The Ghost of Flight 666

CHAPTER 20: Detective Work

Slade sat cuffed to the metal table wearing his white robe and his black boots, that’s all they allowed him. Across from him sat two detectives. They stared at him. He stared back, and sighed, “Gentlemen, let’s not waste our time. Let me make one phone call and this will all be cleared up.”

The short, heavyset detective with wispy blonde hair grimaced, telling Slade in heavily tainted English, “Monsieur, you are not going to clear up two murders and torture with a phone call.”

“Only one of the jihadists died, the paramedics said the other one was still alive,” Slade corrected. This was always the frustrating part of things. He wasn’t at liberty to blow his cover; that is, he couldn’t admit he was CIA.

As far as the detectives were concerned he was an American found in a hotel room with a dead guy, a vegetable and a maimed Muslim with bacon bits seared into his flesh. Worse, he had his CIA case with all the goodies inside. Whatever Slade was, he didn’t look all that innocent.

That meant he had to get word to Brueget or the office; they would then go through government channels to get Slade out without blowing his cover.

The detectives, however, appeared stuck on the condition of the terrorists. “I suppose clinically the second man is alive, but he a vegetable,” said the other detective; a tall, beanpole of a man with a thin mustache and goatee.

“Monsieur, they invaded my room wanted my head; they’re jihadists, you’ve seen them, they have all of Paris up in arms. Didn’t you see the weapons they brought? I don’t think they broke into my room to talk about soccer!”

“You make a very good point monsieur,” the shorter cop nodded. “They do indeed have Paris up in arms. So much so, in fact that the mayor has become involved.”

The taller man continued, “The mayor fears that when your assassination of these young men becomes known — sorry, his words not mine — the entire Arab community will erupt in violence. That would be very bad.”

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t ask them to break into my room and attack me. Can’t I defend myself in France?”

The heavy man shrugged, and said, “Two years ago a man in England shot an intruder. Now it was perfectly clear that the intruder attacked him — perfectly clear — but the court and the jury ruled that he had no right to kill the man. He’s in prison now.”

“Your point?”

“Our point is that self-defense doesn’t work the same in Europe as it does in America,” the taller detective told him. “We do not have a cowboy mentality.”

“Put yourself in my place. Have you watched YouTube lately? Do you mean to tell me that you’d let those jihadists hack off your head rather than defending yourself?”

The detectives looked at each other and then at Slade. The tall man replied, “You have a right to defend yourself but you do not have the right to take another life.”

“Monsieur, even if we convince the mayor that we cannot make you a scapegoat for these hooligans, you say jihadists, and maybe your right, but even so there is the torture and the illegal weapons. That’s ten to twenty right there.”

“I can explain that,” Slade began, but then he gave up. “All right, that’s why I’d like my phone call. You can make it for me, I don’t mind. Call Inspector Jean Brueget at INTERPOL.”

“INTERPOL?”

“INTERPOL,” Slade insisted.

“I do not think that INTERPOL will help you with the mayor.”

“I’m not worried about the mayor; I’m trying to help you gentlemen out. I don’t want you to take the fall for this.”

‘We are flattered for your concern!”

The tall man got on the intercom. “Philippe, will you call INTERPOL and tell agent Jean Brueget that we have his friend Jeremiah Slade in here for murder?”

“Oui monsieur!”

The heavy man scratched his head. “Getting back to your story. The fight I understand. They break in, you defend yourself, with an iron instead of the many illegal firearms in your possession, am I right?”

“They caught me ironing.”

“How did you come into possession of the firearms?”

“I carry them for self-defense.”

“Not in France you do not — you know that monsieur — certainly not firearms with the serial numbers filed off,” the detective got up with some effort and retrieved a cup of espresso. He raised his brow to Slade. “I assume you like coffee?”

“Thank you.”

The detective got him a cup of coffee, really espresso with hot water, and set it down on the table. He sat back down, saying, “Help me to understand Monsieur Slade. This is not New York or Chicago where you spend your time shooting hooligans and dueling with pistols — this is Paris — Paris is civilized.”

The tall detective added, “We see that you have been here before. You must like Paris then, oui? Well Monsieur Slade we love Paris; we love our civilized Paris.”

“Do you love France?” Slade asked, sipping his coffee.

“Of course we love France!” they said.

“Well then you better start acting French!”

“What do you mean?” they asked together, dumbfounded.

“I love France gentlemen, I really do,” he told them firmly. “I love Charles Martel, Joan of Arc, Napoleon and Charles de Gaulle. What do you think they would have done with the rabble in your streets, the jihadists taking over your cities, refusing to become French but demanding that you, their hosts, appease them?”

The detectives sighed, admitting, “Mais oui, the Emperor is rolling in his grave at Les Invalides!”

“But Monsieur Slade that does not explain your weapons or your torturing the young man,” the heavy detective told him. “Who are you monsieur? Why would Hussein and his partners want to kill you?”

Slade said truthfully. “I’ve got a Fatwa on my head.” Embellishing a bit, he added, “I write books — novels — they’re not flattering toward the Islamists or their prophet.”

“So that is why you had the weapons?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you torture young Hussein?”

“To find out who ordered the hit on me.”

“And did you find out?”

“A jihadist named Gamel Khallida who is in league with an American named Freddy Waters,” he added, just to muddy Freddy’s name.

“And where are these assassins from?”

Slade sipped his coffee and chuckled, “If your boys had waited another few minutes I could have told you where the Paris cell was and who was running it!”

The door burst open. Outside in the squad room there were shouts. “Jihad, jihad, jihad!”

The detective sighed, “Your wild west lynch mob is here!”