“Regardez! Look!” Treboux sat up and rubbed his eyes. Yilmaz and the driver were coming out of the hotel. A swarthy man carrying a leather bag walked up to them from the direction of the Port Renaissance, the small yacht basin adjacent to La Leque. They shook hands then scanned the street around them and set off back towards the port. The officers locked the Peugeot and crossed the bridge across the waterway, keeping the others in sight.
The men walked alongside the rows of private yachts and climbed aboard a white Jeanneau fishing boat with blue and red stripes along the side. They quickly cast off the lines and the craft headed out of the port.
As he and Grandville ran down the quayside, Treboux pulled out his mobile phone. “They’re just pulling out. It’s a red and blue striped Jeanneau.”
“I see it,” replied the voice on the other end. “Hang on a minute.”
The officers lost sight of the boat as it exited the marina. The man’s voice came back. “It’s heading west to go south from the looks of it. Probably heading for Spain but it’ll be hours before they cross into Spanish waters.”
“Then on to Turkey, I suppose. We’re almost at the lower quay, you can pick us up there.”
They reached the end of the quay just as the unmarked M15 High Speed customs inshore patrol boat pulled alongside the jetty and they jumped aboard. The vessel pulled away immediately and headed back out to sea, going west after the Jeanneau.
Treboux called one of his team at the Port of Marseille. “Anything?”
“Not yet. One of the crew has identified the last container to be loaded and we’ve taken it off and opened it, it’s full of TV sets. They look OK but the dog handler’s on his way. I’ll call as soon as we have something.”
Geneva, Switzerland
“Quoi? Ce n’est pas possible. It’s impossible.”
“I’m afraid it’s true. I wouldn’t joke about something like that, M le Prince.” Jolidon was trembling. He had just announced to the Moroccan that the cargo had been seized by the French customs.
“Fucking Hell, it can’t be true!” Bensouda was in his suite at the Kempinski. He sat on the settee, a cold sweat suddenly covering his forehead. “What about my investment?”
“It was entirely consumed by the purchase of the merchandise and the costs of transporting it to Marseille.”
“You mean there’s nothing left? What about the last hundred thousand I sent? That can’t be gone as well.”
“I tried to recuperate it for you this morning, M le Prince,” Jolidon lied, “but it had already been transferred on to the other party.”
Bensouda gasped for air. “One moment.” He went to the bar in the suite and poured out a measure of Chivas Regal and drank a large swallow. “I have to come and see you. You can’t just call and tell me I’ve lost over a million dollars like that. There must be something we can do. I’ll be at your office in a half hour.”
“Unfortunately I am not in Geneva today, Monsieur. I came to Zurich last night to ensure that the transaction was executed correctly by our bank here and I just received this dreadful news by telephone a moment ago.” This was also untrue. He was actually in Lausanne, not to execute a transaction, but to keep away from Bensouda.
“What exactly did they tell you? Are you sure you didn’t get it wrong?”
Jolidon gave a brief fictional account of the telephone call. “You can rest assured that your involvement in this matter has not been and never will be disclosed to anyone.” This subtle threat went unnoticed by the troubled Moroccan. “But I’m worried about my own position, Monsieur. If my involvement in the transaction has been discovered, I could be facing very serious charges. I may stay away from Geneva for some time. Until I know what transpires.”
After a few minutes more of begging and pleading for some respite Bensouda was finally lost for words. He rang off and went to get another whisky. He was shaking with rage and with fear. There would be no more jetting around the world, no more living like a lord in Marbella, no more chauffeur-driven limousines, no more throwing his family’s money away in casinos, no more suites in fancy hotels. The game’s over. That was my last throw of the dice and I lost. Time to pay the piper.
He found his uncle’s name in his phone and with trembling fingers he pressed the number.
Marbella, Spain
Leticia waved Patrice off from the front entrance then came running back to the terrace with Emilio. “Jenny,” she called excitedly. “I have important news. Get your iPad please?”
“I’ve got it here. What is it?”
