Shadow Agenda: An Action Suspense Thriller (9 page)

Sept. 6, 2015, MONTPELLIER, FRANCE

The odd camera flash was still going off, though most of the press had gotten their shots at the beginning of her speech, thirty minutes earlier. The representative to the World Trade Council’s Special Committee on Environmental Security took an extra-long pause.

Marie La Pierre wanted to frame her final words dramatically, to lend them some gravitas. The pause just fit. She’d learned early in her thirty years in politics that due to her short stature, she needed her diction and delivery to be perfect, to make up for any bias her audience might hold towards her size. Then she moved slightly closer to the podium again, brushing an errant brown hair away from her glasses before looking out over the roomful of delegates once more. “And that is why, ladies and gentlemen, we must be ever vigilant in an age where our planet is under assail daily; we must never shirk our duty to protect this planet from those who would care nothing for future generations but only for profit in the now, gain in the immediate, at the expense of our children, and our children’s children.

“And so the Special Committee thanks the EU delegation today for its continued, unwavering financial and legislative  support, for the working relationships we have forged, and for the efforts the committee has made around the world in ensuring nations, businesses and their leaders respect the environment, as well as the concerns and cultures of indigenous peoples.”

She surveyed the room. Most of the delegates were elderly men, overweight, suit wearing, long accustomed to high pay for little work. A parade of grey-haired, aging policy addicts with too much ear hair and collections of warts. The speech was a prolonged handshake, a chance for the committee to ensure the delegates went back to Brussels with the right message; in truth, the conference had been one long government junket, a chance for the committee to host European movers and shakers for a weekend by the Mediterranean. The purpose was to send them home with a head full of happy memories and a nice gift bag. As pompous and self-important as most of them were, La Pierre knew, the committee’s work was her focus of her public life these days. She considered it too important to fall victim to bureaucracy or politics, and that meant keeping everyone fat, happy and inattentive.

After the session had adjourned, she waited until most of the audience had shuffled out. Her assistant, Miriam, joined her as La Pierre descended the short flight of steps off of the stage.

“That went well,” Miriam said. “They seemed very receptive.”

La Pierre smiled politely. The girl was barely into her twenties and had only been working with her for a few months. She was six inches taller than the politician, pretty and slight of build, with narrow hips and a flat chest, the kind of figure that looked good on a runway in designer fashions. Secretly, La Pierre wondered if Miriam wasn’t biting off too much, wading into the fray. She was a help -- but a naïve one, at that.

“They seemed ready for the roast beef lunch,” La Pierre said. “Never mistake politeness for engagement. People in leadership are always polite, even when they’re skinning you alive. Come on, let’s go have a drink.”

The university pub was typical, a bunch of cheap fake-wood tables, a line of high-backed bar stools, a few beer taps. It was near empty, just one couple on the patio sipping wine and eating salad for lunch. La Pierre ordered a double gin-and-tonic while her assistant, worried about her boss’s perception of her, had a club soda. “Do you think there will be any trouble with this year’s funding request?” Miriam asked, apprehensive to fill the air with something other than silence as they waited for their drinks.

They took a seat at one of the high tables, the politician’s feet not even close to touching the floor while seated on the tall stool. But she didn’t seem to mind. “Hmmm? Oh, I don’t expect so,” La Pierre said. “The committee has had such success going into places individual nations have traditionally tiptoed around that there’s probably a certain sense of reliance there.”

“Even after the incident in Dar Es Salaam?”

La Pierre hadn’t thought about Dar Es Salaam in months, a failed UN attempt the year prior to rescue a group of western scientists, funded by the committee, from extremists. It had mostly passed from the public consciousness after the media lost interest; most of the extremists also died in the shootout. In fact, until the scientists’ deaths, few in the public had ever heard of the committee.

“Politicians have expediently short memories,” La Pierre cautioned her. “The public also forgets quickly and moves on when distracted. But Politicians do not even require the distraction; just a desire to leave difficulties in the past for expediency in the future.”

Miriam admired her boss. Though La Pierre was only five-feet-two-inches tall, she projected magnetism and dynamism. She always seemed so focused, Miriam thought, so unflustered by outside interruptions. For a leading conservative politician, it was essential she always be cool, calm and collected – except when addressing her voters, of course. Then passion ruled the day.

And it worked. Though at least half the politicians in the assembly found her politics offensive, she still managed to get things done, to affect change, sometimes on a national level. There was no doubt that some of her sway came from her family’s long history in politics; her father had been a mainstay of the far right for decades, following the end of the Second World War.

“And they seemed okay with the arrangement to stay in the city,” Miriam said. “That must be good news.”

There had been a small move afoot to have the committee relocate to Brussels, which La Pierre had no doubt would give member states the impression that it could be controlled more easily – exactly why they had agreed on Montpellier in the first place; it was large enough to suit the purpose, close to Nice and Italy, and there were no other major EU offices in the city. And it suited other political ends; La Pierre had other business in the small French city, though not of the type she would ever share with the impressionable young Miriam.

A serious and often dour woman with an easily repeated short haircut, La Pierre felt as though her time was being wasted when she had to sit through pointless conjecture or personal discussions. But Miriam was an efficient booker and manager of her schedule, so it was worth putting up with her.

“Will you stay here over your vacation, Madame?” Miriam asked. “The weather is still very nice…”

“I shall return to Paris for a few days then come back,” La Pierre said. “Have you made plans?”

Miriam smiled. “My fiancée is coming to visit from La Rochelle.”

“Ah hah! Young love,” said La Pierre. “There is nothing that can compare. What does he do, this fiancé of yours?”

