Emperor in all but name

By TL Bartusch

As the West appears to be on the verge of a new Cold War with Russia, Victor Roth, Interpol's expert on forgery and counterfeiting, is suffering with an outbreak of peace and quiet. Aching for action, he's given an assignment by his Director that only exacerbates his state - he's sent to deliver an address at a ceremony held in a packed Paris theatre. Without warning people begin to drop in their seats and die but it's only the beginning. As Paris is rocked by more terror Russia invades Ukraine and suspicions grow that Moscow is to blame for the attacks. The discovery of a load of forged artworks and illicit drugs takes Roth into the seedy world of the French secret service, Russian gangs and the daily terror of Russian émigrés attempting to remain free in the West. He has to unravel a plot that will affect the future of not only Europe, but the former Soviet states.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TL Bartusch
• Release date: Sep 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311293091

TL Bartusch

T.L. Bartusch holds degrees in Arts and Law, practised as a litigator now writes full time in the thriller genre. TL is interested in the increasing sophistication of organised crime, particularly in art forgery and philately. Other interests examined in the Roth books are political corruption, indiscriminate information gathering and that moment of choosing one course over another that can end in tragedy.

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Emperor in all but name

TL Bartusch

Published by TL Bartusch at Smashwords.com

Copyright 2017 T.L. Bartusch

Previously published in 2014 under the title The Theatre

Revised Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. It remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

Cover design: TL Bartusch

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All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, whether living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Other works by T.L. Bartusch in the ROTH series published at Smashwords.com

Interpol, the French Police & Criminal Procedure in a nutshell

Interpol is an international police organisation that operates out of a state of the art facility in Lyon, in eastern France.

Interpol is a command centre and data bank for the world's police forces using what it describes as 'high-tech infrastructure of technical and operational support', to aid its 190 member countries in fighting crime.

Member countries are represented by their own National Central Bureaux, (NCBs) which often operate as part of the country's national police force.

Victor Roth works in France's NCB, located in the Ministry of the Interior building at 11 Rue des Saussaies, 75008 Paris. Lyon and the NCBs employ experienced police and experts to carry out its investigations but, Interpol's criminal investigation officers do not have any arrest powers, nor do they carry guns.

In France there are two national police forces, the Judicial Police who are responsible for investigating serious crime and the gendarmerie which handles the rest and operates in the provinces.

In the ROTH series, the Paris office of Interpol works with the Direction Centrale de la Police Judiciaire (DCPJ) the 'Judicial Police', responsible for Paris, which is also located in the Ministry of the Interior building in Paris' 8th arrondissement.

French police operate under the provisions of French Criminal Procedure which is an inquisitorial system and aims, unlike the English adversarial system, to arrive at the truth of what happened when a crime was committed rather than putting the prosecution to proof of the facts.

In their investigations French police are responsible to either a prosecutor or investigating judge, sometimes both, depending upon the seriousness of the crime. The judge or prosecutor takes an active role in directing the investigation.

The role of the police is to prepare a dossier of evidence, but at all times they must refer to the supervising prosecutor or investigating judge who will, if necessary, interview witnesses or suspects under oath and issue authorities for searches and other elements of the investigation.

The French system imposes a legal obligation on suspects and witnesses alike to give a full account of the facts and circumstances in which the offence occurred. At least in the investigation stage, the requirement removes the right to silence. Failing to fully co-operate can reflect badly upon an accused person when the matter comes to trial.

National Crime Agency, UK

The NCA became operational in October 2013 with the mission to lead the UK's fight to cut serious and organised crime. According to its website: 'The NCA has a wide remit….to tackle serious and organised crime, strengthen our borders, fight fraud and cyber crime, and protect children and young people from sexual abuse and exploitation.  

'We provide leadership in these areas through our organised crime, border policing, economic crime and CEOP commands, the National Cyber Crime Unit and specialist capability teams. The NCA works closely with partners to deliver operational results. We have an international role to cut serious and organised crime impacting on the UK through our network of international liaison officers.' 

