Wings of the Morning (12 page)

He needed to plan for his next development which he had already identified. The post-colonial independent states of Africa seemed to him to have great potential. In almost every case, the new
rulers were hugely wealthy, entirely corrupt and eager to indulge themselves in all manner of mischief. He could help them with the supply of arms, the provision of mercenaries, with purchasing
property and establishing hard currency reserves. And, of course, with obliging them with any extreme of personal foible.

This was going to take some time and concentration, but first, he would rest up and relax during the first couple of months of this new decade. With this decision made, Cestac put his head back
on to the leather luxury of his fine car. He slept as Olivier drove on towards warmer and quieter surroundings.

KINGSTON OFFENBACH — 1970

At 4 pm on New Year’s Day, it was almost dark in London and King was still at his desk in the American Embassy. The building was mostly deserted and he was surprised to
hear his direct line ring, then pleased to recognise the gruff, smoker’s voice with the heavy accent.

‘Keeng? You are there?’

‘Yes, Victor, I’m here. It’s good to get your call.’

They had a short conversation and agreed on a plan. King sat back in his chair and reflected that this was going to cost him the early night he’d been planning but it would likely be worth
it. He got on well with Victor Sollange, Sicilian born, a well-respected officer in the French Security Service and a key member of the international team which would meet tomorrow. Victor was
already in London, staying at a hotel in Victoria and King joined him there just after 6 pm. They went to a wine bar in Elizabeth Street and sat in a quiet corner to talk over coffee and some house
red.

Sollange started the conversation, speaking slowly in his guttural French. He wanted to talk about the latest developments in Paris. About twelve months previously, the two men had met for the
first time when King visited Victor’s office. It had not been a comfortable occasion. Sollange had been reluctant to receive King and wary of sharing information with a black American
arriving from London. But King had been at his gently persuasive best. He knew it was vital for him to build a constructive relationship with this man. It was the French who knew most about Africa,
and Victor Sollange was their top man, with priceless experience and an impressive record. It had taken King a further two visits to persuade Victor that the CIA was serious and had something to
offer. Specifically, he had provided Victor with valuable details on the Brothers Grimm and their heroin supply routes of which much was known in Langley. In response, Sollange opened up with his
knowledge of how South American cocaine was coming into Europe via the continent of Africa.

The Brothers had been allocated a suitable codename. They were wealthy, well known and viciously ruthless. They were content to be assumed as Bulgarian, but had in fact been born in Turkey and
had spent time as guest workers in West Germany before slipping into France. The Grimms were not the only suppliers to French users, not even the biggest, but they had the greatest notoriety and
were the fastest growing in coke distribution. Sollange had selected them as his prime target and he had fresh news to share.

‘I can confirm the Grimms are working with Thierry Cestac,’ he announced ‘we had a positive sighting just this morning.’

King raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Sollange lit himself a fresh Gauloise and went on.

‘I must give credit to young Geslin. He’s not been with me for long and I told him to take New Year off. But last night he went round the clubs they visit, got lucky at the third and
saw them leave around 3 am. Geslin followed and they parked up in Rue de Constantine — a very chic area. They sat there until 7 am, heater running from time to time. My man froze his balls
off fifty metres up the street and watched them. Then Cestac appears. He has a young blond guy with him. They separate, Cestac gives his overcoat to the blond and then gets in his car which is
chauffeured up to him. Blond walks up the street and climbs in with the Brothers Grimm. Both Cestac’s limo and the Grimm car vanish, but in different directions. Geslin doesn’t have the
horsepower to follow either of them, so he goes to look at the building. They’re apartments, very high value. Cestac’s name doesn’t appear but one bell push is marked
‘Enterprises Pau’, so that’ll be him.’

Sollange reached for his glass and lit another Gauloise. The eyes beneath their bushy brows twinkled across the table as he continued.

‘Cestac must really matter to the Grimms. Why else would they spend New Year’s Eve sitting in a car waiting for him? Cestac is cunning. I confess we didn’t know he has a place
in Rue de Constantine but it seems the Brothers had the road if not the number. My guess is they want to take Cestac out of the picture. He has the contacts in the smart set and they want his
middleman profit. They figure to get him off guard and alone — then it’ll be a painful end for M. Cestac.’

King interrupted, ‘I follow you, Victor, but you’ve said nothing about Cestac’s partner — this blond guy.’

‘Him. Oh shit, King, I’ve no idea, but you can be sure that he was no sort of business partner. And I do mean ‘was’. The Grimms took him off assuming he’s in on the
act, they’ll have sweated him a bit, found he knows nothing, then they’ll have wasted what was left of him and our colleagues in the Gendarmerie will be fishing him out of some canal in
a day or so. Cestac works alone and trusts no one. He’s way too smart for the Grimms and I bet he sniffed something this morning. So he sent off the blond as a diversion to give himself a bit
of time. He’ll be back. They must owe him product so he’ll be back ... and with muscle behind him. What we must do now is watch and wait. We’ve got a good chance to roll up the
network and get our hands on some of the using clientele too, and they’ll be a high profile bunch you can be sure.’

’I’d sure like that,’ said King, ‘but if you’re right Victor, what was the blond doing there? Is he a boyfriend? Is Cestac a queer?’

Sollange laughed, ‘God no. Cestac certainly likes the girls and he likes variety too. So, I reckon that Blond was the cabaret for the evening.’

Seeing the look of puzzlement on King’s face, he went on, ‘Sorry. I didn’t mention that Geslin saw three people coming out of that apartment. Cestac, Blond and also a girl. No
doubt they’ll have been partying most of the night and she went off with Cestac. Perhaps he dropped her home, but I don’t think so.’

