The Fat Man's Disk: Treachery in the Middle East

By Raoul Drapeau

This contemporary techno-thriller is about a rich megalomaniacal preacher who plans to forcibly set up a Christian homeland in a small Arabian Gulf country. There is an American engineer who happens on the plot, his humorous Turkish sidekick, a wily French Interpol officer, a sexy French girl, and an assortment of thugs. The fast-paced action and unorthodox plot take place at exotic locations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Raoul Drapeau
• Release date: Jan 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452456225

Raoul Drapeau

Raoul is a high-tech entrepreneur, lecturer, inventor, commercial arbitrator and holds a graduate degree in engineering. He is the author of numerous articles on the history of technology, as well as his new guide for inventors, Your Invention. The techno-thriller, The Fat Man's Disk, is his first work of fiction.Available now for Kindle, Nook, iPad & Sony readers. If you don't have an eBook reader, just download Adobe's free "Digital Edition" software.

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THE FAT MAN’S DISK

Treachery in the Middle East

By Raoul E. Drapeau

Smashwords Edition

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The Fat Man’s Disk

Copyright 2011 by Raoul E. Drapeau

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition License Note: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for them. If you are reading this ebook and it was not purchased by or for you, please purchase your own copy at smashwords.com. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Author’s note: This book is not appropriate for children.

This work is fictional. Any resemblance to living persons is completely coincidental.

Dedicated to my wife Connie, for her editing skills, unending patience and support.

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Why shouldn't truth be stranger than fiction? Fiction, after all, has to make sense.

Mark Twain

CHAPTER 1: THURSDAY NIGHT

The airport security line was moving at a snail’s pace, and he didn’t think he would make the Paris flight. Beads of sweat were forming in his armpits. Finally reaching the head of the conga line with only 30 minutes to spare, he removed his coat, shoes, watch, wallet, pens, belt and pocket change – anything that might set off an alarm – stuffed them into the plastic bin, and shoved it into the X-Ray scanner. Since the new high-tech body scanners hadn’t been installed at his airport yet, he passed through the 20 year-old magnetometer and impatiently stood with his arms outstretched while a no-nonsense TSA officer ran a squealing high-tech wand all around him. The process always made him feel a little like a hard-timer checking into prison or visiting his doctor for a physical (Turn your head and cough.)

Since the trip was a last-minute assignment, all he had been able to get from the internet was standby space in coach. But luckily, just as he got to the boarding area, a seat opened up on the packed plane. The clerk gave him the seat of an elderly priest who had fallen violently ill after eating a tasty-looking, but bacteria-laden chili dog from the crowded snack bar.

As a result of his questionable good fortune, Jack Simpson was now one of hundreds of people who had successfully negotiated the security process and were now filing onto the fully-packed flight. Like others, he carefully eyed his fellow passengers hoping that none of them had suicidal intentions and wondering what he would do if they did. Arriving at his seat, he saw that he was sandwiched between a grossly overweight man, his ample spare tire overflowing his own meager space, and a lanky, sullen teenager with spiky, bright-orange hair and shiny metal rings piercing various parts of his pallid face.

Adding his distress, he hadn't eaten before boarding, so when the plane reached cruising altitude, he indulged in a cocktail to calm his nerves and then decided to try the airline's meal. Unfortunately, it consisted mostly of unrecognizable plastic-encased morsels that he washed down with a screw-top bottle of red wine of undisclosed vintage. None of this helped his digestion, and all of it conspired to keep him awake and restless.

Adding to his misery, his seat was broken and wouldn't tilt all the way back. Jack was fairly tall and couldn't scrunch up in the seat the way a shorter man could. To make matters worse, he couldn't read because his reading light seemed to be in the midst of its death throes, flashing on and off in some crazed Morse-code message. He sighed and turned it off to spare his eyes. The entertainment of the moment was two squalling babies crying in fractured harmony two rows back. He was in for a long night

Pulling his well-worn sheepskin jacket tighter around him to try to get warmer, Jack tried to drift off to sleep. But he was one of those people who just couldn't sleep on a plane, unless he so medicated himself that it took days to recover. With little else to do, he thought back over recent unhappy events in his life.

Her last words were, You're an unfeeling, insensitive clod. You never really listen to what I say. And what's more you're married to your job. What do you need me for? You're thirty-two. Grow up. Goodbye.

