The Ghost of Flight 666

by Christopher Anderson

  He gathered his bags and picked up a taxi at the curb. Getting into the Mercedes he settled back into the comfortable leather seat and told the driver his destination

  The Hilton was where Freddy Waters was staying.

  On the way he got a text. “J. Bravo should pull through. Six holes in him. Good hunting—Killer.”

  “Thank God for small favors. I hope they keep him out for a while. He’s not going to like waking up; I don’t know how he’ll handle the news. I don’t know how anyone could.”

  He dialed Helen’s cell number. She picked up.

  “Hey, how are you doing?”

  “How am I doing?” she asked with a sigh. “Our boys in black get us up in the middle of the night and stick us in a hotel under guard. How do you think I’m doing?”

  “I’m sorry Helen,” he started to apologize, but she interrupted him.

  “I’m doing great Jeremiah! Don’t worry about me and the kids. The next morning they put us on a flight and here we are in Atlantis—Atlantis! The kids are having a blast. I’m drinking a Pina Colada and getting a tan. You should get yourself into trouble more often.”

  Slade didn’t have the heart to tell her about Johnny’s wife and child—Helen was green to that side of the game—he let her be. “Have a good time. I’ll check back in when I can.”

  “Jeremiah be safe please. I love you. The kids love you. You know that don’t you? We can’t afford to lose you.”

  “Give the kids hugs for me; give yourself one for me too.”

  It occurred to Slade that he’d never told Helen he loved her. She told him often, always making sure he knew that she hadn’t forgotten. He thought that’s all it was. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  They pulled up at the Hilton Concorde Opera, a huge traditional building on a large roundabout. Slade tipped the driver and checked in.

  “Monsieur Slade, your company left a valise for you,” the concierge told him. He motioned for a valet. The boy returned with a large black suitcase from the back room. “Can I get anything else for you, monsieur?”

  “Do you have a schedule for the opera or any concerts?”

  “Certainement!” he said, producing a printed flyer. “Monsieur will notice we have Turandot at the Opera House next week, however, if monsieur is available there is a very special event tomorrow night. The organist Monsieur Olivier Latry will be playing Bach after mass at Notre Dame! If you enjoy baroque that is.”

  “It will be played the Great Organ and not the Choir Organ, I assume?”

  The concierge smiled at Slade’s knowledge of Paris’ great cathedral, announcing proudly, “Absolutely! I will be in attendance myself.”

  “Please put my tickets and your own on my bill,” he instructed.

  “Two monsieur?”

  “Why not,” Slade nodded. He had a mind to invite Jean Brueget, the INTERPOL contact. It would be the perfect place for an unobtrusive meeting. “Oh, one more thing.” He handed a photo of Waters and two one thousand Euro notes to the concierge. His text number was on the bottom of the picture.

  “Oui monsieur, it will be done. Monsieur Waters is out at the moment, but I will inform you the instant he walks through the door,” the concierge said, absurdly pleased that Slade was a patron who knew how things worked without having to be prodded.

  Slade went to his room. It was directly above that of Waters. He swept it for bugs and wireless signals; it was clean. Then he unpacked. First he opened the company briefcase. It contained the normal inventory of things: a 9mm Glock with a silencer and three clips of ammunition. Several knives. A broken down sniper’s rifle. Two smoke grenades. A garrote. Two small charges of C-4 with a remote and a set of binoculars.

  Slade holstered the Glock in his concealed carry shirt beneath his suit. The silencer went in the suit pocket the extra clips went into the other side of his shirt.

  His shaving kit included a compact yet efficient surveillance system tied to his laptop.

  As Waters was out, Slade took advantage of the opportunity to go downstairs and case the “Motorcycle Man’s” room. Getting in was as easy as swiping his CIA ‘skeleton key’ card over the lock. The catch opened with a light snick! Slade was in.

  Waters was a slob. He was also careless. His laptop was open and it took only a generic password to gain access to his files. Slade inserted a key fob into the USB port and began downloading everything on the computer. That took only a minute. In another minute he had the ability to access Freddy’s laptop through his own wireless. That would allow him to use Freddy’s own camera and microphone to monitor the room.

