Chapter 17
Pascal Goff was fortunate enough to have an American father and a Caribbean mother.
His father had dropped out of college and was bumming around the West Indies when he found himself on the French island of Guadeloupe, where he had a fling with a local girl.
The weekend romp was extended and turned serious when she whispered she was pregnant.
His first inclination was to hop on the next ship without so much as a goodbye, but he really didn’t want to leave Guadeloupe.
And he was quite fond of the girl. They got married in a hurry and Pascal soon appeared.
Though he wouldn’t know it for some time, he was blessed with both American and French citizenship, and, importantly, fluency in two languages.
Pascal left the islands for college at the University of Georgia, where he soon confronted the complexities of race relations in America.
Upon graduation, he joined the FBI and worked in the field for a few years.
A mixed-race kid who grew up with almost no thoughts about intolerance or discrimination, he never fully adjusted to racial bias.
When he heard of an opening in Paris, he got in line and got the job because he spoke French and English with no accent.
At thirty-one, he became the special agent in charge of international matters, one of only three FBI operatives in France.
The small office was in the stately American embassy on Avenue des Champs-élysées.
Pascal studied their handsome faces, admired for a second Chelsea’s rather stunning wedding dress with no back and a plunging neckline, and studied the smiling faces of the families. He sipped his coffee and crunched on a piece of toast, all with the sick feeling of déjà vu.
Pascal was doing nicely in his cushy Parisian assignment primarily because he could navigate the maze of French security services.
Though no one could completely understand the complicated and competing agencies that operated locally, nationally, and internationally, Pascal, with his language and polished diplomatic skills, grasped more than most professionals in the business.
Chalamet was a senior agent in DGSI, and the two had worked side by side for many years. His agency was in charge of internal security, especially those cases that involved foreigners. He was a force, a commanding figure in French intelligence.
As always, with a new matter involving an American, the initial conference would be somewhat stiff and rigid.
The French expected the Americans to charge with sharp elbows and attempt to take control.
The Americans knew they were on foreign soil and their hosts would guard their jurisdiction.
Pascal had been through it many times and knew the turf.
Chalamet closed the door to his meticulous office, offered coffee, which Pascal declined, and they settled into their respective seats. “Anything new?” he asked, but only to be polite.
Pascal replied, “No. You know more than me. What’s the plan?”
“Well, we’re just getting started. We have a team on the ground in Bayeux, working with the locals.
They’re gathering what is available, primarily video footage from the local cameras, if any.
It’s a small town with little crime so there won’t be much.
They’ll track down any potential witnesses.
In an hour we’ll meet with the chauffeur, one Malik Farro, and see what he has to say.
We chatted with him last night by phone and he is eager to cooperate, but don’t expect much.
We’re checking cell phone and cell tower data to complete the timeline.
As you know, neither cell phone has been heard from in days.
We’re listening in all the usual places, but so far nothing.
Obviously, it’s difficult to start a manhunt when you have virtually no intelligence.
What about the lady, the bride? Safe at home? ”
“Oh yes. She’s with her family. She talked for three hours last night, gave all the details of their travel in and around Paris. But nothing really helpful. I’ll send the memo when I get it.”
“A description of the second driver?”
“Not much. Six feet tall, slim, in his thirties, claimed to be born in Lyon of Moroccan descent, but that’s doubtful.
Said his name was Laurent. He kept his face covered with a disposable mask.
Spoke perfect French but with a slight accent, probably North African.
He claimed to be a stand-in for Malik, who was called away with an alleged family emergency, which of course was not true.
They were in the car, same one as before, only for a short period before they passed out.
Her last memory was her husband banging on the window, trying to get out. After that, nothing.”
“Captivity?”
“Nothing, really. They kept her knocked-out in a dark room. There was a woman in the gang. She got a good look at her handler when she was released and she’s fairly certain he’s the same guy who drove them, Laurent.
There were at least two men and one woman.
She’s pretty sure the woman was French. Ms. Tanner is a smart woman but everything was vague, plus she was drugged.
Again, I’ll send the summary as soon as I get it. ”
—
Malik arrived at the DGSI offices at ten Friday morning, as promised.
For comfort, he was accompanied by the attorney who represented his employer, the limo company.
They were taken to a small conference room and greeted by two DST agents.
Everything was cordial. There was no hint that Malik had done anything wrong.
The police were simply scrambling to gather the facts.
Pascal and Jean-Pierre were in the adjoining room, watching quietly on a large video screen.
After a few tense moments, Malik was able to relax, somewhat.
He didn’t like the questions into his background.
He was a legal resident of the country, had been there for fourteen years, worked hard, paid his taxes, and was raising a family.
The police didn’t press and assured him he had done nothing suspicious.
He talked about the trip with the Tanners.
The car was booked by the hotel’s concierge, a woman his company dealt with all the time.
He had made the drive to Normandy on three previous occasions, always with Americans eager to see the history but not wanting to spend much time there.
The Tanners were delightful, especially Ms. Tanner, a real chatterbox and eager to show off her French, which was pretty good, especially for an American.
Mr. Tanner tried to nap through most of the three-hour drive and said little.
The lunch was the last thing Malik remembered until he woke up in the hospital.
He remembered the girl with red curls looking for a ride to Paris, then the jolting bike accident just two tables away.
The broken glasses, chaos, loud voices. Someone slipped chloral hydrate into his glass of water.
His blood tests proved it. And he was out for a few hours.
No, he did not suspect the girl of doping him.
He had no idea who did it, but obviously it was someone working with the kidnappers.
As far as he knew, no one saw anything suspicious.
Everyone was reacting to the orange bike plowing into the tables.
Its rider wore a helmet and thick sunglasses and spoke with a slight accent.
Probably North African. Malik could not guess at his height or weight.
After an hour, Malik asked to be excused. He was needed at work.
Another agent joined Pascal and Jean-Pierre in the room and brought his laptop.
They were already getting some footage from closed-circuit cameras in Bayeux.
The limo company had sent over the GPS logs for the black Peugeot, which was seen stopping on the street in front of the restaurant at 12:01, April 28, two weeks earlier.
The camera was fixed above a window of a bank across the street and at least a hundred feet away.
Chelsea was getting out of the car on one side, Paul on the other, but he was not visible. The footage was not helpful.
Another camera caught a glimpse of the car as it passed the plaza, but, again, it revealed nothing. The police were still making the rounds in Bayeux, so perhaps they would find something more valuable. What Jean-Pierre wanted was a better look at Laurent, the second driver.
He and Pascal returned to his office and chatted briefly.
Pascal said, “There was contact last night, another video from Mr. Tanner, sent from Mars. We were able to copy it and our techs are still trying to track it. Mr. Tanner looks awful and says he will be released later. We’ve heard that before, haven’t we? ”
Jean-Pierre was listening but staring out the window.
Pascal continued, “He also warns against publicity, says any of it will be his demise.”
“Of course there will be none, for many obvious reasons.”
“We understand.”
“How high will this go in Washington?”
“I don’t know. That’s not my decision.”
“Take a guess.”
“It will become a priority. This is the third kidnapping, and I expect it will get some attention.”
“It should. We have to stress our desire for secrecy. I’ll have a chat with the Foreign Minister’s Office this afternoon.”
“Good. I need to go. Let’s talk on Monday.” Pascal got to his feet and they had a quick handshake. “Have a good weekend, Jean-Pierre.”
“Well, Pascal, it looks as though my weekend and your weekend just went down the drain.”
“Agreed.”