The Caliphate Page 2

  A stocky young man came in. He wore a beret slanted to the right that partially covered a bandage around his head. On the left, his blond hair reached below his ears. They took stock of each other and the newcomer said, “Are you Steve Church? Dr. Coogan told me to expect you. So I came back as soon as I could. From the hospital.”

  He touched the bandage lightly.

  “You have a key? He didn’t tell me.”

  “Yes, I’m Steve. And you are…?”

  “Oh, I’m Benjamin. I’m the cook. I’m actually a student at the Cordon Bleu school. In return for doing the cooking, I get room and board. It’s a win-win for everybody, isn’t it? Well, it was until last night. Look what they did to me.”

  He took off his beret to reveal a white pad being held in place by the bandage over the shaved right side of his head.

  “They? What happened to you? Where is Dr. Coogan?”

  Benjamin went up the stairs past Steve, who followed him to an archway that led to office.

  “Look.”

  A tornado seemed to have hit. There were papers, books and files all over the floor.

  “Look at this mess. Somebody came in during the night. I had just come back. My apartment is downstairs next to the garage. I was at my girlfriend’s apartment since Dr. Coogan left but we had an argument.”

  He shrugged, raised his hands palm up and rolled his eyes.

  “Anyway, I woke up, came upstairs and they knocked me out, but not before I saw this holy mess.”

  “Are you okay? What did they steal?”

  “I bet Achoura let them in. She’s the Moroccan maid—comes in at least once a week. We have cops out front twenty-four/seven. Only someone with a key could have come in. And she had a key. I called the police but they haven’t shown up. The cops outside said it wasn’t their job,” he rambled. He blinked rapidly; he licked his lips.

  “And where is Dr. Coogan?” Steve tried again.

  “Didn’t I tell you? He’s on a business trip. He left pretty suddenly. Hard to remember now. Two days ago?”

  Steve tried to calm Benjamin but decided that only time could help. He wanted to go for a run and take a shower. Benjamin was too agitated to answer questions, but Benjamin kept talking.

  “What did they take? I wouldn’t know about missing stuff. Achoura is the one who has the run of the house. We won’t see her again, I’m sure. Look at this.”

  He led Steve from the office into the dining room. Destroyed paintings and broken glass on the floor.

  “Well, with the police outside, nothing big could have been stolen.” Steve grinned. “I just hope the beds are still here. I’ll be ready to crash pretty soon. If they didn’t steal anything, why did they come? Do you think they could come back?”

  “Come back? The hell you say!”

  Benjamin’s eyes suddenly got bigger.

  “I guess you can take any bedroom on the top floor.”

  He left Steve to fend for himself and went downstairs.

  The house had a narrow front on the street and was designed vertically. The garage and servants’ quarters at street level; kitchen, living, dining room and a den up one flight; the master bedroom and a sitting room on the next level; and several bedrooms on the top floor.

  As soon as he could, Steve changed and went out for a run, leaving Benjamin to deal with the police, if and when they came. After being strapped in a flying box across the Atlantic, he needed to get out and breathe, to clear his mind. He was mystified by the break-in. If no valuables were stolen, what was the purpose of the intrusion? Had they found whatever they were looking for?

  Steve wondered what his absent host was involved in, and where he was. Steve was on a business trip to Morocco. Success in Morocco would give him a step up on the promotion ladder. And, hopefully, Morocco would open the door to other projects in the Arab world. He would show his father that there were careers outside of the CIA. He wanted to carve his own path. More practically, he needed to pay off longstanding student and credit card debts and he feared that a government salary guaranteed that he would be in debt forever.

  But he had gone along with his father’s suggestion to stop in Paris and meet his former CIA colleague Ted Coogan, who had left the Agency and, based on his fluent Arabic and Ph.D. in Middle Eastern studies, had gained respectability in European academic circles. He would be an excellent resource on the Arab world and on Morocco in particular, Marshall had told Steve who had grudgingly admitted that it couldn’t hurt. His father has suggestions for everything.