“We’ll go for a stroll and leave you to it.” Emma and Leo went off into the garden.
“Right. What do I have to look up?”
Leticia handed her a sheet of note paper with Banco de Iberia embossed on the top. “Here. Patrice says it explains everything. I think I understood, but you can explain it properly to me.”
Jenny typed in, Regina Oil & Gas Inc, Saskatchewan. There were several items on the page, all with variations of the same headline, Regina Oil & Gas Strike. Saskatchewan’s Biggest Find, Ever. She opened the Bloomberg item, as Patrice had indicated and read the article to Leticia.
“Regina Oil & Gas, one of Canada’s newest and smallest oil exploration start-ups, announced yesterday that their third exploratory drilling, near Sask, in the Bakken formation in the southeast part of the province, has delivered the goods in style. Using a combination of horizontal drilling and hydro fracturing technology Regina discovered a large contiguous pool of sweet, light crude oil. The company estimates that the pool could deliver over a billion barrels of oil over the next several years, making it the largest single discovery in Saskatchewan’s history. Trading in Regina stock was suspended on the Toronto Stock Exchange yesterday after the share price more than tripled in frenzied trading.
“Fetch me your bank file will you?”
Leticia came back with the file and Jenny leafed through the statements. She drew in her breath. “Now we know what Patrice meant when he said he’d make the money back by September. Look.”
She showed her the June 30th statement. Included in the list of shareholdings was five hundred thousand Ordinary Shares of Regina Oil & Gas, at a value of four hundred thousand Canadian Dollars. This small oil and gas company had now discovered a massive pool of oil worth a fortune and their share price had risen from eighty cents to two dollars fifty cents.
Jenny looked up the exchange rate against the Euro. “They were valued at about three hundred and twenty thousand Euros and now they’re worth almost a million. You’ve made about six hundred and fifty thousand already and it sounds like it’ll still be going up when they open the markets today.”
Leticia clapped her hands. “We’ll make back the money we lost on that Ponzi scheme. That’s why he was rushing about so much. It was this Canadian customer who had a lot of meetings in London but it was very confidential. He was involved in their PIO, I think he said.”
Jenny was so relieved at the news that she laughed out loud. “You mean IPO, it’s when they went public on the Canadian Stock Market, I suppose. That means he’s been involved with them for a long time. He must have a good nose. I should ask him for some tips.”
So that’s what all his travelling and stress was about. She felt embarrassed that she’d harboured any suspicions about him. Thank heavens we can all get back to a normal relationship now. “I’m putting a bottle of champagne on ice for lunchtime. We’re going to celebrate.”
Sydney, Australia
DS McCallister compared the photos sent by Espinoza with those in the dossier he’d received from his colleague in Perth. There was a background file with pictures of everyone involved in the case; Tony and Nicole Forrester, the staff at N-Jet and the two executives lost in the crash.
He sat back in astonishment. “Shit! I don’t believe it. This is going to add some spice to Pedro’s paella.” He checked the two images once more then scanned the photo from his file and sent it with a quick note to the Spaniard. He wasn’t
allowed to send the dossier to Espinoza, who was no longer a police officer, but he now expected to receive a request from the French National Police. He asked his assistant to prepare a scanned copy to be emailed as soon as it was requested. Then he left the station and drove to an Outback Steakhouse along the street. It was eight o’clock in the evening and he was famished. He switched his mobile to vibrate and laid it on the table in case Espinoza called.
Marbella, Spain
“Cheers! Here’s to Leo coming home, Leticia getting marvellous news and the renewal of my social life.”
No one understood Jenny’s toast completely but they were all happy to raise their glasses. Even Leo had a glass of champagne in his hand and joined in the celebration. There was an air of cheerfulness in the house that hadn’t been there for a while. They relaxed on the terrace and chatted happily, Leticia getting to know another part of her new family and everyone enjoying the moment.
Jenny’s phone rang and she excused herself and walked away from the others. “Sam, how are you. Are you back in Marbella?” She listened for a moment then said, “Morocco? I don’t understand. I booked at the Finca Courtesin for next weekend. How long will you be away?”