“He runs a restaurant; fresh seafood and soup every day, that sort of thing.”

“Hmmph,” said La Pierre. “The west coast is nice, but only if you can stand the English tourists.”

“Of course, Madame.” Like her employer, Miriam despised foreigners, particularly those from Africa and Asia. Her father had taught her many years earlier that they were parasites, ticks that sucked the lifeblood from France then hung onto her until she was immobilized by financial commitments. He was no more fond of British or American visitors, who typically hadn’t learned the language and spoke loudly at all times, and with an insincere familiarity. “So far his experience has been a good one,” she said. “But you never know with the English.”

After the drink, they walked across campus to the parking area, which sat by Rue de Truel; it was sunny, and both enjoyed the chance to unwind. Students strolled along, books and laptops under arms. La Pierre’s limousine driver had been instructed to meet them at the pickup zone in front of the lot, just a five-minute stroll. As they approached, the limousine driver stood at the ready then quickly opened the back door so that they could climb inside.

La Pierre looked around, drinking in the city. Even though she was looking forward to Paris and seeing her husband Gerard, she had grown fond of Montpellier. It felt a little bit like home. It wasn’t designed to impress, although much about it was impressive; if anything, it had become a college town, a center of education and commerce. So it didn’t compare to Paris on a grand scale. But it had culture, and decent restaurants and, perhaps most importantly, plenty of places for quiet reflection.

She wondered if she was making a mistake, aligning with foreigners, working outside the auspices of her French political role. The Association Commercial Franco-Arabe was pragmatic, to be sure, a business cabal with undeniable influence via its well-connected board; but she secretly feared how her role within the group would be received by her supporter base, if they ever discovered her involvement. She had been re-elected repeatedly on promises of ridding French soil of its pervasive foreign influence, and yet she was spending her weekends immersed in an organization that was global in its reach as could be, exerting its influence in the domestic affairs of multiple nations.

But she did not dwell on it for long. Ultimately, La Pierre had decided, her goal of leading the Republic would be best served by using the ACF to manipulate public perception, to direct its formidable financial and political muscle towards her own ends and against opponents.

She missed Gerard, she decided, whenever she had to stay in Montpellier. He was a realist, her sounding board. Perhaps it was old-fashioned these days to still love one’s husband after twenty years; but La Pierre was no fashionista, and they had never been happier together.

The asset knew he was running short of time. He’d found the building a day earlier, a five-story walkup along Av. Emile Diacon, less than six hundred yards from the location. It was a square brick building with black metal fire escapes up one side. He hadn’t been sure of access, but it appeared under renovation. No one had been working there a day earlier, and the trend continued. The block around it seemed silent, a mash-up of small, older homes and government or education-type low-rise buildings. He scanned local roads in each direction; they were quiet, nearly devoid of cars. He carried the hard-sided guitar case from his rented car to the side of the walkup, then jumped up and grabbed the bottom rung of the collapsible fire escape ladder, pulling it down to just above ground level. He climbed the four flights to the highest wrought-iron balcony, then one additional ladder attached to the wall, snug to the brick, that led up to the roof. He pulled himself up and over the lip, the texture of the brick rough under his hands.

The roof was flat and empty, just a skylight midway, a one-foot concrete wall around the edge. He placed the case on the ground next to it, facing toward the target zone. He opened the case and took out the bipod first, then began to assemble the weapon.

The shot was long, but the wind was near still and the asset had hit numerous targets from a greater distance. He had no self-doubt. It had been a long wait, nearly six years; in the week prior he’d played through it multiple times in his head, running through scenarios, calculating methods of egress, escape routes and likely police intercept points, cross streets that law enforcement would close off in an attempt to bottle up and find their man. He had no choice but success; things were just getting started, and the asset was along for the ride.

He attached the sight and took wind judgments, adjusting in two-and-a-half mile-per-hour increments, to make up for the breeze being so slight. As with a day earlier, the location was busy, a steady stream of fat cats getting ready to go somewhere and get fatter, limousines and upscale sedans pulling out of the lot adjacent to the college. But as personal as the mission felt, the asset was a pro. There was no need for any collateral damage, and no great desire on his part to stretch the mission parameters.

The asset waited for five minutes, then ten. He was beginning to think he’d missed the window, although his advance scouting had suggested the lunch hour would be perfect. He swung the crosshairs along the row of parked cars.

There.

He spotted the pair when they were less than twenty yards away from their vehicle. He lined up his target, took a deep inhalation of breath and held it. His barrel tracked them to the car, moving in a smooth, deliberate motion to match their pace.

Then it stopped.

Then he slowly squeezed the trigger.

Six hundred yards away, Miriam watched her boss scan the area and wondered what she was looking for. She would never have a chance to ask.

The .338 caliber bullet passed cleanly through La Pierre’s neck, severing her carotid artery. She collapsed to her knees, blood spraying from the wound, before tumbling forward onto the cement. Miriam screamed, then tried to help, trying to staunch the bleeding with her hand, but unable to stop it from gushing out onto the sidewalk. The limousine driver crouched beside her and tried also, the puddle of blood growing larger, soaking into his pant cuffs; La Pierre’s eyes were empty, a light switched off inside; the nearby traffic continued to pass by, oblivious to what was happening, horns honking, lanes changed at a pace unsafe to all.

Six hundred yards away, the asset was already down the first ladder by the time Marie La Pierre breathed her last, her final look at the world just a vacant gaze towards the blue Mediterranean sky. By the time the ambulance arrived, he was halfway to the airport in the back of a cab. By the time police forensics had determined the possible origin point of the shot, he was in a different city altogether, leaving nothing behind.