Unacceptable Risk

Chapter 3

Jean-Baptiste Sourriaux, occasionally called by his childhood nickname of le souris, "the mouse," listened to the tick of the gold clock that sat on his mahogany side table. The clock had been a gift from his wife, subtly intended to get him home on time. On this night, as most, it did no good.

Baptiste was a tall man and thin, in fairly decent shape. He had no striking features, only a high forehead leading to a nose that slanted downward so that the tip hung a little below the nostrils. He spoke crisply, more in the fashion of an Englishman than a Frenchman. His colleagues claimed he had no sense of humor, but he knew he had humor, he just kept it to himself. Besides, France was going to hell and no one was doing anything about it. It was all liberal these days and no one cared that the ghetto people were becoming lawless and propagating like rats and had nothing but contempt for their adopted country and her ways. His offices were on the Boulevard Mortier in the 20th Arrondissement in the Caserne des Tourelles; that meant that anybody who knew anything knew he was an intelligence officer (known collectively as honorables correspondents) when he walked in the building every morning.

His office was small, despite the fact that he reported directly to Admiral Larive, the head of the SDECE. It was the spook branch of the French government and was comprised of career military officers and assorted civilians. Baptiste, roughly the equivalent of a major in the U.S. Army, called Command and, but for the "special assignment" of personal interest to the prime minister, would have reported to a colonel. He expected to retire with the same rank, since he was already forty-eight years old and had no promotion in sight.

Field agents never got much in the way of an office, normally just a cubbyhole with a divider, because they weren't expected to spend much time sitting in them. Because of his special assignment, however, Baptiste had been spending a lot of time here. At the moment he was pondering the biggest issue of his career and waiting for a vital phone call.

Finally the phone rang.

"Yes?" Baptiste struggled to maintain his usual flat calm.

"We are in."

"For sure."

"Yes."

"They believe you?"

"The main man does. Others may be skeptical."

"What are you drinking?"

"A soft drink. Why?"

"Can we use the computer instead?"

Baptiste's hired agent Figgy Meeks could download a ci pher code from the SDECE for his communications, each code lasting only forty-eight hours. Baptiste waited for his own download of the current cipher. In seconds the written text appeared on his screen; now written dialogue was possi ble, and it could be kept on file for future reference.

"They are going after Bowden. I will stay in the States. They don't seem to know about Paul. Attribute it to Gaudet. They wonder, as I do, why Gaudet would risk using the vector against Sam's neighbors."

Baptiste replied:

" I have no idea. It has gotten the attention of American intelligence. They will be looking harder. That means we re double our efforts… And remember: It was an accident. You bear no moral responsibility for Sam's man."

"That's wishful fantasy."

"You know how to count $5,000,000.00? "

"Remind me again that I'm doing this for money and I may cross the ocean and shove it up your ass," Figgy communicated.

"Next report when? "

"When I know something worthwhile. Have you learned anything more from Moreau? "

"They are working on it. Nothing yet."

"Sam wants to talk with her ASAP'

"No chance. As to Bowden… Where is he, exactly? When are they leaving? " Baptiste prodded.

"No intel on that yet."

"Remember that you are working for the French government and are handsomely paid. Get me that information."

Figgy's transmission died. Like all American government men, Meeks was a prick. At least he was a greedy prick who had been screwed over by the CIA in a fashion similar to what the French government was doing to Baptiste.

Baptiste thought carefully about his next move. It would be dangerous not to run it through channels. He called the admiral and amazingly got him on the first ring.

"I'm about to run," the admiral snapped.

"We have a situation in the Amazon. The Americans feel-"

"Yes, yes. You told me. A man named Bowden supplied Northern Lights and perhaps Chaperone came through him. You have my permission to shadow the Americans. Who will you send?"

"Rene Denard," Baptiste replied.

"A bit of a renegade, don't you think?"

"We need someone strong."

"Tell him not to cross swords with the Americans." The admiral rang off.

"I need Bowden or Raval." Devan Gaudet spoke in French to Trotsky, his assistant, who sat on the other side of the coffee table in a rented house in Mexico, not far south of the California border. "Ideally both. I'll need better men than those who went after Sam and I'll need better men than those who went to South America last time. I don't like los ing."

Men were finishing up with the boxes and loading them out the door into a truck. Most of the stuff was staying and would go up in flames when the small house burned to the ground. After everyone had departed, Trotsky would open the propane line-it would make for a fast, hot fire.

Angelina, a Mexican woman who had been tending the home for several months, was cleaning behind the movers. Even though Gaudet had spent little time here, his fastidious nature required a housekeeper.

"The team is coming together," said Trotsky. "You needn't worry. They'll be up to the job."

Gaudet's thin lips were pursed white in a rare display of emotion. "I am worried. We looked like asses in front of our investors." Gaudet closed his eyes as he forced the thought from his mind. "Let's review the video."

Trotsky turned on the TV A huge auto parts store and fenced lot flashed on the screen.

"Sam's offices are in the back, behind the tall brick wall. There's cut glass on top of the wall and those signs you see are posting a warning. It's got tight security and it's no doubt a bomb-hardened structure." Trotsky glanced at the maid.

"She is fine," Gaudet said. "She barely speaks English, much less French."

"Sam is like any other man. He can be killed."

Gaudet did not reply. He stared at Trotsky until he shifted in his chair and turned to the movers.

"Shove off," Trotsky told the men, who hurried to leave with the last of the boxes.

From outside, Gaudet heard the big diesel engine of the transport truck. "Angelina"-Gaudet thought through his request in Spanish and did the best he could- "Puedes cortar esa Guayavay trerme la aqui, por favor? "

Saying nothing, the maid went to the corner of the kitchen and removed a guava from a burlap sack. Using the knife, she skillfully cut it up and brought it on a plate. "You may have one as well," Gaudet said.

"Gracias, no."

"I insist," Gaudet said.

Angelina shrugged, took a slice, and began eating as though she had had a secret desire. Trotsky ate as well. Gaudet picked up a slice and held it while he spoke in French. "So as long as Sam is alive, he is the single greatest threat to our plan." He stopped the videotape. "But I'm out of time at this mo ment. Bowden is all that matters now. Later this video will come in handy."

Trotsky walked over to the TV inserting a second video. Gaudet rose to pour two glasses of port while he watched Angelina out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly she swayed on her feet, grabbed the counter, then collapsed to the floor and began convulsing. Trotsky whirled and saw Gaudet still holding his slice of guava. Gaudet gave Trotsky a slight smile, enjoying his little joke. Trotsky looked uncertain, a little panicked.

Slowly Gaudet lifted the guava slice to his lips and took a robust bite. Trotsky's shoulders dropped and relief washed his face.

"It was only a catalyst in the guava," Gaudet told him. "I poisoned her earlier. For you and me, the catalyst is harm less. For Angelina, it will look like a heart attack. None theless, make sure the fire burns hot."