Chapter 1

Victor Roth was a happy man, at least in his personal life. At home in Montmartre he and Marianne were content. That desirable and unexpected state of affairs was, however, in complete contrast to Victor's current professional circumstances. Crime had deserted him and he was therefore idle and likely to become infuriated, particularly when he read reports of criminal aggression in his morning newspaper.

In daily articles Le Monde was recording, with graphic images, the ruthless assemblage of an illegal empire. The facts may have ignited outrage in Roth, but being powerless to change the course of European history, all he could do was swear in uncharacteristic fashion and pose himself a rhetorical question, 'What the hell does that megalomaniac think he's doing?'

These worrying events had unfolded rapidly. In March the Russian Federation's bloodless land grab of the Crimea had been greeted by politicians with wordy protestations and nothing more. If that weren't enough, in recent months Victor had taken to grinding his teeth as he read concise accounts of treaty violations and an invasion masquerading as civil unrest in eastern Ukraine. An undeclared war was raging while the powers that be wrung their hands and wondered what to do about the little emperor of Russia who was on the march, thumbing his nose at their ineffectual attempts to stay his greedy hands.

Roth's thoughts were savage because he remembered the welcome fall of the Berlin Wall and the dissolution of the former Soviet Union. His vivid memories of a time before perestroika and glasnost only served to reinforce his view that Russia's aggression in the former Soviet states, as well as the suppression of the fledgling democracy in Russia itself, was more than troubling. It was a sign of worse to come. As far as Victor was concerned, the world could do without a reconstituted Russian empire and the repression and fear that would be required to hold it together. When he read about a new cold war he shuddered. He put aside Le Monde. He'd had his fill of feeling powerless for the day.

It was of no comfort to Roth that the state of world affairs reflected his emotions which were out of kilter, unfamiliar to him and consequently confronting. Like a child confined to the schoolroom after summer holidays of freedom and adventure, he was aching to be somewhere else and, quite uncharacteristically, out of sorts. It was a new experience for him and, despite applying his mind to the problem, Roth was yet to understand why things were as they were. He was perplexed, chafing at the bonds of his safe desk job and aching for a mystery to solve.

At the end of his tether on this Tuesday morning, he'd almost reached the point of kicking in his computer screen with his handmade Italian shoe because of what he considered to be an unnecessary task. His all powerful Director had, yet again, ordained a set of procedures and checks French universities and employers should follow to detect counterfeit academic and professional qualifications. As Interpol's foremost expert in counterfeiting, Roth's response to the request should have been to be receptive, constructive and wise in advising on to how to deal with what was a significant problem.

However, Roth, in reckless mode, had taken a different approach and the document he'd created dripped with thinly disguised contempt. He was fed up with the stupidity of the academic and industrial establishment who, despite longstanding advice, continued to fail to understand the simple principle of provenance. It was a tenet of life to Roth who spent most of his time tracking down the forgers, fakers and counterfeiters who were flooding the world's economy with the knockoffs of every kind that had become a staple of the buying public. So, instead of doing what he should have done and just repeated what he'd written a number of times before, he'd adopted a hectoring tone, particularly in the final few paragraphs when what had remained of his tolerance for what amounted to laziness was finally exhausted.

His message was at least succinct and easily understood because he'd gone to the trouble of choosing his words carefully. He read over what he'd written.

Just as an artwork must be verified as being from the hand of the artist it is attributed to, before a document is accepted as authentic the institution considering it must take steps to ascertain its provenance.

Roth expanded the definition of provenance for the benefit of those of his readers too ignorant to understand the concept.

Whilst provenance is defined as being the source or place of origin of an item, when considering the authenticity of academic qualifications, provenance can only be established by contacting the issuing institution and requiring verification that they did in fact issue the document.

As far as he was concerned, his message couldn't be any clearer. Institutions had, in their own interests, to undertake a simple, straight forward procedure. Roth had no idea why apparently highly educated and sophisticated operators of places of learning and industries that were the source of the nation's wealth couldn't just get on with doing with he told them to do, but they didn't. They continued to accept documents at face value and suffered the inevitable consequences when fraudulent qualifications came to light.