After a few minutes Jenny walked back to the others, fighting the tears from her eyes.
“What is it?” Emma jumped to her feet. “What’s wrong, Jenny?”
She took a deep breath. “It was Sam. He’s going back to Morocco. He doesn’t know for how long, perhaps for a long time, he said.”
Malaga, Spain
Pedro Espinoza had been on the phone with Paris, working out an arrest procedure with Marcel Colombey when the email arrived from MacCallister. He didn’t yet know who they were going to arrest, nor under what names, but he was sure the moment was not far off and he wanted to be ready. He looked at the screen in disbelief and grabbed his mobile again.
“Sorry to disturb you Mac, but I’m sure you were expecting my call.”
“Too right, Pedro, only I expected it sooner. I just ordered a T-Bone so I’ve got five minutes.”
The two men talked for a short while then the Spaniard thanked him and rang off. He called Inspector Colombey back. Now he knew who to arrest, although he could hardly believe it.
At Sea, en route for Barcelona
It was a clear day and the patrol boat, doing ten knots, had been trailing the Jeanneau for over four hours at a distance of just over one kilometre. The sea was quite choppy and the fishing boat was hugging the coastline. This suited the customs pilot since there was a lot of tourist traffic and he could keep the boat in sight without being noticed.
Although Superintendent Treboux’s position with the French Customs Directorate gave him the authority to detain Yilmaz and the other man at any time, he didn’t want them taken into custody until the drugs had been found and impounded. It was easier to obtain an arrest warrant backed up by irrefutable proof and much easier to get the men to talk when they knew they were facing many years of imprisonment. These men were just the low hanging fruit. He wanted to find the people at the top of the tree, those who were flooding Europe’s streets with deadly narcotics and fuelling the never-ending escalation of crime in his country.
They had just passed Saintes-Maries-de-la-mer, about forty nautical miles from Marseille, when his mobile rang. “Oui, Jean-Philippe?”
“Two hundred kilos of pure heroin stuffed into the backs of fifty TV sets. A first for me, I’ve never seen that before. Really professional as a matter of fact.”
“Have you asked for the arrest warrant?”
“I’ve just emailed it to you now. You’re set to go. Good luck.”
Treboux called to the pilot, “Let’s join them. It’s Happy Hour!”
The pilot opened up the throttle and the twin Man engines propelled the craft forward, closing in rapidly on the unsuspecting Jeanneau.
He printed off the warrant in the cabin then pulled out his 9mm Sig Sauer SP 2022 pistol and went back on deck, ready to make the arrests. This was the part of his job he enjoyed.
Dublin, Republic of Ireland
“Parfait! Perfect!” Esther Bonnard saw that her account with the Gaelic Bank of Belfast had been credited with Slater’s twenty-five thousand dollars. She had been running messages for Susan McCaffey all day to earn her keep and hadn’t had time to check until then. She immediately transferred the amount to her account in Guadeloupe, where it would be safer. Although the address she had given to the Irish bank was fictitious, she didn’t trust European banks any more. Esther had worked at Klein Fellay, a Geneva bank, for over a year and she knew how easily private information could end up in the wrong hands. She also knew how valuable such information could be.
Her mobile had rung incessantly during the afternoon until she finally switched it off. She knew who was calling and wasn’t interested in talking to him. It was a prepaid phone, so there was no chance of her being located from any records filed with the network provider. She had already decided to get a new phone the next day.
She checked her lipstick and went downstairs. Susan had asked her to help in the bar that night. Esther didn’t mind what she did, so long as she was paid accordingly.
Malaga, Spain
“Thanks for your explanation Mr Pickford, it clears up a number of points. I’ll tell DI Dewar how helpful you have been and I’m sure there will be no repercussions as far as you are concerned. After all you simply provided a service that you are established to deliver.”
