by Albert Able
Even though Alex had miraculously reacted in time, the first shot flicked across his chest, ripping through his shirt and scorching the flesh as it passed to smack harmlessly into the wall.
Unfortunately, the next bullets were more successful as the two soft nosed projectiles from the short burst slammed into the chest of the woman standing behind Alex.
Blood sprayed from the back of her fatally wounded body as the bullets ripped through and out of her fragile chest cavity to flatten themselves on the concrete wall behind her.
Realising he had missed his target, the gunman leaned out of the window of the car trying to get another shot at Alex as he sprawled on the pavement, but he was prevented from firing when, at that precise moment, the car lurched as it accelerated with a scream of tyres on the wet road and vanished into traffic.
Alex reflexively reached into his jacket for his own weapon as he dived to the pavement but was shocked and annoyed as he remembered heeding Maurice’s warning and leaving the weapon hidden in the bedroom. He did, however, manage to memorise the number plate of the car as it slipped from view. Not that it would be much help, he guessed, as the vehicle would almost certainly have been stolen.
Surprisingly even as the creams of terror still emitted from within the café, a couple of men emerged cautiously from the entrance and gently started checking the sprawled bodies of the terrified pedestrians who had thrown themselves to the pavement desperately trying to avoid the hail of bullets from the car.
Only the woman appeared to have been hit and even though she still sat upright against the wall, blood still oozed from the massive chest wound. She was clearly dead as her eyes stared sightlessly into the night.
Alex realised that there was nothing he could do for the unfortunate woman and so, taking advantage of the chaos as people gradually got back to their feet, he slipped away and back to the hotel room.
The first thing he did was to telephone Maurice Bouchard and tell him about the shooting.
Maurice listened quietly as Alex explained the fatal incident.
“You sure you’re OK?” Maurice finally queried, adding after a brief pause: “Still want to go out?” He seemed more anxious that he might be going to miss a gastronomic event at Alex’s expense.
Alex smiled to himself, he knew Maurice was a tough old policeman and there was little that could put him of his food.
“Listen, Maurice, how about if I meet you at the north side of Pont de la Concorde, then you can decide on a restaurant?”
“Better still,” Maurice corrected, “meet me at the Bateaux Mouches Floating Restaurant in about forty-five minutes, OK?”
“That’s fine, see you there.” Alex put down the phone and looked at himself in the mirror he was surprised to see the tear in his shirt where the bullet from the assassin’s gun had nearly and so ignominiously ended his career.
Alex removed his shirt and dabbed a little stinging aftershave on the red graze where the bullet had scorched his flesh in a ten-centimetre crease across his chest. Then he selected a fresh shirt and changed the jacket and trousers, which had also suffered from his rolling about on the wet pavement. Satisfied with the new attire he quickly packed his few belongings. Finally, he took the Beretta from its hiding place in the nearby bedside drawer, slipped it from the leather holster, checked the breech and then, weighing it expertly, said aloud to his image in the mirror: “Licence or no licence old buddy, I am not going to venture out in this town without you!”
Alex Scott pushed the Beretta back into its holster grabbed his bag and slipped out of the hotel without paying his bill; he had no intention of letting anyone know he had left or where he was going to stay.
***
That same evening Hassan found his way to the mosque Maurice Bouchard had indicated as being the most likely gathering place for the more radical Muslims in the Paris area.
It was easy for Hassan to enter the mosque and mingle with the other visiting faithful. It was only after prayers when he tried passing the time of day with some of the more obvious locals that faces turned to see who the new man was.
Hassan Eddie had a degree in foreign languages from St Petersburg University specialising in English and French and so naturally he approached the ageing Ayatollah in French. But he soon learned that he originated from the Russian State of Georgia and so in spite of Hassan’s junior status any barriers soon came down and they were chatting together like a couple of old friends.
Hassan told him that he was in Paris on holiday practicing his French and looked forward to praying at the mosque daily. The old Ayatollah was delighted and said he looked forward to talking again, and so the following day Hassan dutifully attended the mosque and after prayers once again approached the old Ayatollah. During the course of the conversation he complimented Hassan on his knowledge of the Koran and some of the other religious traditions.
“It’s a refreshing change,” the old man smiled gently at Hassan “to find one of the younger generation who is not all fired up with hate and vengeance.”
Hassan immediately seized upon the opportunity to gently steer the old man into a conversation trying to understand the young people and their extreme views. It wasn’t long before one man in particular was pointed out and became the subject of ‘an example’ of the ‘wrong way’, as the old man put it.
Hassan final made his excuses and slipped quietly away from the mosque to find a suitable position just across the road at a small street café, where he could discreetly observe the people leaving the mosque.
It wasn’t long before the man the old Ayatollah has spoken about appeared crossing the road and headed straight up to Hassan.
“I hear you are from Russia, St Petersburg?” he addressed Hassan.
“That’s right, Hassan Eddie,” Hassan confirmed.
“Well perhaps you can help me. My name is Ahmed.” He introduced himself, pulled a chair from the adjoining table and sat facing Hassan.