  In case Freddy powered down his computer or put it in its case, Slade planted two camera bugs with microphones. That done, he left the room and returned upstairs. Sitting down at the hotel desk Slade fired up his own laptop and plugged in the fob. The first thing he looked for was Freddy’s schedule.

  “Well, well, well, Freddy, you’re a busy man. You’ve got a meeting right now with the Iranians, Colonel Nikahd to be specific.”

  While he didn’t appear particularly organized Freddy was fastidious about his schedule. Not only did he have his full day planned out but Freddy cross referenced files and notes with his activities.

  He’d been in Turkey and there was a short, terse note describing Freddy’s dissatisfaction with the visit. “Met with P. Ataturk—stuck up bastard—completely unaware of what a big present we gave him.”

  The “present” was a cross-referenced jpg file. Slade promptly opened it and found himself staring at the group photo from the ISIS Cobra mission.

  “So this is how we were fingered, but how the Hell did Freddy get this and why did he want the President of Turkey to have it?” He forwarded the file to CIA headquarters, the director’s office.

  Ten minutes later his phone rang. It was the director himself.

  “Slade?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “The photo isn’t an original, it’s a photo taken by Water’s iPhone of the president’s iPad, so there’s no way to prove the president gave him the information; Waters could have just stolen it and gone off on his own,” he snapped, and then he went on without so much as taking a breath. “Now listen and listen good. You’ve just connected a terrorist act with the White House—do you understand?”

  “Yes sir,” he replied cautiously.

  “I cannot, repeat, I cannot delve into this further at this time. The Company cannot start an investigation on the White House. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  Slade wanted to say no but he knew the only answer the director wanted to hear was, “Yes.”

  “Freddy Waters is off limits—do you understand?”

  “You’re certain, sir?”

  “You are not to lay a hand on Freddy Waters. I know Paris is a dangerous place, but there are to be no accidents—do you understand?”

  “Absolutely sir,” he growled.

  “Good, now listen closely,” the director said and he paused.

  That meant Slade still had a shot at Freddy and the director was going to tell him how.

  “We need to keep an eye on Waters. He has stolen sensitive information and possibly—I say possibly—compromised a covert operation. If he has done so then we will catch up to him. Hopefully, we’ll get to him before his friends do. We’ve raided dozens of mosques and taken a couple hundred jihadists into custody. If they think Waters set them up they’ll be after his hide.”

  “Yes sir,” Slade replied. “I will keep Waters under surveillance. I’ll keep you informed on my progress.”

  “Good!” the director said.

  Slade smiled wolfishly. The green light for Freddy Waters was on, only the method changed. All he had to do was to tip off the bad guys that Freddy set them up and then it was run Freddy, run.

  The buzzer on his text went off.

  Digging out his phone he perused the text. It was a simple line, “Monsieur on his way up to his room.”

  Waters was back in the hotel.

  There were
only two things Slade had to do: activate Freddy’s camera, and click the icon attached to his own two bugs. On the screen of the laptop he got an immediate feed for all three cameras. The room and bath were empty. A few minutes later Freddy appeared through the door. He was a bedraggled man, scruffy looking and scrawny. Slade would be almost embarrassed to take him out in a fight, excepting the malignant power of Freddy’s brain; that’s what made the terrorist dangerous.

  He had another man with him. A shorter paunchier man than the heroin chic thin Freddy. Slade sat down at the hotel desk, screwing the top off his bottle of water.

  “That Nikahd, I just can’t gauge him,” said the shorter man.

  “What does it matter Alfie,” Freddie asked without any interest in the question. “The ragheads are children, their tribal; they don’t think beyond that. They want their nukes—fine—let them have them. They’ll use them on the Israelis and the Israelis will retaliate. Boom—problem solved.”

  “That’ll mess up the planet for sure,” Alfie sighed, digging in the minibar for a beer. He handed one to Freddy. “It’ll piss off the environmentalists.”

