Paris Under Siege

By E.E Hunt

Posing as a wealthy but benevolent Algerian in France, Aboud appears to help poor North Africans in the suburbs of Paris. Penny, a New York reporter, attempts to inform her friend Charles, who experienced great personal loss in New York during 9/11, that Aboud, whom he is doing business with, is in reality an Islamic terrorist. In the Sahara, Charles discovers that Aboud is anything but charitable. When Charles tries to find out what target in Paris Aboud seeks to destroy by rockets or C-4 explosives, he is imprisoned and tortured by Aboud. However, Charles is rescued by Fatima, a Muslim Egyptian flight attendant enslaved by Aboud after a 2001 Islamic riot against women in an Algerian oil town. The two flee by camel across the desert but face dangers at the hands of Abouds men, and Charles is gravely wounded. When they finally reach Paris and inform Steve Hallcroft at the American embassy of their suspicions, the fourCharles, Fatima, Penny, and Steveform a team to thwart the destruction of American institutions in Paris.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514449639

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Copyright © 2016 by E.E. Hunt.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Rev. date: 01/11/2016

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CONTENTS

A Dangerous Game

Folly

Intrigue

Disclosure in the Desert

The Five Pillars of Paris

Rocketeers and Bombardiers

The Four Musketeers

Shahadah

Zakat

Siyam

Fatima and Farouk

Hajj

Salat and the Paschal Plot

The Folly of Terror

Acknowledgments

K athleen Niendorff, a literary agent in Austin, Texas, helped in the original editing of this book and encouraged me to write more. I would like to thank members of the American Cathedral and of other American institutions in Paris who may find fictitious references to them. I hope you remain my friends!

This book is a work of fiction, however; and names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. I also thank friends who offered me much-needed advice about Islam and who helped me with quotations from the Koran. My wife, Elsie, urged me to attend the writers’ conference of the Naples Press Club in Florida, which set me in motion to produce a manuscript different from my previous writing and offered me a new challenge.

I dedicate this book to my mother, Maselia Carter, who was born in South Wales and who came to the States via Canada with her parents, William Thomas Carter and Bertha Mary Edmunds Carter.

Since the writing of this book members of the Islamic State have proven that Paris has been under siege with the shooting of those at Charlie Hebdo and then the massacre later at the Bataclan Theatre and restaurants in Paris. We should become more aware of the menace amongst us from those who have little respect for the diversity of humanity.

My website has a list of other books I have published: www.eehunt.com

A Dangerous Game

I t seemed to her a long way from home, but it was Paris, the City of Light. Standing on the far corner of Avenue Pierre 1er de Serbie and Avenue George V, she walked hurriedly across the street, dodging aggressive Parisian drivers who appeared not to acknowledge her even though she was in the crosswalk. But she hardly noticed them. She had to find Charles at the Hotel George V, which was right in front of her now as she avoided a taxi suddenly departing that luxurious establishment. She knew that was where he always stayed.

The best was never good enough for Charles. He had an expensive suite there for years whenever he flew in from New York, and she had just heard from Mary that he was here. Of course, Mary always bragged that she knew more about Charles than Penny did. Yet Penelope thought she knew the real Charles Winthrop, not the side of him of late he only allowed his sister to see, but the person who was capable of great good or real folly. She was determined, this time, to confront him about the dangerous game he was playing.

The more she thought about it, the more she fought her way past the idle chauffeurs dressed in black lingering outside the hotel near their equally black limousines. Pushing purposely against the swinging hotel doors past the uniformed doorman, she quickly approached the concierge and asked anxiously for Charles’s room number. Of course, she was not allowed to go farther without the desk calling up first. She waited, and the woman behind the counter said in her accented English, "Monsieur Winthrop is in his room, number 675, and he will see you. L’ascenseur is to your left, madame."

She went to the elevator, waited a moment, and then joined others who also entered. She got out on the sixth floor, looked for the directional sign to numbered rooms on the adjacent wall from the elevator, and, after deciding which way to turn, found the right room and knocked on its door. Opening it quickly, Charles Edward Winthrop III looked at her and said in his usual suave manner, with that slightly wicked smile of his, Penny! I didn’t know you were in Paris. Come in, please, and sit down. I’ll fix us both a proper French aperitif. He looked at his watch, a habit he had that always irritated her, and said, Since it is that time of the evening. She declined and spoke immediately of what was bothering her.