He'd stopped being bemused by the incompetence and progressed to being irate, because from long experience Roth knew that anything can be forged or faked and documents are the simplest of all. He was tempted to include in his carefully constructed prose the statement, you don't have to be Leonardo da Vinci to fake an academic record, all you need is software and a printer, but refrained from going that far.

After completing his rant on what the art world had always known, that provenance is an essential element of proving authenticity, no matter how difficult or expensive the process is, he added a final kick in the teeth to his readers. He included the online address of the Diploma Printing Agency with the note that the service's easily found website openly offered fake degrees and all supporting documentation, including academic records of enrolment, on demand to anyone who could pay for them.

He printed the report, signed it and took it out to Aimée, Beck's assistant. 'Here it is. Yet again. Will you send it out for me?'

'Of course, but you know he'll want to read it first.'

Roth perched on the edge of Aimée's desk and looked at her with what she'd come to appreciate as his let me persuade you otherwise look. 'It's nearly the same as the last time I wrote it.' She gave him a sweet smile that nevertheless said no, so he tried bribery. 'If you don't show it to him, I'll take you shopping for a pair of Louboutins.'

'The lace pumps?'

'Any kind you want. Come on, Aimée.' She shook her head. He tried again. 'All right, two pairs.'

She took the report and stood up as the prerequisite to the inevitable process of delivery of Roth's terse diatribe to her boss. Sympathetic, she put a manicured hand on Roth's shoulder. 'Good try, Victor, but, you know, those four inch heels make my back ache. Anyway, he's waiting for it and, as you well know, he shouts louder than you do.'

She went into Beck's office. The Director was on the phone, but looked up as Aimée put the report down in front of him, scowling when he saw what it was. Roth recognised the look and withdrew to his room and shut the door. Even though he didn't want to hear the storm when it broke, he accepted that when it did it would be justified. He also knew that if something interesting didn't land on his desk shortly he'd do more than tell human resources managers and university registrars how to suck eggs.

Ever since last year when he'd solved a case about counterfeit English banknotes and tracked down a very talented forger, he'd found his usual work dry and flat. As a result, he'd been restless and short of temper. While Marianne came home and talked about murders and frauds, he'd been caught in a seeming labyrinth of procedural paperwork that was driving him mad.

Although he still had little taste for the grim reality of murder, he felt an excursion into the world of crime wouldn't go amiss. Many things had changed in the last few months and Roth wanted more than he was currently getting out of his day. Working in the field with the Judicial Police and Eric Pryce of the UK's National Crime Authority had left him wanting more.

When Beck opened his door and threw the report onto his desk, Roth's daydream of being given a mystery to solve evaporated. The Director's tirade began. 'Will you ever learn?'

Roth knew it was pointless to try and speak, although he had a quick rejoinder ready about the ability of the intended recipients of the report to absorb simple information. However, nothing he could say would deflect the onslaught of words that was about to assault him.

'These people are looking to you for guidance, help, constructive advice, a practical procedure they can follow and you give them…' Beck pointed an accusing finger at Roth's slim document. 'That…'

Roth raised an eyebrow, wondering what destructive adjective Beck would choose to characterise his work. When it came Beck's word of the day wasn't strictly descriptive as he chose an expletive. 'Shit.'

'Can I speak?'

'No. Fix this so it reads with a semblance of civility and tell them in words of one syllable that they should not only read it, but arrange an expensive conference in an even more expensive resort and talk about it for a couple of weeks. That, and arguing about who should coordinate the program, should keep them busy for the next five years. When you've finished, you can attend to this.'

He tossed a heavily embossed card onto the desk. Roth leant forward and twisted his neck to read it where it lay. It was an invitation addressed to Alain Beck, Director, Interpol National Central Bureau, France, to give the address at the graduation of political science students of the Sorbonne.

'You're joking, Alain. This is addressed to you, not me. I don't…'

'You do now. You can use your report as the subject of what I expect to be an eloquent and witty discourse by Dr Victor Roth, a beacon of inspiration to the young and newly qualified. Enjoy yourself on Friday.'

'Friday….How long have you had this?'

