Chapter 22
If Trevor Keefe slept at all over the weekend he couldn’t remember it.
Eighty-hour weeks were the norm for him and the CIA directors he succeeded, but a hundred hours was ridiculous, though not unusual.
He and his wife had been determined to take a long Sunday drive into Virginia and visit friends in the country for lunch.
That was derailed when Dexter Maceas called him at the office late Saturday afternoon with news that he could have lived without.
With most of the explosions in his job there was a hint of a warning. Not so with this one.
At eight Monday morning those he’d summoned were in the bunker, one of several conference rooms buried deep below Langley and closed to virtually everyone who worked in the building.
He nodded at Eddie Lofton and said simply, “You go first. Let’s hear it.”
Lofton was Director of Analysis, Europe.
“Not much, so far. All the ears are listening in all the usual places, not a peep. We’re focusing on North Africa because of the rather shaky theory that one of the operatives might possibly be from there.
I think it’s a shot in the dark but the French seem more convinced.
At this point, that’s about all they have.
The emails and texts were encrypted and untraceable, one-offs from either Russia or the Baltics.
We’re still digging but it doesn’t look promising.
And even if we found the router, the bad guys are long gone.
Everybody appears to have vanished. A pretty clean operation. ”
“That’s comforting,” Keefe said with disapproval, which was his usual response. He looked at Kate Valenzuela, Deputy Director of Domestic Analysis, and said, “And the wire transfers?”
Looking at her laptop screen she said, “Monday, May second, the Clayburn wire of $2 million went from their brokerage account with a bank in Reston to a numbered account at Equity Swiss Bank in New York, where it sat for all of eleven minutes before it was wired to a numbered account in Singapore. An hour later it was wired to a numbered account in one of the dark world’s favorite shady banks in Panama.
From there it’s anyone’s guess. Two days later, the Tanners did the same, sent their wire to a different Swiss bank, Zurich, New York branch, but this time the money was immediately wired to a bank in Montreal.
From there it got zipped to-and-fro and finally came to rest in an office of a Syrian bank in Greece.
Neither the Panamanians nor the Greeks will talk without some serious arm-twisting from the White House, as well as the willingness to break a few of their laws. ”
“Forget it,” Keefe growled. “It’s not worth it and we won’t find the trail anyway. What about the second one, Snyder?”
“Snyder and Stockman are practically identical to Tanner. The families of course did not contact anyone here who might be of assistance, choosing instead to go it alone, with partial success. So we were not able to monitor the wires as they were happening. In each case, the bad boys used different banks and the money disappeared in different places—Cyprus for Snyder and Bangkok for Stockman. But the tactics are the same. Identical, really.”
“Which was a mistake for a gang that has not made many mistakes. Why not just go ahead and sign their names? So, does anyone doubt that all three kidnappings are the work of the same gang? Anyone?”
A general shaking of the heads around the table. Frowns all around.
“So who is it?”
The heads stopped shaking. Deeper frowns.
Keefe wasn’t expecting an answer. He said, “We’re assuming a lot here, but for now we must work from assumptions. They prefer Paris because it’s Paris and attracts Americans by the millions. What was it last year, Sandra?”
From the far end Sandra said, “About four million. Still the most popular destination from here.”
“Right. Easy picking. Plenty of honeymooners walking around gaga over each other and paying attention to little else. And we’re assuming the gang is from North Africa because of the eyewitness descriptions, which leave a lot to be desired.
Thanks to colonialism, France is teeming with Algerians and Moroccans and other Africans.
The perfect place for East to meet West and for someone with a grudge to bump into former U.S. soldiers.”
“Can we talk about the military angle?” asked Lofton.
“Because I’m not convinced, Trevor. Sure, all three wore the uniform, but I’ve seen nothing that indicates they went anywhere near an armed conflict or even a danger zone.
Stockman never left the country. Tanner served three months at sea, in the Pacific.
Snyder spent a year on a base in Korea.”
With so little intelligence, there was not much to debate or analyze. As veterans, they were reluctant to trot out some unfounded theory that they could not support. Why get shot down waving a flag you didn’t want to run up the pole in the first place?
Finally, Schmidt from operations said, “I have two questions.”
“Let’s hear them.”
“Is the FBI or any other agency involved?”
“Well, as for the FBI, I talked to Huff last night, got the impression he’s happy to punt. It’s not domestic, and he’s got his own problems. I’m never sure what the other clowns know but I don’t believe this is on their radar.”
“Okay, second question. Does the White House know? If not, should they be briefed?”
“No. And not yet.”
—
Chelsea called her boss Monday morning, for the third time since she had returned.
She had toyed with the idea of going to the office for a few hours, primarily just to see everyone and ease their concerns.
But she hated the idea of the constant lying to her friends.