Charles, you are not going to do it, are you?

Do what, Penny?

You know what I am talking about, and don’t put me off. I heard you were going to make some kind of deal with that slippery character Aboud, but you can’t associate yourself with him. The French authorities might step in and arrest you both.

It wasn’t so long ago, she remembered, that the only game she knew Charles played was backgammon in the West Room, an all-male bastion of his club in New York; and he reveled in winning those usually petty stakes. Of course, she never actually saw him play since women were excluded, but she knew that he dropped by his club each evening and played those routine matches of his over a few whiskies on the rocks. That was when they were dating seriously, dining together frequently, or, on occasion, attending a benefit in formal attire, dancing to the music of some old-time bandleader.

She smiled inwardly as she recalled those relatively happy times before the terrorists struck the Twin Towers in Lower Manhattan and the country entered, from that time, what amounted to a state of war. Charles worked then for Mutual Trust, whose ranks were decimated by the ruthless explosions, fire, tumbling steel, and concrete; but he was lucky. She remembered that he told her, so seriously, that he was late for work on September 11, having taken the Lexington line from East Sixty-Eighth Street and changing at the Grand Central Station for the express, where he was delayed because the first express train was completely full. And after a long wait, he finally crowded his way into the next subway car packed with commuters like so many sardines in a tin can. At long last, he arrived at the usual Wall Street exit. Walking to the towers on that fine clear September day, as he had so many times before, he heard a significantly different noise above all the usual city rumble of buses, trucks, and screeching of brakes and honking horns from a sea of taxis flooding Lower Manhattan in the morning. With other scurrying city people, he raised his head slowly to the sky from the sidewalk, an unusual gesture for New Yorkers who never looked up for fear of being seen as gawking out-of-towners. In utter shock, he saw that an explosion had occurred in the first tower somewhere, he thought to himself, near the ninetieth floor and that it was caused by an airplane. But his first reaction was that the collision was some kind of terrible yet accidental crash.

He might have also believed that his late night at the club, with his more-than-usual quota of whiskey, had something to do with what he saw and heard as he walked to his brokering job for Mutual Trust; but nothing could confuse that first mighty explosion with a minor hangover. Yet as a creature of habit, he as usual entered the second tower, where his office was located. It was not long after 8:45 a.m. Inside the building, some of the personnel from his office had taken the elevators down from his floor and were gathered in the lobby. They seemed unsure of what to do. When nothing else happened and reassurances were made that the towers were the safest buildings in Manhattan, many decided to return by entering the next available lift. Charles hesitated. He was already late as it was; but he had an eerie feeling that this disaster was not merely accidental, but perhaps some weird terrorist act, reminiscent of the previous attack to the lower garage parking area some years ago. So he stepped outside again to verify the extent of the first explosion. Doing so saved his life. As he was staring at the flames high up, abruptly at 9:02, he saw that out of the blue a Boeing 767 crashed directly into his tower. He and hundreds of others, like ants who had been approaching their anthill, were mesmerized by what they saw happening to their twin abodes in the sky. This was especially so after that second plane hit, and men and women were then seen leaping from blown-out windows rather than being burned alive. Those Twin Tower walls, like those in the fabled Jericho, eventually came crumbling down on firemen, police, and innocent bystanders alike.

As the air filled with smoke and billowing debris, Charles and others soon scattered on the streets like those proverbial ants when their home is destroyed by some heavy human foot. He first ran to the Wall Street station; but when he saw so many turn their backs on the subway entrance, he understood that electrical power had ceased, like a clock later on display in Saint Paul’s Chapel stopped at exactly the time the planes hit the buildings. While Charles was at first in shock by seeing so much destruction, he soon awoke from his stupor and, turning around, asked a dust-covered policeman how he could be of assistance. The cop, rubbing dirt from his eyes, told him rashly to leave. He would just be in the way. Flinging his coat over his shoulder, he started the long walk uptown, as so many others did on that ominous day, almost in tears from knowing how many of his friends had died. He could have been one of them, he lamented, if he had not been late and had seen the first plane hit, which made him curious then, even suspicious. How lucky could a guy be?

