The Ghost of Flight 666

by Christopher Anderson

  Helen’s little voice came on in his head again. He was about to take Communion from the hand of the cardinal. Helen reminded Slade it was not the proper place to be considering violence, war and evil. He whispered, “Dear cousin, you make it hard to do my job sometimes.”

  The tall man in front of him must have heard his words, for he turned, looking over his shoulder, over the backpack he wore inside the cathedral, catching Slade with a set of dark eyes—almost black.

  The old familiar warning bells went off in Slade’s head. The man was an Algerian, which was not uncommon in Paris especially. Many transplants from the former French colonies lived in the capital. This man was tall and lankly; the whites of his eyes stood out, almost glowing in the gloom of the dim cathedral. It was his expression that caught Slade’s attention; he’d seen it so often in jihadists, the half mad, half doomed demeanor—it set him on edge.

  That he was wearing a backpack in the cathedral was suspicious, but many people brought their purses or bags with them, not wanting to lose them in the vastness of the church. No, Slade was profiling. He was suspicious only because the man was almost certainly Muslim. Almost all the Algerians were Muslim, although it wasn’t unheard of to see a convert.

  He played down his fears, assuming they rode upon the train of his earlier thoughts; hadn’t the Justice Department just issued an order prohibiting profiling even in the case of National security? He chuckled dryly to himself, “You’re just a bigot Slade—a hater!”

  Still, he kept an eye on the man regardless. He could always apologize to the Lord for his suspicions about his fellow man later. Maybe he’d file a report on himself; turn himself in for violating Justice Department policy!

  The man reached the cardinal. The cardinal smiled and held up a wafer, saying in French, “The Body of Christ!”

  For Slade, it was almost like watching a movie. The man’s bearing changed almost instantly. With exaggerated fury he spat at the cardinal. Slade was surprised but ready.

  The unexpected nature of the attack was not the attack itself, but that the Algerian took the time to show his contempt for the center of Christianity in France.

  “You have kept us down for too long,” he yelled, almost incoherent. “Our time has come again. You will submit or die; submit or die! Death to the infidels! Allahu Akbar!” The jihadist finished his tirade and raised his arms. There was a switch in his right hand.

  Before the last breath of the terrorist’s praise of Allah passed his lips, as the cardinal’s face showed complete surprise and horror, as the first screams erupted from the surrounding crowd, Slade’s punch connected.

  It started at his feet. He crouched, throwing his hips forward in a counterclockwise twist, like a spring unwinding. His torso followed and then the right arm flew, the force aided by the uncoiling of his body. The short, sharp punch connected with the base of the jihadist’s skull, shattering the Atlas vertebrae and the base of the skull, shoving shards of bone into the spinal cord and the medulla oblongata.

  The punch would at the very least render the victim unconscious, but thrown with the strength of angst and desperate need, the jihadist was dead before he finished his curse.

  The body crumpled to the ground. Slade was instantly on top of him. He grabbed the trigger switch from the trembling hand and tore the wires from the box. Ripping open the backpack he found the battery perched on top of the load of explosives and shrapnel. Quickly he yanked the wires out of the power unit. Then he turned the body over and ripped open the jacket.

  “You bloody bastard, you’re wearing a vest as well!”

  Again he ripped out the wires and removed the battery. The dead jihadist was no longer a threat, but there still might be other jihadists around; they would wait for the panic to ensue and guard the exits, massacring the fleeing congregation.

  Slade looked up at the cardinal, who was still standing there holding his golden goblet and Communion wafers.

  “Father, I need your help; there’s no telling if there are more of these jihadists around! Do NOT clear the Church—keep everyone calm—I will get the police and INTERPOL here right away!”

  Slade hit his Bluetooth as he grabbed the jihadist by the collar. The head lolled over on the spindly neck, wagging side to side in a grotesque way.