  “The environmentalists? Don’t make me laugh,” Freddy said, popping the top on the beer and taking a swig. “You know that’s one of the ironies of this whole deal. The environmentalists worship the president. They think he’s a huge supporter. They’ve never realized that the whole movement was based on telling them what they wanted to hear and not what the truth was. Oetari is screwing the environmentalists worse than Reagan ever did. The only difference was that Reagan told them the truth and Oetari told them what they wanted to hear.”

  “Is that what we’re telling the Iranians or is that what the Iranians are telling us?”

  Freddy shook his wiry haired head, a vulture’s skull that looked like grey mold or moss spouted from a blotched old rock. His grin showed teeth yellowed from nicotine. “Does it matter?” he laughed. Then he answered his own question. “Either way it works for us. If the Iranians are sincere and get rid of half their enriched Uranium—great. If it’s all a scam then they’ll use it on the Israelis, again—great. It’s a win-win scenario.”

  Alfie shrugged. “It might be nice to lose the Middle East entirely. There would be no oil and no religion. Christianity, Judaism and Islam would be gone—poof!”

  Freddy shrugged, and said, “Islam maybe, I mean if Mecca went away what would be the reason they’d stick with it? I mean really. But Christians, they can be stubborn bastards. They seem to put a lot more stock in Faith than the rest.”

  “Careful Freddy, you’re almost sounding empathetic,” Alfie laughed.

  Freddy turned on him with surprising angst. “No! They’re just stupid; too stupid to be re-educated. That’s why Stalin took care of the priests first. He knew there was no hope for them—good old Uncle Joe!”

  That seemed to end that vein of the conversation. They talked of dinner, arguing whether they should eat at the hotel or in town. Alfie suggested they hop on one of the barges for a dinner cruise. Freddy was against it. “I’ve got to meet with Eva Accompando from Soekarno tomorrow on a dinner cruise. Do you really think I want to see this damn city twice from the river? No thank you.”

  “So Nikahd was serious then?” Alfie asked. “He wants that ship—why?”

  “Who cares? He wants it as part of our deal.”

  “They’re up to something,” Alfie mused. “Why do they need a special ship to transport the nuclear material; especially that ship?”

  “I told you I don’t care,” Freddie sighed. “She simply needs to get the Iranians that ship.”

  “What if she balks?”

  “I’ll use my charm,” Freddy smiled. “Come on, the Frog downstairs suggested a restaurant down the street. They’re specialty it baked sheep’s head stuffed with—something—it’s all the rage.”

  Freddy and Alfie left the room for dinner. Slade thought about it for a while. Using the remote function of his CIA software he brought up the notes Freddy had concerning the meeting. He came to the conclusion that Freddy didn’t need to attend the meeting with Eva Accompando; he’d do it himself.

  The mechanism to accomplish that was easy. He did it by e-mail. Freddy had exchanged e-mails with Eva already. All Slade did was send Freddie a cancellation and have him in turn send Eva an e-mail describing one J. Slade, who would meet her instead. Eva e-mailed Freddy, really Slade, that was fine and to meet her for the eight O’clock sailing at slip number seven. That done, Slade had a date.

  He checked in with the Paris division and they set up a meeting with Brueget at the concert.

  After a few hours of half-sleep Slade gave up and walked along the Seine toward Notre Dame. That’s where the best free music in Paris. Vespers mass at Notre Dame was not to be missed. The astonishing acoustics of the cathedral, the feel of the place and the singing, not to mention the massive organ were well worth a bit of guilt.

  Slade headed out, hoping the three mile walk would clear his head. It was not to be. A bunch of angry young men and women in Burkas were clogging up the river walk waving Palestinian flags, yelling for jihad and calling the Israelis “assassins.”

  “Jihad in Paris? Oh great, they’re pissed that after two thousand rockets the Israelis are finally fighting back!”

  At St. Michel’s, just a few blocks from the cathedral, the French paramilitary and gendarmes in riot gear cordoned off the demonstrators.

  “Jihad-resistance! Jihad-resistance! Jihad-resistance!” shouted a terrorist on the bullhorn with a deplorable French accent.