Later, after the facts were known that thousands were missing or dead and that many rescue workers, firemen especially, had died in heroic rescue attempts, Penelope and Charles, like most New Yorkers, had deep conversations about where they were when the attack occurred. She remembered so well what he had described to her as she exchanged her story with his then, but her momentary lapse into the past upon seeing him in his Paris hotel was short-lived; and her worry about him since 9/11, which she linked to his current dealing with Aboud Al Qadir, refocused her attention. Once again, she fixed on Charles’s smiling face in his hotel room.

More alert than ever, she said, Charles, listen to me, you are playing with fire if you keep dealing with Aboud. He is operating on the fringe of the law, and you could be implicated by associating yourself with someone with such a sordid past. You know Aboud has been detained off and on by the police here. I just can’t believe that you have sunk so damned low as to do business with him! Oh, I know you lost your job after 9/11 because Mutual never really recovered. But as horrible as that was, you have no excuse for what you are doing. Besides, I have been digging into his past, and the newspaper wants me to investigate his dealings with rogue countries as well as write an extended article about all his slimy connections. I have plenty of evidence to back up my opinion of him. That is why I know so much about him and why I am so concerned about you!

Dear, dear Penelope, you have it all wrong. I am simply helping a business associate invest in his own country, which reminds me—looking at his watch again—"that I have an important dinner in an hour on the Bateau Mouche and have really got to leave. I thought maybe you came up to say how much you missed me since we last saw each other in New York and not to give me another one of your prissy lectures. By the way, what are you doing here now in France?"

She quickly replied, Didn’t Mary tell you that I was on a trip to Europe for the paper? I came here tonight because I was worried about you, but I do miss you, and we haven’t seen much of each other lately. Anyway, I love Paris. You remember when I lived here before? Everyone misses Paris after leaving it.

Penelope thought for a moment, then added, If you will talk to me about Aboud, and I hope you will, I have taken a room at the Belmont, as I used to do when I lived here for short stays, although the price has gone almost through the roof since then! I will be there on the Rue de Trémoille—you remember, near Rue Marbeuf?—for a few days. But I want you to see for yourself what I have discovered, which I pray might keep you from doing something really foolish. You know I still care about you, or I wouldn’t be here to warn you.

Well, Penny, he said rather too sharply, "you are as honest as ever, as a reporter for the New York Mirror should be, but still the same silly worrywart. I certainly didn’t expect to see you here in Paris, but to tell you the truth, you look terrific as ever."

Charles moved toward her, cupped her ear lovingly with his hand, as he always did, and then gave her an affectionate hug. While he embraced her, he suggested gently that she should go on and get settled in her hotel and that he would see her first thing in the morning for breakfast there, if she wanted. Then he showed her to the door, saying that he appreciated her concern for him, especially now. Penny knew she was being given the old heave-ho, although Charles made it seem as if she were being royally ushered out. She consoled herself that she had at least made contact with him and would see him in the morning.

As she reached the elevator, however, her mood changed. Instead of feeling depressed by his sweeping her out of his room, she became angry. In fact, it always irritated her that he was such a watcher. She hated the way he always ended things with an air of something more important to do. But when she left the hotel and stepped out on the crowded sidewalk and looked up Avenue George V, she saw the bright lights of the Champs-Elysées, and her anger dissipated. Her spirits were lifted by the splendor of that sight, and she knew then why she was always glad to be back in Paris. There was no other city she knew of that combined such beauty with urban utility. As she walked across the busy street, past her favorite Lebanese restaurant, she felt almost at home again. Yet it was odd, she thought to herself, that a Lebanese community existed in the immediate area of the famous hotel, right next to Chinese and Spanish embassies, Givenchy, and other famous fashion houses.

Even so, she remembered that the Hotel George V was purchased by a Saudi prince some years ago; and he, with all his money, set about to refurbish it by adding squash courts and a large swimming pool. Aboud, however, was not a rich Saudi; nor was he an expatriate Lebanese, although she wished he had been. Maybe he would have been less dangerous if he were not Algerian. Of course, she knew that many French were born in Algeria, including her humanist hero, Albert Camus; and musing to herself, she said, Dear Albert, you wrote that the north of Europe was so cold and frigid because you believed it was dominated in the past by Martin Luther, while the Mediterranean countries were so warm and happy because they could claim Francis of Assisi as their saint or something like that. Yet Aboud is not a happy camper. Maybe he has been in France too long.

