PEACE PIPE - CHAPTER FIVE

Character Build

Peter Elkins III - American Mercenary
Paul Connolly - Irish Mercenary
Mary Murphy -Irish Widow Woman
Sergeant Thompson - Mercenary Recruiter
Major Alistair Leigh - Tough Guys
Archie Andrews - African Mercenary

Rashid Al-Mannai - Jordanian Ambassador
Officer Windrush - MPD Patrolman
Jerri Neighbour - Freelance Journalist
Kolé Cutter - American President
J A Metcalfe (JAM) - CIA/UK Liaison
Horace Lime - SO11/CIA Liaison
Philip Dalton - British Assassin
Morris (MO) Schlick - Film Director
Nicola Schlick - Mo's Wife
Tse Lin Yan - Chinese Miliary Attaché
Victor Miles - Secure Armed Services
Abdul Miandad - Syrian Lawyer

Rosie Hoare - Limes' Secretary
Lobb - Policeman

Alan Borg - MPD Homicide Detective
John D Elkins - Bank President & City Mayor

Maurice Le Clerc - Monaco Security Chief
René Dupont - Interpol

5

London – July 14 2013 – three weeks earlier

Horace Lime and his secretary, Rosie, glared at one another like two matched boxers about to go fifteen rounds, neither too sure who would win.

‘Alright, Rosie, surprise me. Why must I read the bloody thing before I go to lunch?’ Lime stood in the reception area, his fingers curled around the handle of the door.

Rosie pursed her lips and glowered before she answered. Perhaps, for once, she might unnerve him. He stared back in the hope that she would an¬swer his altogether reasonable question. She blew out her cheeks in ex¬asperation.

‘Because the bloody thing’s from Mr. Metcalfe, the man you call Guv’nor, that's why!’

Lime marched back into his office, handed Rosie his overcoat and slumped into the horsehair armchair, imported from home. She sniffed, followed him in and passed over a memo. Marked urgent, the first paragraph concerned a check on international air move-ments of known or suspected felons, carried out each week; a simple arrangement, worked out with every international airline in the world. Flight manifestos were all forwarded to CIA headquarters in Langley. Any suspect name should be checked out immediately. Since the list had been introduced, Victor Miles had appeared quite often, but with no strong lead ever established. However, on this occasion, he had flown from New York to Nice, then on to Monaco, which put him roughly into Horace Lime’s territory.

The second part of the memo specifically mentioned a major international conference. Code named ‘Peace Pipe’, it would involve virtually every security agency in the Capital, except, of course, the CIA. Metcalfe would be in the clear and have some time on his hands. He wondered if Horace might get some time off, look around DC and then spend a few days to catching prime fish.

Lime knew about the meet: an important peace pow-wow requested by the Jordanians and set up by the State Department. The UK would certainly be involved and the Foreign Office would have arranged security weeks ago, but a chance remained that he would be called in to help. It would be a simple matter to be in Washington to use up some of his holiday allocation for a change but, for the moment, the invitation would have to wait.

In any event, the rest of the memo contained far more of interest. Metcalfe had followed Miles’s trip right through from Nice to Monaco. He had booked into the Hotel Metropole on May 20. Lime circled the return date, May 21. It looked as if Miles might have paid a visit to someone.

Horace’s hand moved to the phone. He lifted the receiver and then let it drop. The Guv’nor would surely have checked all the accommodations or hotels close by. Lime stiffened. Suppose that someone lived there; someone like Butch and Sundance, he wondered. Had that been checked out? The old policeman turned again to Rosie, still standing with a firm grip on his raincoat while she awaited instructions. Lime picked up the phone and dialed a number. He heard it ring only once before the familiar voice answered.

Lime ignored the niceties. ‘JAM. Did you check out whether Elkins, Connolly or both owned a property in Monaco?’ Rosie, together with her boss, held their breaths as there was a slight, discernable, pause.

The answer surprised everyone. ‘Pieter de Herdt.’
Lime shook his head. ‘What do you mean, Pieter de Herdt?’

Now Metcalfe sounded excited. ‘Of course I checked out Elkins and Connolly. What I didn’t check was de Herdt. You’re right, Horace, my boy. There’s still a chance.’

