so far removed from being one of the workers. He wore dark blue trousers, a matching wool sweater, and a light brown leather jacket.
Eventually someone noticed him and came over, inquiring if he could help. Rene was his name, an electrician by trade.
Kelly’s French was excellent, and he came straight to the point, identified himself, and told Rene that he was trying to find out how many people had been killed that August night, since his government believed one of them may have been an American citizen.
There seemed to be no one around in any authority, and Rene was glad of the break and happy to help. “I don’t really know myself.” He shrugged. “But Anton, up the ladder with the paint-brush, he may know. His brother was a friend of the waiter who died in hospital…let me call him down.”
Anton descended from the ceiling by way of the scaffolding, and shook hands with Kelly. “There were six people died in here that night, including the two guys who came in with the Kalashnikovs. One was shot and one had his throat cut.”
“Anton, how do you know that?”
“Because we all went to the funeral of Mario, and another guy who worked here saw the whole thing and he told us at the reception. He said the two guys who came in with the guns were both killed — he thought by the men they had come to assassinate. He said they weren’t just crazies. They were professionals who had come to kill someone specific.”
“And Mario was still alive when he they carried him out?” asked Kelly.
“Yes. Unconscious but still alive. But the guy at the funeral said there were six bodies carried out. He remembered because only four of them went in an ambulance. He said the other two were taken away in a police van.”
Tom Kelly’s report came in from the CIA’s European desk immediately after lunch. It confirmed what had been obvious to Lt. Commander Ramshawe from the start. There were not four people killed at L’Union. There were six. The French police had gone in and cleared out the bodies of the two Mossad agents and were saying nothing about it to anyone.
And, if they knew, they were most certainly saying nothing about the man the agents had come to kill. Admiral Morgan’s man had been sure those two assassins had come for Major Kerman.
Only one answer to that, was Ramshawe’s opinion. The bloody French knew darned well the Major was in that restaurant, and probably at their invitation, since they had taken very large steps to hush the whole thing up.
So why did France arrange a secret meeting with the most wanted terrorist in the world? That was a question to which there would be no answer. The French were not admitting Kerman was in the country, not admitting someone had tried to kill him, and very definitely not admitting he had more than likely killed one of the assassins.
This was, the Lt. Commander knew, the end of the line. The French were saying nothing. The two Mossad men were dead. And no one knew where Kerman was. Or the men he was having dinner with at L’Union restaurant. To pursue the matter further would be a monumental waste of time, especially since the Mossad would not wish to publicize the death of its agents.
Nonetheless, Ramshawe logged all of the information onto his private computer files and downloaded a copy of the CIA report to show Admiral Morgan at dinner that night.
Lt. Commander Ramshawe and Jane Peacock were in luck tonight. Admiral Morgan was a friend of both their fathers, and he elected to push the boat out one more time with a couple more bottles of Comtesse Nicholais’s Corton-Bressandes. Ramshawe’s eyes lit up at the sight of the bottles warming gently by the log fire in the study.
He helped the Admiral barbecue the steaks, mostly by holding an umbrella over him in the chill late- November rain, then moving in to receive the steaks with the wide platter Kathy had kept in the warming oven.
The four of them knew one another well. Jane, who looked like a surf goddess right off Bondi Beach, loved to go shopping with Kathy in Georgetown because the Admiral’s wife kept her on the straight and narrow fashion- wise, helping her choose items she knew would please Ambassador Peacock, dispenser of the allowance, financer of the ruinous college fees she annually required.
Kathy hated having live-in help and preferred to manage her own kitchen, and after dinner she and Jane tackled the clearing-up while the Admiral and Jimmy retired to the study.
They sat in front of the fire, and Arnold Morgan came swiftly to the point. “Okay, Jimmy, tell me what you found about the murders at L’Union restaurant.”
“All calls to the restaurant are routed directly to the Marseille central gendarmerie. When you call, a policeman answers the phone. And when he does you are told nothing. No one knows anything. There’s a Chief Inspector Rochelle who seems helpful, but is lying. He says there were four deaths that night. All French, all staff. Two died in the restaurant, the other two in hospital. There were not four deaths. There were six.”
“How’d you find out?” asked Morgan.
“Well, I spoke to the Marseille cop myself. Then I had Langley put one of their guys on it in the city. And he did a damned thorough job. Got into the restaurant and interviewed one of the workmen painting the place. And the workman had met a member of the staff at the funeral of a waiter. This was a guy who was ducked behind the bar during the shooting. He told the CIA agent there were six dead men altogether. He saw four of them carried out to ambulances, and two others loaded into a police wagon. Anton, that’s the workman, saw the whole scene. He says two guys came in with Kalashnikovs, started shooting, and were then both killed by the guys they had come for. I brought you a copy of the CIA report.”
“Well, that fits in exactly with the story I was told originally,” said Morgan. “And I’m afraid it’s the end of the trail. The French are never going to say anything. And neither the Mossad, nor even the Israeli government, could possibly ask them.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Ramshawe in his rich Aussie brogue.
“‘Oh, by the way Monsieurs, we just sent a couple of hit men into a crowded restaurant in the middle of Marseille, and after they’d shot half the staff and half the customers, they ended up dead themselves. Anyone know what happened to ’em?’”
Admiral Morgan chuckled. Young Ramshawe’s keen, swift brain often gave way to a rough-edged Aussie humor. And it always amused him. But right now he was pondering a far, far bigger question.
“The thing is, Jimmy,” he said, “we have to believe the Israelis when they say they located Kerman in France, and certainly the savage response to the Mossad hit men bears all the marks of that particular terrorist. But the main thing for us is to find out what he was doing in France. Who was he seeing and why?
“A guy like Kerman, or General Rashood — whatever the hell he calls himself — must understand the lethal nature of any kind of travel. He could be spotted by anyone. He’s obviously better off skulking around the goddamned casbah or somewhere in the desert. But he made this journey. Apparently in an otherwise empty Air France passenger jet. A damned great Airbus all on his own. Someone at a very high level in France wanted to see him quite badly. And they are never going to admit it. Any inquiry from us would be like talking to the Eiffel Tower. We’ll get nothing. And quite honestly, Jimmy, I think it’s just a waste of time to pursue this further. Let’s just file it, and watch out for the slightest sign of further developments.”
“Guess we can’t do much else, sir. But Christ, wouldn’t you just love to know where that bastard is right now?”
“I dearly would, Jimmy. But I’d guess he’s not in France anymore. Not after that uproar in Marseille.”
At that precise moment, 11 P.M. on the night of November 20, Admiral Morgan was entirely correct. Less
