Political Thriller: RUSSIAN HOLIDAY, an American Assassin story

  Since Robert had some time, he set out to begin the process of surveilling Shamoun. The jihadist lived in the Bastille area of Paris, a place normally thriving with students, mostly because of the cheap rent. As a result, it also had its share of scumbags. Shamoun lived in a less scummy part of the neighborhood near the river. Robert took his motorcycle there to scope it out. Shamoun’s building was on the Quai de la Rapée, almost directly across from the metro station of the same name. His fourth floor apartment had one wall made almost entirely of glass that would have given him a very good vantage of anyone or anything approaching from below. Robert parked his motorcycle past the building, and casually walked by it, snapping pictures surreptitiously with his phone as he pretended to talk on it “hands free.” As he passed by, he noticed two guards standing watch in the courtyard below. From that he assumed Shamoun must be ready to move soon. He took a seat in a local café near where he had parked, ordered a coffee, and waited.

  After about twenty minutes, Shamoun’s entourage was on the move. There were the two bodyguards Robert had seen out front, Shamoun, and then two others – a parade of dark suits with beards. They ushered Shamoun into a black Mercedes parked almost right next to Robert’s bike. Robert waited a beat before pursuing them. He supposed the extra security was because they had either been alerted to the previous two ISIS hits, or Shamoun had always taken these precautions. Either way, it was obvious to Robert he was not a lower occupant on the chain of command. Shamoun was important to them.

  The Mercedes took off down the quai, which hugged the River Seine and its magnificent bridges, and Robert followed under cover of traffic so he could not be seen. In this area, at any time, there were always a number of motorbikes and scooters, so blending in was easy. After a short scenic drive by the River Seine, they made their way to the cesspool outside of Paris which was St. Denis, home to tenement slums of State supplemented housing, containing over 600,000 Muslims, and parked not too far from a local mosque. The five, conspicuously devoid of any police surveillance, proceeded to a corner coffee shop, where they hung out for over an hour.

  What is he up to in there?

  With Shamoun’s background, it couldn’t be anything good.

  ***

  When Robert arrived home, a stranger was waiting in front of his building. Average height, very cop-looking. Robert activated the door and began to push it in.

  “Mr. Garcia?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Inspector Soussier from the French police. May I have a word with you?”

  “Sure, come on in.”

  Robert held the door open for the Inspector and showed him in. He rode with him in the elevator to the second floor and led him to the apartment. When they approached the door, the dog was barking loudly.

  “You have a dog.”

  “Don’t worry. Just don’t make any sudden moves and everything will be fine.”

  The Inspector stood there nervously as Robert opened the door. The dog’s nose poked through as he pushed it open. It was growling.

  “It’s okay, Butthead. Stand down.”

  The dog obeyed, but kept a watchful eye on Soussier as he stepped inside and Robert closed the door behind him.

  “Don’t worry. Come in, have a seat.”

  Soussier sat down in one of the Ikea arm chairs in the living room and the dog sat in front of him, staring at him.

  “Is he always like this?”

  “Only with strangers. He’ll be fine.”

  “Why did you name him Butthead?”

  “Look at him. He’s butt ugly. You can’t tell the face from the rear end.”

  Soussier turned his head to look at the dog, which curled its lip. All he could seem to see was teeth, and rear ends usually weren’t equipped with those.

  “How can I help you, Inspector?”

  “I’m working on a homicide case and your name came up in association with it.”

  “My name?” Robert looked at him, curiously.

  “Yes. I’ve been reviewing the files of a Detective Maynard from Arizona. You were identified as one of the suspects in a case he was working on.”

  “I was cleared in that case, Inspector. They were profiling veterans who had been in Special Forces. I fit the profile. There are a lot of us who do.”

  The Inspector nodded and flashed a phony French smile with impudence.

  “Just the same, it’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it, that you would be in Paris at the same time as a series of jihadist murders?”

  “Jihadist murders?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “I try not to pay attention to the news. Too depressing.”

  “Of course.” The Inspector brushed off his sleeve and looked again in the direction of the dog, which was following his every move. “I am investigating the murder of a suspected ISIS recruiter as well as a suspected terrorist banker.”

  “So you want to find whoever did it so you can give them a medal or what?”

  Another grin. “Very funny, Mr. Garcia. No matter what their alleged terrorist affiliations, these were murders and murder is against the law.”

  “Of course. But you have to pardon me because I can’t imagine how I could possibly help you.”

  “Can you tell me where you were Wednesday night, from about midnight to 4 a.m.?”

  “I was home.”

  “Do you have any witnesses?”

  Robert motioned to the dog with his head. “Just Butthead here. He’s my only roommate.”

  Soussier looked at the dog. The direct eye contact provoked another baring of its teeth.

  “I see. Well, if I have any more questions, can I feel free to call on you?”

  “Of course. Anytime.”

  Soussier stood up from his chair and the dog jumped to attention, on alert.

  “It’s okay, really.”