'About a month, but you being a genius, I knew you wouldn't need that long to prepare.'

He left, banging the door behind him. Once again Roth reflected on the deviousness and rat cunning of his Director, which in truth, he could only admire. Victor picked up the invitation and considered his options. From his desk drawer he took out a piece of artist's charcoal which he quickly applied to the surface of the card with careful strokes. The result was a target. At the target's centre was an easily recognisable caricature of the Director's ample frame in which his large Gallic nose formed the bullseye. Victor walked over to a corkboard that covered one wall of the room. It was an historical record of exhibitions and events he'd had attended over the last eight or so years, ever since he'd joined the Paris office, and pinned his small artwork at its centre with a drawing pin. He then wasted the next few minutes of his life seething and trying to land darts precisely between Beck's eyes. His success was limited.

While crime appeared to have disappeared from Roth's sphere of influence, the difficulty of composing something inspiring to relate to his newly minted graduate audience loomed over him like a black cloud. However, inspiration wouldn't come. The elusive thread of an idea, that tiny kernel of wisdom that would underpin his delivery was missing, eluding him, swirling about somewhere in the ether, yet to come to him and be made real.

He dismissed Beck's suggested subject out of hand. Nothing on earth would induce him to talk for twenty minutes about the deadly dull subject of counterfeit academic qualifications to hundreds of fresh faced pseudo-experts without the wit to know how little real knowledge they'd acquired during their undergraduate sojourn in the rarified world of academe.

He leant back in the chair, closed his eyes and prayed for inspiration as Henri Joubert put his head around the door and asked, 'Are you busy?'

'No, come in,' Roth said as if he'd been alone on a desert island for twenty years, starved of company and conversation. 'Save me from this speech.'

'We heard about that. People are putting on bets that Beck will have the ceremony filmed so he can needle you about it later.'

Roth knew it was the truth. 'Save your money. He will. What do you want?'

'Advice. Some identities have popped in the system.'

Victor was suddenly alert and interested. 'Why did they catch your eagle eye, Officer Joubert?'

'Because the identities belong to dead people who tried to travel on Air France to Paris today.'

'From?'

'Algiers.'

'Quite a feat, considering they're dead. And so you should…'

'Advise the Judicial Police and the Ministry, which I've done. But this is the second time it's happened this week.'

'Has anyone been arrested?'

'Yep. A man and a woman were detained at Charles de Gaulle yesterday, travelling on stolen passports issued to persons who'd gone to a better place. The photographs on the passports had been altered.'

'Fakes.'

'Precisely.'

'Where had these ghosts travelled from?'

'Kuala Lumpur.'

'So the passports weren't properly checked in KL?'

'No.'

'You should tell Thomas Tessier in Lyon that you suspect an attempted gathering of illegals in Paris.'

Joubert baulked at the very idea. His face took on a stricken look Roth was familiar with. It emerged when Joubert was faced with dealing with authority, particularly Beck. Tessier of course was a new world of pain as far as Joubert was concerned. 'You want me to phone Interpol's Director of Economic and Financial Crimes in Lyon?'

Roth saw the reticence in Joubert, the fear of flying a theory at one of the most powerful bureaucrats in the world. 'Relax, he doesn't bite.' Joubert was still unsure and opened his mouth to speak, but seeing Joubert's fear, Roth cut him off and pointed to a spare chair. 'All right. Sit there, listen and learn.'

He picked up the phone and dialled. As he waited he ignored Joubert and thought about the possibility of a group of terrorists descending on Paris in such a clumsy way. If the travellers were terrorists, their only prospect of success was likely to be limited to getting themselves arrested. When his call was answered he spoke to Tessier's assistant, Roland, who was not one of Roth's fans.

'Roland, good morning. It's Victor Roth, I have something important for him.' Victor listened for some time. Joubert could hear a stream of precisely delivered words from the handset which Victor finally interrupted. 'Thanks, Roland. I don't need his calendar. Just put me through.'

Victor's forehead had set in a determined line as he put the phone on speaker and replaced the handset. The lines eased as Joubert heard an older, urbane voice come onto the phone. 'Victor, what do you have for me?'