In spite of himself, Lime grinned and held up a thumb into Rosie’s face. She grabbed at it excitedly before releasing it just as quickly, her face reddening. Lime continued. ‘Listen, JAM, do nothing. I’m going to pass this to Réne Dupont. You know him?’ Rosie watched her boss intently. He shook his head. ‘Interpol. He’s brilliant. He’ll sort it out.’

In the afternoon of the following day, Lime was handed an e-mail by an excited Rosie. It was from Inspector Réne Dupont at Interpol. His friend was brief, going straight for the jugular. On February 25 2013, Yvette Papillon of Inter-Residentials registered the Villa Floret Est, a small villa in the principal¬ity of Monaco, in name of Pieter de Herdt. Rosie Hoare glowed on behalf of her boss

Horace Lime also felt himself glow. This information would be of interest to security organizations everywhere. When they began to proceed with their extraditions, as many of them certainly would, life would become uncomfortable for the men in question.

Horace Lime would sort out who got them first. He was certain the so-called mercen-aries were merely enthusiastic amateurs or toy soldiers. If he applied enough pressure, they would lead him to the place he really wanted to go - to the door of Victor Miles.

Lime gathered up his information and then phoned Dupont. He was disappointed to discover that he had left for the weekend and would not return for several days. He then changed tack and contacted Monaco’s Security Chief, a man named Maurice Le Clerc, who, when told of the situation, gave him a ten minute lecture on the importance of ex¬tradition documentation.

Le Clerc advised against immediate arraignment. This would require considerable paperwork and, in any case, he was able to provide a personal guarantee of round-the-clock vigilance on Villa Floret until Det. Chief Superintendent Lime saw fit to deal with the matter. Le Clerc was, to say the least, officious. He insisted on the need to dot and cross each piece of paper work in sight. The old policeman tried hard to keep his cool and, given a brief moment, confirmed his arrival - Friday July 16th, two days later - with all the correct documentation. Lime was assured that he had nothing to worry about. A team of highly trained detectives would watch the villa day and night to ensure that the criminals would not escape justice.

Lime was driven to Heathrow in what resembled a tropical storm and wondered if it was going to be one of those days. He checked his watch. The electronic clock on the Heathrow depar¬tures board clicked to 09.35 as he looked up. In one hour, foul weather permitting, he would be on his way to a final confrontation.

At Lime’s insistence, Inspector Le Clerc reluctantly gave him a personal cell phone number, only to be used in the most exceptional circumstances. He arranged to meet the Englishman at the central square in Monaco with a detachment of gendarmerie. The orders, prepared and tucked safely in Lime’s briefcase, would ensure final extradition and jail for Elkins and Connolly. This, in turn, should lead directly to the master criminal that Lime, Metcalfe and every other law enforcement agency in the world had tried to pin down over the last decade. Within just a few more hours the matter would be concluded.

Unfortunately, as he had feared, the weather worsened and the flight was delayed 40 minutes. Lime decided to phone Le Clerc, warning of the delay, surely a qualifier as exceptional circumstances. Transferred immediately to a fast talking lady, he could tell only that her accent was Parisian. In any case, he tried to leave a message.

Soon after take-off someone announced himself as Captain of Air France flight AF040 and instructed passengers to retain their seat belts. The advice was sound. Landing at Nice proved difficult as heavy rain and crosswinds buffeted the runway.

Scheduled to fly on to Monaco by helicopter, Lime
discov¬ered the flight cancelled due to the extreme weather conditions. Finally, wet and battered, he arrived by taxi. During this time he had repeatedly tried to contact Le Clerc on his cell phone as well as through the Monaco main Gendarmerie, all without success. Horace Lime had never felt so frustrated. As heavy rain continued to lash the taxi relentlessly, the meeting point remained plainly empty, with no sign of a wood pigeon, let alone the Inspector or any of his men. Horace Lime slumped helplessly in the taxi and waited in the rain for another hour.

Le Clerc and his less than merry men had, so to speak, marched all the way to the top of the hill, found the villa deserted and marched all the way down again. Le Clerc maintained Lime was to blame. He did not specify why. His security team, on watch for three days, exactly as arranged, attested that the men at Villa Floret had behaved con propriété before, in accord with orders, withdrawing that morning. Inspector Le Clerc threatened to find his superiors and report the wasted time and money. The Englishman, not in the best of humor, claimed that to find Le Clerc’s superiors would not be difficult.