“You see, I - that is to say, a great friend of mine and I - have been approached by someone from St Petersburg to seek out those who prefer the new way.” Ahmed raised an eyebrow. “I just wondered... you seemed to be getting very close to the old man in there and so perhaps you could tell me: what is your general view of things in St Petersburg?”
“Ahmed, I am here on holiday and I chose quite by chance to visit this mosque. The old Ayatollah seems like a harmless old man to me but just like the rest of that generation he has lost his way. So if you are accusing me of sucking up to the old fart you couldn’t be more wrong.”
Hassan’s features became serious as he went on to explain how his little brother had been killed. With wild staring eyes, the passion in his voice building into a hushed angry whisper, Hassan told the story of his brother’s senseless death at the hands of the faithless infidels. He didn’t need to act the part, he had been truly hurt and poured out his pain from the heart, even though he had long since recognised the solution for such tragedy was not the way he had been duped into at the time.
Panting with effort Hassan finally fell silent and Ahmed gently reached across the table and placed a comforting hand on Hassan’s.
“I can see that you have been deeply hurt. Fear not, my friend, there are ways to avenge such tragedies.”
Hassan re-focused on Ahmed. “You must forgive me, sometimes I find the loss of my brother too painful to bear.”
“Could you meet me here later? There is someone I would like you to meet.”
Hassan Eddie knew in that moment that he was about to be channelled into a deadly network of terrorism; he knew because it was exactly how it had happened before.
***
That evening an anonymous letter had been circulated to all the Paris newspapers, police departments and most government departments. As much as the authorities tried, the story could not be kept secret and so the i
nevitable consequence were headlines like ‘NUCLEAR BOMB TO BE DETONATED IN CENTRE OF CITY!’
Paris was about to go into ‘security override’ and the population panicked to escape the frightening threat.
As agreed, Alex met Maurice Bouchard at the entrance to the Bateaux Mouches floating restaurant, but Maurice was looking miserable as he pocketed his cell phone. He had just received news of the ‘terrorist nuclear bomb threat’ and had to report to the Prefecture of Police immediately; even Maurice had lost his appetite as he relayed the news to Alex.
“Sorry Alex, but we’ll have to pass on dinner. I think in the circumstances you should come with me to the Precinct.” He gently patted Alex’s shoulder: “for God’s sake keep that gun out of sight.”
France and the Paris authorities have a specialised department known as Unité de Coordination de La Lutte Anti-terrorisme. UCLAT is a specialised force comprised from all sections of police and some military personnel. They have sole responsibility for acts of terrorism and other similar threats. UCLAT has a secret base in the heart of Paris and regularly coordinate and rehearse all the services needed to deal with terrorist bomb threats. But something about the additional ingredient ‘nuclear bomb’ seemed to have sent even their finely honed system into chaos.
Hoping that Hans had managed to keep his mobile line secure for short messages, Alex Scott called the Boss. “The shit’s in the fan here, Boss. In the circumstances I’m going to need full security clearance with the UCLAT people in Paris; can you fix it - and like yesterday, please?”
“Yes I heard, they’re getting their knickers in a twist here as well. Stock market’s gone into melt down as well. Looks to me as though this is what they were aiming for.” The Boss cleared his throat. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll fix it for you over there. Just keep me posted.”
By the time Alex Scott and Maurice Bouchard arrived at the Prefecture and been escorted to UCLAT’s covert base, the Boss had organised Alex’s clearance and he was ushered to meet Captain Aubin Le Grand, the head of the unit.
“Commander Scott,” he addressed Alex in English and shook hands formally, “I have been instructed by my superior to give you full assistance.” The Captain coughed politely. “In fact, Commander, we have things under control here so unless you have something unique to offer I’d be grateful if you would not interfere with our well rehearsed operation!”
Alex rarely if ever used his former Navy rank so he guessed the Boss had had to pull some heavy strings to have an ‘Etranger’ accepted by the French authorities.
Speaking in perfect French, Alex looked into the Captain’s eyes. “Captain, I am here to help and where possible contribute my experience with the people whom we believe may have planted this terrible weapon. We are both military men and understand the rules. However, for the avoidance of doubt, even though I outrank you I am happy to place myself under your command.” Alex smiled.
The Captain was taken by surprise by Alex’s perfect French. “Where did you learn to speak French?” was the Captains first cautious reply.
“I am from the Channel Islands - Les Iles Anglo Normans. My family are bi-lingual.” Alex cocked his head to one side.
The Captain smiled for the first time. “In that case I suppose you’re almost a Frenchman. Welcome again.”
Alex smiled and used the opportunity. “Almost a Frenchman - yes. One day perhaps when you have time, I’ll explain. Oh, and by the way, Captain, I will need authority to carry a weapon. Can you fix it?”
“Of course, go with Bouchard to the armoury and chose what you want.” The Captain nodded at Maurice Bouchard. “Then join me in our operations room for the briefing in fifteen minutes.”