  “Terrorists!” he retorted. The French paramilitary troops knit their brows, and looked at him. He simply raised a brow and asked them, “Quelle serait l'Empereur Napoléon?”

  The gendarme looked as if he was going to shove his rifle butt down Slade’s throat.

  CHAPTER 16: Notre Dame

  The gendarme wasn’t so much mad at Slade as much as himself. Slade asked a simple question and it cut to the bone of French pride: What would Napoleon do?

  One of the gendarmes looked confused, but the other, the angry one replied, “Donnez-leur un relent de à mitraille!”

  It was the famous answer Napoleon gave when asked what he would do about rebels in the streets. Legend had it that the general, a master of artillery, answered, “Give them a whiff of grapeshot!”

  Slade nodded approvingly and told them, “France is for the French,” or in his heavily accented French, “La France est pour les Français!”

  They gendarmes exchanged glances, sighed, and nodding their heads, admitted, “Oui monsieur, C’est vrai.”

  It must have worked, because the next moment a demonstrator got in the gendarme’s face, yelling “Jihad! Jihad! Jihad!” The boy’s spit flew at the gendarme, who reacted appropriately, smashing his rifle butt in the demonstrator’s belly and taking him to the ground. He cuffed the boy, much to the amazement of those protesters nearby, and hauled him to his feet.

  As they dragged the boy to the paddy wagon, the gendarme looked at Slade and said, “La France est pour les Français!”

  “Vive la France!” Slade responded, adding to himself, “Maybe there’s hope after all.”

  Feeling better, Slade made the cathedral in time for vespers. He went there for the music. The Notre Dame choir was world renowned; it wasn’t to be missed. Slade, despite his cold exterior, loved classical music.

  After vespers he stayed for mass out of curiosity. Would the cardinal speak about the demonstrations? Slade was raised Catholic, and he’d gone to church with Helen on occasion as they grew up. Then he strayed for a few years; that is, until Helen and the kids moved in. After that, he attended with the family, but only after buying a video recorder for the Vikings games on Sunday.

  Now it was easy to tape the games, and Slade still went so as to be a good example for the kids. It ate at him though; his present occupation didn’t fit so well with piety, thus his guilt.

  That thought brought out Helen’s softly chiding rebuke in his
head. “All right, I need to practice my French anyway,” he grumbled to himself. He stayed for mass.

  The Cardinal of Paris was an elder man, robust with glasses. He gave firm, cogent and practical homilies. Tonight was no different. Slade’s French was barely good enough to keep up with him, because he was passionate, railing against the evils going on in France and the Middle East.

  “Will we sit here while our brother Christians are given the choice of conversion, becoming slaves or death; while they are crucified along the streets? Will we sit here idly while our brother Muslims, those who wish to live in peace with us are slaughtered, left beheaded in ditches, their only crime that they do not wish to follow the path of jihad? Will we sit here idly while our Jewish brothers, and I remind you we are all Jews at our core, Jesus was a Jew and so are we; will we sit idly by while terrorists and jihadist murder their children and send rockets into their neighborhoods?”

  The cardinal paused, looking soberly over the congregation. “Will we sit here idly while they shout jihad within sight of these sacred walls? We invited these people to our land and they repay us by insulting our sacred places and defiling our civilization. We cannot allow them to do so. We must be firm in our resolve and patient with our guests, yet like a father to a passionate son we must set boundaries and expect them to live within the law of our civilization as they would expect us to live within their laws if our positions were reversed.

  “We must pray, but there is more we must do. We must resist the ignorant who are shouting without our walls. We must tell the jihadists here in our own streets that they are not welcome if they persist in this path of war and intolerance. If they wish to live in peace among us then Amen I say to you; you are my brother under the Almighty. Yet God taught us to defend ourselves, our families and our Faith. God gave us Charles the Hammer Martel to drive the hordes of jihadists from French soil; who will he give us now?”

  Slade couldn’t help but like the cardinal. He felt hope after the homily; hope that France might remain French if only the cardinal’s voice and other voices carried the day. As he took his place in line for Communion he wondered if his hopes outweighed the reality of the jihadist infection spreading across Europe.