  “Brueget!” he barked, keying the number that Director Gann gave him

  Slade dragged the bomb laden body out of the vestibule, looking in the crowd for more jihadists. He saw an usher, and yelled for him to open the door out of the south end of the vestibule. The portly man scurried for the door, waving people back, flinging it open. Slade dragged the jihadist outside the church and away from the people.

  “Brueget here, how can I help you?”

  “Brueget, my name is Slade. We have a meeting set up for tomorrow; I’m going to have to move that up. I’m down here at Notre Dame. Jihadists just tried to assassinate the cardinal and blow up the cathedral. Everyone is still in the church. I need the exits cleared. They may have other jihadists waiting for the people to queue up at the doors!”

  “Mon Dieu! I have the military two blocks away at St. Michel; they will be there in two minutes!”

  When he got outside, Slade laid the jihadist next to the stone side of the rectory; that would at least partially minimize the damage of any blast. The usher was watching; he waved people back, shouting for his fellow ushers. They effectively cordoned off the area.

  Two minutes later Slade heard the pounding of boots. He looked toward the front of the cathedral. Two columns of black garbed troops bearing SCAR assault rifles trotted into the courtyard. Six men rushed down the alley between the cathedral and the rectory. Two levelled their SCARS at the jihadist, two covered Slade and the other two set up posts on either side of the doors.

  “Les portes sud obtiennent!”

  Slade raised his hands, and said, “I work with Jean Brueget INTERPOL!”

  “INTERPOL?”

  The usher at the door interrupted, telling the soldiers loudly, “Don’t arrest him! He saved the cardinal! He killed the terrorist; I saw it all!”

  Nodding, the soldier lowered his SCAR, telling him in English, “It was INTERPOL who called us from the demonstration. Relax, but stay here please!”

  The bells began to ring, signaling the end of mass. Slade heard the cardinal’s strong voice asking people to file out of the church and praising God.

  A few minutes later Brueget and half a dozen other INTERPOL agents arrived with the bomb squad. The bomb squad took over control of the body and bombs. Brueget took Slade inside the emptying cathedral. They exchanged introductions, and then with everything under control Brueget smiled with relief, looking around at the people still filing out of the church. “France is indebted to you my friend,” he said. “This could have been a terrible day!”

  “We got lucky this time,” Slade said, shaking his head. “This could have been Buckingham Palace, the Smithsonian—anywhere. We’re reacting instead of being proactive. How the Hell does a terrorist get into the cathedral with thirty pounds of C-4?”

  Brueget nodded, and said, “If we do nothing else than what we are doing it is only a matter of time before they succeed.”

  “Maybe you can help me with that,” Slade said. He filled Brueget in on what he was doing in Paris. “Waters has already met with Colonel Nikahd of Iran. Now he’s supposed to meet with someone from Soekarno Industries.”

  “Eva Accompando?” Brueget asked.

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “Eva is often in Paris,” he explained. “We have taken an interest in her over the last few years. She is Soekarno’s international broker and buyer. Her boss does not always desire to buy or sell legal items, shall we say. The only common thread is that everything is expensive. Eva only does multi-multi-million dollar deals. Naturally we are always interested in her activities; especially if they involve a former American terrorist who has been seen with the head of Iran’s Special Operations.”

  “I’m meet
ing with her tonight in place of Waters,” Slade told him. “Would you like in on the deal?”

  “With pleasure,” Brueget smiled.

  A priest came up to them. “Monsieur, if you please, the cardinal would like to see you both.”

  They entered the vestibule. The cathedral was still clearing, but as Jean pointed out there were gendarmes and paramilitary officers combing the crowd, looking for anyone else. “If they were here they are already gone,” he said sadly. “They’ve probably joined the demonstration at St. Michelle. Who knows what else these vermin are capable of?”

  The priest led them through the gates and then right again through the hallway into the rectory. He knocked on a thick oak door. The door opened a crack and he announced himself. Another priest opened the door the rest of the way and motioned them in.

  The cardinal was seated in a tall chair in the reception room. Cradling a goblet of wine, he looked up and smiled. “Sacramental wine,” he admitted. “It’s all we have here, but I think it’s for a worthy cause!”

