Eden to Paris

 

 

There is pain that I have known. There are agonies that I have endured. There is the complex and compelling abyss of loss and bereavement from which it is sometimes impossible to see the light of a new dawn. And there is the dire humiliation of the innocent that I have been forced to witness and observe.

It’s not easy to compare those emotions to being shot in the chest. Suffering such a wound is raw and brutal. As is recovering from it. I remember McGee pointing a gun at me. I have a vague recollection of the feeling that I’d been sucker-punched in the sternum. I remember thinking, That didn't hurt as much as I’d expected.

And then my next memory is of waking up in the ICU at Eden, which is where the raw and the brutal components kicked in.

Eden is a NATO safe-haven based outside of Alexandria, Egypt. I’d paid a brief visit to the facility during my adventure with the fabulous Sahara Desserres and the enigmatic Captain Mathew Price, but I never dreamt that I’d return there as a patient. Somehow, my life had been saved, and I’d been transported back to Eden and expertly made whole once more. However, I was in a sorry state. It wasn’t just the constant pain. It was the frightening inability to feel like I could take a satisfactory breath. I could breathe deeply enough, but due to the damage in my left lung, I couldn't properly process the air that filled it. Oxygen helped. A bit.
To make matters worse, nobody would let me sleep. At least not during the daytime, when I felt like I needed it the most. I guess that military types don’t do bed rest. It took a couple of weeks before I could walk around the gardens with just the aid of a walking stick, and I began to fantasise about a decent bottle of wine again. Mind you, convincing the doctor of my argument that red wine is a much healthier pain killer and muscle relaxant than morphine, held virtually no sway with the man, and I was forced to go cold-turkey for a further ten long days before I was set free of their care and allowed to enjoy the extensive facilities that the place had to offer.

Having been assured that the hospital and accommodation bills were all being paid for by the British Government due to my assistance with the Born To Be King operation, I was eventually able to pursue my own agenda of recuperation that revolved around consuming splendid food, copious bottles of red wine, the occasion lap or two in the pool to break up my sunbathing routine, and a daily visit to the hospital’s physical rehab department. I’m sounding glib. In truth, the trauma to my chest and lung, both from the gunshot wounds and the subsequent restorative surgery, had left me as weak as a kitten and in almost constant pain. I was told that it would be a long road to recovery. Thankfully, my evening inebriation help me sleep through most nights.

Reclining in the expansive gardens with a fairly terrible novel perched on a side table, looking out from beneath the shelter of a large umbrella, I took as deep a breath as my compromised lungs would allow me. I held it for as long as possible without coughing, and then let it out in a slow, relaxing sigh. One of the exercises I’d been told to perform on a regular basis. Beyond the pool, well-manicured, vivid green grass supported bushes and small trees which were abloom with new flower. Tall, white storks picked their way delicately through the lush shrubbery and, silhouetted against the deeply azure sky, big black vulture-like birds circled and soared luxuriously in the still, hot air. For a moment it seemed like I was in a very different world. One that seem completely at odds with the experiences I’d just endured only a few hundred miles away to the south in the sun-sculpted, barren landscapes of the desert. I suspect it’s why they called the place Eden.

A man approached me, walking with ease and confidence around the narrow, concrete fringe of the pool. I could tell who it was simply by the way he moved.

‘Looking good, Mac,’ Price informed me, peeling away his sunglasses from his calm, grey eyes.

‘No flowers?’

‘Sorry I haven’t visited sooner. I’ve been sort of busy. May I?’ Price indicated that he wanted to take a seat next to me under the shade of my umbrella.

‘Help yourself,’ I agreed. ‘Any news from Sahara?’ I added as Mathew took to his seat.

‘No, she’s vanished into the maze of the Frank Organisation.’

‘Can’t say I blame her.’

‘However, I got to meet Gustav.’

Gustav Frank. Sahara’s love interest, and the heir-apparent to the FO throne.

‘How did that go?’ I wondered.

‘Polite. He assured me of Sahara’s well-being. And he tried to convince me of the FO’s benevolence.’

‘Do you believe him?’

‘I believe that the FO will take care of Sahara. The rest of it is above my paygrade.’

‘You were on the list,’ I pointed out.

The Born To Be King list was an attempt by Sahara’s late-father, Colonel Jacques Desserres, and the American secret service to secrete important people into all sorts of foreign societies in an effort to covertly influence a country’s attitude to the west.
Mostly, it was a waste of time. And it was a project that had caused the death of many people. Including, very nearly, my own.

‘A gesture to my father. Nothing else.’ Mathew’s father had been a close friend to both Jacques Desserres and Gustav’s father, Harold Frank.

I nodded my understanding. ‘It ends there. The FO will be left in peace to pursue their secret tech agendas, and we’ll probably never get to see Sahara again.’ Which was a shame, because I’d come to greatly admire her.

‘What about you? Back to your castle?’ Price was referring to an ancient, Scottish ruin that I’d inherited from my mother.