‘What d’you mean?’

Sollange lit yet another Gauloise and spoke through a stream of smoke.

‘Cestac sells flesh. He supplies live bodies to order, a few pretty boys but mostly beautiful girls. He has customers in Europe and the Middle East. He finds and fattens the product, then
delivers it to his pervert of a client who will have a mountain of money, but no morals or mercy. Not a pleasant business, but it’s the slave trade of this century and it’s a strictly
one way ticket for the poor souls once he’s got his hands on them. They never come back. Not one.’

King grimaced in sympathy. ‘I’ve heard speak of it, but never been involved in that field.’

‘And won’t now, I think. It’s a dying business. No doubt Cestac sees a better return from peddling powder and pills to those who have the money and brains to know better. But
it looks like Cestac is going out on a high note. He’s sent out a girl this morning from Paris — an absolute stunner.’

King shrugged. ‘But this is a guess, right?’

‘It’s more than that, my friend. You see, I gave myself a bit of extra time at Orly today before my flight and chatted to my friends there in customs and police. Thought I’d
check if Cestac went through today. They let me see the manifests and it didn’t take so long: light traffic on New Year’s Day. I couldn’t find Cestac’s name, but I
recognised another. Georges Eboli. A big black guy. He’s small time, does cons and scams, quite a smooth operator. I was interested because he’s run errands for Cestac before so I dug a
bit deeper and found that Georges left Paris today to travel to London, then connecting onto a flight this evening to Bahrain. And he’s travelling with a lady. I got the passport details as
you should know about him. Eboli claims he was born in Cameroun but who can tell. French passport now and he’s been living in Paris for fifteen years. Have a look where he’s been in the
past twelve months. Twice to Conakry and once to Sao Tome: both on your possible transit points for South American drugs, yes?’

King reached out to take the paperwork which Sollange had dug out of his pocket. He looked at the handsome black face and glanced at the guy’s personal and travel details which were
summarised beneath. Efficient staff work, he thought. He was about to lay the document aside when Victor spoke again.

‘Have a look at the girl too. I’d surely love to see the rest of her. I reckon Cestac has groomed her for some sick bastard. Now Eboli is playing delivery boy and there’s not a
damn thing to be done. She’s old enough and wise enough. If she goes of her own accord — well then she goes. But I doubt she’ll be coming back.’

He gave a Gallic shrug as he continued, ‘anyway, King, it’s not our affair. Now I suggest that at tomorrow’s conference, we don’t mention ...’, but he broke off
there as he realised his audience was no longer listening.

King Offenbach felt a long shiver pass down his spine as he scanned the second sheet which Victor had passed to him. There could be no doubt. He knew that face so very well and the details of
her passport confirmed it. Alexandra Celeste Labarre.

There was a long silence. King sat motionless with his eyes fixed on the photo of Alexa. Inwardly, he was in turmoil with thoughts cascading over each other. They were interrupted by Victor who
leaned forward and said,

‘Don’t tell me. You know the girl?’

King just nodded and then he gave Victor a concise little run down of the background story.

Sollange remarked, ‘Life can indeed be a bitch. I really don’t know what you can do, King, but you don’t have much time and you better get going. I’ll see you in the
morning.’

King nodded his thanks as he left. He was lucky with a cab and was back at his desk in twenty minutes. He grabbed the phone and started to work contacts, not helped by the day or the time. By
midnight, he knew that Alexa and Eboli were on the regular Qantas flight to Sydney which went out around 2100 every evening. Their destination was Bahrain and they would now be sitting in mid-air
with three and a half hours to go.

King dialled again and was lucky. His old buddy Mark Leary was at home for the New Year and abandoned a family dinner to listen. At the end, Mark said laconically,

‘It’s a bit of a challenge, King, especially with the tight timing. But then again, you’re in the right shop. Communication is pretty much the name of our game.’

After which, things moved pretty quickly. Some important strings were pulled and a succinct message sent at 0216 GMT 2nd January to the captain of Qantas Flight 002 in level cruise towards
Bahrain.

King Offenbach could do more then. He went to bed and forced himself to sleep.

ALEXA LABARRE — 1970

She was sitting in the departures lounge of London Heathrow Airport, Terminal 3. She kept repeating this dull, factual information to herself because it made her feel that she
had not quite lost touch with her own sanity. She was very tired, overcome with sleepiness and every few minutes she would start to nod off. As soon as that happened, she would be gripped by a
panic attack which made her sit bolt upright and gasp for breath. She found she could regain some control by restarting the litany ‘I am sitting in the departures ... etc’ and in due
course she would go through the whole process again. And again. Except that the whole cycle was taking longer. I’m getting worse, she told herself. I’m losing touch with reality. I need
help.

Alexa was about to turn twenty-six. She was christened Alexandra Celeste, the names chosen to reflect her Anglo French family. From baby days and childhood into her teenage years, Alexa trailed
behind her an unending stream of superlatives which increased with her adult independence. She had brains and beauty, charm and character, poise and personality. She was fine, flirtatious,
sometimes feisty, always feminine. She had the lot, her many friends would say of her, but they could not call her a rich bitch. She was wealthy indeed, but apparently never a bitch despite all the
benefits bestowed upon her. Alexa was schooled first in Limoges near to the small chateau which had been home to her father Joffrey’s family for successive generations. When she was thirteen,
her English born mother Elizabeth’s influence sent her to boarding school in England and it was from there that she went straight up to Oxford University.