information, that’s all I want. You’ll probably know it off the top of your head.”
“Claude, I have come over to see you because it is a rainy evening and I was just relaxing, having a beer, when I was interrupted by a phone call of such insignificance it made my hair curl…”
“It’s already
Sharpe grinned. “Seriously, old pal, you can end my problems very easily…you remember when the gallant French Special Forces liberated the besieged Americans in the embassy right here in Brazzaville in 1999?”
“Who could forget?” Chopin shrugged, his mind roaming back to those terrifying days in the 1990s when armed gangs drove around the city with their victims’ severed heads stuck on their car antennae. “Of course I remember.”
“Well, I’m trying to remember the proper name of the Special Forces leader…they called him Le Chasseur… the hunter. Did you know him?”
“Of course I knew him. He was stationed here for several months. He stayed up the street, at the Stanley, for a few weeks — all those French officers stayed up there.”
“And Le Chasseur…you remember his name?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Well, I’ve just been told there is to be a new presidential award for foreign nationals who have helped the United States beyond the call of duty.” Ray Sharpe was a think-on-your feet liar of outstanding talent — like most spies.
“We would like to bring them to Washington, with their wives and families, and decorate them for their bravery. President Bedford insists on conducting the ceremonies personally.”
“Very commendable,” said Chopin. “And they picked Le Chasseur after all these years?”
“It sometimes takes a new President to recognize a debt of honor,” replied Sharpe.
“Well, I can’t help you much,” said Chopin. “I heard he’d retired from the military. But his name was Jacques Gamoudi. Maj. Jacques Gamoudi. Everyone called him Le Chasseur, the hunter. He was a tremendous soldier, and a true hero, as I expect your American diplomats would confirm. Someone did tell me he’d made Colonel.”
“Thanks, Claude. That’s all we need. Washington will take it from there.”
Five minutes later Ray Sharpe was back on the line to the West African Desk in Langley. Three minutes after that, the phone rang in Lt. Commander Ramshawe’s office and a voice told him, “Jimmy, your man is Colonel Jacques Gamoudi, but he’s retired from the military. And you’re right about his nickname. He’s Le Chasseur, the hunter.”
Langley also told Ramshawe that their man in Brazzaville was still on the case and would call as soon as possible with anything more he could find. And this was not long in coming. Matilda’s boss, behind the long wooden bar in La Brasserie at the Stanley Hotel, had been there for years and knew Jacques Gamoudi.
The barman was not full of precise detail, but he remembered the Major as he then was — a light-skinned French North African, originally from Morocco.
“Was he married?” asked Ray Sharpe.
“Yes. Yes, he was,” replied the barman. “But she never came here. I saw a photograph of her, though. Her name was…er…wait a minute…she was Giselle…and either her parents or his…they lived somewhere up in the Pyrenees. I remember that.”
“How come?”
“Well, he always talked of the mountains. He said he liked the solitude. I think his father was some kind of a guide. But anyway he often told me that when he retired he would like to find employment as a mountain guide, and he always mentioned the cool air near his wife’s parents’ home. I think the terrible heat and humidity here in Africa can really get to you after a few years. Anyway, Jacques dreamed of the mountains — somewhere cold, I know that.”
Ray Sharpe got straight back on the phone to Langley, and finally returned to his beer cooler and swinging seat on the veranda of his Brazzaville home. It was still raining like hell, and he was comprehensively soaked. So he just sat steaming and sipping, wondering how the Red Sox were doing back home in spring training.
Lt. Commander Ramshawe studied his notes. He walked along to see Admiral Morris, and wondered, “Have we got enough to find him?”
“No trouble, Jimmy. I’ll have a quick word with our military attache in the Paris embassy and then we’ll hand it back to the CIA guys in France to finish the job.”
In the next two hours CIA agents in France made probably fifty phone calls, and one of them came up trumps. Their top man in the French city of Toulouse, Andy Campese, was especially friendly with his opposite number in the French Secret Service. And DGSE Agent Yves Zilber, knowing absolutely nothing of the highly classified nature of the work of Le Chasseur, was cheerfully forthcoming to an old friend.
“Jacques Gamoudi. Oh sure. He and I worked together for a couple of years. I haven’t spoken to him recently, but he retired from the military and went to live somewhere up in the Pyrenees, near his wife’s family.
“As I recall, he became a mountain guide up on the Cirque de Troumouse — that’s a massive range up near the Spanish border, in the snow. You can only get up there about four months of the year, but I think Jacques is one of the top mountaineers in the area. He lives somewhere near a little place called Gedre.”
Just before the CIA man rang off, however, the French Secret Service agent remembered one further piece of helpful information.
“Andre,” he said, “Jacques changed his name, you know. A lot of guys retired from the service do. I might even do the same myself one day. Anyhow, he suddenly decided to call himself and his family Hooks. I once asked him why he picked such a curious name, and he said he once had a friend of that name, out in Africa.”
Andy Campese rang off with much gratitude. But twenty minutes later, Agent Zilber had second thoughts about what he had said. What was a CIA man doing inquiring about a retired French Secret Service officer? It was probably nothing, but he wanted to clear himself.
Agent Zilber always reported directly to Paris, and he put in a phone call to 128 Boulevard Montier, over in Caserne des Tourelles, in the outpost of the twentieth arrondissement, way to the west of the city center of Paris. He spoke briefly to the duty officer and, somewhat to his surprise, was asked to wait. Then a new voice came on the line and said, “
Agent Zilber was momentarily surprised at being put through to the head of the entire French Secret Service. This was very much a case of
“Well, sir. A short while ago I received a phone call from an acquaintance of mine, Andy Campese — works for U.S. intelligence. And he wanted to know a few details about an old colleague of ours, just a retired officer. No one important. And I just gave him a clue as to how to locate the man. It wasn’t much. You know how we often swap information with the American agents. Andre Campese has always been very helpful to us.”
“Of course,” replied Gaston Savary smoothly. “What was the name of the officer in whom he was interested?”
“Col. Jacques Gamoudi, sir.”
Gaston Savary froze. His whole system shuddered, his heart missed about six beats, his pulse packed up altogether, and his brain turned to stone. At least that’s what it felt like to Savary. But he was trained to accept shock. And after a three-second pause, he spoke again. “And for which branch of American intelligence does Mr. Campese work?” he asked.
“He’s CIA, sir.”
Gaston Savary, a thin, sallow-complexioned man, turned instantly a whiter shade of pale. He was so stunned he gently put the phone down without making one further inquiry. And before him stood a vision of France being outlawed from the international community.
And it was his own department, the glorious Direction Generale de la Securite Exterieure (DGSE), successor to the sinister SPECE, that had sprung the leak.
Gaston Savary held his face in his hands and tried to breathe normally. He took an iron grip on himself and his emotions. But, in truth, he could have wept.
