Chapter 39
There were several well-established drug rings that had been operating in Marseille for decades.
The French had learned what the Americans had not—it was impossible to stop the trade.
The demand was permanent. Bust a gang here and it regroups over there.
Disrupt this supply chain and it creates three more.
Toss a trafficker in jail and another takes his place.
The agents had a few unwritten rules, and if the suppliers followed them and kept things orderly and didn’t kill too many, life went on. Everyone made money, and lots of it.
Occasionally, though, the police needed to show some success.
They organized stings, made dramatic arrests, and displayed the piles of confiscated narcotics.
In late September, they stopped a small freighter en route to Marseille.
The boat was owned by a smuggler the police knew well.
His name was Benoit and they had caught him before, but not with drugs.
He was one of many smugglers who churned the Mediterranean between southern Europe and North Africa, importing and exporting virtually everything.
After two weeks in jail, Benoit’s lawyer convinced him he was staring at twenty years in prison. He was fifty years old and not in great health. His wife was an invalid. He was supporting his grandchildren. His life was complicated and he simply could not die in prison. Benoit decided to talk.
Pascal Goff took the call from Jean-Pierre Chalamet. Two hours later they were on a flight from Paris to Marseille, where they were met on the tarmac by two unmarked police cars. They sped away, lights flashing, sirens wailing.
Benoit’s story was that several months earlier—he wasn’t sure of the date because his record-keeping was not a priority, and he took most of his revenue in cash—he had charged a man five thousand euros to take a crate from a village near Toulon on the French coast to Zaquiz on the Algerian coast. Inside the crate was a young American man, wrapped in some type of weatherproof fabric, all in black.
His face was covered, and, according to Benoit’s men, he was heavily sedated.
He had been delivered to Benoit’s ship by a fishing boat two miles off the coast. Benoit did not open the crate; thus he never saw the American.
It arrived in Zaquiz in the early hours of the morning.
As usual, the harbor was quiet. Two men met them, managed to put the crate on a hand truck, and rolled it away.
The ship’s unofficial manifest also included a bunch of prostitutes, and they got all of the attention on the dock.
The shipment had been arranged by a middleman, a notorious Algerian gangster the French authorities had known for years and had no desire to meddle with. Typical for dealings in such a murky black market, there was no shortage of snitches and rats looking for bribes.
The intriguing subplot was that Benoit offered a bonus. The price was a slap on the wrist by the French and the usual promise to sin no more. Give him his boat back, stick him with a small fine, and he was back in business.
The American was not alone. The previous year, Benoit had hauled the same freight from Marseille to Zaquiz.
Pascal immediately reported to Hoover in D.C.
—
Rae Claire was at her desk in her small office at Potomac Publishing when her green phone rattled. Green was for agency matters only and she always had it at hand. The assistant instructed her to arrive at Trevor Keefe’s office at Langley in ninety minutes. That had never happened before.
Keefe was waiting with two nameless flunkies who never smiled. He was famously abrupt and skipped any effort at pleasantries. No one offered coffee or water. They sat around a table and looked at a large screen.
“This happened yesterday in Marseille,” he said, nodding at a still image of five men in a cramped room. “The guy with the goofy hat is an Algerian smuggler. He’s being interviewed by some French cops. You speak French.”
“Not much,” she said.
“That’s more than me. We have it translated.”
The video began with dubbed translations, which were slightly more discernible than the rapid-fire French and guttural dialect Benoit mumbled. It ran for eleven minutes, then the screen went blank.
Keefe said, “So, it looks like two of our boys were shipped in crates from France into Algeria. Congratulations, Ms. Russo. Your screwball scenario appears to be on track.”
She nodded but said nothing. She was still rattled by the reality of sitting in the director’s office on such short notice.
“How is the operation proceeding?” he asked.
“So far, so good. I lose my virginity on December tenth, then off to Paris to get kidnapped, hopefully.”
Keefe laughed, then both assistants laughed too. When the moment passed, Keefe said, “Nice work, so far.” He picked up a sheet of paper and said, “We captured eighteen Algerians and roughed them up a bit. Fourteen went to Guantánamo. Does this narrow our list?”
“Maybe, maybe not. And the number is fifteen, none of whom have ever been charged. Three are still there.”
“I’d rather not discuss our mistakes.”
“I’m not going there. Also eleven Moroccans, six Tunisians, two Libyans. That’s more than thirty prisoners and it’s impossible to keep track of them. For some reason they want nothing to do with the United States.”
“But you still believe it’s North Africa?”
“Yes, for what that’s worth. We’re talking about half a million square miles of desert, more camels than people. And, as you know, our assets there are notoriously unreliable.”
“We can’t commit to a search,” he said. Search-and-rescue plans had been on hold for months now.
“Agreed. Let’s keep leaning on the informants we know and stick with the plan.”
“How’s Mr. Nash coming along?”
“Good. So far he’s doing whatever I tell him to do.”
“Sounds like a dutiful husband.”
“The marriage won’t last a year. It’s not supposed to.”
“Sounds like one of mine.”