  Robert walked the Inspector to the door. Besides the corps de guard on Shamoun, he also had a cop up his ass. The next job was not going to be easy.

  ***

  Robert was not very good at having friends, but Lyosha made it easy. He took him to an Asian restaurant off the Champs Élysées with excellent cuisine. Instead of vodka, Lyosha settled for sake.

  “This Asian vodka is not so strong, is it Boab?”

  Robert sipped at his sake which brought on a strange face from Lyosha.

  “Boab, no sipping. Drink like a man.” Lyosha downed another small terra cotta cup of sake in one gulp like it was a shot of vodka.

  “This is sake, Lyosha. It’s kind of like wine.”

  Lysoha started at him. “Do adna!” He laughed.

  Robert slammed the sake. It was warm and soothing. He had discovered a new way to drink it.

  They spent the rest of the evening poking around the stores on the Champs Élysées until the night clubs opened, for another long night of drinking and carousing. This was Lyosha’s idea of the perfect vacation. Despite Lyosha’s insistence, Robert did not bring a girl home this time, and he limited himself on the alcohol. He had to be alert at all times now that he was under the watchful eyes of the French police.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Inspector Soussier’s meeting with the coroner went as he thought it would. The cause of death was a single shot to the head with a small caliber bullet, probably a .22. There was evidence Naifeh had ejaculated shortly before death, and long, bleached hairs had been found on his bedsheets. That meant a woman was either the murderer or it was the obvious. In any event, she had to be located because she was one of the last persons to ever see him alive. The DNA testing would take a while, so he concentrated on the reports of the other physical evidence on the scene. There was a rap on his glass door and he looked up to see Franco, smiling

  “Come in, officer.”

  “Inspector, I want to thank you for allowing me to work this case with you.”

  “No need to thank me, Franco. You were the first on the scene. To the first go the spoils, usually. What have you got?”


  Franco spread a few sheets of paper on Soussier’s desk.

  “We got a positive identification on one of the latent fingerprints, sir. The woman has a rap sheet for prostitution.”

  Soussier looked at the report. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Do you want me to bring her in, Inspector?”

  “Yes, please. I’d like to talk to her.”

  “Is she a suspect?”

  “Well, we can’t rule anything out, Franco, but I doubt it.”

  Franco’s look was that of disappointment.

  “Police work isn’t usually that easy.”

  ***

  When Robert finally dropped Lyosha off at the airport, he made a mental note to himself to visit him in Moscow. This trip had been complicated by work and the worry of a new element of danger from Inspector Soussier. Robert’s first trip to Russia had been cut off by the same type of interruptions and he promised himself he would return someday to set it right. After dropping Lyosha off, he turned in the rental car and took the train home, plotting out his next moves in his head, like a chess game against an unknown and mysterious opponent.

  Walking home from the metro station, he could see a pair of plainclothes officers parked in a green Renault just a few paces from his apartment. He doubled back, crossed the street to the boulangerie and bought a baguette, then went next door to the fromagerie and selected some cheese, and finally to the wine store, the third shop in the neighborhood trilogy, where he selected a red wine to pair with it. On the way back home, he stopped at the Renault and tapped on the window. The cop in the passenger’s side rolled it down.

  “Oui?”

  “Pour vous.” Robert held out his hands with the culinary gifts. The surprised sleuth instinctively latched on to them and Robert let go and walked on.

  “Mai, attendez! Attendez!”

  The man called out and exited the car, holding the packages and Robert waved back to him.

  “Bon apetitt!”

  Robert waved with the back of his hand as he walked on. When he arrived home, he snubbed the dog, which kept jumping around and whining to signify his arrival.

  “Shut up, Butthead!”

  The watching eyes outside made Robert uneasy. Being under surveillance added an extra component of danger to an already dangerous occupation. He removed his electronic bug detection equipment from the closet and began to sweep the room.

  “Has anybody been in here, boy?”

  After ten minutes, he had assured himself it was clean, but Robert’s paranoid mentality would not let it rest. He revised his practice to hack into wireless Internet connections at cafés in the future. If they were monitoring his Internet connection, they could not decrypt his messages, but they would sure be able to tell he was sending them out encrypted.

  He grabbed his laptop and headed for the door, only to find it blocked by the big dumb dog.

  “Get out of the way, dumbass!”

  He whimpered and hung his head low.

  “All right, all right, come on.”

  The dog happily wagged its tail as Robert opened the door and the dog flew out of it. He walked briskly to the corner and crossed the street, doubled back and continued, all the while looking for a tail. Halfway to Butthead’s favorite walking park they stopped at Robert’s favorite

  French restaurant. Taking an inside seat next to the window, Robert ordered escargots for an appetizer, followed by filet mignon. He opened his laptop, hacking into the WiFi from the design shop next door which was closed for lunch. His fingers flew over the keys, composing a message to the anonymous head of covert operations, Gregory Manizek:

  Heat is on. I cannot fulfill this task. Request reassignment immediately.

  He slapped the top down on the computer.