As he recalled his ex-fiancée's parting words, they still stung. Sure, he worked long hours and had a hard time communicating with women. But she was always so sensitive about everything. But he knew he wasn't a plastic pocket-protector, geeky type of engineer, either. He liked women – and knew he had some social graces. He'd even overheard female colleagues say he was good-looking enough; gangly but serviceable. Hell, maybe he'd get lucky killing time between flights in Paris. And not being engaged any longer might open up some interesting possibilities, too.

In spite of his current malaise and unrest, Jack was looking forward to the trip; at least the part of it that would be in France. He spoke enough French to get by, and liked the cuisine from the countryside – particularly anything stewed for hours in a red wine sauce over a low flame.

Jack was low man on the executive totem pole at the prestigious international engineering firm of Tims, Randolph & Jarrett, and as a result rarely got to go on international jaunts such as this. This time though, the partner who was supposed to go, came down sick at the last minute. Both old man Randolph and his voluptuous secretary had contracted the same mysterious affliction. Tongues wagged. Jack had received an unexpected phone call from him earlier in the day. Simpson, I need you to take a trip. So, Jack packed his bag.

Jack pulled a month-old and thoroughly dog-eared copy of Time out of the seat-pocket, and absent-mindedly thumbed through it in the dim beam of his snoring seatmate's light. There were the usual articles about crime, guns, terrorism, Russian politics and other light reading. A short article about an evangelical preacher from Texas caught his eye. Having built up a big organization with adoring followers, a glitzy tabernacle that seated 10,000, television programs and all the usual media spots, the man had suddenly left the country. There were reports about his having been spotted in the Middle East, but his current whereabouts was unknown. The article explored several possibilities about why he would have abandoned ship at the height of his career, but concluded nothing. Probably because someone has incriminating pictures of him committing unmentionable acts with female parishioners – or maybe he got caught with his hand in the till, Jack thought with a wry smile, as he stuffed the magazine back in the pocket next to the barf bag and closed his eyes.

Just about the time that he was finally starting to doze, the sun began to appear. Actually, it was only about a half-sun, since part of it was obscured by a thick, grayish cloudbank in the distance. Not a great omen, he thought, as he grabbed his ditty bag and made his way back to one of the telephone-booth sized bathrooms.

As refreshed as the circumstances allowed, Jack de-contorted himself from the cramped space and eased his way back down the aisle past the other bleary-eyed passengers impatiently waiting in line. He nimbly dodged the blankets, pillows, portions of bodies and other objects intruding into the aisle. When he got to his seat, he saw that his breakfast had already arrived. It was in a small plastic tray covered by plastic wrap, with plastic utensils but incongruously accompanied by a linen napkin. The pieces of fruit and a sweet roll looked innocuous enough, and there was even a cute little bottle of seltzer water. However, the extremely fatty piece of ham and the lumpy, off-color scrambled eggs did not appeal to him. He grimaced, thinking that the airline’s cost-cutting program had gone too far. Under other conditions he might have been able to enjoy the meal. As it was, he nursed the seltzer and let it go at that.

After a while, came the usual increased bumpiness as they descended, a grinding noise as the flaps were let down, a loud thud as the wheels dropped into place and finally sharp maneuvering, all of which signaled the upcoming landing at Charles de Gaulle Airport. His pulse started to quicken.

CHAPTER 2: FRIDAY EARLY MORNING

Jack tried to get his thoughts together to plan his day. Usually, he would have prepared for a trouble-shooting trip like this by reading all the reports, site plans and design documents. But in this case there hadn't been enough time. Damn, he mumbled to himself, another last-minute trip. No preparation. No information. What the hell, I'll just have to wing it again. Another damn series of long, late-night visits to nameless places, and endless meetings with unmemorable people.

At least, a company car should be waiting for him. If his boss were arriving instead, then one of the French division Vice Presidents would surely be behind the wheel. I'll be lucky to get the copying machine operator, thought Jack cynically. Whatever they provided, it would save him having to spar with a nasty Parisian taxi driver when his brain was all fogged up. Then later, he'd have to contend with LeBlanc.

Alain LeBlanc was the head of Operations. He was a real Gallic bureaucrat – bossy and aloof, and a stickler for detail. Jack admired that, even though LeBlanc always seemed to treat him like a little boy who needed to be guided step-by-step through every issue. LeBlanc had been in some high political position in the government years before, but lost his job because of some minor indiscretion. Jack never understood that. He thought Frenchmen were admired for such things.

