The Ghost of Flight 666

by Christopher Anderson

  “A deal? Really?” said Slade, more than perturbed at the mayor. “You are ruining the most beautiful city in the world, handing it over to the Islamists without a fight. Mr. Mayor are you Vichy?”

  The mayor purpled with rage. Before he could speak, Slade hit him again. “Do you know that right now, in your city there are harems of kidnapped girls—daughters of France, your daughters—and they are kept as sex slaves for the Islamists? You know this, but you let it happen—how?”

  “I will not let you twist the subject onto me! There will be payment for this vigilante!”

  “There will indeed,” Slade said.

  The Chief of Police whispered an aside to Brueget, saying, “Slade sounds more like the Mayor of Paris should sound than the mayor himself!”

  Brueget chuckled quietly, and remarked, “Would that we had fewer citizens who hate France and more Americans like Jeremiah Slade who love her!”

  Brueget’s phone rang and he turned away to answer it.

  The remark stung the mayor, and he stood there like a statue for a long moment. With no renewed attack on him, the mayor regained his composure.

  He leaned over Slade and doubled down. "I will give you one last chance to deal monsieur. If you are willing to plead guilty and publicly apologize to the Muslim community, I will be satisfied with, say, ten years. Your government can get you out in five. Think of it, monsieur, murder alone is twenty-five years. You would never see the light of day.”

  “Actually, no, Monsieur Mayor,” Brueget told him, turning back around and pocketing his phone. “This is the deal: release Slade now and give me Abdulla Hussein. He’s the man Slade was questioning.”

  “Hussein? What do you want with that poor boy?”

  “Monsieur Mayor, Abdulla Hussein works for a man named Khallida, a notorious Al Qaeda terrorist who is on the terrorist watchlist of France, INTERPOL as well as the United States. He has been implicated on every plot from Nine-Eleven to the current ISIS crisis.”

  “That has nothing to do with Monsieur Hussein!” the mayor retorted.

  “Monsieur Mayor, Hussein is one of Khallida’s recruits,” Brueget said sternly. “We also think he is involved in the disappearance of Malaysian Flight 666.”

  “You cannot speak to him,” the mayor said firmly. “I will not be dictated to by INTERPOL!”

  “This is an international terrorism case,” Brueget informed the mayor. “I have the authority to take him into custody and I will not hesitate to do so.”

  “You are too late, I released him as a sign of good will to the Muslim community,” the mayor told Brueget.

  “You what?” exclaimed the Chief of Police. “Monsieur, you had no authority to do such a thing! That is my department!”

  “I have every authority!” the mayor countered. “This is my city; my police force; it is my responsibility to keep the peace in Paris! I will do as I see fit!”

  “We need to get Hussein before he disappears; he can lead us to the missing jet,” Slade said urgently, ignoring the mayor.

  “I am on it,” Jean nodded, taking out his phone and placing a call.

  “You will do no such thing!” the mayor protested, red faced with anger.

  Brueget put a finger in the mayor’s face. “You are interfering with an international counter-terrorism operation—back off Monsieur!”

  The mayor refused to back down. “This is my city!”

  The mayor got his own phone out, shaking at Sorensen. “You want to play games? This is Paris—my town! I will have you all thrown into prison or deported! There, how is that for calling your bluff?”

  “I’m not bluffing Monsieur Mayor; I’m deadly serious. I warn you, you will not win this fight.”

  “Oh so you want to play politics?” the would-be Napoleonic mayor smiled. “Well my President of France trumps your INTERPOL any day. How do you like that?”

  “Game on Monsieur Mayor,” he replied. There was a pause, during which the mayor flushed red but became suddenly silent while Brueget was on the phone with his superiors.

  “Director, we have a situation brewing in Paris and a possible compromise of NATO security.”

  “Compromise of NATO security, what the devil is she talking about?” the mayor blurted.

  Brueget’s eyes flashed in anger. “Our investigation and our agent is compromised Monsieur Mayor, under your jurisdiction—that’s an international crime under the NATO treaty—so are you part of the solution or part of the problem?”

  “What, I didn’t have anything to do with that!”

