Suspects(7)
“No worries, I’m still working. What can I do for you?” Mike said easily despite the late hour.
“I think we’re okay,” Rafe said, sounding uncertain. “We got a call from head of security at CDG in Paris. They got a flag on the computer on a first-class passenger. They’re nervous now, since we’ve started sending flights back. They’re being more careful. It sounds like this guy is some kind of businessman, maybe with some dubious connections. Russians. One of them may tie in to the SVR in Russia. They seem to be growing a lot of spies in Russia these days. There’s nothing else remarkable in the report about him, nothing with Interpol, no directive that he can’t enter the U.S. I just want to be sure I don’t make a mistake, and we wind up turning back the flight when they get to JFK, if we don’t have to.”
Mike listened carefully and was calm when he answered. “That’s not enough to hold the flight or take him off.” Mike sounded sure of his assessment from what Rafe told him. “It sounds like you’re good to go. He may be some kind of creep, but nothing we need to worry about, yet, or stop him for. That can always change, but there’s nothing in what you’ve told me that sets off bells and whistles. Tell them he can fly,” Mike said. There was a soothing tone to his voice. Rafael had never met him, but had spoken to him before and liked him. Mike wasn’t an alarmist, although he was careful and thorough. They’d denied passengers together before, notably a Venezuelan drug runner, and a Syrian couple who had gotten arrested in England carrying a bomb three months later. They’d dodged a bullet on that one. The woman had been making suicide vests for a terrorist cell outside London. But Pierre de Vaumont was clearly not in those leagues, and a different breed entirely. He seemed to present no serious risk if they let him enter the United States. A businessman with Russian connections was not enough to keep him out of the country.
“Happy to help,” Mike said.
“I’ll give them a call at CDG right away so they can board the flight,” Rafe said.
“That’ll be good news to them,” Mike added, and they ended the call. Rafe called Pascal Martin back immediately and gave him clearance, telling him he had it straight from the CIA that de Vaumont was clear and there would be no problem with his entering the U.S. Pascal could feel his stomach ease the moment he heard, and advised the airline immediately. The flight was only going to be an hour late, which wouldn’t ruffle the passengers’ feathers too much.
Mike had asked Rafe to email him the manifest, so he had it, and indicate the passenger in question. It never hurt to take another look, just in case someone else of interest was on the flight. He glanced at it a few minutes later, and only noticed one familiar name. Theodora Morgan Pasquier. He had read the story in the news a year before and remembered how tragic it had sounded. She had lost both her husband and son in a bungled kidnapping situation. He wondered if they had caught the kidnappers, but didn’t recall reading that they had. There was no other name that rang a bell on the flight.
He had another thought then, since de Vaumont had some vague link to the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, either as a suspect or a connection, and decided to put a tail on him when he arrived. At worst, it would be a waste of time and taxpayers’ money, and at the other end of the spectrum, they might pick up some interesting information that could be useful to them, MI6 in the UK, or DGSE, the French authorities. Mike thought the Russians seemed to be a noticeable presence these days, more than they had been in a long time. There was a lot of money floating around, being placed in strange places for purposes that were of interest to several governments. He called operations and set up surveillance on Pierre de Vaumont, and gave them de Vaumont’s flight number and arrival time. He could always cancel it if the agent said there was nothing of interest going on.
He made another call then, to a friend in MI6 in London, who had gotten there via Scotland Yard. Mike sat back in his big comfortable chair. He was a tall man with dark hair, brown eyes, and gray at his temples, and had played college football for Notre Dame. He was originally from an Irish family in Boston and had enjoyed his career in national security so far. There was a photograph of a pretty blond girl on his desk. The photograph was old, and he noticed it often. Becky James. They had gone through Langley together. She had been killed in an undercover operation they both worked on in Ecuador, in his early years in the CIA. She was the only woman he had ever really loved, and he had learned his lesson from that. Personal attachments were high risk when you did national security work, particularly undercover. It was a luxury he couldn’t afford, and had avoided after that, but she had been such a sweet girl. Mike was smiling when Robert Richmond picked up his direct line at MI6 in London.
“I haven’t heard from you in dog years. Where are you, man?” he said to Mike.
“In New York.” Mike always enjoyed talking to him. They had shared information on many cases for several years.
“Working on anything interesting at the moment?” He assumed the call was for business, and he wasn’t wrong.
“Nothing much. It’s been quiet,” Mike said.
“I wish I could say the same. We’ve got a lot of problems in Europe. Terrorists, Russian spies, and double agents. It feels like the Cold War again these days.”
“We’re a little more removed from that than you are. Most of the Russian spies seem to be settling in England,” Mike commented, and Robert agreed. “I had a call today about a passenger at CDG. French national. Pierre de Vaumont. The computer flagged him but there’s nothing much on him. Supposedly questionable connections, but that could mean anything.”