  Coogan and Church had served together in Morocco under diplomatic cover. Steve wondered if Coogan was still with the CIA.

  The Bois de Boulogne was less than fifty yards south of the Coogan house and his legs were soon propelling him on a path that took him past the Jardin d’Acclimatation and to the Allée de Longchamps, where he turned right. A mile and a quarter farther he made another right to complete a triangle. He looked at his watch: twenty-five minutes, or about three miles, he calculated. It was still fairly early but not too early for other runners and equestrians. On the way from the airport, Steve’s taxi had driven by butchers and fish markets raising their metal shutters. Delivery trucks monopolized the streets. The city was waking up—a great time to run. It made him excited to be in Paris.

  Steve stopped in the kitchen on his way upstairs and found a note from Ted Coogan that he hadn’t seen before.

  Welcome Steve, make yourself at home. Sorry I wasn’t able to meet you at the airport. I had to go out of town but will be back before you leave. Feel free to use anything in the house. The cook’s name is Benjamin, and the maid is Achoura. Also, I attach an invitation to the American Ambassador’s residence if you’re interested. Enjoy.

  Next to the note was a key that he put in his pocket.

  His body was still on East Coast time where it was the middle of the night. He took a quick shower and laid down for a nap after which he would be “good-to-go,” an expression he had picked up from his Air Force buddies in Korea where he had obtained his pilot’s license. But, before he could go to sleep, he heard the police come in.

  After a few minutes, Benjamin called him, “Steve? Steve? Can you come down? The gendarmes want to speak with you.”

  Benjamin was sitting at the large dining room table across from a police detective dressed in mufti. The mahogany table was easily large enough for a dinner party of twenty-four.

  “Steve, the inspector here wants to talk to you,” Benjamin said then left the room.

  The detective extended his hand.

  “I am Detective Beauvais, Monsieur.”

  Except for his ample girth, testifying that he had not been a street cop for a long time, Beauvais’s broom-like mustache and bald head reminded Steve of the Dupont and Dupont twins, inspectors from the Tintin cartoons he had loved while living with his family in Francophone countries.

  After inspecting his passport and flight tickets, the detective asked, “Why are you in Paris, Monsieur? Business? Tourism?”

  “Vacation. Dr. Coogan is a friend of my father’s. He was supposed to pick me up at Charles de Gaulle airport this morning but he didn’t show.”

  Steve remembered his surprise that Coogan might even be late. If he had learned anything from growing up with a CIA father it was that there was no alternative to operational punctuality; lives depended on it. It was one of Marshall’s unbending, and unending, rules.

  “And who is your employer?”

  At this point, Steve sensed that the detective was well aware of Coogan’s prior incarnation. Beauvais might have looked like a cartoon character but Steve realized that it would be a mistake to underestimate him.

  “West Gate Scientific International. We provide consultants, experts, in the area of national defense and crisis management to state and federal agencies in the United States.”

  “Very interesting. And what is your specialty Monsieur Church?”

  Steve guessed from the line of questioning and the conspiratorial smi
le that the detective thought he had an American intelligence officer on his hands.

  “I’m just an analyst. Have you tried to reach Dr. Coogan? He should be informed.”

  Steve surprised himself that he did not tell Beauvais that he was on his way to Morocco on business. There was no secret about it. With annoyance, he recalled another of his father’s saying, “Don’t answer questions that have not been asked, especially when speaking to cops.”

  Another rule, but probably not bad advice.

  “Yes. We are trying to reach him. The cook gave me his number.”

  Two gendarmes appeared on a patio off the dining room and called the detective who joined them outside. Steve followed. Stone stairs led down from the patio to a rectangular gravel garden demarcated by three walls at the base of which were shrubs and flowers growing in a three foot wide ribbon of earth. One of the policemen pointed toward the left. There were footsteps in the dirt around flowers that had not survived a trampling. Steve assumed that the Saudi Ambassador had a similar garden on the other side of the wall.