At Nice airport, a young receptionist on the Air France desk, when shown photographs of the wanted men, remembered de Herdt. He had flirted with her when booking the tickets. She checked with her computer and confirmed that he, and another young man named Paul Connolly, boarded the 11.00 am London flight. With time differences taken into consideration, they might have waved as they crossed the Channel. Thoroughly deflated, Lime returned to London, reaching his office late that night. The section was closed but he still filed a top priority check on London accommodation. To start now would ensure it was completed within 24 hours. They would also check flight departures for that period. Deep down, Lime knew it was already too late and almost guaranteed to fail. The report finally arrived only to confirm they had returned to France. Why? It was a question that would take a long time to answer.

Elkins and Connolly had been watched till the morning of their proposed arrest. And yet an hour later, when a detachment of police surrounded the villa, they had disappeared. How? They had flown to London, then within 24 hours flown back to Nice; for what possible purpose? More to the point: where were they now?

At least Lime could be sure of one thing. If they attempted to return to their villa, they would be in for a shock. A sequestration order had been made out by the French Government. It was now sealed and would shortly be in the hands of the liquidators.

* * *

The trail had again gone cold as far as Lime was concerned. Furthermore, the Home Secretary decided that UK VIPs would not require British security for the Washington peace jamboree. They would be well served by the State Department and its secret service, not to mention federal protection and DC forces of law and order too numerous to mention. One presumed he was at last taking notice of his diplomatic staff.

With unexpected time on his hands and Rosie bitching for a break, Lime was without excuse not to take up JAM’s invitation. Having never visited America in his life, this acted as a further incentive. Thinking about it, he decided it might, in fact, be fun to observe their security peers in local services prancing around like blue arse flies taking care of Peace Pipe. With nothing better to do, they might just find some relaxation and, if very lucky, catch a few striped bass in the Potomac.

JAM was delighted. He’d enjoy showing his friend around. In the meantime Rosie arranged the details, including an executive flight from Charles de Gaulle the same evening. This was because her boss had been invited to lunch in Paris by Inspector Dupont of Interpol. The Frenchman wanted to clear up what was now termed the ‘Fiasco in Monaco’.

By way of an apology for what had happened, the French detective offered him luncheon in a restaurant of his choice. Lime’s clever selection was the sun filled garden restaurant of the Bristol Hotel, based in Rue de Faubourg, St. Honouré, close to the Champs Elysées, thought by many gastronomically inclined friends to be the best in Paris.

The two men shared a sumptuous meal which, following Dupont’s recommendation, started with a delightful foie gras and sorrel mousse, smothered in sesame seeds, cucumber jelly and oyster tartare. A joint selection of main course was Bresse hen, served with crayfish, chicken giblets and black truffles, accompanied by a very fine bottle of Mas de Daumas Gassac a Grand Cru of Languedoc.

For Lime, the chicken was original and delicious; carved out of a pig’s bladder and with a flavor he had never experienced in London.

A cheeseboard included ripe Camembert which neither man resisted. This was followed by the lightest of grapefruit and campari sorbets; grapefruit segments in fruit jelly. Dupont settled on a pudding of crisp shortbread, coffee hazelnut with caramel, coffee ice cream and chocolate, while Lime went for light apple, cooked for ten hours and accompanied to the table by iced-cider sorbet.

After a final celebration bottle of Krug Grande Cuvee to wash down the last part of their meal, both men shared a pot of coffee and some delicious old Armagnac. At this point Dupont informed Lime that Security Chief Le Clerc had been nick-named the new Pink Panther by his continental colleagues. It seemed apt and called for a final large Armagnac at Charles de Gaulle. Dupont was required to pour his friend onto the plane.

* * *

Arriving in America’s Capital had been unreal for Lime, the height of fantasy. As a child he had often dreamt of coming to Washington, political fulcrum for the most powerful nation on earth. DC, a diamond shaped area in the middle of the city, better known as the Metropolitan district, housed everything worth seeing. Flying into Dulles airport, Lime, sitting by the window, had observed Congress, the Senate and the White House - all proof that America, and probably the world, was finally represented by a safe pair of hands.