As the big doors swung open, Jack stepped off the plane into a maze of glass-lined corridors, an unwilling member of the herds of people from around the globe, all mindlessly rushing towards customs. He smelled the odors of the harried travelers around him. What had always been different to him about European airports, were the police and soldiers, some of them carrying submachine guns. Although since 9/11, now they could often be seen at U.S. airports, too, particularly when the threat level was elevated. I guess this is supposed to make me feel secure, he theorized. All the same, I don't want to be anywhere around if they go into action.

Jack traveled light. No matter how long the trip, he always liked to fit everything he might need into one small, multi-pocketed canvas bag so he wouldn't have to check it. This policy helped him avoid the gorilla-like baggage handlers, mysteriously misrouted luggage and interminable waits at the carousel. It also meant that sometimes he didn't have room for things that later proved necessary. Like a second shirt.

He walked quickly along the corridor towards the customs counter, trying to jump unnoticed a few spaces ahead in line, but was thwarted when a throng of people from an arriving flight from Istanbul flowed out of a door into the corridor just ahead of him. After that, his progress slowed considerably. Then, way up at the front of the long line, he heard and saw a commotion. He craned his neck and saw a guard grappling with a scruffy looking man in a light brown sheepskin jacket, similar to his own. Several other guards quickly joined the first, and then they all hustled the man off. The whole thing took only a few seconds. A buzzing went up among the passengers as considerable discussion ensued in a variety of languages about the possible cause.

Drugs, offered one.

Smuggler, no doubt countered a smartly-dressed man in a British accent.

Maybe they found something in his shoes, offered a harried Australian.

"Mais non, il est un criminal, je suis certain," suggested an elderly French matron.

And a scholarly-looking Swiss sporting a goatee, declared authoritatively that the man might be the assassin he had read about in the paper that morning.

The idle speculation continued as the line of tired, irritable people slowly shuffled along.

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There was a great deal of concern at customs headquarters because of the threat of terrorism at de Gaulle airport. So, they always had at least one agent without any specific examination duties to be on the lookout for trouble. That duty included observing the customs and immigration counters, watching for anyone acting suspiciously and also looking for anyone who was on the special list they all carried of known terrorists and criminals.

Pierre Camus was very pleased with himself. He'd been chosen over all his other colleagues for this new assignment. On his very first day, he noticed a tallish man of about thirty in a tan sheepskin jacket at the middle NOTHING TO DECLARE counter – the one staffed by one of his middle-aged colleagues with twenty-three years experience and who was well respected for his ability to spot customs offenders. The man had the kind of sixth sense that is hard to train for. People with averted eyes, the unnecessary beads of sweat, the luggage that doesn't match the person, the too-friendly behavior – he was good at noticing it all.

The man in the jacket, who Pierre noted was not on his watch list of suspects, was in an earnest and animated conversation with the customs officer. It seemed that the discussion concerned something that looked like a portable radio. Pierre couldn't imagine what was so important about a radio, but moved closer to find out what the problem was.

Just then something happened that galvanized Pierre into action. First, he heard the tone signal that was his notice that there was a serious problem. All the inspectors had a foot switch that they could activate unobtrusively. The officer must have hit his, since the light on the wall above that inspection station told Pierre that the problem was at that counter. Second, just as the tone went off, and as Pierre was reaching the counter, the man in the jacket seized the radio from the officer. He was pushing the officer away and the situation appeared to be escalating toward violence.

Pierre acted instinctively, quietly rushing the last few steps. He grasped the man in a vise-like bear hug from behind. The man gave no further resistance, and it was all over in a few seconds. Good. Most of the passengers more than ten paces away might not have even noticed anything wrong Pierre thought, proud of his quick action.

Immediately, two other officers arrived, each firmly grasping an arm of the man. Pierre released his grip and displayed a thin, self-satisfied smile. Then, with Pierre in the lead and cautiously holding the man's radio, they all escorted him down the hall about twenty meters to the customs supervisor's office. The officer at whose counter the incident had taken place, gathered up the clothes that lay strewn about the counter and brought up the rear of the little parade, carrying the man's leather suitcase with its now-disheveled contents.

As they watched the procession disappear around the corner, the rest of the tired travelers waiting in that line collectively groaned. Since the inspection lines were now one officer short, his line was closed. They were going to have to start all over again in another line. Welcome to the European Union.