  Steve asked the detective, “What happens next? Do you go next door and ask questions?”

  “No, Monsieur. We don’t deal with the diplomatic corps. That’s not in our jurisdiction. But, if nothing is missing…”

  His voice trailed off.

  Steve guessed that, since the evidence involved the Saudis, the investigation was over. He went upstairs. A half-hour later, he knocked at Benjamin’s door dressed in a dark suit, blue shirt and a tie decorated with a multitude of national flags.

  “I’m leaving. I’ll be back after dinner.”

  Not certain that he would get to talk with Ted Coogan, Steve decided to pay a visit to the Institut du Monde Arabe. In the Metro, the French President’s memorable statement, “We are all Americans!” made immediately following al Qaeda’s attack against New York and Washington, came to his mind. How long ago that seems, he thought. Since then, al Qaeda had inspired and directed attacks in several countries, to include Morocco.

  The Arab Institute building seemed to be of recent vintage. His guide book informed him that the southern façade was a geometric pattern of metallic rectangles at the center of which was a camera-like aperture that opened and closed according to the available light. He noticed, however, that some were wide open and others closed.

  One of the guards explained, “They haven’t worked for several years now.”

  The exhibits were disappointingly sterile and bare as if the funding had run out.

  Before leaving, he went up to the ninth floor terrace for a view of Notre Dame across the river but was turned away. It was closed for a special event. Steve looked past him where a group of men dressed in suits were being served drinks and finger food. A cluster of VIP’s had their backs to him and seemed to be listening to someone hidden by their bodies. The signs to the cafeteria reminded him that he hadn’t had anything to eat since landing.

  As he sat enjoying his tabouli at a plastic-topped table, a light rain drove the VIP’s into the cafeteria. The well-dressed group was men-only and seemed a bit out of place in the low-ceilinged, self-help, cafeteria. Steve noticed that the center of attention was on one man, short but with good shoulders. When he sat down, the group pulled tables and chairs around him. He spoke Arabic, a language everyone seemed to understand. When Steve got up to leave, he saw that the man had a full black beard, an intense gaze and a sharp nose.

  This guy is on a mission, Steve thought.

  Then he recognized him. Tariq al Khalil had attended the Unversité Libre de Bruxelles at the time Steve had obtained his Master’s in International Relations there. Steve left without making any sign of recognitions. He and his classmates had always thought al Khalil to be from another world. He was obviously more comfortable here then he had been in a strictly European setting.

  He looked at is watch and decided he could still make the ambassador’s reception. The ambassador’s residence near Place de la Concorde was well guarded and he had to produce Coogan’s invitation to get through the French security gauntlet and then the Marines on duty at the door. He knew from the invitation that the reception was in honor of the American Deputy Chief of Mission Jack Hastings, who was being reassigned to Tel Aviv as the new ambassador.

  Here we go, he thought, as he waited his turn to go through the reception line. He was familiar with the ritual of the diplomatic reception. He understood that the cocktail reception was the professional vehicle of choice for the members of the diplomatic community. As wandering waiters in their impeccable white jackets circulated with flutes of American sparkling wine they referred to as “champagne” and trays of caviar, the several hundred guests in suits and cocktail dresses were busy playing their roles as diplomats, as spies pretending to be diplomats, or as reporters hoping to get a story. In the ecology of these affairs of state, Steve thought, members of the media were as remora to a shark. For the French officials, showing up was truly the most important part of their jobs—they enjoyed being courted. He was sure of one ground truth: the successful players never underestimated the size of the egos in the room.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Steve spotted an attractive woman striding across his field of vision apparently toward a bar set up in one corner of the large reception area. She appeared to be in her late twenties and was wearing a black halter dress that showed off her wide, coppery shoulders. He hesitated a second, his fingers lightly touching wooden beads he wore around his neck through his shirt, and then directed his steps to intercept her and took inventory of her model’s height and poised gait. Unlike many models, however, she was not anorexic; he let his eyes savor the outline of her body. As he got closer he saw that her face was oval with pronounced cheekbones and full lips, framed by tumbles of thick, black, wavy hair. Her almond shaped eyes and tawny skin color suggested Caucasian ancestors wedded to diversity before diversity became de rigueur.

