Hunter Killer (11 page)

“Jesus. Sounds like another SAS man,” said Morgan.

“Doesn’t it? But Hereford has reported no one else missing. Whoever it was, it was a very professional response. We have never before lost agents, armed to the teeth with AK-47s, to a couple of amateurs having dinner, armed only with a sheath knife and an old-fashioned pistol.”

“You think Kerman’s still in France?”

“I don’t know. But he left from Damascus. That’s where we logged on to him. But our people did not see him return. He could be anywhere.”

General Gavron could not of course have known about the devious way General Rashood made his escape from France—the long car journey back to Paris; the first-class seats onboard a regular, crowded Air France flight to Syria; the French Secret Service steering the Hamas assault chief through security, complete with his Browning 9 mm; the two accompanying bodyguards from the First Marine Parachute Regiment, all three wearing traditional Arab dress. It all looked too normal in Damascus Airport, way too normal to attract the attention of Daniel Mostel.

“Kerman,” said Morgan. “He’s like the goddamned Scarlet Pimpernel.”

“Well, the trail’s gone cold,” replied the Israeli General.

“So we’re back where we started,” said Morgan. “He might be in Syria. But it could be Jordan, or Iran, or Libya. Or even Cairo. And now France.”

“Yes. But that was a damn funny business in Marseille, Arnie,” said the General. “I mean, what’s Kerman doing in France in the first place? And what’s he doing in Special Forces aircraft? Landing at a Foreign Legion base? And who was he dining with? And how come he has the obvious protection of the French police, not to mention the French Government?

“That restaurant was the scene of a colossal crime. And the police refused to release any information whatsoever. A lot of people were hurt, some killed, but they would not even name the dead. I mean my agents.”

Admiral Morgan smiled. General Gavron still regarded himself as the head of the Mossad, even though he retired from that position several months before.
But I guess,
thought Arnold,
when you’ve fought a tank battle alongside Bren Adan in the Sinai, been wounded, decorated for valor, and literally laid down your life for Israel, you’re apt to take even its minor problems very personally
.

He looked into the wide, tanned, open face of the Israeli. And he probed into those bright blue eyes for a sign of disquiet. And he found it. David Gavron was bitterly unhappy that one of Israel’s greatest enemies might be planning another operation.

Morgan could see almost straight through the former Israeli battle commander, as if the unacceptable thought were reflected in those piercing eyes…
What the hell was Kerman doing in France, smuggled in, and probably out again, all with government protection?

The following morning, Lt. Commander Ramshawe’s phone rang before 0800. He recognized the voice instantly. “Morning, sir,” he greeted the former director of the National Security Agency.

“Jimmy,” said Admiral Morgan. “Do you remember a couple of months ago reading anything at all about a gang shooting, something to do with drugs, in Marseille?”

“No, sir. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“It was pretty big. Like fifteen injured and maybe six dead in a real bloodbath in some restaurant near the waterfront.”

“Still doesn’t ring a bell, sir. But I’ll get right on it, check it out. Do you have a more precise date?”

“It was in the last week of August. Restaurant called L’Union. Police apparently wanted it kept quiet. They released very little. But the Mossad lost two agents, both killed in the fight. One of them had his throat cut. They reckon the other one was shot by Major Ray Kerman.”

“Jeez,” said Jimmy Ramshawe. “Here he comes again.”

“Precisely my thoughts. See what you can dig up. You and Jane want to come over for dinner later? We’d be glad to see you. And we’re getting to the end of the grilling season. How about some New York sirloin steaks? Keep your strength up.”

“Sounds great, sir. We’ll be there. Second dogwatch. Three bells, right?”

“Perfect. 1930. See you then, kid.”

Jimmy Ramshawe had absolutely no idea why, but whenever the Big Man came on the line, a ripple of excitement shot right through him. The unerring instinct of Admiral Morgan for real trouble was infectious. And so far as the young Lt. Commander could remember, the Admiral had never been wrong.