The customs supervisor was sitting at his desk when they all entered. Pierre had no idea what his supervisor's first name was and had never thought to ask in all the time he had worked there. The man had been in the army during the Algerian troubles, had become hardened, and therefore was not someone that inferior officers were informal with. Using a superior's first name was not appropriate and the last was used only when necessary. He was just ...Captain.

The supervisor, now a Captain in the customs service, sat ramrod straight behind his desk as the group filed in. Seeing Pierre Camus at the front of the little group and knowing him as he did, he knew that Pierre probably would be overly formal in describing the events that brought them here. After all the formalities he had to endure during his military career, he hoped this civilian job would be less formal, but it wasn't. He didn't understand why. He waited for Officer Camus to speak.

Camus announced in a firm tone to his superior, "Monsieur Capitaine, this man became violent when he was asked routine questions about this radio device he was concealing in his luggage. We seized it, and brought him and his belongings here to you for examination." Pierre was very proud of himself. He was clearly in charge of the situation. He had been directly involved in the apprehension, and then the presentation of this offender and his actions to his superior. He had concisely stated the facts using a minimum of words, each carefully chosen. No mistakes. This would look good on his record. He could brag about it to his wife.

Wanting some recognition of his own, the officer who had been manning the inspection counter dropped the man's papers in a disorderly pile onto the Captain's desk. He pointed to the Passport and said unnecessarily, "Monsieur Capitaine, here is the passport of this person." The Captain gave it only a passing glance, noting that the man was British.

Pierre was annoyed at this interruption to his little presentation. But he obediently waited for his superior to speak.

The Captain gave a cursory look at the group and then perfunctorily dismissed Pierre's colleague. Pierre smiled a little smile. Then he addressed Pierre. Officer Camus, please examine the contents of the suitcase.

"Oui, Inspecteur, responded Pierre. He took the suitcase to the adjacent table, opened it and proceeded to carefully inspect each piece of clothing he found, thoroughly kneading each piece as he felt for anything unexpected. The British man stood uncomfortably near the desk, watching him carefully. Now is not the time for me to make a mistake, Pierre thought, with my superior watching my every move." So Pierre did it by the book. He checked the seams, buttons and linings as he had been taught. When he completed his examination, he was both surprised and disappointed that there was nothing in the suitcase except a carton of cheap English cigarettes, a beat-up electric shaver and some dirty clothes.

After carefully stabbing the suitcase with his pocket knife in several places, and rapping on its frame with his fingertip to listen for hollow spaces, he concluded that it did not have any false linings or compartments. The only unusual thing about the man seemed to be the radio. Pierre was about to state his findings, when he looked up to see the Captain examining the radio.

The Captain silently turned the small radio over several times, carefully looking at the various knobs and dials. It seemed to be a shortwave radio, although of a kind he hadn't seen before. It had the usual number of controls and digital displays, so he was puzzled as to why the man should have been so upset at normal procedure directed at such a normal-looking radio. That was always a clue to something being wrong – but to what in this case?

He wasn't sure, but clearly this wasn't the normal tourist forgetting to declare a purchase. No law seemed to have been violated. There were no illegal cigarettes, liquor, drugs, perfume or any of the usual contraband. The man was not a fugitive. Certainly being rude to a customs inspector was not against the law, although many days he wished that it were. No, this was something more. Procedure called for him to call headquarters in Paris when he needed further instructions in such unusual cases. They would alert Interpol if they thought it was necessary. This was a time to play it safe. Let them figure it out – that's what they're paid for, he thought.

One moment please Sir... said the Captain, glancing at the man's name on the passport, but not attempting to pronounce his name. He then picked up the passport, got up from his desk, went into the adjacent room, shut the door and placed a phone call.

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Even though it was still early in the morning, Interpol Inspector Claude Moreau sipped his third cup of coffee in an increasingly futile attempt to stay alert. His objective was simple enough – to get through the day, and then get enough sleep tonight to recover. Long nights of investigative work, such as last night, got harder and harder to take as he got older. Of course it was exciting when he discovered a lead that others had overlooked and a lawbreaker was caught. But that was rare. Mostly the work was just mind-numbing details – checking facts, filling in boxes and asking the same questions over and over to the same sad collection of prior offenders, informants, suspects and witnesses.

