Venom: A Thriller in Paradise (The Thriller in Paradise Series Book 3) (21 page)

“Let’s take this one more time, Monsieur Sangier. We know that someone else, someone who was not a member of the crew, came aboard the
Ocean Mother
in Raïatéa. There is evidence that this person was aboard when she left French waters.”

“Ah, I fear, Monsieur, that is not correct,” Sangier contradicted gently. “There is no evidence this person was aboard, no documents that suggest it. The ship’s log says nothing on the subject. Immigration control has no record. I regret, but you cannot say with any confidence that such is the case.”

Vincent sighed. “The log was tampered with. Pages were missing. I’m afraid, Monsieur Sangier, that you give me no choice. I had not wanted to produce the evidence, because it is unpleasant. It does not look good at all. But I fear I must.” He opened his briefcase and pulled out a file folder, which he placed on the empty surface before him. He looked at the folder somberly for a moment then pushed it across the table.

Sangier looked at it without curiosity. He made no move to open it.

“This is, Monsieur, documented proof that the French government was behind the assassination of my crew in a blatant attack on the high seas. The Gaia Foundation must now pursue all means for redress.”

Sangier flicked the folder with one finger. “Proof? I do not think so.”

“You do not understand the extent of the environmental movement. We draw support from the full range of the political spectrum. The environment is not a petty issue, it is a global human issue. There are people even inside the French government who understand that. That is why the cable traffic summarized in this file became available to the Gaia Foundation. A woman of the stature of Jacqueline Guillaume is not martyred without consequences.”

Sangier frowned. He opened the file and looked at the fax sheets inside. He shrugged and closed the file. “Anyone can do this, Monsieur. You cannot succeed in forging documents like this, in such an amateurish way.” He pushed the folder back across the desk.

Vincent smiled. “These are faxed copies, obviously, with translations. We possess the originals. If you look carefully, you will see that these cables come with the proper codes. This is French diplomatic traffic. There is no question that any jury in the world would conclude the assault on
Ocean Mother
was a well planned and well executed covert operation of French Security services. But it does not need to stand up in a court of law. Only in the court of world opinion.”

Sangier opened the folder and disdainfully picked up the sheets, which he read slowly, one at a time, laying them face down on top of one another when he finished. He closed the folder over the stack.

“No,” he said. “It does not say there was such an operation.”

Vincent had not stopped smiling. “But you can see how that impression might develop. Someone reading those cables in light of events might be willing to conclude such a thing. For example, I quote: ‘Do everything possible to divert or discredit the vessel and her crew.’”

“That does not mean kill, Monsieur.”

Vincent pressed on. “Perhaps not. But that is an early cable. Read here, where it says, ‘Take appropriate action to neutralize.’ That certainly could sound like murder.” Meissner shook his head, and his chins folded over one another. “And here: ‘Long range action to prevent further damage to national credibility… Keep test results from reaching a wider public… Deploy necessary resources for effective damage control.’ But this here, I’m afraid, might be the most damaging: ‘The vessel in question should not reach unfriendly territory with its contents intact.’”

“I’m sure that means prevent illegal or deceptive data from leaving Polynesia,” Sangier said. “It says as much.”

“In a different cable, though. You may believe that, if you wish. But I’m afraid I do not, and when we present this information, the world will not think it either.”

Sangier leaned back in his chair, a wooden armchair with a plush seat in sea blue that matched the carpet and the walls. He tented his fingers before his lips. “Allow me to make a suggestion,” he said softly, and Vincent felt the first flurry of alarm. The French did not usually make suggestions. The French told people what to do; that was Vincent’s experience. It was not good when they took to suggesting.

He kept his smile in place. “Yes?”

“Perhaps there is another interpretation: A radical environmental group, one not unlike yours, M. Meissner, wants to, what is the quaint expression? give France a black eye. Such an organization might— oh, I know this is farfetched, ridiculous, even— but such an organization just might engineer the deaths of an entire crew of their own. If radical enough, dedicated enough,
fanatical
enough, death is sometimes a small price. Look at the Islamic zealots, M. Meissner. They drive truck bombs to certain death, believing they will wake up in paradise, is it not so? Perhaps a group such as yours would be willing to do such a thing?”