  “Really? I suggest you call your president Monsieur Mayor, you’re going to need him.”

  “How dare you!” he started, but Brueget held up a single finger and the mayor’s mouth snapped shut.

  “Sir, it’s more serious than that,” the INTERPOL officer continued. “Slade was ambushed in his hotel room by three assassins. All three have ties to Al Qaeda in Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia, Qatar and Yemen and Malaysia—yes, Malaysia. In fact, he is the son of the missing Malaysian Airlines captain—yes sir, Slade was interrogating Hussein when the French gendarmes interrupted him. Yes, this occurred after he saved the life of Cardinal Martel at Notre Dame yesterday, not to mention saving the Cathedral itself.”

  “An attack on Notre Dame—what attack?” the mayor blurted. “Why wasn’t I informed of this outrageous event?” The mayor was clearly in a panic. The one thing Parisian’s loved more than Paris itself was its history and especially the cathedral. “Why was I not told of this?”

  His aide rolled his eyes, “Monsieur Mayor, you will not take verbal briefings. It was the first item in your electronic brief yesterday! However, if you missed it there, then you might have seen it elsewhere.” He handed the morning paper to the mayor. The front page main headline was simple and ferocious: Muslims try to Assassinate Cardinal Martel and Destroy the Blessed Notre Dame!

  “Mon Dieu!” he sweated. “I was meeting with Ali Habib; trying to defuse the unrest in the city. Why didn’t he mention this outrage? Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!”

  Against the backdrop of the mayor’s rising panic, Brueget continued, telling the director, “No, Slade is fine. Yes sir, Khallida was behind this. Slade was about to get the particulars on the Paris cell from Hussein when the gendarmes interrupted and arrested him.

  “Slade is still in custody, but the mayor let Hussein go. We are tracking him down now. There’s more I’m afraid. Our next most pressing problem after recapturing Hussein is that the mayor has seen fit to mobilize the local Muslim Brotherhood factions. Yes sir, the mayor brought them to the police station—yes sir, it’s Habib—regardless, we are in serious danger of losing Slade’s cover permanently.”

  Slade couldn’t help but admire the way Brueget handled the situation. The mayor was growing paler by the moment. After a moment, he said simply, “Yes sir, we will!”

  He put the phone away, and said calmly, “Monsieur Mayor there’s no need for you to call the president.”

  He regained his confidence and smiled, “You see, I told you.”

  Brueget stepped up to the mayor and lit a cigarette.

  The mayor looked at him with disproval, and said, “You can’t do that. I signed an ordinance banning smoking in public buildings.”

  He took a long drag and blew the smoke in the mayor’s face. “You misunderstand me Monsieur Mayor. You don’t need to call the president; he will call you!”

  “He will call me?” the mayor stuttered. “I don’t understand.”

  “No you don’t,” he agreed. “However, it’s about to become all too clear to you.”

  The mayor’s phone rang.

  He tapped it and answered with great surprise, “Oh it’s you Monsieur President! What a pleasure—what? Yes sir, I’m listening.”

  As the mayor listened with growing distress to the President of France, who though no hawk, nonetheless was a politician.

  Slade leaned over and whispered into Brueget’s ear, “How much is this going to cost me?”

>   He chuckled, and said, “Not this time. Even the Socialist President of France isn’t going to buck NATO, INTERPOL and above all the Catholic Church! Politically speaking he’d be dead before he hung up the phone!”

  The mayor was now red in the face. He shoved his phone in his pocket and missed. The phone fell to the floor and shattered. The aide scooped up the broken phone and held it out for the mayor, who stared at him and then swatted the offending piece of hardware out of the listless hand.

  He looked at Brueget and then at Slade, steaming. In a tightly controlled voice, he said, “You are to be released Monsieur Slade. It would give me great—pleasure—to invite you to my office this afternoon so that I may, on the president’s behalf, award you the Légion d'honneur for your service to France.”

  The detective had already unlocked Slade, who stood, still in his bathrobe and boots. “It would be an honor Monsieur Mayor.”

  Turning on his heel, the mayor stormed out of the room and slammed the door. Still, they could all hear him as he shouted, almost screamed for the cops to get every civilian who wasn’t under arrest out of the building—now!