He considered himself a policeman's policeman. He liked to follow mysteries to their logical end, especially when the end resulted in an apprehension. He was not selfish and cared nothing for the personal rewards; the fancy certificates, engraved medals, attaboys and even the money. For him, solving the crime was all that was necessary.

As he leaned back in his swivel chair, he looked down at his stomach and began to beat on it with his open palms, like a drum. The taut sound told him that his exercise program had kept away the spreading waist line that most of his contemporaries were experiencing. It was a constant struggle for him, though. In the reverse of the normal family pattern, he was the one with the weight problem. His wife could eat anything she wanted and remain thin as a rail. So, having a fairly sedentary job and keeping an irregular eating schedule at best, his solution to the program was to work out at least three times a week. So far, it was working.

For a country boy from the South of France who had been used to a more casual way of life, the big city was a change that he had never gotten used to, even after fifteen years on the force. On the other hand, it was a pleasure to be an Inspector now – a real Interpol Inspector – and not have to wear a uniform every day. His tweed jacket and pipe made him feel like an eminent British detective, and thus unlike most of his colleagues who wore the standard-issue, threadbare, blue pin-stripe suits.

As head of the counter-terrorism unit, he had seen the growing number of Interpol dispatches about the worry of all police agencies worldwide – drugs and terrorism. However, among the reports of the latest cowardly deeds of various terrorist groups – were the simple criminals and the unknown. He always liked to study the cases in the last category – the unusual and mysterious ones always presented an extra challenge for him. He thought that his reputation at having solved cases that others had given up on was well deserved. More often than not, the higher-ups would come to him when others had made no progress, or concluded that the perpetrator had gotten away.

In last week's dispatch, he noticed a description of a shipment of 20 Swiss-made portable shortwave radios being sent from Istanbul to Bahrain. The reports said that while making a routine, random physical inspection, an alert Customs agent in Bahrain opened one of the wooden cases and examined the contents.

By a great stroke of luck, the Bahraini customs agent was an amateur electronics buff and short-wave listening enthusiast. He noticed that some of the radios had been subtly modified, and there was an unusual connector inside the radios, not put there by the manufacturer. Clearly, some device was intended to plug into it. Based on the circuitry, the agent was of the opinion that the connector might be intended for a decoder – a device to make sense of received digital signals that were hidden in the usual music or voice program. But why that might be done was still unknown. So, the Interpol office in Bahrain was ordered to track the shipment, primarily because of the professional and surreptitious way in which the modifications had been done.

Moreau would have preferred a more active plan, but realized that under the circumstances and budget realities they all faced, that was all they could do. Unfortunately though, the undercover policemen following the van that picked up the shipment were involved in a collision when a confused tourist made an illegal turn right into their path. The men were not seriously injured, but the van's driver continued on, unaware that he was being followed. The shipment vanished. Moreau’s instincts told him that this shipment was important – the source of the radios, their destination, the fact that there were just a few of them hidden in the shipment, and the modification itself. It all added up to trouble.

Moreau mentally added this offense to all the other unusual happenings in the world, information about many of which routinely crossed his desk. He would be on the lookout for any new developments in this situation or any of the others that were reported in the daily Interpol intelligence bulletins.

Moreau's assistant, a police Lieutenant on loan from the Nice Police force, was on the phone talking intently with someone as Moreau filled his coffee mug yet another time. Suddenly the Lieutenant rushed over to his desk and said quickly, It's customs headquarters. They say one of their supervisors at de Gaulle airport – a Captain something or other – says he has a man there who was acting suspiciously. Apparently, he tried to smuggle in some kind of shortwave radio. He thought we might know something about it, or want to talk to the man.

At the word ‘radio’, Claude Moreau leaped out of his chair, now fully alert. He practically shouted, "Absoluement! Tell them to keep the man there. We'll be there immediately."

The Lieutenant hurried over to the phone to respond, while Claude grabbed his coat and the keys to the pool car; an unremarkable black sedan. They nearly collided as they converged at the door. Hurry, there's not a moment to waste he yelled. They were outside in the parking lot, in the car and moving, not more than 60 seconds after the Lieutenant had hung up the phone.

Claude Moreau drove fast, yet skillfully. The klaxon made a raucous noise that moved most of the drivers quickly out of the way. Fortunately, the traffic was unusually light that day, and in a few minutes they had gone from their office in a plain grey office building in the northern suburbs, onto the A1 northbound to the airport. Now we'll make good time, he announced, and pushed down a little harder on the accelerator.