And another thing. What was it with this Marseille bullshit? He’d never even thought about the place for years on end. And now he’d heard it big time, twice, in twenty-four hours.
The bloody frogs are up to something,
he surmised.
The ol’ Admiral doesn’t come in with requests unless something’s afoot.

But the trouble with France was, he couldn’t really read the language. What he needed was an English-speaking newspaper that might carry the story. He keyed into the Internet and whistled up the foreign pages of the
London Daily Telegraph
.

Result: one big fat zero.
Not a bloody line about a mass murder. Bloody oath, they’re getting slack over there.

James Ramshawe was born in America, but both his parents were Australian, and he still spoke with the pronounced accent of New South Wales. His fiancée, Jane Peacock, was the daughter of the Australian Ambassador in Washington. Both of them loved to have a go at the Brits for being incompetent and inept. And an unreported mass murder in the next-door country would do Jimmy fine for a few hours.

Bloody pom journalists. Wouldn’t know a truly significant story if it bit
’
em in the ass.

He actually knew that was not true. But it amused him to say it, even under his breath. Anyway, beaten by the system, he sent for a translator and keyed his Internet connection into the news pages of
Le Figaro
, last week in August.

The big French national daily was better than the
Telegraph
, but not by much. It reported a serious shoot-out at L’Union restaurant in Marseille, a French city historically known for its connection to crime, drugs, smuggling, and other nefarious activities. The newspaper claimed that fifteen people had been admitted to hospital and some of them had been released that night. It also believed that there were only TWO fatalities (Jimmy’s caps in his report) when it was clear there were more. Because they named the dead waiters, but not the Mossad agents.

The whole drift of the story was an inter-gang battle involving drugs—professional villains—killing each other. It was of no significant interest to ordinary citizens. And the innocent bystanders caught in the cross fire? They would receive generous compensation from the restaurant’s insurance company.

The headline in
Le Figaro
was over just one column, on page seven. It read:
GANGLAND KILLING IN MARSEILLE
;
DINERS AT L
’
UNION RESTAURANT WOUNDED IN CROSS FIRE
.

There was no follow-up on any of the next five days.

“Well, I guess that’s the bloody end of that,” said Ramshawe.

Well, nearly. Because the young intelligence officer, who enjoyed the ear of the mighty, had received this story from the mightiest of all, Admiral Morgan himself.
And the great man does not go real strong on half-measures,
Ramshawe thought.
He called me because he wants some bloody answer
s.
And he wants ’em quick, like by dinnertime tonight. That’s why we’re going to his house, right?

He immediately told his interpreter, a twenty-three-year-old civilian graduate named Jo, to get on the line to directory inquiries in France and get the number of L’Union restaurant in Marseille. He then told her to make the call and to put it on the speakerphone in the middle of his desk.

He listened with interest as the phone rang on the faraway south coast of France and was answered on the fourth ring.

“Préfecture de police, Marseille.”

“Tell ’em you want the restaurant, not the bloody gendarmes,” hissed Ramshawe.

Jo struggled boldly, but was told firmly, “The restaurant is closed. We have no information about its re-opening.”

“Tell ’em you don’t understand why a closed restaurant has its phone calls automatically diverted to the police station,” hissed Ramshawe.

But again, Jo encountered a brick wall: “I have no information on that,” replied the Marseille gendarme.

“Pull rank,” said Ramshawe. “Tell ’em who we are. And then tell ’em we want to know precisely how many people were killed in the mass murder at L’Union because we believe at least one of them may have been a United States citizen.”

Jo went right ahead, beginning, “Sir, this is the Director’s office in the National Securty Agency of the United States of America in Washington. You may call back to verify if you wish. But we want some answers, and if necessary we will go to presidential level to get them. Please bring someone of senior authority to the telephone.”

“
Un moment
,
s’il vous plaît
.”

“Beautiful, Jo. That’s my girl.” Lt. Commander Ramshawe grinned. And in the background they both heard a voice say,

“Sécurité Americaine
.”

And then a new voice came on, speaking excellent English. “This is Chief Inspector Rochelle. How may I assist?”