“That’s absurd. Environmentalists are not Islamic fundamentalists, M. Sangier. No one would believe it.”

“Ah, but if we could provide some evidence of such a thing? Evidence, say, similar to what you just showed me? Would not the knife cut the other way?”

“I don’t see how.” Vincent felt a line of perspiration forming along his hairline despite the air-conditioning.

“I’m sure you will when you have considered it.” Sangier leaned forward to prod the folder with a long finger. “I do not believe in these cables, Monsieur Meissner.”

“But we have the originals, Monsieur Sangier. Back in Vancouver. They are coded French diplomatic cables, and they clearly indicate…”

“Nothing. They indicate nothing. Diplomatic codes are not particularly secure. These are forged.” Sangier pushed gently at his upper lip with tented forefingers. He shrugged. “I have spoken also with Commander Shafton of the United States Coast Guard about your ship. You will get no help from them. He tells me there is no evidence of foul play, as far as the United States Coast Guard is concerned.”

“They are not concerned,” Vincent said.

Sangier spread his hands, palms up. “They are concerned, Monsieur. France and the United States are allies. We have mutual interests in the Pacific. We desire the same things, the maintenance of the balance of power.”

“France is detonating hydrogen bombs in an unstable basalt atoll in the South Pacific, storing waste plutonium in the ground. The ground is cracking open. Ciguatera poisoning is endemic in the fish of the area. There are human lives at stake, not to mention the long term effects of radiation leaks into the sea and air.”

“I appreciate your sentiments, Monsieur Meissner, believe me. I may even agree with them. But our test program is safe. Independent international commissions of scientists have declared it so. We have the only atomic testing program in the world open to qualified observers from any allied nation. We take more than adequate safeguards.”

“That is not what the evidence collected by the
Ocean Mother
tells us.” Vincent wasn’t sure that was true, but his last communications from the ship, from Raïatéa, suggested there was some radiation leakage, within the margin of error for the instruments she carried. “We have the telemetry data in Vancouver.”

“Really?” The question was so drenched in skepticism Meissner was almost fooled. But he knew better, he was on safer ground here. They
did
have telemetry, although the data was ambiguous. Like all data. In this business you never felt completely confident. You only acted it. Wheels in wheels. Each had an agenda. They turned together, like gears. Meissner was devoid of inspiration. His cards were on the table.

“Really,” he said. Sangier watched him, impassive. “We do have the data, and we are going to spread it all over the world along with evidence that the French government sponsored the assassination of the crew of a peaceful environmental research ship in violation of all international law and common human decency.” Vincent could feel his heart leaping like a hooked fish. The strain stitched across his forehead in a line of drops.

It felt good to go on the offensive, though.

Sangier was thinking. “Perhaps we have a mutual interest here.”

“Oh. And what might that be?” Too good to be true, he knew that. Mutual interest was impossible. Wheels in wheels. He wished Takamura were back from Tahiti. It would have helped to have something definite.

“We both know that there is the public agenda and the private agenda. Our public agendas are in conflict, Monsieur Meissner. But perhaps our private interests coincide.”

A diplomat to the end.

Meissner risked a pass of his hand across his forehead as he leaned back. “I’m listening.”

“Jacqueline Guillaume’s death is going to cause a problem in France. For the government and for certain forces. Political forces. Perhaps those responsible for her death are our mutual enemies.”

“Someone trying to put both of us in an awkward position?” Vincent tried to maintain a neutral tone. “Destroy Gaia’s team, and our data, and embarrass the French government at the same time?”

“Two birds, I believe you say in English. With one rock.”

“Stone,” Vincent said automatically. “Who?”

Sangier smiled. “Conservative elements,” he said softly. “A determined right wing that does not care for the socialist government and its policies of reconciliation. Those who would have us cut off diplomatic relations with, say, New Zealand and resume atmospheric testing. You know the people.”

Vincent nodded. People like Shafton. Obstructive. Narrow vision, narrow minds. They were everywhere.

