Angels Fallen (12 page)

Inspector Louis Jacko’s large girth was comfortably ensconced in his well-worn Moroccan leather chair
, his legs lay propped up on his imitation Louis XIIII desk as he calmly spoke on the phone.

“But Father, I am busting my back working sixteen-hour days on petty cases trying to cover for someone who is out on vacation. I also have my own work piling up, and you expect me to drop everything to start a search for these two people,” he said, awaiting the response. After a slight pause, he seemed to understand the severity of the sit
uation, nodding. “My apologies, I did not realize it was a priority red. I will assign a detective to work the situation full-time on my end, with others available in a part-time role. I will personally lead the hunt from my end. The net will be cast as soon as I get off the phone. I can also activate highway and airport police using the guise that two terrorists from the Red Army faction are on the loose. That should have everybody up and on the alert. If they are here, you have my assurances that we will find them. Count on my organization, Father.”

After spending a dreary, rain-whipped night at their impromptu canal side docking space, Jim and Dan arose to find a brilliant sunrise greeting them.  The previous night’s activities could now be felt in earnest.  Even with this unfortunate factor working against them, they w
ere able to start motoring by 9:00 a.m.

Dan resumed his post of steering the barge while Jim stood beside him consulting a maritime map and drinking one of Dan’s “
hangover specials
,” consisting of tomato juice, egg whites, Tabasco sauce, and horseradish.

Jim savored the last of the drink, actually enjoying the bite it provided. “How did you ever come up with a concoction such as this? He inquired, puckering his lips at its unique taste. “Somebody’s bar room no doubt.”

Dan steered around a log floating in their path, looking ahead at the narrow lane his barge had to traverse before answering.  “A bar room is it now?  “Would you believe the recipe was from an old Benedictine Monk?”

“With you, anything’s possible,” Jim responded.

Dan ignored him as he continued.  “I was on a religious retreat back in the late eighties, trying to get rid of some old demons that pay me a visit every blue moon or so. I happened to be walking the open grounds of the monastery when I stumbled across this old monk in a brown robe who resembled Friar Tuck of Robin Hood fame.  You know the type: short, stout, hair clipped as if someone placed a bowl on his head. He was on the losing end of a struggle with a wheel barrel full of barley. The old guy was having a hard time emptying its contents through a basement window into the cellar. Of course, I gave him a hand. In appreciation, he showed me his private beer vat and provided a little tasting of the vintage he had already brewed. Well let me tell you, the old monk and I drank from the conclusion of evening vespers until breakfast the next morning, a good nine hours. Then he drinks this “hangover special” mixture, and the old goat was as good as new.  He was like a recharged battery.”

“Coming from anyone else but you, I wouldn’t believe it,” Jim said. “So I guess you are sober enough
to take control of the wheel then?”

Focusing through the pilothouse window, Dan points down the river to what appears to be the end of the waterway. “I think we have a much bigger issue looming.” 

Jim dashed out of the pilothouse in time to view a canal lock coming up fast. “Damn it, this lock was supposed to be ten kilometers further downstream,” he said aloud.

Dan reversed the diesel engines to
slow the barge. With their forward progress slowed to an acceptable speed, Dan switched off the engine. 

Jim
eyed the lockkeeper swinging his arms about. No doubt he thought the boat was obviously going to miss its mark. A feeling of déjà vu hit Jim as he sensed he was watching a football referee signaling a series of penalties, only in slow motion.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Jim shouted back to
Dan, him still watching the lockkeeper’s spastic fit. “Are you sure you can park this baby in the lock’s opening?  It looks pretty small to me.  Maybe we should allow the lockkeeper to come aboard and have a go before you do some real damage.”

Dan
ignored Jim comments as he glided the barge forward on a slight angle, gently bumping into the ring of car tires neatly strung across the locks’ now-open wooden doors.

The lock
keeper appeared frustrated at Dan’s lack of boating skills.  “If that damn clown can not dock his boat, I’m climbing aboard to guide it through myself,” he mumbled aloud, allowing some stress to creep back into his life.

As a lock
keeper for the French Maritime Commission for fifteen years, Arto Juneas had spent all but two years at the Forte Locks.  Approaching his 55th birthday, short and slender, white hair buzzed to within a half inch of his scalp; he had his second retirement clearly in sight. He took life a day at a time.  He learned this lesson the hard way with his first employer.  A heart attack at age 40 forced him from a regular police beat in the Paris Gendarme to this humble position.  

A traditional pensioner, he also maintained
a small garden beside the lockkeeper’s cottage, selling fresh vegetables or flowers to the tourists who did happen along. It also helped to supplement his police pension and meager pay from the French Maritime Commission. 