‘I don’t think so. Too many ghosts. I think I’ll just go back to living on my old boat,’ I smiled.

‘Then you might be interested in what I have to tell you...’

‘Thanks, but no thanks. You’re too exciting for this old man,’ I interrupted him.

‘Nothing like that. Your old boss, Simon Callow, got a call from someone called Julia Martin.’

‘Never heard of her,’ I admitted.

‘She’s French. She was an associate of Sophie Legrand’s. She wants you to go to Paris to attend a memorial for her. Although, from what Callow told me, she may have another agenda.’

Attending a memorial for Sophie sounded like a fine idea. I didn't understand why there hadn’t been one sooner. Sophie and I had been lovers. She’d died in my little castle, Raven Broch.

‘I could do that,’ I confessed.

Paris in the springtime. Gotta love it.

‘Good, I’ll book you a flight.’

‘I’ve paid all my bar tabs,’ I assured him.

‘Doc says you’re good to go. The Embassy wants you out of Egypt.’

I understood their position. Best get rid of me before the inquisition.

‘I’m good to go tomorrow,’ I further assured him.

He nodded his appreciation. ‘I’ll get you the flight details and arrange for your escort to the airport.’

‘I can get a taxi.’

‘It’s got to be official. No custom’s lines for you.’ He made it sound like VIP treatment when in reality, it was a boot in the arse. I know how these things go.

‘Thanks,’ I told him quietly.

‘It was an honour, Captain Macdonell,’ he told me, using my ex-Royal Marine rank.

‘You stay safe,’ I replied.

There was very little else to say. When people want you gone, best go as quietly and quickly as possible.

***

 

Three days later, I was enjoying a bottle of Chablis, sitting beneath the shelter of the heated patio of a restaurant called, Chez Franze, awaiting the arrival of Chief Inspector Julia Martin. Martin was a homicide detective, and a friend of Sophie’s. Sophie had worked in a different department called OLAF - the European organisation that investigated serious internation financial crime - but the two women had nearby offices situated in the Paris police HQ.

It was raining.

I was drinking Chablis because I intended to later eat fresh seafood. I’d already seen an ice-laden counter of succulent shrimp, langoustine, oysters, and purple-shelled mussels that had my gastric juices simmering in anticipation.
You don’t get food like that in the Sahara Desert.

‘Mac?’ A soft female voice addressed me.

I looked up from my musing to take in the features of a woman who looked like she would have made an excellent second-world-war resistance fighter.
Julia Martin wore a long, grey-coloured raincoat that had black patches from exposure to the precipitation. Her face was framed by glossy, black hair, restrained beneath a flat bonnet that sat at a fashionable angle on her head. I couldn't tell the colour of her eyes due to the dimness of the environs, but they flashed with intellect and a touch of humour, and her lips were subtly red and inviting.

‘Guilty.’ I stood up abruptly and reached across the table to shake her hand. ‘I hope this is OK, but I’m enjoying the sound of the rain. It was rather dusty where I’ve just been.’

‘This is fine,’ she replied, undoing her raincoat, ‘Sophie told me you were a hopeless romantic.’

‘Are you sure she didn't just mean hopeless?’ I smiled.

‘If she thought that, I would not be having dinner with you.’

‘Ah, the alternative agenda.’

‘Ah, the intuitive detective,’ she Ah’ed right back at me.

Although it sounded much more seductive than my own.

‘Can we eat first? I’d swear in court that the shrimp are calling out my name.’

‘You order for us both. It’s on our budget,’ she grinned.

‘Try this Chablis?’ I poured wine into a vacant glass, and she didn't object.

While she sampled the wine, I caught the attention of a waiter, who came directly over to us.

In rusty French, I instructed him, ‘The foie Gras to begin, followed by a platter for two and…’ I flicked my eyes at Julia to approve more Chablis, which she did with a subtle squeezing of her eyes that made the hairs on the back of neck rise to attention, ‘another bottle of the Chablis.’

I didn't need to mention the words sea and food, and the waiter went off to place the order and hopefully, return immediately with the wine and a fresh bucket of ice to keep it cold.

‘Sophie did not mention that you spoke French,’ Julia commented.

I laughed, ‘We had a relationship that was mostly, how can I put it? Happily, contentious. We didn't always share things up front.’

She laughed into her glass, ‘Contentious. Yes, that’s a good description of her. She really liked you. You know that, don’t you.’

‘Sometimes, I was uncertain. Knowing Sophie was a bit like eating an overly hot delicacy. Delicious, and yet likely to burn.’

‘She also said that you were a connoisseur as well as a talented policeman.’

‘You mean, a drunk and burnt-out copper,’ I smiled easily.

‘Your words, not hers.’

I didn't push the subject any further. Instead, we sat and made small talk for about ten minutes before my curiosity got the better of me, and I said, ‘Forget the food. Put the agenda on the table. Sophie loved to eat and discuss business, so I guess we can. What on earth could you possibly want from someone like me?’