  The Chief of Police ordered a gendarme to get Slade’s cloths. He returned with the clothes and weapons. Slade began digging them out.

  “My men are heading to all of the Muslim Brotherhood safe houses,” Brueget told him. “If he’s still in Paris we’ll find him.”

  “He’s probably disappeared like the rat he is,” Slade growled. They walked down the back stairs to the courtyard of the Palais de Justice, within which was the Cathedral of Saint-Michel, a small yet stunning example of stained glass gone magnificently mad.

  “The car’s out on the street,” Brueget said, leading Slade through the arch.

  “We’re never going to find him,” Slade growled, there are too many places to hide in Paris.”

  The sound of squealing tires and sirens caught their attention. Looking up they saw a Renault convertible flying over the bridge toward them; the unmistakable sound of AK-47’s filled the Paris morning.

  CHAPTER 22: Deception

  The first mate of the Iranian oil tanker went out on deck in the early morning hours, purportedly to watch the sun rise over the South China Sea. Why he needed a small gym bag to do that he couldn’t have answered but no one asked.

  As salmon tinged the eastern sky he went to the rail. After unzipping the gym bag he withdrew a god sized heavy metal object and set it on the deck. It was the same type of Black Box found on all commercial Airbus A380’s. There was a cable attached to the box leading to a simple switch. The first mate turned on the switch and noted that a red light shone beneath it.

  Taking out a set of earphones attached to a small radio the first officer put them on his head and listened. There was a clearly audible ping! Satisfied, he disconnected the cable and put it back in the bag. The headphones and radio followed.

  Lifting the Black Box the first mate heaved it overboard. It fell four stories to the sea below, disappearing into the water without a sound.

  A day later a report circulated that the pinging of Malaysian Flight 666 was heard in the South China Sea. The resources of a dozen countries sped to the area but the signal died before the Black Box was retrieved. Speculation on whether the A380 and its wreckage now rested at the bottom of the ocean ran rampant.

  CHAPTER 23: General Washington’s Kabob

  Brueget hopped in the big, black Peugeot and started the engine. Slade threw his case in the back and followed it in. Throwing the transmission into drive, Brueget smoked the tires, trying to nudge the Renault as careened past. He missed, but Brueget kept his foot on the gas, sliding into the street in pursuit, followed by a line of gendarmes with sirens wailing.

  There were four men in the Renault, and three of them had automatic AK-47 assault rifles. One of them was Abdulla. The Budda-budda-budda of the Kalashnikov thumped the Paris morning.

  “Are they insane? There are citizens everywhere!” Brueget cursed, sliding into a hard left turn onto Quai d’Horloge. The Renault took the next left toward Pont Neuf, and then crossed the Seine, screaming left again against the traffic along the river. The Renault dodged cars and motorcycles, zooming past the Great Canadian Pub’s big red maple leaf and trying to make the turn into Saint-Michel—he didn’t make it—instead skidding across the plaza, guns blazing, where the Arab population was already gathering for another day of protests.

  The Renault plowed through the crowd, with the young terrorists in the back firing wildly, facing backwards. They tried to shoot at the Peugeot, which Brueget swung wide to avoid the crowds, but they seemed just as happy to shoot down people—little realizing these were their own sympathizers.

  The Renault was slowed by the multitude of people it ran over, and Brueget was on the point of cutting it off, so the driver steered hard left and headed back over the Saint-Michel Bridge where he started.

  Brueget cursed and spun around, gunning it and following. Over the Saint-Michel Bridge they sped, past pedestrians and tourists.

  Slade drew his pistols and rolled down his window. He leaned out as soon as he had a clear shot and sent a flurry of 9mm rounds at the Renault. One of the terrorists took a bullet in the shoulder. It spun him around in the seat, but as he was already half standing, he lost his balance and spilled over the side.

  “That wasn’t Hussein?” Brueget exclaimed.

  “No!” Slade replied—thump, thump—Brueget made sure of him.

  “Double tap!” Brueget exclaimed.