  Still on course, Steve swept two glasses from the tray of a passing waiter and, a second later, handed one to the focus of his attention.

  “Hi. I’m Steve Church. I’m a guest of the American Embassy passing through Paris. Which embassy are you with?”

  The woman took an instant before replying, looking at him with a frank and bemused smile.

  “I’m Kella Hastings, Jack Hastings’ step-daughter. I don’t remember you coming through the reception line. Don’t you know about protocol?”

  She’s smiling encouragingly, Steve thought, glad to have passed muster.

  “I came late. I did go through the line but I didn’t see you either. You must have been on a break. Does protocol allow breaks? Are diplomats unionized? I’m in Paris for a few days, sort of on vacation. I gather that your father is being assigned to Tel Aviv. Are you going with him?”

  “No, no. I’m going to graduate school here in Paris. I’m at the Ecole Nationale d’Administration, better known as ENA. It’s like Harvard in reputation.”

  She grinned.

  “It’s also a great way to become prime minister. Over half of France’s prime ministers have graduated from ENA. Well, okay, Sarkozy is not an ENA graduate. Paris on vacation? By yourself?”

  “I’m actually on my way to Morocco—business trip. Do I detect an accent? What is your first language?”

  “I was born in Mali. My birth parents were Tuareg. Have you heard of the Blue People—the Tuaregs?”

  “A little. They’re desert nomads, right? So this means that your first language was…?”

  Afraid he was being too direct, he changed course.

  “You know, this is turning into more than idle cocktail chatter. What does the future prime minister say to moving the venue of this meeting to a more private location, away from the old folks?”

  In response to Kella’s raised eyebrows, Steve added, “Such as the bar at the Crillon Hotel. If I recall correctly, it’s within walking distance, right? OK if I check with you later?”

  “Well, maybe. I’m not sure what else is planned toni
ght,” she said, with controlled enthusiasm.

  Kella turned back to the reception line. The traffic of arriving guests had stopped and reversed. People with other diplomatic functions to attend were saying their goodbyes.

  While Kella played her role in the line, smiling and shaking hands, Steve quickly worked the room. He liked the give and take and circulated from one group to another. His social skills had caused him to be elected president of his fraternity at Lehigh University.

  Eventually, the American ambassador, as host, gave Jack a quick thanks, goodbye, and good luck speech, and Jack Hastings responded in kind to American, French, and other colleagues. The French foreign minister added his own thanks and best wishes to end the official part of the reception.

  After the speeches, Steve found Kella in the crowd.

  “Well, what do you think? There are some important issues to discuss.”

  “You didn’t give up; I’m glad,” Kella said with a laugh.

  Steve and Kella left together through the security barriers, and walked to the Crillon Hotel nearby on the Place de la Concorde.

  “We’ll be lucky to get in,” Kella said. “This is a favorite hangout for movie stars, kings, presidents and their coteries, as well as the paparazzi they love to attract.”

  More parasites, Steve thought.

  A waiter stopped them at the entrance to the bar. “Do you have reservations?”

  Steve looked over his head and could see that the room was crowded.

  “Yes, Ambassador Hastings’ office called … from the American Embassy,” he added. “That must be our table there.”

  He pointed to a small table in the back being cleared by another waiter. The waiter delayed until Steve slipped him a Euro note and they sat at a table for two in the wood-paneled bar.

  Kella smiled and asked, “Do you always get what you want? What are you going to do in Morocco?”

  “I had a bright idea, trying to capture part of the Moroccan market. Be careful what you wish for. Now I’m a one-man posse to bring back a contract. But what about you? You have a fascinating background.”