He could not trust Sangier. The man was an actor— everything he said was fake— a lie, and a cheat. He would betray Vincent in a second if it moved him a step closer to his goal.

Sangier was a representative of the French government, and the French government wanted to discredit Gaia and everything it had done. He must remember that. The consular official was holding out an olive branch. If Vincent took it, it could easily turn out to be toxic.

“I know the people,” Vincent said.

“These are people,” Sangier continued, “who are implacably hostile to what you do.”

“It makes sense.”

“Good. We have a who. We do not have as yet a how.”

“A rogue agent.”

“Probably, yes. They are unscrupulous fanatics.”

“Do you have any evidence, anything to give to the press?” Vincent thought he saw a way to use this new development. It was all a matter of interpretation.

Sangier waved this objection away. “No,” he said frankly, and this time Vincent thought he might even be telling the truth. “But I do know someone who can… acquire such evidence.”

“Oh?”

“A man with many resources.”

“Resources?”

“Yes. He once worked for the Ministry of Justice, I believe. I don’t know what name he will use, but I’ll have him contact you.”

MANIFEST

The rain had stopped, and slight twists of mist rose from the asphalt of the main road. Cobb watched it rise for a moment. It vanished within seconds as the road dried.

“Winter in Polynesia, Lieutenant.” Charlie Song was large, wide, muscular, and happy. He was always happy. The black mustache drooping along the sides of his mouth did nothing to dispel the impression of good humor. “Rain, then sun. Sometimes wind. Hurricanes, that sort of thing. Not today, though.”

“No.” They stood on the stoop in front of the Chinese store. The store sold everything from mops to maps, from Sony Walkmen to Seiko watches. Today was Sunday, and it was afternoon, and everyone was asleep somewhere. The store was closed.

“I asked around,” Charlie Song said. His English was lilting, musical like his name.

“Mmm?”

“I found someone for you. He spent time with the Frenchman, before the boat left. A lot of time. He has interesting things to say.”

“Mmm.” Cobb pushed his porkpie hat brim back away from his eyes and squinted up at the clouds melting in the sky like ice cream on a hot day.

Neither man made a move to go. It was a lazy afternoon, a Sunday. There was no hurry.
Aita pe’ape’a.

They began to stroll along the boards. The town was like a toy, a pretend town. Nothing happened until the movie company brought in all the extras. It was a fake. Cobb glanced down the side streets toward the harbor. The boats sat on the smooth water, reflected upside down. They did not move. He was in the landscape of a model train set, everything miniature, with all the details.

“Duvalois,” Cobb Takamura said.

“Yes?”

“He is not a policeman.”

“You noticed that.”

“Yes. He carries a gun. I have heard that guns are not necessary in Polynesia, especially in the Leeward Islands, where everything is peaceful.
Aita pe’ape’a
, no problem? So why does he need a gun?”

“Ah.” Charlie Song laid a thick blunt finger alongside his nose. “Why?”

“Because he is in a different line of work. But he gets cooperation from the authorities. Dr Rathé, for example. He knows who the players are. Queneau, the others. So he is security. Like FBI.”

“We think so, yes. Elusive.”

“Is he?”

“He comes and goes. When he goes, some of us are not sorry.”

“A traveling man.”

“Yes.”

They reached the end of the covered walk and turned around. There was no more mist on the roadway, only a sheen here and there.

A car came down the street, passed them, disappeared to the south. Silence fell like a curtain.

“You found someone?” Cobb urged after a moment. “Someone for me to talk to?”

“A
tabua.
Some of the Tahitian revival movement. There are such movements all over the Pacific. A hunger for the past, before the
popaa
came. White man.” Charlie Song laughed. The sound was pleasing. “They include us, the Chinese. It is funny. They would include you too. Do you have such people in Hawaii?”

“Yes.”

“Good. They should be everywhere. Otherwise it doesn’t mean anything. This was one wild culture down here. Canoes sailing all over this empty space, launched out into nowhere and finding land. How many died on the way, drowned, starved to death? Many, I think. But they kept doing it. They found every island in the Pacific and settled it. Amazing, really. Just canoes. No instruments but stars and wind and birds and eyes and knowledge. It impresses me.”