Ramshawe took over. “Thank you for coming to the phone, Chief Inspector. My name is Lt. Cdr. James Ramshawe and I’m the assistant to the Director of the National Security Agency in Washington. I thought I was calling L’Union restaurant, but we came straight through to you. I would like to know exactly how many people died in that shooting in the restaurant two months ago. We have reason to believe one of them was an American citizen.”

“
Non, monsieur
. That is not the case. There were two members of staff, one of them the headwaiter, both French, killed instantly. And then two more staff members died in hospital. They also were French, and both known to me. No member of the public injured in the shooting died later in the hospital. That’s four people dead altogether, all French. The whole thing was drug related.”

“I see,” said Ramshawe. “And what about the men who came into the restaurant and carried out the shooting. Were they arrested?”

“Unfortunately not, sir. They all got away. Three of them. And our inquiries have led us to a drug gang in Algiers, where we are continuing the search. The perpetrators of the crime are known to us. And have been for several years. But these people are very elusive.”

“Are you absolutely certain that no one else except members of staff were killed?” asked Ramshawe.

“Absolument,”
replied the Chief Inspector. “You see, only the staff were standing up. Everyone else was sitting down. The bullets hit the waiters.”

“Do you think the Algerians got their man?” said Ramshawe.

“I think so. One of the waiters was very suspect to us. But I am not at liberty to name him, for obvious reasons. However, we think the assassins achieved their objective.”

“Very well, Chief Inspector,” said Ramshawe. “Thank you for being so helpful. I will make my report on the basis of the information you have given me.”

He replaced the phone, saying under his breath, “That is one lying French bastard.”

“I’m sorry, sir?” said Jo.

“Oh nothing, really. It’s just that when you get told that a renowned international intelligence agency has just had two of its agents murdered on a certain day, at a certain time, in a certain place, there is an extremely high likelihood of that being true. When a French policeman then tells you it never happened, there is an extremely high probability of that being a fair dinkum whopper.”

Jo laughed. “Well, the first man we spoke to was obviously in a defensive mode. But the Chief Inspector seemed relatively forthcoming.”

“No doubt,” replied Ramshawe. “But he was still telling a flagrant lie.”

And then he said, “Jo, I’ve got a plan. You go and rustle up a couple of cups of coffee, and we’ll see if we can get one of Langley’s finest around to that restaurant.”

Four minutes later he was outlining the story to the European desk of the CIA, who had a good man in Marseille. In fact they had two, both in residence. Sure, they’d get right on it, especially if the Big Man was interested. They’d do some snooping, see if anyone knew anything, maybe someone who was working on the refurbishing of L’Union.

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER
20, 4:00
P.M
. (
LOCAL
)
RUE DE LA LOGE
MARSEILLE

Tom Kelly, a Philadelphia-born newspaper reporter, was twenty-nine years old and preparing to marry a Bryn Mawr history teacher when he fell in love, helplessly, with one of her French students. She was Marie Le Clerc, aged twenty-one, from Marseille.

Kelly bagged his job, bagged the history teacher, and followed Marie home to France. There he married her, found himself a job as news editor on a local paper, and moved to head up the political desk of
Le Figaro
in Paris. From there he drifted into a close relationship with two CIA agents, mostly because he was a fountain of knowledge about politics in the capital city.

At which point the CIA requested he come to Washington, where he was cleared for security and then stationed back in Marseille with a very useful freelance contract from the
Washington Post
. Kelly was thirty-six now, and he and Marie had two children and lived close to her parents, in the western suburbs of the city.

Right now he was making his way along Rue de la Loge toward L’Union. He could see it about fifty yards ahead. There was a white truck outside, and two ladders were jutting out through the wide open front door of the restaurant. Men at work, he thought.

When he reached the entrance, he turned left, up the steps and into the main foyer. There was a strong smell of paint and a deafening screeching sound from the main dining room, where two men were “sanding” the oak floor. Up above him were two painters, on scaffolding, working on a beam, which he did not know had recently been decorated with a long line of bullets from an AK-47.