Julia considered me over the rim of her wine glass before saying, ‘Well, technically, you’re still a consultant to OLAF. Your warrant card is valid for two years. And secondly, I understand that you know a thing or two about boats.’

The wine and the foie Gras arrived at the same time. I waited until the waiter had placed the food and refilled our glasses before asking, ‘What? Someone stealing super-yachts?’

‘No. Someone is killing boaters on our canal system.’

She’d meant it to shock. She was quite successful. People being murdered on their boats was the stuff of nightmares for many mariners.

It was also very bad for business.

‘How many?’ I asked, spreading some foie onto a slice of bread.

‘So far, two couples.’

‘Areas? Timeline?’

I tasted the foie. It was exquisite. Especially so, followed by a mouthful of cool Chablis.

‘It started just inland from the coast. Then again, north of Rouen. It’s as if someone is travelling through the canal system, committing the crimes as they proceed.’

‘Or they may be deliberately giving that impression,’ I pointed out.

‘In terms of timeline, it’s over several months. Some of the victims have gone undiscovered for more than a month. Due to the remote nature of it all, no emergency has ever been declared. The crimes are only brought to our attention once someone notices something odd about the boat.’

‘Elderly couples?’ It made sense. Elderly. Retired. Living a humble life in what should be idyllic circumstances.

‘Exclusively,’ she affirmed.

‘Other than the age factor, what’s the connection?’

‘Something to discuss after we’ve eaten.’

I nodded sombrely.

‘You can’t police the entire waterways of France. You want me to do what? Hire a barge and make the trip in the hope of either falling prey to, or discovering something about the perpetrators because there’s a chance that they are a part of the boating community?’ It seemed a rather desperate tactic to me.

‘You have a boat, don’t you?’

‘I do. But it has a sixty-foot mast, and it’s currently in Scotland, and I’m not really strong enough to bring her here. Even if she was able to be adapted for purpose, you’d be better off with a local canal boat. Even then, the chance of catching anyone in the act is pretty slim,’ I advised her.

‘All the victims have been foreigners on foreign vessels.’

‘I get your point.’

‘Just off the top of your head… how long would it take to bring your boat here and make the necessary adaptations? How much would that cost?’

‘Given the right conditions and crew, she could be here in two or three weeks. The cost of conversion would require stepping the mast, probably adding a small pilot house. The addition of a bow-thruster to assist with manoeuvring in the canals. That alone could come to thirty thousand Euros.’

‘Ah,’ she laughed, ‘have you any idea of the cost of using a local contractor. If we paid for bringing your boat here and making the alterations, would you consider doing it? And maybe not hitting us with a rental charge?’ she asked me.

I could see where she was coming from. A project like this could take months or years to bear fruit. The cost of hiring a suitable vessel and captain would be astronomical.
I thought about it over some more foie Gras. On the surface, it seemed like a plan doomed to failure. But it was extremely enticing to me. I’d always fantasised about crossing France using its canal systems. The charming villages. The food, and of course the wine, made it a deal signed in heaven as far as I was concerned. In fact, had Sophie and I managed to stay together, it was a trip I’d dreamt of doing with her.

‘My boat, Saperé, only draws four feet. The mast could be temporarily removed. That’s all possible,’ I agreed, eager to not sound overly keen.

‘You’ll do it?’

‘Give me a day to come up with some realistic costs. I won’t charge you for the hire, but on top of the delivery fees and alterations, you’ll have an ongoing cost for things like boat yard storage and dockage enroute. And of course, my salary and reasonable expenses.’

‘You can’t find better or cheaper wine than in France,’ she grinned.

She had me. And she knew it.

Not that it bothered me. In fact, I was so excited, I’d forgotten the main platter which, when it arrived was superb.

‘There is just more thing,’ she informed me, pulling off the legs of a long, pink shrimp.

‘There always is,’ I sighed.

‘We have a profiler on the case. A French woman, so you should get along with her fine. She lives in Bourgogne, but she’s coming to Paris this weekend so she can meet you and go over the project with you.’

I didn't bother to ask her what she meant by the first part of the statement. I’d worked with female profilers before. Some of whom have been very talented.

‘Does she have a name?’ I dared to enquire.

To which, Julia laughed into the wine glass she’d just lifted to her lips.

‘She has a funny name?’ I enquired some more.

‘Sophie referred to you as Big Mac. Did you know that?’ she laughed some more.

‘Well, compared to her, I was rather big,’ I agreed.

‘So, the profilers name is Marie Fries.’ She pronounced it Frice, like Price with an eff.

‘OK,’ I said slowly, ‘but I still don’t get what’s so amusing.’

‘Don’t you see?’ She continued to laugh with delight.

‘It must be the wine, or the jetlag. But no, I don’t see,’ I confessed.

‘Well,’ she explained slowly, ‘It makes you Big Mac and French Fries!’