H.J. Gaudreau - Betrayal in the Louvre (25 page)

Chapter 51

That evening the Council met to hear Marcil’s report.  The écuyer of the Duke of Orleans finished reading the five-page document, bowed curtly and assumed his position behind the head of the table.  The council was no longer formed into a committee of the whole.  The Duke of Orleans had assumed his position in the chair reserved for the Prince du Sang.  He did not believe there would ever be a formal, recognized King of France again, but that did not alter the fact that indeed, one existed.  These items would deliver the continuity with the past that he represented.  They discussed Marcil’s report.  The Americans would soon be gone, back to some state no one ever had heard of, then disposed of.  Why did all Americans believe everyone in the world knew the location of each of their many states?  He sighed deeply.  The detectives would be dealt with.  The story was therefore contained.   

They moved on to Marcil himself.  He was not well liked; his past carried a certain, what?  A certain odor was the best way to describe it.  But, he was….useful.  It was a question of degree; was he of more use than liability?  His current position did put him in place to make exactly these types of finds.  And yet, what use were they really?  His efforts had not paid great returns on the money they had invested in him.  He had high aspirations.  Something which could lead to problems in the future.  They knew he aspired to sit at this very table, which of course was impossible.  The Council began to discuss the pros and cons of the issue.  It was a short conversation; Marcil would not become a royal or even a noble.  This one, spectacular find did warrant a reward.  But, there needed to be a pattern of such benefits to the Action Française to grant anything like a nobility.  They would grant him a few hundred thousand Euros.  That was more than sufficient and if it was not, he could be dealt with in other ways.  The Prince du Sang approved the expenditure.  But, he wasn’t so sure.  Marcil could become much like his uncle, more a burden than an asset.  In any case, after this he would bear watching. 

Next on the agenda were the promotions in the Army.  Certain members of the Senate did not approve of some of the selections.  This must be changed.  Then there was the silly issue of this President’s mistress and her modeling.  This was unacceptable.  She would have to be dealt with.  A nomination of a Frenchman to the Presidency of the International Monetary Fund was approaching.  They would have to choose someone for that.  Members of the Government wanted to trim the nuclear industry.  That too needed to be changed.  There were too many men here who’s wealth depended in part on this industry.  It would simply be too expensive.  A member of the opposition was gaining popularity and had decided to campaign for the Presidency.  He was unacceptable and would soon be accused of raping a hotel maid.  Palatine sighed.  This would be a long, but profitable night.

Chapter 52

I

The Corsican’s Paris flat occupied the entire top floor of a four-story walk-up three blocks off the Champs-Elysees.  This morning he sat on a small balcony overlooking the street.  The ice pack on his hip had turned to a room temperature wet rag an hour ago.  His hip hurt and sported a large multi-coloured bruise, but he didn’t notice the pain.  His demitasse of espresso was untouched and cold.  He was deep in dark thoughts.  Marcil hadn’t wanted anything to happen to the Americans.  He’d demanded the Corsican not harm them.  That had been a mistake.  They should have been killed in Cherhery and none of this would be an issue.  He’d left two people alive who could describe him.  He had not done that before, and he had argued the point with Marcil.  An argument he ceded.  That too had been a mistake.   

He had attempted to disassociate himself from the car.  That hadn’t gone well at all.  The Americans had stumbled into the scene just as his lover arrived to take him back to Paris.  This entire job, simple as it had been, was mismanaged from the beginning.  No more.  The Americans were on to something.  He didn’t know how much they knew, but they’d followed him yesterday; which meant they knew enough. 

He’d never completely disregarded his customer’s wishes in matters such as this but, frankly, sometimes the customer is wrong.  Now, it didn’t really matter what Marcil thought.  He could be identified.  His lover could be identified, which meant, sadly, that it had been necessary to dispose of him.  Business risk was accumulating.  The two Americans represented that risk if they remained alive.  He made up his mind.  He was going to take care of this issue today.  Now, it was simply a matter of tracking down the two fools and making their disappearance look like a Paris street crime.  

He would begin with the license plate of their car.  He’d noticed the rental car at the barn, a low-end Citroën C3 Picasso.  How could they drive across the country in such an uncomfortable vehicle?  He shuddered at the thought.  Nevertheless, they had done it and now that was the vehicle he had to find.  Once he found that, he would have their hotel. 