She continued to saunter down to Rue du Boccador, turned left in front of the Fermette Marbeuf restaurant, and onto Rue Marbeuf, walking by the many other restaurants beginning to open at 7:30 p.m. She eventually reached the Belmont and registered easily, thinking to herself that she should check her cell phone soon for any messages from her office, her mother, or even Mary, her old friend who had introduced her to Charles. Mary was also the one who had slipped her the information that he was dealing with Aboud, whom Mary knew Penny held in utter contempt. Then she thought to herself, Here I am at thirty-seven, still unmarried and wrapped up in my job. Two degrees from Columbia and much time spent in graduate study contributed to that, I guess, but I am not the only one. Oh, I know of Internet dating. But there must be thousands of women like me in New York, the City of Lonely Spinsters, which is a town overflowing with working women still looking for Prince Charming. Yet Charles and others at the Mirror seem to think I am attractive, even though I’m a little tall for some, maybe a little too thin and hyperactive. But I don’t have gray hair among my black tresses, and Charles always complimented me on my blue eyes as well as what he called classic features and a sexy build, which I know to be of thousands of women—perhaps even hundreds of thousands in New York! Oh well. When I am up on the Champs-Elysées, I will watch people while I dine this lovely spring evening. I will take a little table and sip some Médoc and order later. I love the way the French waiters allow you to stay at a table for as long as you want, even while just sipping coffee. Yet they will insist on crowding dinner customers into one side of a restaurant instead of spreading us all around, allowing us some privacy. Regimentation, I guess, the Napoleonic Code or something. You bet. A small table outside the restaurant is just what I need. But first, those phone messages.

She discovered that Mary had called to see if she was safely in Paris and wanted her to say hello to her brother. Her mother left a message demanding that Penny call her immediately. Mom is always so preoccupied with herself, she angrily said to herself. She probably wanted me to buy something for her in Paris and bring it home. But I won’t call now. I will just talk to her tomorrow and see what she wants from me this time. Her boss left a message and asked about progress on her article on threats from European-based terrorists. He, of course, wanted it right now. Sure, everybody wants something from me. Everyone but Charles!

While Penelope was getting ready to size up strollers on the most beautiful avenue in Europe, Charles was still in his hotel room, preparing to leave. Looking in the mirror, he thought that he was beginning to appear like just another slightly overweight guy in his early forties—a little softer in appearance than he would have liked, but still not old, by any means, even though Penny was right. September 11 had changed him, but he was certainly not the only one. While he considered himself to be well educated, sophisticated, and relatively attractive to the opposite sex (he hoped), he never thought of himself as arrogant or vain. Team sports at St. Mark’s School and at university had tempered that. He was still strong from regular exercise and his years in the army, but he knew that his affection for the good life could do him in time. He stood up straight and pulled his stomach in. Then he combed his thick black patrician hair, straightened his club tie, fluffed the mauve handkerchief in his breast pocket (to match his mauve button-down dress shirt, of course), and left his room and the hotel.

He walked down George V toward the Seine, past the American Cathedral (where he and Penny usually worshipped while in Paris), the embassies, and the fashion houses to the busy intersection of Alma Marceau. He lingered for a moment next to the golden torch, similar to that in the Statue of Liberty, given by the International Herald Tribune to mark the bicentennial in 1976; but it had become of late a sad secular shrine to Diana, Princess of Wales, and to Dodi, her Arab lover. They had died together in the underpass below, speeding away from paparazzi. For a while, graffiti of love offered to both in English and Arabic, with numerous photos of Diana, had adorned the symbol; and crowds were always there to honor their Queen of Hearts.

How tragic life can be, he thought to himself as he shook loose his lingering fascination with Lady Di’s reputation for kindness and her sudden death. He quickly walked away from the torch and crossed the street with the light, actually dashed across (pedestrians never had enough time in Paris to actually walk across a street!), and waited on the next corner until he could cross the two busier avenues on the way to the Pont de l’Alma. He turned onto the ramp opening to the Bateau and walked down to the Quai past the statue of the brave Zouave soldier, a North African conscript who fought often for France (he was a better man, I am sure, than Aboud), and thought about Penny as an interfering worrywart. Hadn’t she ever heard of the phrase God writes straight with crooked lines? Well, we will see what Aboud and I can straighten out tonight as we dine.