'Thomas. Arrivals at Charles de Gaulle with fake passports. They're travelling in pairs and just waiting to be arrested.'

'How many?'

Victor looked at Joubert. 'Henri?'

'Eight, as at this morning.'

'Who's that, Victor?' Tessier asked.

'You remember Henri Joubert, you recruited him for us last year. Psychology wizard. He worked on the English counterfeiting case.'

'Tall and skinny, nervous demeanour?'

'That's him. We're working on the nerves.'

Tessier laughed. 'A gathering, you say.'

'It may be. We'll send you everything and see what else turns up.'

'We'll let you know. Thanks, Victor.' The phone went dead.

Joubert finally spoke. 'He knows who I am?'

'He, like Beck knows everyone and everything, so don't stuff this up.'

'Can I ask? What do you mean by gathering?'

'You need to have a suspicious mind to do this job, Henri. I, for instance have over the last fourteen years become suspicious of everyone. When I see anything resembling a pattern it makes me itch. Patterns like this give me hives.' He gave the blank document on his computer screen, which had no pattern at all, a reproachful look.

'What you have is a number of people doing the same thing with the intention of arriving at the same destination, Paris. Hence, a gathering. Tessier will put the control room on alert and they'll see if any more turn up. Then Lyon will do some cross-matching on the results. There's nothing else you can do. You, like me, are tied to a desk.'

'It's awfully quiet.'

'Like the grave. But don't complain, something will turn up and with our luck it'll be a cache of knockoff perfume or fake watches. Be thankful, Henri, it can get worse than this.'

As Joubert went back to his desk and he returned to the blank document on his computer screen Roth thought, no it can't.

In contrast to the unaccustomed outbreak of peace and quiet Roth was enduring, the love of his life, Detective Marianne Fauchard of the French Judicial Police, was in a state of agitation as she tried to understand why she'd been asked to investigate the theft of hospital supplies that had occurred the night before. She called out to her offsider, Albert Bichon,

'Why do I have this?'

He left his desk and arranged his tall frame in her doorway. 'There's a murder as well. The boss decided you were the man for the job.'

She looked at her devoted subordinate who only recently had nearly died trying to save her from being kidnapped. 'You're a changed man these days, Albert. The English have a word for it, cheeky.'

'I don't know about cheek, but this looks like a mystery worthy of your powers. Who'd want to steal drugs and gases from a hospital?'

'Could it be someone who wants to rid themselves of their mother in law with an overdose?' He grinned. She smiled as well, giving into the inevitable. 'All right. Let's take ourselves to the scene of the crime. We'd better go to the morgue as well and look at the body, unless,' she asked with more hope than certainty, 'the pathologist's report is already in?'

'It isn't.'

'All right. But I hate the morgue.'

'Cheer up. They're a happy bunch and they play great music.'

'They're a bunch of ghouls. Have you ever been to one of their Christmas parties? Red wine in blood bags and canapes in kidney dishes. Those people are seriously weird.'

₪₪

Their first stop was the hospital where the head of administration was a large woman who dwarfed Marianne's petite frame and tended to shout. 'This way, Detectives, just follow me,' she bellowed, leading them downstairs to an underground storage area. 'It's in here.'

She unlocked a heavy steel door and flicked on the fluorescent lights that stuttered to life in a low ceilinged, cell-like room. 'This is the main storeroom, where we keep large items like the gas tanks. There's another one for pharmaceuticals.'

'The drugs.'

'Yes, a lot of drugs were taken.'

'Thank you. I have the list. Who has keys to this room?'

'Me, my assistant and several others.'

'The names please, Madame. We need the names.'

With glazed eyes and an even vaguer look on her face she gave Marianne a frustrating reply. 'I have a list of them. Somewhere.'

Marianne had had an inkling this could be a protracted enquiry. The woman's response confirmed it. She steeled herself to be patient. 'Now, how many sets of keys are there to this room?'

'I'm not quite sure.'

'Why not?'

'The key register is a bit out of date.'

Marianne looked at Albert who'd begun to study the ceiling. She asked