II

The word gendarme derives from
gens d’armes
, meaning men-at-arms.  These armored soldiers had supplanted the armored knight as medieval society had faded.  By the fifteenth century the men-at-arms had become a fixture of French society; their roll had been defined and solidified.  They came from the nobility just as a medieval knight.  They provided their own armor, horses and other equipment just as a knight.  But, now they were organized and attached to a formal, semi-permanent army as part of the French cavalry.  They had been organized into a fearsome unit, and the French heavy cavalry had become a superior weapon of war. 

But it was not simply a military necessity that the gens d’armes had filled.  Certainly, they filled a legitimate need for power on the battlefield.  For that the kingdom had been grateful.  Equally important the gens d’armes provided an honorable, well-paid lifestyle for the second sons of landed Nobility.  These men were without inheritance, but were educated and well trained.  They could not take a job and they had few assets.  It simply would not do to have them running about without means of support and no means to maintain their honor.  That was a certain route to disruption and possible overthrow of the system.

In time, heavy cavalry became a thing of the past as gunpowder replaced swords and lances.  The roll of these men changed to one of protecting internal routes of travel from gangs, thieves and pirates.  They became a sort of nascent national police force.  Eventually this role was formalized and the new organization was charged with formal police powers and entitled “Le Maréchaussée”, or the Constabulary.   This remnant of the Ancien Régime could not be allowed to stand unchanged by the leaders of the French Revolution, and it was renamed the
“Gendarmerie.”
 

Today, its role has evolved.  No longer charged with simply the protection of rivers and roads it now took the French lead in the pursuit, detention and defeat of terrorists and other extremely violent criminals.  The Gendarmerie has become an extremely efficient paramilitary organization and is one of the premier policing organizations in the world.  It was to this unlikely organization that the Corsican now turned. 

It always helps to maintain contact with old friends he thought.  Especially when those friends like to gamble, are not very good at it and happen to be members of the Gendarmerie. 

The Gendarmes had recently succeeded in fielding a new computer system that tied together police logs, traffic enforcement, security, licensing, and other law enforcement databases in Europe.  Using this system, the Gendarmes could check traffic tickets issued in the smallest village as well as access Interpol to review the most complex investigations.  Thus, if one has a friend from one’s days in the Foreign Legion, one has, depending upon the strength of the friendship, access to every French city’s police computers.  These databases were not the object of the Corsican’s desire however.  The hotel registry was.  In Paris, as in the rest of France and most European countries, it is mandatory when checking into a hotel to register one’s passport and complete a vehicle registration.  This registry, also recently computerized and now tied to the police information mining system, has become a powerful tool in locating and preventing criminal and terrorist acts across France.  Few were as skilled at the use of this new computerized tool than the Gendarmerie’s Chief of Data Management in the city of Tours. 

The Corsican enjoyed the early morning.  The air didn’t have the taste of car exhaust…yet. The sun seemed brighter and the sky bluer.  He sat on a park bench and watched the traffic on the river Seine.  He finished his coffee, ate the last of his brioche and made his phone call.  Half an hour later his smart phone vibrated.  Glancing at it he allowed himself a small smile.  He had the name of the Americans’ hotel.  He stood, messaged his hip just a bit and began walking.  It was still early, and it would take less then twenty minutes to reach the hotel.  He would take them in the garage.  A short ride to the countryside and he would be done with this little task by noon.  He planned on spending the remainder of the day touring the Versailles palace.  Later he had a plane to catch.

Precisely twenty minutes later he was strolling the hotel parking lot.  After a short search he’d found what he was looking for.  A large BMW, with an equally large trunk, perfectly positioned for watching the Citroën. 

High-end BMW’s are not the average thief’s first choice.  The doors are difficult to open.  Its keys are electronically verified.  A ‘slim jim’ is rarely successful.  Instead, it takes a bit of skill, an electronic universal key and the use of specialized lock picking tools to open their door.  Fortunately, he had all of the above.

Acting as if he had the proper key he removed a set of jigglers from his coat pocket, inserted one in the driver’s door lock and scraped the bottom of the cylinder.  This he did while manipulating the the electronic key.  In a moment he was sitting behind the steering wheel and had begun his wait.  It would be bad luck for the owner of the BMW to come for his car just now.  But, these things happen in life, and in death. 

The morning stretched into midday.  The garage was mostly empty.  Most had checked-out of the hotel earlier that morning and no one could check-in until mid afternoon.  Hunger was his biggest distraction.  He had been hungry before, infinitely hungrier than this.  It wasn’t an issue.  He was more bored than anything.  He was supposed to be enjoying a visit to Versailles today; instead, here he sat.