To Metcalfe, DC was very familiar. His parents had taken him there twice as a boy. The first time he was too young to recognize the depth of history on offer, but later it released in him a thirst for knowledge, some of which he would now pass on to his friend from London. Feeling proprietorial, he first took Lime to the Lincoln Memorial - a colossus of white marble overlooking the Mall - a lovely open space fronting the White House. Metcalfe remembered his old school studies, comparing its symmetry with the Athens Parthenon, a colonnade of 36 Doric columns, all sloped inwards to accommodate perspective.

For Lime, everything seemed larger than life, somehow typically American. But then, he realized, it was. As he stared at America’s most famous President who, in turn, stared out morosely from his marble chair, he felt like an inquisitor. This man, raised in Kentucky on the wrong side of the tracks, could hardly have been expected to introduce emancipation into America. At that time - over one hundred years past - the black man, a slave working for nothing except for his life, was a distinct threat to the working conditions of his white neighbors. Why employ someone for wages when you could get the job done for free? Lincoln was an intelligent thinking man. He knew the score as well as anyone. He also knew that the South, whose economy was growing considerably faster than the North, would become ever more powerful if slavery were allowed to continue. Lincoln’s need to prevent its spread to the North was an economic imperative and he was prepared to fight, even if it meant Civil War. However, after two years, and following many long and bloody battles with the South still holding its own, the ending of this monstrous war became both a political as well as an economic necessity. The Bill of Emancipation was Lincoln’s master stroke. Introduced at this point, it turned stalemate into victory. Though a questionable integrationalist for the greater part of his life, in the end he probably accepted that he had made the right decision.

Lime shook his head in some bemusement before turning to a less controversial view across the so-called Reflecting Pool, a magnificent waterway and promenade. Its inspiration had apparently emanated from architectural wonders like the Taj Mahal and Versailles. Much later in the morning, the two men found themselves at the Washington Monument, one of the highest points in DC. Larger than life was right!

At lunch time, Metcalfe took his friend to a diner close by. Lime ordered a watermelon while they waited to be served. His request caused some amusement. Metcalfe explained that his parents had brought him and his sister to see the capital at the ages of eight and ten respectively. Travelling from Raleigh, N.C., the Greyhound bus journey took 5 hours. By lunch time, they all declared themselves starving. His daddy purchased double port-ions of watermelon, filling everyone up, and drew a bill of 60c - all the man could afford.

After a thorough and final exploration of the city, its array of parks, museums, clubs and restaurants, they moved to the countryside, along the Potomac River, where they fished and, in general, relaxed for the rest of the week.

* * *

Paul Connolly and Peter Elkins could not have cared less about Washington’s attractions. One week earlier a cab transferred them to a discreet shorefront cabin owned by Victor Miles, hidden away in its own wooded estate leading on to the Atlantic Ocean. Miles had suggested it be used as the ideal hidey hole for the short time the Jordanian ambassador was in their care - not the first time his cabin had been utilized for nefarious purposes. In the meantime preparation was all. For the next few days the boys tried to anticipate every conceivable scenario for their adventure of the following week.

Having discovered Elkins had often sailed with his father on vacation trips through the Gulf to the Bahamas, Miles told the boys of his 35’ Keel Centerboard Cutter, named Bockscar, after the B29 which dropped an atom bomb on Nagasaki to end World War ll. The boat was moored for convenience on its personal jetty, stored as necessary in a cust-om built boat house adjacent to the cabin. A touring class cruiser, it was designed with cunning skill for easy travel in any conditions.
Designed with both shallow and deep water sailing ability, the boat’s board up draft crossed the lowest surface, while a large board down offered perfect windward ability in deep waters. It was, he said, ideal for running guns or cocaine; the type of enterprises Victor Miles undertook on occasions. It was also the ideal take-off point through the Gulf of Mexico to South America.

During that first week Elkins had delighted in sailing the boat along the bay estuary, utilizing his companion as willing crew. The weather was warm and the water duck pond calm; Connolly was surprised and delighted not to have a hint of sickness.

Twenty four hours before the kidnap was due to take place, the two young mercenaries transferred to the Lombardy Hotel, a converted house on Pennsylvania Avenue. It was at the very centre of the DC diamond, close to Foggy Bottom, one of Washington’s 19th century neighborhoods. Arriving here, they had reached the start point in what would become the final storm.