  “I’d have to agree Father.”

  “I am Cardinal Martel; you heard me mention my great ancestor Charles—I invoke him especially at these times. It is for good reason it seems.” He stood and held out his hand, taking Slade’s warmly in both of his and shaking very firmly. “Thank you my son for your rescue, not for me, but for all of the people who could have—” he stopped, shaking his head. “Can you imagine how many people would have died, waiting to take Communion? It is deplorable! It is a travesty! Such unrelenting evil and hatred; it is the work of the Devil himself!”

  “I couldn’t agree more Father.”

  “We must stop this; we cannot allow it,” he continued. “It is one thing to turn the other cheek, but our Lord never intended for us to become lambs for the slaughter. For too long we’ve sat on our heels waiting and hoping for reason. We must act!”

  The cardinal got up and paced around his chair, head down, speaking as if ticking off items on a list. “We face unrelenting evil against innocents. We have tried everything, but now we must be responsible for stopping the evil. We have the strength to stop it successfully. Certainly the evil that way do along the way is less than the evil of inaction—yes, we have the responsibility to act!”

  He circled around the chair, seemingly at peace with his decision. Smiling, Cardinal Martel patted Jean on the shoulder. “I am told you are American CIA.”

  “That’s true,” Slade answered. “I’m in town on other business.”

  “We should stay in contact, work together, INTERPOL, your CIA and the Church,” the Cardinal told him emphatically. “More importantly, we should get to know each other. This event cannot have happened for no reason. Providence brings us together.”

  They settled on dinner the following day. For Slade, however, the evening was just beginning. He still had dinner with Eva ahead of them.

  CHAPTER 17: Dinner on the Siene

  Jean Brueget dropped Slade off at the quays. Slade wanted to have a drink and case the barge out before the meeting. Brueget left to collect his wife and melt into the background.

  The boat at slip seven was a long, modern glass and aluminum vessel that seated several hundred people. They’d already cleaned the dining room from the previous cruise and were now accepting those guests with reservations. People were starting to fill the dinner section up, but most hadn’t arrived yet. The sailing wasn’t for another forty-five minutes and Parisians tried to be as tardy as possible without actually missing their appointments.

  Slade walked to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. Unlike many things in Europe, the bartender delivered his much needed drink with French culinary punctuality. Slade walked around the barge familiarizing himself with the layout and looking for anyone who piqued his curiosity.

  There was a singular woman who arrived early. She couldn’t escape his notice, or anyone else’s for that matter. She was a tiny Asian woman, Phillipino or Indonesia, if he were to guess. She cradled a Manhattan in here slight hand, giving her dark eyes an enchanting expression beneath her long lashes. Her blue evening gown was beautiful and expensive; but it wasn’t nearly as expensive as the diamonds she wore around her neck, wrists and fingers. She was dazzling.

  He recognized her from Freddy’s file.

  “Eva?” Slade said with a confident smile. “I’m Mr. Slade.”

  She cocked her head slightly to the side, “J. Slade?”

  He held out his hand. She took it daintily. “Yes, Jeremiah Slade,” he said, pronouncing his first name without the usual humiliated hatred that he reserved for it. “I am pleased to meet you Ms. Accompando.”

  “It’s a relief not to be meeting with Waters,” Eva said firmly, with that self-assurance that meant she was comfortable in expressing her opinions no matter what they were. “He is an odious ideologue, almost impossible to deal with; it’s incredible to me that President Oetari can stand him.”

  “Do you know the president?” Slade asked, leading her to their table and pulling out the chair for her.

  She took the act of chivalry in stride, as if she was used to it. Slade thought that was probably understandable on her part. She answered his question as if it were no great thing. “Yes, of course, I’ve met President Oetari many times. He’s good friends with my employer Mr. Soekarno.”

  “So you are based in Singapore?” Slade asked, sitting down across from her.

