Whitney leaned down to touch Tixier’s cheek. “She’s already told us everything we need, J. J.” She looked at her younger colleague with moisture in her brown eyes. “And she just told me what she needs.”
Tixier mouthed the words.
Martha Whitney almost smiled.
39
Terry Keegan had seen worse maintained helicopters, but not recently
Standing on the ramp with Eddie Marsh and their contract mechanic, Keegan waited for the Air Force advisor to conclude his arcane business with the Chadian officer. Keegan knew that at one point the commander of the
At length the advisor shook hands with the African officer and walked toward Keegan and Marsh. “Come on, we’re going over there,” the major said, pointing beyond the security perimeter.
“What’s the deal, sir? Aren’t we using these birds?”
Major Allen “Jigger” Lowe kept a straight face. “What’s the matter, Mr. Keegan? Do you
“Well, it’s just that…”
Lowe stopped so abruptly that his charges went two steps beyond him. He motioned over his shoulder. “You see that Chadian officer back there? Well, he told me that
Eddie Marsh ventured an opinion. “Sort of like the hang glider’s motto?”
Lowe grinned in appreciation. “You got it. ‘Don’t fly any higher than you’re willing to fall.’ Which is why we’re going the long way ‘round to check out the other helos.”
Keegan gave a tight-lipped grin. “I see, said the blind man. We’re gonna borrow some of the French birds.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny.” Lowe began walking again. “But it’s all been arranged back-channel; I just had to settle with our, ah, colleague over there.”
Keegan regarded the blue-suiter with growing admiration. The former Navy man suspected that his Air Force host had just greased somebody’s sweaty palm.
Moments later, Keegan and Marsh were looking at newer, obviously better maintained Alouette IIIs. No visible leaks; no pitted Plexiglas; not much chipped paint. A couple of them even had Chad’s red-yellow-blue cockade over the red-white-blue emblem of France.
Keegan consulted with his mechanic, a burly, monosyllabic individual between thirty-five and fifty years of age, who spoke fluent French and aviation English with a Canadian accent. The Americans knew him as Charles Haegelin; heaven knew what his passport said, let alone his birth certificate. Keegan only knew him slightly; they had partnered with SSI once before.
Lowe opened the door of the nearest Alouette and withdrew a canvas satchel. “Mr. Haegelin, here’s the airframe and engine logs. I believe this is the low-time bird of the bunch. I’ll stick around while you gentlemen decide which ones you want to use, but you’ll have to sign for them before you leave.”
While Haegelin and Marsh checked fuel and fluids on the first helo, Marsh and Lowe examined another. Far enough from inquiring ears, Marsh leaned close. “Jigger, how’d you swing the loan of some of the French birds?”
The advisor was deadpan. “I don’t understand the question.”
Keegan thought he detected a wink, but perhaps it was an ordinary blink. “Okay, I won’t ask embarrassing questions.”
“Works for me,” Lowe said. “Now, how much Alouette time do you have?”
“Oh, maybe two hundred hours.”
“Current?”
“Yeah, I flew a few days before we left home.”
Lowe nodded. “Good ‘nuf for government work!”
40
Paul Deladier glanced up from his paper as Marcel entered. “I’ve been waiting for you,” the younger man said. “I thought you’d be back by now.”
“It always takes longer at the embassy” Hurtubise replied evenly. He loosened his tie and looked around. “Where’s Gabrielle?”
Paul shrugged. “I haven’t seen her today.”
Hurtubise glanced at the clock on the stove. “She should be back by now.”
Deladier turned a page. “Maybe she’s out shopping with her nigger friends. I don’t know what she sees in them.”
“No, she was…”
Four sharp raps came from the door. One, pause, three. “That’s Raoul,” Hurtubise said. He opened the door.
Raoul Clary’s face told the story. “She’s dead.”
Deladier gasped audibly. “My God! Gabby…”
Hurtubise pulled the operative inside, then closed and locked the door. “Tell me.” His voice was emotionless, flat.
“I followed her as you said, making sure she didn’t try to run. But she kept the appointment all right. She met the fat American at the other apartment like you suggested. Gerard and I had the van with a body bag and cleaning supplies and the medical kit. All we had to do was look for her signal.” He spread his hands. “Marcel, why didn’t you let us do it? There would have been no trouble. The black woman would just disappear.”
“I have my reasons,” Hurtubise snapped. “Go on.”
“Well, after twenty minutes we saw the American arrive. She left not long after that. There was no sign of Gabrielle so we waited a little more, then entered through the bedroom window. She was dead in the kitchen.”
“How?”
“Shot in the head.”
“Executed?” Hurtubise asked.
“No, not if you mean from behind. But…”
“Yes?”
“Well, now that I think of it, the entry was in the left temple. Her Makarov was on the floor beside her.”
“Had it been fired?”
Clary nodded. “Once.”
Hurtubise felt a chill. Gabrielle had been left-handed. “No other ballistics? Any sign of a fight?”
“No. Oh, it looked like she had been sprayed with Mace. We could smell it a bit, too.”
“Where is she?”
“Gabrielle?”
“Yes, Gabrielle, you idiot!”
“Well, I thought you might mean the American. Gabrielle’s body is still in the van. Gerard is parked outside. We thought it best to come here rather than risk calling.”
Hurtubise began pacing, biting his lip in concentration. Deladier and Clary watched him closely. They thought they knew what Gabrielle Tixier meant to him, but they also knew his ruthless quality. It was at once a strength and a fault.
