The Phoenix Affair, Dave Moyer [best ebook reader for surface pro TXT] 📗

credit card of what looked like another American, Paul Cameron, although he had yet to confirm his nationality. He’d had people working on any other credit card use by this man since three o’clock, they’d have to turn up something pretty soon—the man had to be somewhere else in Paris. Immigration was checking to see when such a man might have entered the country and where, and the photo might come from that angle if they found him at all. In any case, that would sort itself out, too. The question remained: who were the four men coming to kill, the Saudi, the American agent, or this Cameron, or someone else? Had to be the Saudi, but what was the connection between the agent and Cameron then? And where was the Saudi and the family?

LaPlante rubbed his eyes again, he was really too tired to work effectively, he thought. The phone rang, and he answered the speaker button. “LaPlante.”

“Detective inspector,” said one of his underlings who he’d rousted out of bed, what was it, an hour ago? “There are men named Paul Cameron registered at three other hotels in the Paris area, but none of the credit cards matches the one used at the murder scene. All three hotels are in the tourist area within a few blocks of the river. I’ve sent officers to each of them to see if they copied his passport page as the law requires, but you know many of the smaller hoteliers do not . . .”

“Yes, I know, but it’s worth a try. How long ago did your men leave?”

“Only five minutes ago. I should think we’ll know something, whether we’ve been lucky or not, in the next twenty minutes or so. Also, we did find an ATM cash withdrawal made with the credit card used at the crime scene, two days ago, near the Louvre. One of the hotels is two blocks away. That is at least a clue to the right neighborhood.”

“What about immigration?” LaPlante asked. This was taking too long.

“We finally got someone on the phone only about 30 minutes ago, and it will take them another 30 minutes or so to get their staff into the office to begin the database queries on Cameron and the Saudi.”

“Anything else on the Saudi?” LaPlante looked nervously at his watch: 5:30, three and a half hours since the crime went down. “But who’s the criminal, the dead men or the guys that killed them?” he mused.

“ . . .Embassy does not open until nine-thirty, and the people we could reach in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs told me personally that there is absolutely no hope of the Saudis there responding to any calls for assistance before opening time. They don’t get up in the middle of the night, the man said.”

“What Embassy did you say,” LaPlante countered, trying to keep up.

“Saudi Embassy, sir, we were talking about this Al-Auda man.

“Right, right. What about other hotels for him?”

“Nothing yet.”

“American Embassy?”

“Foreign Affairs is trying to get someone to call me, it’s been . . .” there was a pause, “twenty minutes since I last spoke with our people, nothing yet.”

LaPlante sighed. This trail was getting cold fast. The man he’d followed was a professional, he would know how to disappear and would certainly do so if not tracked down fast. Three and a half hours—he was probably already gone. His best bets were the Saudi and the Cameron fellow, and they were not looking like good bets either.

“Sir?”

“What?” LaPlante almost yelled into the phone, he was irritable, frustrated, and having trouble concentrating.

“Sir, I said the American embassy is on the line. Do you want me to handle it and report back, or do you want to talk with them?”

“Oh, sorry Jean Luc, sorry, I must have drifted off. Put them through to me, and stay on the line and listen in please.”

“One moment sir.”

The line clicked twice, and a voice said in very good French, “Hello? This is the American Embassy in Paris, consular section, calling for a Mister LaPlante of the FNP.”

“This is Inspector LaPlante. I am looking for an American I think, named Paul Cameron, whose hotel room was the scene of a multiple murder in Paris at two this morning. Can you tell me if this man has registered with the embassy, do you know if he is in France?

“I can check that for you Inspector, just a moment.” There was a delay of perhaps twenty seconds, and then, “Inspector, Mr. Cameron has not checked in with us. Do you have his passport number by any chance? Our database is large and there are quite a few passports with that name in it. Do you have the middle initial, perhaps?”

“No, I don’t have the number or the initial, I was hoping you could help me with either or both. I need to find this man, he” . . .Renee paused, reconsidering what he was about to say, “he is probably in extreme danger, we believe a group of Middle Eastern terrorists tried to kill him tonight.”

The voice reverted to English, more urgent now. “Do you speak English, Inspector?”

LaPlante could hear a keyboard in the background, and he answered, “not well, I’m afraid.”

“Back to French, then. I’m just doing a few checks, Inspector, trying to see if any of these Camerons are outside of the US now according to our records. Did you say whether you’ve been able to verify his entry into France through your own immigration systems yet?”

“Not yet, but we’re working on it. I appreciate your help,” and LaPlante waited, drumming his fingers on the table.