He never tired of the dining Bateau and the way it would glide down the Seine under numerous bridges and past the Louvre, Notre Dame Cathedral, the Ile Saint–Louis, and finally turning around to bring diners back past Pont de l’Alma, Radio France, and the Hotel Nikko. He loved seeing all the brightly lit monuments and especially the miniature Statue of Liberty, a replica of what was standing so proudly in New York Harbor as a gift from France to the United States, as the Bateau made its last turn around on its way back to dock on the Quai.

Aboud was waiting for him at a table near a large window on the lower deck. They shook hands, and when both were seated, they ordered kir royals from the waiter. The two toasted the beginning of a long friendship and immediately began to talk about their arrangement by which they would form a joint venture. Charles looked at Aboud and saw in him a suave North African, slightly dark, and handsome, who radiated well-being and health. He was perhaps in his sixties, twentysome odd years older than he was, and as polite as Charles. Aboud was definitely no slouch. He had attended the Sorbonne and graduated with a degree a in political science, as Charles had graduated from Stanford with a degree a in engineering and then Harvard Business School. He actually liked Aboud for his manners, erudition, and complexity: he was Muslim, but secular, or so he said. He was as intelligent as anyone Charles had met in New York and far better educated than most, and he spoke several languages very well.

While he certainly was Muslim, he told Charles that he paid little attention to the full discipline of his religion: he did not pray five times a day, although he kept the great holidays like Ramadan. Charles could not detect any overt signs that Aboud was a fanatic. Rather, he seemed to be as he presented himself, a judicious businessman in France and an observer of political trends. He was in all respects an Arab gentleman, but he loved Algeria and wanted it to be rid of any influence from France, which was fair enough.

More importantly, he was an advocate in France for the disaffected Algerian natives, who, while legal in France, had little hope for work or any future in the culture. Many had been swept up by the movements in the Middle East, and some had become involved with the radical fanatics who promised all kinds of rewards (on earth as in heaven) for those who joined their tightly knit, authority-centered Islamic groups. To be sure, unemployment was rampant in France; and the last people to be hired would be people of North African descent, whether second-generation citizens or not. He knew that what Penelope Wilson feared the most, however, and what she probably wanted to warn Charles about was that Aboud might be far more committed to terrorism than he had revealed to Charles. Penelope most likely suspected that Aboud actually funded radical Islamic groups, as she believed the French police, particularly the CRS (the national riot police of France), also did.

Charles, however, kept all these suspicions to himself for now as he calmly discussed their arrangement, which amounted to a joint venture whereby Charles would help introduce new technology through a partnership with Aboud’s family holdings in oil and gas in the southeastern section of the Sahara. Algeria belonged to OPEC, although compared with other countries, its output was far less than it should be. By virtue of his education in engineering and business, Charles was an ideal person to understand how output might be increased through the many contacts he had made. Although he worked as a broker at Mutual, he always had an interest in doing something with his engineering background; and here, Aboud supplied an opportunity. To be sure, Aboud was astute; but he was not an engineer nor as financially well trained as Charles, who really was very good at investments, joint ventures, and putting people and companies together for the sake of their mutual gain.

Charles had been approached in New York after Aboud found out that Winthrop spent quite a bit of time in Paris when he was young, especially on trips with his parents, and that he spoke relatively good French. He never told him who had actually given him Charles’s name in the States, but the two had met in New York for drinks, much like this night; and soon, their potentially lucrative friendship began. It wasn’t that Charles was completely broke without a job because he had family money and a trust fund, but he was not the kind to sit around and clip coupons. He wanted to work and use his experience because he refused to be like his father, who did just the opposite by resting on his laurels—those he inherited, of course—and not much of anything else all his life.

Aboud offered the possibility of his becoming his own man, Charles mused to himself.

Interrupting Charles’s reverie, the North African suddenly announced, Charles, you must come to Algiers and visit my family home there and afterward leave the Mediterranean coast and drive inland or fly into the desert. Did you know that the great Sahara takes up most of the land of Algeria, almost four-fifths of our territory? There are two kinds of people in Algeria: Arabs and Berbers. But my family is almost totally Arab in background. And in fact, we are related to Abdu Al-Qadir, who actually was a religious Muslim leader against the French occupiers when we were a colony in the middle of the nineteenth century. He was a true martyr. So you see, I feel very Algerian even though I have lived many years in France. When we do reach our gas and oil site, you will see what wonderful prospects we have for development—with your American resources, of course, and your own experience.