As an experienced police officer from the beat, Arto never allowed his policing skills to languish.  He kept them fresh by guessing the line of work of the boaters who came through,
possibly even their country of origin.

The one manning the bow ropes,
obviously an American by his accent, either military or ex-military due to his muscular build and eyes that did not seem to miss a beat. The Irishman was of different breeding.  Arto had seen this type before.  He had a ruthless air about hi
m—
a bastard of many colors, a regular chameleon.
He was also a jackass from the way he kept thinking he could steer the boat.

“That’s it, Dan. You get one more attempt,
and then it’s my turn to try.”

“Monsieur,” Arto yelled to Dan.  “You need to swing the rudder to the left and then full right, shutting down your engine when you pass the set of doors.” Arto used his body motion to assist.  “Yes, that is good,” he said,
now directing him with his hands.  “Okay, good, that is it, now straight into the mooring point.”

Dan yelled down at Arto. “Now what do you think I am trying to accomplish
my man?” It’s this damn French boat. She doesn’t want to respond to an Irish master.”

Shaking his head at such unpleasantness, Arto chalked it up to the man’s frustration. He chose to
focus on the docking, hoping the lock did not suffer any serious damage from this rank amateur.

“You’ve got it, si
r—
cut the engine and glide in,” Arto yelled above the motor, the barge clearing the lock with a half meter to spare on each side.

Arto turned
his attention to Jim. “You, on the bow, toss the rope over here, and I’ll tie you up,” pointing down to a small metal post at Jim’s feet.

“Good job,” Jim yelled sarcastically to Dan. 
“I was hoping to make it by dinner time.”
He tossed the rope across to Arto, him effortlessly tying them up as if he were working the docks of London.

With the barge safely in the lock,
the lock now filled up with water to lift their barge up to match the next portion of the canal. Dan joined Jim and Arto standing by the lockkeeper’s garden.

All seemed forgiven as the lockkeeper provided him a friendly nod before turning to walk amongst his crops.

Never one to lose an audience, Dan reverted to the poet that seemed to reside in all Irishmen. “This is a beautiful countryside, so peaceful and full of serenity,” he said.  “The land is a gift of bounty, the mother of all to see, the reflections of her wonderful beauty, from bouncing on a knee, the young all are weary, ‘til time slowly passes by.” 

Still trying to profile this mysterious man, Arto loaded carrots and tomatoes into a cheap wicker basket, casually brushing the dirt off of the carrots with an old paintbrush. “I see you enjoy poetry, sir,” he said. 

“Not just any poetry, a poem by Mr. Yeats himself. The one and only decent poet of our time,” Dan replied.

“At what college or university would you have learned that, sir?” Arto said, probing Dan’s background.

“Not really college, my new friend but bar room 101,” he replied, realizing Arto’s probing was intentional. The last thing they required at this juncture was a meddlesome lockkeeper. “My father was fond of Irish poets and had me recite line and verse in his establishment. We made the locals feel like landed gentry.”

Easing towards the barge, Dan was eager to put some distance between himself and Arto. As he walked past Jim, he w
hispered out of earshot of Arto. “Let’s pay this kind man and be on our way for we have many miles to travel and the sunlight is dwindling.”

He had no intention of committing yet another murder.

At leas
t
—
not today
.

The desks appeared to be Government Issue, gunmetal gray, all neatly arranged in two rows of ten. This allowed Inspector Jacko to view “his subjects” from the comfort of his glass-enclosed office.

As the hour was fast approaching 5
:00 p.m., the office assumed a natural posture for this time of day, its workers winding down from yet another long one. 

Since it
s founding, Interpol steadfastly earned a reputation as one of the premier policing agencies in the world.  Their success rate of arrests and convictions hovered around 90 percent, one of the best in the business.

Its personnel were considered the crème de la crème for criminal investigative work. The
Paris office contained an equal mix of English, German, and French detectives. Each detective selected by their respective governments to represent them on the Interpol team—
basically a European all-star detective team
.

The day began quietly enough with t
he standard robbery and murder cases crossing the desks for most of his employees to review.  Events changed mid-day when Inspector Jacko received a phone call from his Vatican contact, setting in motion a frantic search that involved several of the office’s most trusted employees.

Now standing in front of the desk of one of them, his lone female detective, Inspector Jacko
, wheezed heavily due to the short walk from his office. 

“Mrs. Lenine, how many false leads must we follow before somebody locates these clowns?
He slammed a paper fax down on her desk. “Can you explain to me why I have educated people following every tour group that contains a male American and a male Irishman? This has been our tenth check in five hours. That’s not the worst of it, Mrs. Lenine.  The last pair turned out to be a black American, and the supposed Irishman wasn’t Irish but Canadian.”