A visit would be endless conversations and inquiries about her health and Paul’s and when he might come home.
She had lost weight and that would be noticed, especially since she had whipped herself into perfect shape in a bridal boot camp.
Now, two weeks later, she was pale and gaunt and felt as depressed as she looked.
Smiles were rare these days and she knew she couldn’t force them much longer.
Chelsea was certain she could keep up with her clients and files while working at home. Her boss was sympathetic and flexible, and also a friend. They had coffee late Monday morning and talked business. Her boss was wise enough to keep the visit short and ask very few questions.
—
For their excursion into another world, the three detectives ditched their jackets and slacks and dressed in jeans and sneakers.
They would still be noticed but they would not be the only visitors.
Jean-Pierre drove his unmarked police car while Sahar, a detective, rode shotgun.
Pascal Goff had the rear seat to himself and was lucky to be along for the ride.
Half an hour after inching through thick traffic and leaving the 11th arrondissement, they arrived in the 18th, a sprawling neighborhood not far from the main train station at Gare du Nord.
They were in the Barbès district, a longtime refuge for immigrants from dozens of countries, primarily Africa and India.
It was still in central Paris but a world away from the stylish and more desirable sections of Saint-Germain, Champs-élysées, and the Marais.
Sahar became the navigator as he pointed and said, “Turn here. I know a parking spot down that street.” He was second generation Tunisian.
His grandparents arrived in Paris in the 1920s after escaping poverty and persecution.
He had been with the DGSI for a long time and was one of its most knowledgeable detectives when the cases involved trouble from the “African colonies.”
They parked illegally on the sidewalk in front of a fruit vendor, who rushed out to start yelling. When he saw Sahar he stopped and nodded. No problem.
They zigzagged through narrow streets and bustling markets.
The crowd was dense and a medley of languages filled the air, which was thick with the smells of fried fish and eggs, pickles, spices, lamb and pork, and pastries stuffed with meat and onions.
Almost all the women were covered with a hijab.
Loud Arabic music blared from outdated speakers hanging above the stalls.
The next street was somewhat quieter. The vendors were Indian and Pakistani and they offered cheap clothing, used shoes, stolen phones and watches, plastic kitchenware and toiletries.
In an alley, Sahar stopped and said, “It’s best to wait here. Get a coffee around the corner and I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” He disappeared into a small shop selling tiles and building supplies.
They got a coffee at a Turkish deli and sat under an awning and watched the endless flow of traffic, all immigrants, barely surviving, and shopping at the markets because the prices were so low.
“Who’s Ekbar?” Pascal asked.
“A smuggler. There are plenty around here. A lot of what you see for sale is not exactly legitimate, but it’s their economy.
They couldn’t survive otherwise. Ekbar has been a contact of ours for a long time.
Got himself convicted twenty years ago of running drugs, served his time, and now he sells tiles and bricks and paint.
But he’s still very much connected with the underground. ”
“He’s an informant?”
“At times, and he’s usually reliable. Truth is, in this pit you’re never sure who to trust.”
“Same as Wall Street, I guess,” Pascal said, and both laughed.
Jean-Pierre said, “Ekbar is Moroccan and our best go-to guy for the gossip from there. Sahar works them all and has informants from half a dozen countries in that part of the world.”
“Do you have a nagging feeling that we’re assuming too much? We’re snooping around here in Barbès because our only suspect just might be from North Africa? Kind of a stretch, don’t you think?”
“Probably so, but as of now we have nothing else. We’re dealing with some well-organized boys who are getting better and better with practice.
They are leaving few clues. Just think of the logistics of snatching three couples off the street in broad daylight without being seen.
Then arranging the ransom payments, and keeping three hostages.
They’re so good at it now, and they’re making so much money, it’s probably not going to stop. ”
“Then Washington will really want to go public. Can you imagine a State Department warning against travel to France due to kidnappings?”
“No, Pascal. That cannot happen.”
Pascal took a sip of strong sugared coffee and smacked his lips. “Washington is already asking why this is being buried. It’s going to hit the press sooner or later. I get the feeling they want to control the narrative.”
“That cannot happen.”
Sahar was back in ten minutes and ordered a coffee. He shook his head and said, grimly, “Not a word, period. He’s heard nothing about recent kidnappings for ransom. He’ll set his traps and listen in all the right places, but as of now, nothing even remotely similar.”
Jean-Pierre nodded and asked, “Okay, who’s next?”
“I have no shortage of informants. Some are professionals, some are kids I’ve arrested who are facing the courts.
I’ll start squeezing.” He took a sip, finished his coffee, said, “There’s another man around the corner I’d like to see, since we’re in the neighborhood.
A long shot, but he’s Algerian and has come through before. ”
“Let’s go.”