Another minute marched by, then the American said, “Inspector, as you can imagine the American Embassy is anxious to assist you with any matter that involves an American citizen in France, particularly if there is a threat to that individual or to broader American interests. Unfortunately, I cannot confirm that anyone named Paul Cameron is likely in France today, that any has left the US in the last month. However, if it is any help, there is a report here that is now two months old of a stolen passport in that name. The Passport has been cancelled and a new one has not yet been issued according to our computerized system. That Mr. Cameron could not have left the US with that passport, but it may be, Inspector, that you’re onto someone using this stolen passport to enter France.”

LaPlante was wide awake now. “Can you send us the passport photo page, number, and the rest? Fax or email will work for me. This is very important as you can imagine.”

“Yes, I’ll do that, we are happy to assist and will look forward to collaborating with you to locate the stolen passport, if that is what you find. But for security reasons I can only send them to an address we have on file here for a known account in the FNP. Do you know how to access that address, inspector?”

“Yes, I do,” LaPlante was getting a good feeling. This might be the break he was looking for. “Please send it now. Before we hang up, can you give me your Paris number in case I need more assistance today?”

The man read off the number, and the two hung up. LaPlante was still considering the possibilities of the credit card having been stolen along with the passport, which would be a nice connection, when Jean Luc walked in with a printed page.

On the page was a facsimile of the familiar American passport, tourist variety, with a clear photo. Renee automatically fell into his comfortable semi-trance, looking partly at the photo and staring through it into empty air, his mind sifting information, trying to connect this photo with any face he knew. Nothing. He was sure he’d never seen the man before. The face that stared up at him was deeply lined, grey hair almost white, dark eyes, large ears, and a defeated, yellowish look. An old, tired man, not the kind of man who would be likely to be involved in this kind of business so far from home. Probably a dead end. He laid the page on the desk with what little else he had and laid his head in his hands. The clock outside chimed the quarter hour. Jean Luc went back to his phone to bother the immigration people.

Across town at the American Embassy, Patrick Ripley rocked back in his chair and looked at his phone, smiling, before returning to work on his computer, noting the time was 0545. He’d let the Colonel sleep an extra 30 minutes.

*****

The subway was not crowded this early, which made his job more difficult. The two Americans, for he assumed that’s what they were, although they might be British, were three cars ahead of him on the train. He’d been lucky to get on with them still in sight. He hoped he was lucky, there was no way to be certain they hadn’t seen him.

Ibrahim had done his best with what was in the bag. He wore a nondescript loose jacket, and a large beret crowned his head at a steep list. If he had a chance he would shave his beard, he’d decided, but that hadn’t happened yet. In the meantime his hair hung loose at the back of his neck instead of in the pony tail or queue he usually wore, and he slouched visibly, affecting what he hoped was a starving artist look instead of that of the killer he was.

The train approached the stop at Place du Concorde, and through the dangerously-empty cars in between he could just see the two men preparing to get up from their seats. He waited, moving further back in his own empty car and taking a seat against the window. He made a show of stretching and leaned his head back on the seat and closed his eyes most of the way, waiting.

The doors opened as the train rolled to a stop, and the men were moving fast. Too fast, Ibrahim was just on the point of getting up himself when he was shocked to see the man on the right, the bigger one, turn and look toward the rear of the train. He tried to relax as his bowels turned to water, slouching further into the seat and trying to melt away. Through the squint of his eyes he saw the big man point first down the platform, then at the Metro map on the wall, and finally at the sign above the door where his companion was now standing, they appeared to be lost, trying to agree which way to go. Ibrahim waited, mentally encouraging them “Imshi, kafir Amriki” he hissed under his breath, “go on, infidel Americans.” But they stayed, apparently arguing. Helpless, Ibrahim watched the car doors close and he rode out of the station, still slouched against the train wall with his face turned away from the menace on the platform.

The train gone, alone there on the platform, Jones and Allen spoke in English.

“What was it?” Jones asked.

“I’m not sure, just a feeling,” the other said. “Should’ve mentioned it earlier probably, I kinda thought maybe someone was tailing us since just before we came down to the subway way back North, the first train. Only that one guy asleep on this train, though, and nobody else got off of course, so we’re clear I guess.”

“I guess.” Jones returned. This Allen guy was not for real, he thought

*****

At precisely 6:13 there came a quiet knock on the hotel room door. There was a delay of perhaps fifteen seconds, and then another knock, this one louder. The men in the hall looked at one another for another fifteen seconds, and spoke quietly in French. Finally, they turned to the sleepy hotel desk clerk beyond the last man in their group, a few feet down the hall, and beckoned him forward.

The clerk was annoyed and frightened by the policemen. His hotel was small,