  “No, although I spent quite a bit of time there. I travel almost constantly between New York, Paris, Honk Kong and Duluth.”

  “Duluth—Minnesota?” he said with surprise.

  Eva sighed, “My husband is a merchant marine captain. He originally sailed on the Great Lakes. When the iron ore business slackened he took to ocean going ships, but he wanted to maintain the family house in Duluth so he could see his beloved Vikings play. That means he spends much of his autumn and winter in the cold and I spend them in Maui.”

  “I feel your pain. I was born in Minnesota. I have been trying to get the Vikings out of my system for almost forty years.”

  Eva laughed. “Have you succeeded?”

  “No!”

  The dinner barge pulled out of the slip and started down the Seine. They passed under the bridge at Point D’Alma and headed toward the golden statues along the bridge named for Alexander III. Beyond they could see the lights for the Louvre.

  The waiter took their order, freshened their drinks and departed. Eva raised her glass to her lips. “Now, before we get serious about business tell me a bit about yourself Mr. Slade, or do you prefer to be called Jeremiah.”

  “No!” he said quickly. “I never go by that name or its derivatives, thank you.”

  “What if someone wants to be familiar with you?” she asked coquettishly.

  “Even my mother doesn’t use that name; not unless she’s very, very angry.”

  “Perhaps you should go by your middle name, many people do.”

  “I can’t do that either,” he lamented.

  “Is it that bad?”

  “Milton,” he told her reluctantly. “My grandfather.”

  “Slade it is then,” she chuckled. She turned softly serious, looking askance at him. “You said mother instead of wife; you’re not married then?”

  “No.”

  “A momma’s boy? Do you live with your parents?”

  “I’m sorry if I gave you that impression,” he sighed. “No, they are out adventuring in Maui. As for myself, the State Department keeps me in D.C. I have a little farmhouse in Virginia.”

  “No woman though? You’re not handsome enough to be gay.”

  “Thank you for that!” he laughed.

  Eva had done enough probing. “Okay, Slade tell me, how is it that you were forced into this deal. Somehow I can’t see you as Water’s right hand man?”

  “No, thank you again,” Slade smiled. “To tell you the truth I couldn’t be in the same room as Waters. When I was in the military we used to drop bombs on people like him. No, I’m on l
oan from State, doing some research on the jihadist demonstrations over here.”

  “What kind of research?” she said with just a hint of suspicion.

  He shrugged, and said, “You’re a true cosmopolitan Ms. Accompando. You know that what happens in Europe eventually comes to the States. I’m just trying to gauge these groups so that we can deal with them more effectively.”

  “Such as who amongst the leadership to make disappear?” she jabbed.

  “Hardly Ms. Accompando,” he complained.

  “Eva,” she corrected.

  “Eva,” he agreed.

  The waiter brought their dinner. As they ate she began to talk business. “I’ve seen the proposed shipping order Mr. Slade. The order requires special handling, an open air hull of special design. The Atlas, in fact, which is still working on the “Palm” project. Why did you come to me Mr. Slade; we don’t own that ship? Can’t you talk directly to the company?”

  “Unfortunately not,” Slade told her. Having read Freddy’s brief he was completely aware of every facet of the unique and mysterious deal. “You see the Dutch aren’t all that keen on loaning their ship to the Iranians.”

  “You’re here on behalf of the Iranians then,” she ventured.

  “We have an interest in seeing this deal get done,” he said.

  “You’re allies with the Europeans,” she reminded him. “I’m not sure why you’re talking to me instead of the Dutch government.”

  “Let’s just say this administration has temporarily degraded the level of trust between the United States and its historic allies,” he sighed. “We’re in a time crunch. We need to get this done. You are renowned for getting things done. Therefore, we came to you.”

  “I assume you know then that I come neither cheap nor easily.”

  “Money is not a problem,” he told her. “We simply want the Atlas to ferry the cargo from Bandar Abbas to Abu Dhabi.”

  “Across the Straits of Hormuz? That’s a very short distance. What’s the nature of the cargo?”