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Pierre Camus, the British man he had apprehended, and the two other guards stood uneasily waiting in the Captain's office for him to return. The guards were stationed at the door just in case the man became violent again or tried to escape. But the man only stared at his feet and made no attempt to speak. The room was quiet and stuffy from the years of bad ventilation and strong cigarette smoke. Only a murmur of the Captain's conversation from the adjacent room could be heard. Then the exchange stopped.

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The Captain replaced the receiver and sat down in the chair next to his secretary's desk. Not wanting to go back into his office with no plan in mind, he lit up a cigarette and wondered, Why did I receive such great interest from Paris about this situation in the next room? Is it more than it seems? Why wouldn't they tell me anything? Who are they sending? And how am I supposed to delay this man? A cloud of smoke slowly grew around his head, as he stared at the ceiling and pondered his next move. Then, having formulated an idea, he took one last drag, stabbed out his cigarette and reentered his office.

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The officers all snapped to attention.

Sir, said the Captain, addressing the Englishman and giving no apology for the delay. A superior officer wishes to speak with you, and he will be here shortly. Meanwhile, I wish for you to explain to me what this device is.

Hey, what's the big deal? responded the man with a shrug. This guy started rummaging in my suitcase – he was pointing to the customs officer. He got nosy about my radio and when he wouldn't stop, I got mad. It's real expensive, and I didn't want him to drop it. It was no big thing. I'm sorry I made a fuss.

Sir, please open the radio. I would like to see inside asked the Captain politely but firmly, ignoring the apology.

Why would you want to do that? said the man, It's just a plain old radio. How many times do I have to tell you that?

The Captain was beginning to sense even more now that he had someone here who was guilty of some transgression. But he must remain polite. It was expected of him. It was also his desire to find out what was going on – and he hoped that would happen before the others arrived.

It is just standard procedure Sir, the Captain responded in his most precise, but forceful English – he had learned the language from his military days when he had been stationed for a time at an Air Force Base in Alabama on an exchange program. He was probably one of the few Frenchmen who spoke English with a noticeable Southern drawl.

Your procedure sucks unwisely commented the Englishman in coarse slang.

The Captain continued unfazed, not fully understanding the expression, but realizing that it was not complimentary. If it is just a standard radio as you suggest, then surely you cannot object to it being opened. In any case, if you don't open it immediately, I will instruct the officers to forcibly break it open. We must be sure there is no contraband inside.

The Englishman suddenly stopped his protestations, having been told by his employer that there was no contraband inside, and decided to seize on this unintentional opening given by the Captain. He said, Oh, the hell with it! Why not? Get me a screwdriver.

The Captain reached into the back of the bottom drawer of his well-worn wooden desk, and produced a small tool kit. It contained several types of hand tools, including a variety of screwdrivers. The Englishman chose a small Phillips screwdriver, leaned over the desk and methodically began to unscrew the screws holding the case together. Ever-so-slightly and instinctively, Pierre leaned backwards away from the radio – just in case something dangerous happened. As he did so, the Englishman slowly separated the two halves of the case, exposing the interior.

Nothing happened. The Captain bent forward to get a better look. The Englishman backed up a few steps, and with his arms folded over his chest, stood quietly while the Customs officers peered into the interior of the radio. The Captain looked at it with care, turning the radio over and over several times, gently tapping several of the parts inside the case. Pierre was no expert on radios, but it looked like one to him. He couldn't see any packets of drugs, little cloth bags of jewels, wads of high explosive molded to the interior, or anything else out of the ordinary inside.

Sir, please operate this radio directed the Captain.

Sure responded the Englishman, suddenly a model of cooperation. Without putting the covers back on, he extended a short rod antenna, flipped a switch, and as he tuned through a shortwave band, all heard the BBC, Deutsche Welle and a parade of American religious stations. The man smiled broadly.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The klaxon speeded their progress as the cars in front of them scattered, but it also made conversation difficult, so Moreau spoke loudly. Lieutenant, this could be a very important development. It's about those modified radios that they found in Bahrain. If this is one of them, then we'll want to make the best of it.

"Oui, Inspecteur Moreau, do you have a specific plan in mind?" responded the Lieutenant.