Maurice Bouchard raised his eyes to heaven and crossed himself with relief.
In the meantime despite every effort to make the citizens of Paris aware that the radiation fallout from the suspected weapon was minimal, the City was gripped in a wave of panic as the population tried desperately to escape what they believed to be the fatal repercussions of a nuclear explosion.
***
As Hassan Eddie walked into the café that evening, the TV football match had just been interrupted and a stern faced announcer was reading the ‘terrorist threat’ news. There was no sign of the man he had been talking to earlier, so he took a seat and watched as the newsreader breathlessly delivered details of the terrifying news.
All conversation in the café had stopped and other than occasional exclamations of fear or horror the customers watched in silence, several didn’t wait to see any more and started to leave. The man Hassan was waiting for entered the café. He looked briefly around the gasping customers and recognising Hassan, moved quickly across to him.
“Excuse me,” the man whispered.
Hassan looked up.
“Hassan?”
Hassan nodded slowly.
“I think we’d better go somewhere else,” the man whispered, indicating the door.
Hassan did not speak, just rose carefully from his chair and followed the man into the street.
“Amir,” the man introduced himself when they were about fifty metres away from the café. “Don’t think they’d appreciate our presence while they learn how their beloved Paris is about to be destroyed by a terrorist bomb.”
They walked for a few minutes in silence and then came to a small square overlooked by two huge statues. One, an armoured knight on horseback with a spear resting in his stirrup with a proud Fleur de Ley pennant flying from the top. The second statue was of a robed man lounging at a table, apparently studying a large manuscript.
“Every world has their heroes, eh?” Amir gestured to the statues. “And they all believed that God was on their side,” he stated in mild defiance as he sat on the bench below the armoured horseman.
“It’s true we all believe God is on our side, the question is: who is right?” Hassan instantly regretted his philosophical reply. Such radical thinking he knew was not the way of a true believer but Amir did not react as Hassan had expected and simply asked.
“I understand you’re from St Petersburg?”
“Yes I am.”
“I’ve met some of you people from Russia before and if you don’t mind me being frank never quite liked any of the crazy ideas you had. You see all this suicide stuff is for those radical out of touch Middle East Muslims. Here, we are committed to advance our cause but not in your way. We are practical people and know we can win the hearts and minds of people by being part of and sharing in the community. Do you understand me?”
Amir leaned forward and looked at Hassan: “Now tell me if you are involved in this nuclear bomb thing?”
“Absolutely not, and I am delighted to learn of your moderate views. They match mine precisely, although I admit it was not always so.”
Hassan went on to tell Amir about his own experiences and how he had eventually pushed the introvert radical philosophy out of his mind in favour of listening and attempting to understand all views.
“That is most interesting and, may I say, refreshing.” Amir held Hassan’s eyes. “So you swear on the Holy Koran that you have nothing to do with this nuclear bomb thing?”
“I swear,” Hassan lowered his eyes and repeated: “On the Holy Koran and on my life, I swear it.”
He looked up: “You know as well as anyone else that there are many fringe elements using Al Qaeda as a mask to fulfil their own often far from holy agendas.” He paused and made a decision to trust Amir: “Now this is top security but we won’t be able to help each other if we don’t start trusting each other, right?”
Amir offered his hand. “Agreed”
Hassan shook the offered hand. “A colleague and I believe that this so called ‘terrorist bomb’ is actually the work of a criminal organisation called the Syndicate. They were certainly responsible for a bomb plot in Moscow
recently where they had bribed a half crazed Muslim fanatic to detonate the bomb, which was also thought to be a ‘nuclear device’ but in the event was just some simple conventional explosive.”
“How do you know all this?” Amir asked in amazement.
Hassan decided that he had to take the final gamble. “In fact I told a white lie. You see, I’m here together with an agent from a UN security unit. Our job is to find those responsible, and if possible, persuade them not to explode the bomb.” Hassan paused, trying to gauge Amir’s reaction, “and quite honestly we could use some help.”
Amir knew that trying to build bridges of understanding and tolerance between various communities was slow and sensitive work. He also realised that the Muslims would inevitably be identified with this latest bomb threat and that unless it could be quickly and comprehensively proved otherwise, it would immediately destroy all the good work he and the other resident Muslims of Paris had established in recent months.
Amir responded immediately, expressing his willingness to co-operate. He and his friends seemed to know most, if not all, the extreme fringe characters of their community and were confident that none of them were involved in this particular incident.
“No doubt the police will start dragging us in for interrogation. They don’t seem to realise that it takes months of hard work to restore any trust after this kind of incident.” Amir sounded dejected.
“How about if I could arrange for you to help the police directly? It could have the opposite effect.”
“It’s a great idea, we’ve tried it before. Unfortunately, all those old deep-rooted prejudices surge to the surface - and on both sides, I should add - and so it has always ended in tears.” Amir sighed.
“Perhaps if I can get to my people quickly I may be able to help. Especially if I can say that your community want to join in the hunt?”