Espinoza rang off and considered what the EzeTracker boss had told him. Dudley’s background and previous requests for tracking pointed to a very sophisticated criminal. One who used other people to carry out his dirty work. Dewar’s response on the telephone had also told him a lot. He knew Dudley, otherwise he would not have quoted, ‘need to know basis’. There was obviously a dossier on the man and Dudley had simply confirmed the fact with his reply. Maybe deliberately, thought the Spaniard. He returned to his jigsaw puzzle and notes and summarised what he knew of Dudley from Pickford, Dewar and Coetzee’s comments as reported to Leo. The picture was taking shape but there were still a number of missing features.
Nice, Côte d’Azur, France
Harry Slater had called Esther a dozen times during the afternoon without success. He had transferred twenty-five thousand dollars to her account that morning, almost all the money he could find, but had received no word from her. She was supposed to have arranged the Leo Stewart business with the Zimbabwean money manager that morning. If she hadn’t, he hated to think of the consequences.
He looked up the Geneva online phone book for the name she’d given him, Sebastien du Pasquier. There were five persons of that name, two with no professional details, a dentist, a teacher and a garage mechanic. No bankers or financial experts. His mind went numb. What a gullible amateur I am. Why didn’t I look it up before? He rehearsed a story to tell his partner. This wasn’t a time to panic. There had to be an explanation for the delay. He called her again then put the phone on vibrate in case she called while he was having dinner.
Marbella, Spain
Jenny was lying on her bed feeling sorry for herself, wondering what she’d done to deserve being dumped by Sam before they’d even become an ‘item’, when her mobile rang. It was Espinoza and he sounded excited.
“We’ve had a breakthrough. It’s too complicated to tell you on the phone, so I’ll come around tomorrow morning to explain it to you. Is that alright?”
“Of course, Pedro. Come whenever it suits you.”
“You don’t sound your usual self, Jenny.”
“I’m just a little tired, thanks. I’m sure I’ll feel much better tomorrow.”
“It’s probably the anti-climax of recovering Leo after a stressful week. Goodnight, Jenny. Sleep well.”
DAY TEN
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
SIXTY-EIGHT
Nice, Côte d’Azur, France
“Who the hell can that be at this time of day?” It was eight thirty in the morn
ing and the doorbell of the apartment in the swanky area of Mont Boron had just rung twice. Nicole Forrester and Harry Slater were having breakfast on their terrace and enjoying the bright, clear vista over the Vigier Park across to the sea. It was pleasantly warm and the smell of mimosa filled the air. Slater was as nervous as a cat, still wondering what was going on with Esther and Dudley. He had called them incessantly the previous day with no success. Deep inside he knew he’d been played for a fool, but he couldn’t admit it to his partner. She had the money and if he didn’t continue to keep up the pretence he would be out on his ear, flat broke in a country where he couldn’t even speak the language. He knew he was running out of time but he had no other option.
“I’ll go.” He went to the door and was confronted by two gendarmes in uniform and two men in casual wear. A cold shiver ran down his spine. “Bonjour, Messieurs.” He realised his French would let him down and was about to call Nicole when one of the plain clothed men showed him his ID card.
“I’m Inspector General Colombey of the DCJI and this is Police Commissioner Lefèbre. We have some questions for you. May we come in?”
Nicole came to the door and pushed Slater aside. “What’s this about?” She blustered. “Why are you disturbing us at this hour in the morning? It’s a scandal, an abuse of power. You have no right ...”
“Madame, I have every right to question you in connection with a crime we are investigating. You can either invite us in or you can come to the Commissariat and we can question you there. The choice is yours.”
The dossier had arrived in Paris from Sydney the previous evening and Colombey immediately requested his superior officer to assign the case to him, as an international and not a local investigation. He had taken a late flight to Nice and organised the arrest team with the help of the Regional Commissioner. After spending the night at a local hotel he was up at five am and at eight he and the team were on their way to Mont Boron.
The couple led them into the apartment, “Just keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking,” Nicole whispered to him. “These flics know nothing.” The two detectives followed them in, leaving the policemen outside the door.
The Rwandan Hostage Page 47