An hour later, a motorcycle, its driver wearing a full facemask and black leathers, with a boy riding behind in similar gear, rolled into the garage.  The Corsican slouched lower in the front seat of the beemer.  The motorcycle circled the parking garage once and returned.  It slowed and abruptly turned down the row of cars across from him, stopping in-front of the Citroën!  What was this?  The boy got off, waved at the driver of the bike and, using a key, opened the door of the car.  In a second the two were leaving the garage!  Damn! 

Cursing for allowing himself to be surprised he frantically searched his pockets for his electronic universal key.  It took a moment to find.  He had the key and the jigglers and set to work on the ignition.  These cars were even more difficult to start than they were to unlock.  It took him a full ninety seconds to start the engine.  He backed out of the parking space and sped to the exit of the garage.  There he looked left and then right, his quarry was no-where in sight.  He turned left.  Jim and Eve had turned right.    

Chapter 53

The BMW F800 ST motorcycle is a well-balanced, euro cruiser.  Its rider sits centered over the bike, feet directly below the seat; unlike an American cruiser with its laid back, ‘easy-rider’ mystique.  This one was well handled, leaning into turns and accelerating out with a bit of panache.  The bike sped northwest.  Eventually it passed the Republic subway station then leaned through a sharp left followed by an equally quick right onto the Boulevard Saint-Martin.  Passing several small boutiques the bike slowed.  Eventually finding the appropriate shop the driver braked hard, rolled the bike between two cars, parked and hurried into the shop.  A few moments later the driver returned, stuffed a package into the hard side touring case then backed the bike into the street and sped off; a Citroën C3 in close pursuit.  Eventually, Saint-Martin turned into Montmartre.  At Rue de Richelieu they turned left and accelerated.  Three blocks later they were at the Louvre. 

Circling to the left around the museum the bike eventually came to the underground parking garage.  It stopped fifty feet short of the entrance.  The driver dismounted and removed his helmet.  Then, unsnapping the right saddlebag he removed a small plastic bag and walked to the Citroën. 

“You know the plan?”  “Got it,” came the reply. 

“I tested the radios in the shop, they’re good.  Use the ear plug, it has a microphone about six inches lower on the cord, it plugs into the radio here.”  He pointed as he talked.  Jim handed Eve a small two-way radio.  “You’ll still have to push the button to talk, and let up on it to receive, but it’s still easier like this, especially if you’re in traffic.  Got the map?” 

Eve looked at him, “I’ve got the map, and I know how to use the radio.  I’m just scared they’ll catch you.” 

Jim leaned down and kissed her.  “They’re not going to get me.  Don’t worry about that.”  A car honked behind the Citroën.  He kissed her again then returned to the bike.  A few moments later he was entering the underground Louvre parking garage.

He parked the bike in the public area and locked his helmet in place.  He removed the jacket and rolled it into a tight ball.  Then, he took a backpack and a set of binoculars from the saddlebags; replacing them with the jacket.  Next came a small brightly colored package from the other side.  This he sat on the garage floor.  Squatting next to the motorcycle he pretended to be working on the motor.  Instead, he carefully scanned the garage to find any video cameras.  There were three, two facing the entrance, the third in the general direction of the internal ramp leading to the lower parking level.  Picking up the backpack and the small package Jim walked to the employee section and again carefully checked for cameras.  He didn’t see any, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. 

Squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath Jim walked into the employee parking area as if he owned the entire museum.  As he walked he flashed back to an afternoon as a student at the United States Air Force’s Air War College.  The irony struck him.  The instructors had moderated a debate on the implications of George Jacques Danton’s famous saying “Audacity, more audacity, always audacity.”  Funny, he never thought he’d be a living test of a leader of the French Revolution’s favorite maxim, but here he was.  Keeping an even pace he scanned for video cameras.  There was only one and it pointed at the exit.  He crossed to the far end of the parking garage and found a spot between two cars where he could sit with his back against the wall and still see the elevator doors. 

Jim removed the package from his pack and blew up a beach toy.  Putting the air pillow on the pavement he sat down.  Perfect.  He then removed the binoculars and checked the garage.  No one.  He pushed transmit on the radio and spoke into it.  Eve immediately responded.  She was sitting at the café across the street, the car at the curb in front of her.  Again, perfect.  He settled in to wait.