The Caliphate, André Gallo [best books to read ever .TXT] 📗

and a bus to a village in France. Something has happened. The police are looking for me and I’m not interested in trying to convince the Swiss authorities of my innocence.”

     “What did you do? Double-park?”

     “This is serious. Another Salafist came at me with a knife. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you everything when we’re alone.”

     “No! Are you all right? Why are you running if someone attacked you?”

     She looked at him a second, as if wondering whether to speak her mind.

     “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were living an exciting fantasy life. Tell me, are you still a photojournalist? Or are you into some other ‘temporary’ profession? Is this some CIA mission?”

     “No. but that’s sort of what I want to talk to you about—later. Let’s get out of here. Too many cops in airports!”

     They followed the crowd, retrieved Kella’s luggage, and took a cab to the Gare Routière.

     “I checked my suitcase in here before going to the airport. While I get it, how about finding out about buses to Saint Genis Pouilly in France? It’s probably about fifteen or twenty miles. If I rent a car, the police would find me in a second. From everything I’ve heard, the Swiss police are a very thorough lot, and the incident was important enough for a paragraph in the Tribune de Genève.”

     “I could rent a car in my name.”

     “Let’s keep it simple. For now, we’ll use public transportation. Maybe you can rent a car in France.”

***

The bus crossed the border without stopping and, in forty-five minutes, Steve and Kella were in a larger town than Steve had anticipated from his quick Internet search. They quickly settled on the Kyriad Genève Hotel.

     “This could be a Holiday Inn,” he said.

     When they checked in, the lady at the counter asked, “Are you with the CERN? Do you have your discount card?”

     “No, Madame, we’re tourists,” Kella replied.

     On the way to their room, Steve asked, “CERN? What is it?”

     “It’s the European Organization for Nuclear Research. A CERN representative spoke to us when I was still at the ENA. This is their headquarters. If you thought there were too many cops at the airport, wait till you see this place. I imagine it’s crawling with security.”

     They had not been able to talk on the bus, so after freshening up, Kella suggested they go for a walk.

     “This may be like a Holiday Inn,” she said, “but the mountains are pretty.”

     Once outside, Steve said, “I don’t think you ever told me what your job was. Didn’t you say a long time ago that it was time for true confessions? Except it wasn’t. I think that now, it is. Do you work for your grandfather the general? It’s an important question.”

     They turned up Route de la Faucille walking slowly. She held his hand.

     “I’m the one who should be asking questions, don’t you think? What was the photojournalist story you told all of us in Mali? Weren’t you then working for the CIA?”

     It was now late afternoon. A gray cloud cover had turned black. The breeze from the southwest had picked up. Almost imperceptibly, they picked up their pace. A light cream-colored sweater was draped on her shoulders with the sleeves tied loosely around her neck. She stopped to put it on.

     As she put her arms through the sleeves of her sweater, Steve said, “Because of my father’s connection, the CIA asked me to try to get some basic information on IMRA and al Khalil—because I had met al Khalil before in school. But as things worked out, I didn’t have to meet him. Probably a good thing, since the Salafists all think I’m the devil. Then I went back to work for West Gate. And that’s what I have been doing. So, your turn. Who pays your salary?”

     “I did join the DGSE after graduating. But I would be fired if they knew that I was sharing this information with anyone, especially a foreigner.”

     The admission opened a floodgate and Kella told Steve about the CIMETERRE file and Captain Roger, al Khalil’s DGSE contact.

     “The DGSE is paying al Khalil? He’s a killer!”

     Kella nodded and said, “But not on French soil. That’s the deal.”

     “Bullshit! They killed Ted Coogan in the middle of Paris.”

     “But he was an American.”

     Steve was about to explode again when she added, “I’m giving you the DGSE rational.”

     He had noticed two police cars go by during their half-hour walk. He became self-conscious and they turned off on a street with less traffic.

     “I want to stop, or slow down, the Salafists. But I can’t function under the myopic rules of the CIA bureaucracy. I gather that you feel the same way about the DGSE. Am I right?”

     “Well, I’m not contributing much right now, that’s for sure. And the DGSE is not going to do anything against the Salafists. At least not until they attack French interests directly. What’s your idea?”

     “That we work outside of government rules and constraints. Watching the Salafists is not enough. They killed your friend Faridah in Paris and my friend Ted Coogan. They tried to kill me on … let me count … three times. And you told me there had been more murders. Al Khalil has a free pass. And that really pisses me off. It’s not right!”

     “How can we possibly stop them? By ourselves? We don’t have the resources. What do you want to do exactly?”

     He stopped and took her arm.

    “At least slow them down. To make this workable, we can take small bites. For example, just publicizing al Khalil’s activities in Mali would be a start.”