We have a difficult problem Lieutenant he explained. The radios aren't illegal in themselves, but the report indicates that they may have an illegal purpose. We need to learn their intended purpose without giving away our interest. The trail has already been lost once and I don't want it to happen again. I have an idea that might work, but we'll have to see what the customs inspector has found before I can be sure. For the time being though, let's make sure that their suspect doesn't see us when we arrive.

The two men continued on, weaving in and out of the traffic, now getting thicker as they approached the airport. When they reached the International arrivals area, Moreau applied the brakes hard, bringing considerable protest from the tires and startled looks from bystanders and a harsh glance from the lone policemen patrolling the area. The two men burst from the car, raced inside and down the corridor. Moreau glanced at his watch as he ran. Twelve minutes had elapsed from the call. They arrived at an unmarked door and Moreau hurriedly punched the proper code into the security lock on the door jamb. Pushing open the door, they found themselves in the nearly-empty restricted-access passageway. Just down the corridor was the customs supervisor's office where the suspect was being interrogated.

The two policemen slowed their pace while Moreau gathered his breath and the Lieutenant smoothed his uniform. Moreau pushed open the door, and purposefully walked into the customs supervisor's outer office. The secretary sensed that these were important people, so in her best secretarial school manner, formally inquired the nature of their business. Inspector Moreau was curt, saying only tell the Captain we're here. She paused a moment and then decided to do as she had been asked, not inquiring further who we was. After buzzing her boss on the intercom, she spoke a few words to him into her telephone.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The buzzer on the Captain's desk telephone emitted a tinny sound. He hoped that his assistance had arrived, since he had just about run out of questions he could think to ask this man. He lifted the telephone receiver and authoritatively said Oui. After a moment of listening, he added, Tell them I will be right there. Then with as much dignity he could exhibit, but breathing much easier now that his reinforcements had arrived, he slowly got up and ordered, Officer Camus, take charge until I return.

"Oui, Capitaine."

The group was alone again. This time too, no one spoke – the Englishman stood next to the desk with his hands jammed into his pockets, looking bored. Pierre Camus lit up a cigarette. The guards shifted position. The wall clock ticked loudly.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In the outer office the two men quickly introduced each other, briefly shook hands and Moreau asked the Captain for his report.

The Captain immediately recognized his visitor's accent as far Southern French, probably Provence. He found it a particularly annoying accent, reminding him of his aloof and demanding primary school teacher. But there was no time for that now, because the Captain was facing a most unusual situation. In fact, this was the first time in his long career at customs that anything like this had ever happened. Usually, customs cases were straightforward, and he handled them easily by himself. Once in a while, he would have to call in the police to take away a traveler with concealed jewels, narcotics or even the occasional fugitive. But now, to have two important persons rush to his office from Interpol headquarters for a simple, but puzzling smuggling case was unheard of. He was nervous.

The Captain began his verbal report in a somewhat tenser and higher-pitched voice than he usually used with his subordinates. "Monsieur Inspecteur, as I have told your capable assistant during my telephone call, a man in the sheepskin jacket arrived at the NOTHING TO DECLARE counter. When my customs officer became suspicious and asked to inspect his radio, the man became very upset and seized the radio back. Fearing that the man might become violent, he was detained by my officers.

Was he alone? asked Inspector Moreau.

The Captain responded, I believe so – we noticed no one else with him.

All right, continue.

Certainly, Sir, he answered. We brought him to the office here on suspicion, and searched his suitcase – the brown leather one on the table in the other room.

Yes, I see, Moreau responded, even though the bag was out of sight in the other room. And what did you find in it?

There was nothing out of the ordinary. Mostly dirty clothes.

No hidden compartments in the suitcase?

No.

What is his nationality?

The man carries a British passport, explained the customs supervisor, and carefully pronounced the man's name.

Moreau mulled the name over in his mind, but it triggered no alarms. What about the radio, he then asked.

Sir, responded the Captain, Thinking that there may be contraband – drugs or perhaps something else inside that would account for his behavior – I asked the man to open the case to the radio, which after an initial reluctance, he did. I examined the inside, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary. There was nothing inside except radio components, all of which seemed normal to me – but I hasten to add that I am not an expert on radio technology. I then asked him to make it work, which he did and it received the normal shortwave bands. We just completed our examination when you and your assistant arrived.

The Lieutenant was not happy with being referred to as Moreau’s assistant, but the Captain was pleased with his own presentation of the matter; concise and to-the-point. He hoped that he hadn't left anything important out, or done anything that violated proper procedure.

