The Prince of Risk

36

Legio. Patria. Nostra.

Alone in her study, Alex typed the words into the laptop’s search bar. Her phone lay on the desk beside her, its screen illuminated with a picture of the colorful symbol inked on Randall Shepherd’s chest. She knew the tattoo signified membership in a military organization, but which?

She tapped the Enter key, and her response appeared immediately.

“Our Country’s Legion.”

It was the motto of the French Foreign Legion, or Légion Étrangère.

Alex searched for tattoos associated with the Foreign Legion. She found one similar, but not identical, on the second search page. The 1º stood for “first company.” The 2 REP for second regiment.

It was a solid start, but Alex wasn’t finished.

She examined the other noteworthy tattoo inked on Shepherd’s arm. It showed the Roman numerals III.III.V and beneath them the words Vincere aut Mori. “Conquer or Die.” She performed a search combining the numerals and the Latin phrase. Fewer than a dozen pages appeared. None offered a further clue to Shepherd’s true identity.

Alex reasoned that the roman numerals represented a date. III.III.V translated to March 3, 2005. She was rewarded with 2 million hits. She added “Win or Die” and the number fell to 200,000. No help there.

Alex retreated a few steps. Several of her young lions had served in the marines, and each had body art to remind him of a difficult campaign-Fallujah in Iraq, Helmand Province in Afghanistan. Perhaps the tattoo was to commemorate an operation or a battle won or lost. Diligently she culled through accounts of the Foreign Legion’s recent engagements. There were deployments to the Middle East and Kosovo, as well as less publicized actions in Africa and Asia. Nowhere, however, did she find a mention of a specific battle or operation that had taken place on March 3, 2005. She could not validate her supposition that the roman numerals signified a date.

Alex slid back the chair and padded into the kitchen. The clock read 11:30. She realized that she hadn’t eaten since early that afternoon. Her stomach informed her in no uncertain terms that she was starving. She opened the fridge and found a piece of Gruyère and an apple. Slim pickings. She had a memory of sneaking into the kitchen with Bobby late one night after making love, finding a giant bowl of leftover spaghetti carbonara in the fridge, and sitting together at the table, toes touching, wordlessly scarfing it down. It was too bad they got along only when they didn’t talk to each other. The carbonara sounded delicious right about now.

Bobby was a wonderful cook.

Alex sat lost in her thoughts until the minute hand reached twelve. Rising, she returned to her office and at 12:03 placed a call to Paris, France, where the day was just beginning.

“Allo?” said a sleepy voice.

“Jean. It’s Alex Forza in New York. We have a situation.”

Jean Eyraud, deputy director of the French DGSE-the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, France’s national counterterrorism organization-snapped to attention. “How can I help?”

“I have some fingerprints I need you to run. He’s one of your guys. Former Légion Étrangère.”

“Send them over. I’ll see to it immediately.”

“And Jean…vite.”