Rebecca Lenine was constantly compared to a young Eliz
abeth Taylor by her co-workers:  lithe, long black hair, and stunning violet eyes. With this combination, her third-degree black belt came in handy from her many unwanted suitors.

The only wom
an in her class of 75 men attending the Marseille Police Academy, she not only graduated—
she was its valedictorian
. 

Only six years out of the Police Academy, she
had already compiled a long list of commendations to her credit. With this in her portfolio, she easily moved up through the police ranks until achieving the rank of detective. This enabled her to volunteer for one of the highly coveted Interpol positions.

Rebecca rose up from her desk, index finger pointing at her boss to stress her point. “
Boss or not. I don’t appreciate you speaking to me in that manor, or throwing things in my direction. I too have been working hard on your little case and deserve some respect.  Now, if you wish to receive the latest information, I suggest you calm the hell down.”

Inspector Jacko raised his arms in mock surrender.

Satisfied this would be the extent of his apology, she proceeded. “We have another sighting of the two possible suspects being sought by the Vatican Council.

“Another sighting?
No, don’t tell me,” Inspector Jacko said. He removed an index card from her desk and applied it to the side of his temple as if he were a mind reader in a famous television program. “They were both midget carnival workers speaking in a foreign tongue, so they were automatic suspects.” He flung the card across the room. “Give me a break.”

He walked
back to his office with Rebecca fast on his flank. “I should have never taken on this case,” he said aloud.

“But this one is from a reliable source,” she replied. “A retired inspector from our office
is manning the Forte canal lock down by the town of Tonnerre,” thrusting his already open file onto the inspector’s desk.  “ Mr. Arto Juneas.”

She continued to speak as the Inspector paged through the file before him
. “I was going through this man’s file to get some background information. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t a crackpot like some of our past informants. Well, he’s not. He retired on medical leave in the late ‘80s after he experienced a heart attack. Before that he had received numerous awards and was a valuable source in breaking open several major cases in his day, including one in which you were prominently mentioned, the Paris Slasher case in 1981.”

Looking up at her, the Inspector said not a word
, intrigued.

Rebecca contin
ued. “To me he sounds like a viable source who knows exactly what he is doing. He received our all-points bulletin and two hours later came into contact with our suspects on a pleasure barge.”

“Arto Juneas, you say?” Inspector Jacko leaned back in his chair as if in deep thought, memories flooding over him, both good and bad. “That old coot taught me a thing or two when I was a
Paris beat cop back in the late ‘70s and ‘80s. He saved my life not once but twice. I will not bore you with the stories but let me just say this man was one of the best. Now, you say he sighted them at Forte Locks? What was Arto Juneas doing there? Is he on holiday?”

“No sir, not quite,” she repl
ied.  “He is evidently the lockkeeper. He received our
All- Points Bulletin
via a short-wave radio that he operates during his downtime.”

The i
nspector envisioned himself receiving a medal from the Pope for his capture of the two suspects. “I think we should pay Mr. Juneas a visit as soon as possible. This sounds like a solid lead to me.” 

“Do you think we should dispatch the local constables further downriver to the town of
Montbard to pick them up?” She asked. “Or maybe provide the Vatican Counsel’s Office with a copy of the information we have just received.  They might want us to back off, allowing their own personnel to instigate the capture.”

This would not do.
It wouldn’t fit into Inspector Jacko’s plan. 
How could he receive his award from the Pope?
This was to be a feather in
his
cap, not some lowly constable.

“Just what information would we provide the local constables, Mrs. Lenine?” he stammered, thinking fast
, searching for the right words.  “The Vatican wants them to apprehend an Irishman and an American for some mysterious crime? I cannot share with you as to the extent of the crimes because the information is of a most delicate matter.  We are working on a case with the Vatican. You know, very hush hush.
I don’t think so, Mrs. Lenine.
We would appear to be fools.  No, I will personally pick up our two misfits and escort them to the Vatican Office. Please book us a car from the motor pool. We will be leaving first thing in the morning.”

“
We
, sir?” she said, feigning surprise, knowing how much the inspector seemed to despise her presence as the only female in the office. “You said
we
, as if both of us were proceeding on the same assignment.”

“Yes, you will be covering my proverbial ass on this one,” he spat out. “I suggest you inform your husband that we will be out of town for several days on assignment. Please make all of the necessary arrangements.”

“But, of course,” Rebecca said, hoping her performance would somehow change his opinion of her. “Do I also have permission to check out a semi-automatic from the armory for my personal protection, sir?”

“I would highly recommend it, Mrs. Lenine. From the information I have on these two, they will not come lightly. We may have
a fight on our hands.”