Moreau reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a copy of the photograph taken by the Bahraini customs people that had just arrived that morning. Pointing to an object on the photograph, Moreau asked was there a small connector like this inside the radio?

The Captain carefully examined the photograph from several different angles, thought for a moment and then tentatively responded, Yes Inspector, I think there was.

By character, Claude Moreau was a meditative person. He said nothing for several seconds, while deep in thought. No one else spoke. Then he proffered, Good work Capitaine, I believe this man may be involved in a case of great interest to Interpol. The radio he is carrying seems to be the same as some suspicious units recently seen in the Middle East. We want very much to find out where this Englishman is going, and eventually, what is the intended use for this radio.

The Captain responded, Sir, why don't you just follow him and see where he goes. Can we not arrange for that?

Normally, that would be the thing to do, said Inspector Moreau, However in this case, it's important to us not to arouse the man's suspicions any more than they already have been. Your thorough inspection and our interest may be all making him too wary. We must find out where he goes, but there is no time to arrange the use of several police vehicles to follow him. Furthermore, if he is suspicious, he will probably watch for and notice cars following him. Whatever we do, it must be done quickly and with whatever resources we can arrange right now.

I see, said the Captain.

Moreau thought some more. I have a plan, Captain he announced. First, ask the man a few perfunctory questions to put him at ease. Then tell him that he is free to go. You can tell him... let me see. Tell him that it was all a mistake – that we thought he was a drug smuggler or a terrorist who had been reported to be coming here today – anything you like. Just keep him here for five minutes more.

Five minutes. Yes Sir! responded the Captain eagerly.

Good. Then, here is what we'll do...

Inspector Moreau described a plan that the Captain thought was tricky under the conditions of the moment, but with a little luck, might work. If it did work, they would know exactly where this Englishman went.

Of course, Inspecteur Moreau, we will carry out your instructions, answered the Captain, dutifully. But what he thought, eager to protect his reputation in the face of uncertainty, was at least it won't be my fault if the man gets away. The two men from downtown hurried out and the Captain slowly walked back into his office.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Captain settled into his chair, thoughtfully lit up a cigarette, paused for a long moment and then apologized profusely to the Englishman for the inconvenience, insisting that they have a cup of his favorite Turkish coffee together. He then gave a rambling discourse on his difficulties in dealing with the large number of visitors, mistakes in identification that were made, unavoidable delays that occurred, etc, etc. He was sure the man understood the difficulties, particularly at this time of the year when so many of his officers were away on holiday. Eventually, the Captain finished, and glancing at his watch, announced Sir, we have completed our investigation of this matter. It was a simple case of mistaken identity. My superiors mistakenly thought you were someone else. You are now free to go.

Pierre noticed what seemed to be a flash of relief on the face of the Englishman, but the man simply said in a somewhat hostile tone, I told you there was nothing in there. However, he reassembled his radio and carelessly shoved his disheveled belongings back into his suitcase.

The Captain was sure there was more to it than a case of mistaken identity. Paris would not send two senior officers at breakneck speed all the way from the central office for a case of mistaken identity. They came because they badly needed to see this man, or perhaps what he was carrying. Now, for some reason they were letting him go. He could never figure those people out.

Pierre Camus knew there was something different too, because he knew his superior would never offer coffee to a suspected smuggler of his own volition.

When the man was finished, the Captain said Officer Camus, please escort this gentleman to the Immigration counter so he can complete his formalities of entry. As they left his office, the Captain looked at his watch and smiled. Eight minutes had passed. He had played his part – and more.

Pierre beckoned to the man, and they walked quickly towards the Immigration counter. Upon arriving there, Pierre said in his best, but halting English, I hope you are enjoying your visit in France, Sir. Then he did an about face and went back to his station at the Customs area. The Englishman smiled slightly and walked purposefully away. The matter was over for Pierre now. The Captain would no doubt tell him something of what really happened with the man in the sheepskin jacket in his own good time.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Inspector Claude Moreau and his Lieutenant broke into a run as soon as they were out of sight of the customs supervisor's office. They ran headlong down the public corridor, past the streams of passengers and made as sharp a right turn as their speed would allow. Ten meters farther, they abruptly stopped and without knocking, entered a door marked

AIR INTER – PRIVÉ.

This was the private office of the head of communications for the internal airline of France. A harried-looking, middle-aged man was sitting at a desk cluttered with well-worn