Pausing only a few moments while politely sipping his kir royal, Aboud continued, When can you come to my country? The city of Algiers, of course, is very civilized, indeed lovely by the sea. But the Sahara can be deadly. We will have to drive there in my Hummer, far faster than camel, or fly by plane or helicopter if you prefer. But you need to see our property. Charles agreed but did not offer a firm date. He said he wanted to check first with some people in certain companies that had developed oil and gas reserves and perhaps bring them along.

No, Charles, I do not want every Tom, Dick, and Harry—as you Americans say—to know about our property holdings. I simply want you to make a personal assessment and then bring your people together later.

Charles thought to himself that he was not so sure about traveling the Sahara. The closest he had been to that desert was when he saw an old noir movie called Sahara, where Humphrey Bogart used his tank, Lulu Belle, to defeat some World War II Nazis in the desert and save American and British lives; but Bogart and the rest almost died of thirst in the process. He took a large gulp of his drink and then reluctantly agreed by sighing, Well, all right then.

Like a joyful child, Aboud clapped his hands, saying, Good. Good. We will make the arrangements soon!

Charles pondered to himself, Maybe I am playing a dangerous game here. I will be absolutely alone, practically besieged by his family or all his workers or associates. But then he remembered an old poster from his school days that read, Problems are solved by moving ahead. He certainly hoped they would be because there was much for him to uncover from Aboud.

As promised, Charles met Penny in her hotel lobby the next morning; and the two walked up a floor to the dining area, where a typical French breakfast was laid out for everyone staying there: freshly squeezed juice, really fresh croissants of various kinds, and rolls, homemade jams, and real butter. A waitress arrived to ask if they wanted coffee or tea. They sat down, facing each other, and immediately began an animated discussion about Aboud and his questionable connections.

Charles explained that he was only trying to help develop a gas and oil field in the Sahara; but then Penny, frowning seriously, opened a file she had brought and showed Charles the articles she had discovered about Aboud’s family, then the notes she had taken from some interviews for the piece she was about to write for the Mirror. She said Aboud had friends in France who were really radical—not just disenfranchised Algerians without jobs, but possibly real terrorists. She showed him one photo of Aboud with a man named Ali Bounour taken four years ago. She said she could prove that Ali Bounour was linked to those who had planted bombs a few years before in the waste bins of Paris, particularly the one that blew up in the RER station of Saint-Michel and killed several innocent bystanders. The street poubelles of Paris had been closed after that, their lids sealed shut for more than a year until the city of Paris introduced a new design that replaced metal bins, potential lethal containers that a bomb could transmute into soaring missiles of deadly shrapnel. Much-safer loose plastic bags held by an open frame were substituted and now stood in their place. Ali had caused people in Paris to live in fear, let alone without open bins in which to toss the endless litter of a crowded city. She believed that he was dangerous and still at large and that Aboud knew where he was hiding. She also showed him a security camera image of Aboud with an even more dangerous terrorist linked to 9/11 activities and to the Taliban in Afghanistan whose name was Mohammed Hassan.

This guy, she said, is still at large, and both the Americans and the French are trying to find him. But Aboud has claimed to the authorities that he knows nothing of him, let alone his whereabouts. Now, Charles, don’t you see that your tower of naïveté could collapse at any moment and perhaps you with it!

Charles looked at Penny, whose face was flushed with truth like a frustrated math teacher who had just proven her blackboard equation to a totally bored class. These are simply allegations. These fragments of what you call evidence don’t add up to a hill of beans or, in any case, to a clear indictment of Aboud. If the police believed they had a case against him, they would have put him in jail and held him there for months without trial. I know France. Here, a person is guilty until he proves himself innocent, and Aboud is as free as bird. You know as well as I do that the police can hold you indefinitely until they have their facts and believe they can influence a judge with them. You are worrying unnecessarily, as I told you. And believe me, I know what I am doing. I am competent in my field and do not live in some ivory tower because I once worked for Mutual in New York City. Don’t forget that tower of mine is long gone! Aboud and I have formed an internationally legal joint venture, and that is all. In fact, I wish you would just get off my back and stay out of my business! You reporters can really harass a person to death with bits and pieces of truth that do not necessarily add up to anything, so leave it alone please.

True to form, Penny reacted by becoming extremely angry and said loud enough for even a French waitress to hear, and certainly translate, "Bullshit! You are playing a dangerous game, mister! We reporters, huh? Well, if you don’t want my help, then I suggest