  “Tout va bien, Monsieur Robert?”

  Robert looked up at an inquisitive waiter, who was holding a bottle of red wine, showing him the label.

  “Oh, oui, oui.”

  The waiter poured a small splash of wine for him to taste, and Robert put the glass to his lips and swilled.

  “C’est bon.”

  The glass was filled with St. Émilon and the bottle set on the table. Robert picked up the glass and peered through the rich red liquid. He took a sip and put it down. By that time, the escargot had already arrived and the dog was standing at attention, wagging his tail. Robert turned his head to him.

  “You think you’re getting some now?”

  The dog hung its head.

  “That’s right. You have to wait.”

  The dog collapsed in a heap on the floor by the table as Robert ate the escargot. He only perked up when the waiter put the filet on the table. By the end of the meal, Robert switched his computer back on and found a reply to his message:

  Negative. Continue the course.

  Robert angrily typed back: Need to speak with you, in person.

  For a free agent, Robert was beginning to feel a lot like an employee. Or a slave.

  ***

  Robert knew there was no way he was getting out of this latest assignment. It would have to be done. What he would do after this was undecided. He continued with his preparations despite the complications on both sides.

  Day by day, he left his apartment with a police tail on his ass. They had not yet found where Robert garaged his motorcycle and, if they did, it was game over. At that point, he wouldn’t be able to move it. So, he played a constant game of hide-and-seek with the cops, which slowed the entire process down. Leaving his apartment, Robert used standard counter-surveillance to escape the tail, and then descended into a metro station two blocks away to catch the number 10 line to connect to the number 9, instead of using the station right on his own street. From there, he exited another two stations away from the garage and walked the rest of the way. Eventually, they would beef up their surveillance efforts, so Robert changed his patterns frequently.

  When he finally reached the garage, he took off on the motorcycle toward Quai de la Rapée, to do his own surveillance on Mahmud Shamoun. There appeared to be no break in Shamoun’s security force. They guarded him wherever he went, and he was never in the open. His suited goons surrounded him at all times, providing the perfect cocoon for his ingress and egress in every open space.

  As usual, Shamoun headed for the Paris suburb of St. Denis, and, per his habitude, he and his group frequented a local coffee shop near the run-down public housing units known in France as “HLM” (Habitationà Loyer Modéré). Robert was starting to notice a pattern of hordes of Arab youths flocking to the coffee shops whenever Shamoun was there.

  Is he a recruiter or what? I have to find out what’s going on in there.

  To observe, he had to be where Shamoun would be before he got there, so as not to cause notice to himself. Based on Shamoun’s patterns, the odds were about 1-in-4 that he would be sitting in the correct coffee shop at the right time. Robert rented a small dive in the area so as not to be a stranger in their midst. He used the little apartment as a home base, going home only at night. That way, he could let the dog out at night and again early the next morning, leaving the bulk of the day to concentrate on his subject.

  Robert stashed his motorcycle at a parking near Place de Clichy and rode the metro to a different station in St. Denis every day. His dark skin and hair, along with his prowess in the language of Arabia made blending in not an onerous task. Robert was a dead-ringer for one of “them,” which meant he could run in their circles with a minimum of suspicion. Being a dead ringer, however, didn’t prevent the risk of ending up really dead himself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Robert awoke to barking and buzzing at the visitor-friendly hour of 5:30 a.m. He swung his legs out of bed and his bare feet hit the cold tile floor. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock.

  Shit.

  “J’arrive, j’arrive!”

  He shuffled to the door, scratched his butt and looked through the peephole.

  Cops.

  Robert unbolted the
door. Standing in front of him, cup of coffee in his hand, was Inspector Soussier.

  It’s Lieutenant Columbo.

  “Good morning, Mr. Garcia.”

  “Morning? It’s still dark outside.”

  “I’ve been trying to talk to you. Trouble is I can never catch you at home. May I come in?”

  Robert stood aside, making a sweeping motion with his hand. The intruder entered, spouting his French faux politesse as Robert shut the door.

  “Thank you. May I have a seat?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Soussier put one foot into the apartment and received a friendly greeting of a dog’s nose in his crotch, growling.

  “Don’t worry about him. Just don’t make any fast moves. Down, boy!”

  The dog stood down and Soussier perched himself on one of the armchairs and set his coffee cup on the table. Robert and the dog remained standing.

  “We’ve been missing each other lately.”

  “You could have called, Inspector.”

  “What keeps you so busy these days?”

  “My private business, I suppose.”

  Soussier humphed and cleared his throat.

  “So what did you want to talk to me about?”

  “I’m a little puzzled about this case I’m working on.”

  “That’s what detectives do, isn’t it? Work on puzzles?”

  Soussier smiled slyly, and continued. “I thought maybe you could help me.”

  “I really don’t have any experience in police work. I’m afraid I wouldn’t make a very good consultant.”

  Soussier pretended not to hear the response as he opened his briefcase and spread some pictures out on the table next to his coffee cup.