?”
“We had no way of getting it out of the country. Anyway, that wasn’t the objective, and mission discipline was strong,” Tuur replied with some pride.
“How did you get out of Mexico?”
“Lorcy left separately and the rest of us shared the other vehicle back to Mexico City, where we split up. I flew to Belgium and drove back to France.”
“Any further contact with Lorcy or the others?”
“No. One of the conditions of the contract was that we were not to contact each other for at least a year.”
Mesi nodded and looked down at her notes, lost in thought. “Why did you think this information would be important enough to the authorities for them to forget your outstanding charges?” she asked finally.
“I see what’s been happening across Europe and the US,” he shrugged. “I’ve seen coverage of the queues outside the methadone clinics in Paris, read the reports on the escalation of street crime.”
“So, where’s the connection to Mexico?”
“I think my operation was part of something larger. I know a little about the drug scene, here in France and other countries, so I’m guessing the travel documents we were given weren’t accidental.”
A satisfied grin spread across Tuur’s blunt features. She could see he was quite pleased with his deduction.
“Personally, I think Richard’s been extremely brave, whatever the motivation. He’s run the risk of alienating some obviously dangerous people,” said Girard, the remark banishing the smile from Tuur’s face.
“Can we talk outside?” Mesi asked Girard.
They left the living room and walked back outside to the front of the house.
“Well, what do you think?” asked the Frenchman.
“I’ll have to get more details but so far his account matches the findings of the investigation at the refinery perfectly. It’s interesting that he says they spent three days on site before attacking. I wonder if Lorcy was waiting for a time when they could do the most damage? Maybe a new consignment? Speaking of which, what’s Lorcy’s photo-fit like? I don’t think I’ve seen a copy.”
“I’ll see you get one and a transcript from all the Q&A sessions we’ve had with Tuur,” replied Girard. “Tuur’s relatively okay discussing other aspects of the operation but whenever the conversation turns to Lorcy he becomes agitated. To get him to cooperate with the photo-fit, we had to threaten to rescind our agreement. I suspect the likeness may contain some deliberate inaccuracies.”
“Why’s he so reticent regarding Lorcy specifically? If he’s telling the truth about the rest why stop when it comes to some hired gun? The details of the money transfer are far more incriminating. Potentially, they could lead us to whoever funded the operation, which you’d imagine would worry him more.”