  The heavy car rolled over him, dragging the terrorist for a bit, leaving a bloody smear on the pavement and over the bridge, before the broken man rolled out from underneath as they skidded onto Quai des Gevres, again going against traffic.

  The drag of the terrorist had slowed the Peugeot down, but now Brueget stepped on it, weaving through the oncoming traffic, gaining on the Renault. By the time they were close enough for Slade to take another shot they were passing Pont d’Alma. The Renault entered the proper lane and headed toward Place d’Lena on the Avenue du President Wilson. The buildings sped by. As the approached the wide roundabout, Brueget yelled, “He’s got to slow and turn right!”

  Slade whipped out his gun and shot low. He emptied the clip at the Renault’s rear tire. The back tailgate and bumper sparked, and then the right rear tire blew in a cloud of white smoke.

  Young Abdulla was not an experienced fighter. He waved the barrel of the AK-47 around like a movie prop, missing the Peugeot entirely. When the tire blew he and his companion clutched the rear of the Renault, just trying to stay in the swerving car. With the tire blown the driver couldn’t make the turn. He careened through traffic, bouncing off several cars before running headlong into the concrete pedestal on which rested the equestrian statue of General George Washington. The little Renault slammed to a stop, throwing Abdulla high into the gray morning sky.

  The impact tossed Abdulla like a rag doll some sixty feet in the air. He came down on the point of the George Washington’s up-thrust sword, impaling himself through the stomach on the symbol of America; the Great Satan. Abdulla hung there for a few moments, weakly clutching at General Washington’s steady hand before he fainted.

  Jean pulled the Peugeot to a screeching halt next to the statue, laughing. “How apropos,” Jean sighed, getting out his phone. “I will get the ambulances on the way. You had better see to young Abdulla! Although I fear he is of no more use to us!”

  Slade leapt out of the car and sped to the Renault. The driver was dead, crushed into a bloody pulp with only his wide eyed face visible out of the smoldering wreckage. The other terrorist was flung out of the back as well. He landed on the other side of the statue, just in the street, where the Parisians promptly ran over him a dozen times.

  Slade retrieved the AK-47 Abdulla dropped and flipped the clip, chambering a round just in case. He walked around to the north side of the statue where Abdulla’s head hung over.

  He looked up to the young terrorist, who hung draped over
the general’s arm; the bloody blade of Washington’s sword protruded from the young jihadist’s back. Blood and entrails slimed the shaft.

  Amazingly young Abdulla looked to be alive—for now. His hands were clutching feebly at the air and his head was twitching, as if he were having some conversation with an unseen companion.

  “Abdulla!” Slade called up to him and the jihadist’s eyes fluttered open. “Where’s your father Abdulla? Tell us and we’ll get you down from there in one piece!”

  He groaned, but said, “My father will be a great martyr! Zion will fall! I will see him in paradise!”

  “Maybe we’ll just leave you up there with General Washington,” Slade told him. “Maybe he can talk some sense into you.”

  “No, you must get me down, I must continue to fight,” he said breathlessly, his voice wavering in and out of coherence. “You cannot leave me here; you won’t. Westerners are soft. You will do whatever you must to save me. You will save me so that I can watch your world fall!”

  The smell of fuel alerted Slade to another danger. The Renault’s fuel tank burst and the petrol was seeping toward the hot engine block. “Sorry Abdulla!”

  He hustled away. There was no choice; he was almost too late. The engine caught fire. The fire swiftly spread through the Renault, searching for the fuel tank.

  Abdulla was only partially coherent, but there is something about the smell of smoke that instills instinctual terror on any being unfortunate enough to be around it. He stopped his jabbering, his head lolling from side to side, his eyes trying to see through his puffy, bruised face. When they focused on the bright blur of the flames he started keening, as he was too weak to scream.

  His voice became a high drawn out wail—whoomph! The fuel reached the hot engine block. The flames raced back to the breached tank and the trapped fumes exploded, rupturing the tank completely. A fireball of flaming fuel erupted upward engulfing George and his skewered victim in fire and fuel. The flames rose up into a black cloud as the fuel began to burn greedily, licking at the statue and roasting Abdulla on the spit.