Chapter 24 – Back at Base
Paris, France. 12:13pm 29th April 2022.
"Are you sure you can't help me out?" The weasel asks on the back foot through the telephone lines. "I'm so close to finishing this off."
"The terms, which do not exist, forbid such action." His contact replies. An older gentleman.
"No, I mean under the table, like last time." The weasel pleas.
"It took me a lot of time and effort to cover up your first call for help, disposing of half an elite unit and a log cabin isn't easy." He replies.
"But I can get constant eyes on, a clean view…" The weasel argues.
"You are on your own, just like the past years 8 years and only now you start complaining." He replies.
"Didn't you get all my Intel that I sent to you?" The weasel asks.
"First of all, it's not your intel. Secondly, no I have not received a single email telling me anything like the location of Sly Cooper, his gang or the Mona Lisa." He corrects.
"I'll tell you now then." The weasel says hopefully.
"No you won't. You know the rules, which also don't exist." He says. The weasel is totally confused.
"Stop moving the goal posts." The weasel says, starting to loose his temper.
"I can and I will in order to get you to stop calling me, crying for assistance like a baby needing their mother. I have other people who need much more and much more important help than you."
"Don't you care at all?" The weasel shouts.
"You know perfectly well the protocols, which do not exist, to follow." He asserts. "Follow them, cause that's what they are not there for. Good day!"
His call is terminated.
"Sir." One of his agents calls to the weasel. He doesn't respond, too pissed off at how he was treated. "He's at the golf course."
"Of course he is, he's always at the golf course." The weasel says exasperatingly. He takes a few seconds to calm down and address his team.
"Okay, I want a surveillance team surrounding the apartment. If you spot anyone going in, take note. If one of them goes out, follow them. Extraction will be decided a case-by-case basis." The weasel announces to his team.
"Yes sir." They chant in unison. This plan was only ready by this morning after figuring out the location of where they are living.
"Let's head on out." The weasel announces as they get up from their workstations and move towards the clandestine exit into the alleyway before going into the van so that they can get to their planned locations.
1:14pm 29th Paris 2022.
Two of this team sits on top of a distant building with warm clothes on and a long range scope on a tripod, along with a pair of binoculars to look into the target apartment from a distance of 492 metres according to the rangefinder in the scope.
"It's not like it's supposed to take this long, isn't it?" One asks, looking through the scope with one eye. They have been starved of any sort of useful information, nor any sort of conformation that their target is here; not even a peep. But the windows are not covered by shutters or concealed in any way, therefore they think they have not been spotted from this distance away.
"It's been nearly an hour." The other one says, scanning the windows again through the binoculars.
"I guess we have to keep on waiting." She replies. Like on cue, a small automated drone rises from below and drops a package on top the roof before disappearing as fast as it arrived. They suddenly don't care about the long wait they have endured for this delivery, for the contents are worth it. She opens the box and finds a small gift for their troubles due to the wait.
"At least they gave us our money back." She notes, moving away from the scope to inspect the contents. But her male counterpart doesn't have time to notice as he goes straight into eat this pizza they have waited for. Even on this cold day, the warmth is delightful. They take a break from the monotony of stationary surveillance, considering nothing of any interest has happened at all.
Back in the HQ
"I don't care about how many birdies you shot; what I care about is doing my job, something that you can't seem to do." The weasel says, alone now in this office now that his team are hopefully carrying out his instructions.
"Yes I appreciate that." His contact replies.
"No you don't. Whenever I need help, you turn it down; whenever I send you evidence in order to get that help, you make it incredibly hard for me to do so." He argues.
"There are rules." He repeats.
"Then what's the point of making a team that has no rules to follow, only to set rules?" The weasel questions.
"They don't exist." He repeats. He wants to rip is throat out through the phone line.
"I'll get my own back up then." The weasel says, thinking of a new idea.
"I won't allow it." He refutes stubbornly.
"It will be easy." The weasel says.
"It will be even easier for me to arrest you and to sever your ties, not only to you, but also the people you are responsible for. Landing you all in a lengthy prison sentence and me scott free." He argues, with an air of confidence.
"It will be even easier for me to gather a swat team from upstairs and raid the house myself." The weasel warns.
"You have no power up there." His contact says. "I've won."
"No you haven't." The weasel says, but he's been caught out of context.
"Yes I have because the director of MI6 missed a 5 footer." He says.
"You are the most incompetent, lazy and annoying person I've ever had to work for." The weasel scowls, trying to give the final straw. "Playing golf while we suffer here."
"I think 8 years in charge makes me pretty successful." Chief Barkley replies. The weasel has had enough with Barkley's annoyance and reluctance to offer anything that could be remotely considered to be a helping hand. Even when he is so close to his goal.
He has no choice but to roll the dice in order to get this over and done with sooner rather than later, otherwise who knows where Sly might go? He walks to the unused entrance to this basement, the actual entrance that leads into the police station above.
He can see through the one way glass all of the policemen and women who are oblivious to all of the work that has gone down underneath here for so long. Slowly, he unlatches the bolts at the top and the bottom of the door and opens it. He's surprised that it hasn't rusted shut from not having used it in ages. The receptionist sees this door open from her desk. Despite not having worked here for long, she has never seen it open until now, and that makes her especially lucky being able to see any sort of life behind that heavily secured storage closet.
But the weasel takes no notice of her, he is intent on his own mission and walks straight into the offices so he can rally a team. He thinks he has importance and can get people out of their seats in a flash, but like Barkley said from all those kilometres away; he has no power here.
"Sir, this is a restricted area." Someone shouts as they rise from their desk and point a gun at him. This gets the attention of everyone in this level.
"Get on the ground now!" He shouts as others who are closer to the weasel move in to close him down.
"I work downstairs." The weasel pleas.
"Show your ID." He commands, the weasel has none.
"I work downstairs; Hear me out, I'm in a top secret mission and I need your help." The weasel pleads quickly. But he is tied down and handcuffed swiftly.
"Take him down to a cell for questioning." He commands, and the weasel is lifted up to is feet and walks reluctantly as he is escorted by the police to one to a questioning room that contains only flat desk and a padded bench seat along with cameras in the corners to watch every second. The weasel gets thrust into the opposite side of the table whist still handcuffed whilst two officers take their place to question the intruder.
"This is a mistake." The weasel pleads. "I have a direct line to Interpol Chief Barkley who can verify who I am and what I do. You can call my team and they can back me up."
"On your phone?" An officer asks. "Get it out."
The weasel gets out his phone despite having has hands behind his back and throws the phone onto the table for them to handle.
"He's on speed dial." The weasel adds. "Number 1."
The officer follows his instructions and calls the phone.
"The number you have dialled can not be connected, please try again." The automated voice says. The officers still think he is an imposter now that their suspicions are confirmed. They give back the phone.
"I'm sorry, but you're going to have to be charged for impersonating a police officer and trespassing." The officer concludes.
"I have an office here." The weasel pleads, his intent not waving even though his chances are. "I can show you it, you know the fingerprint scanner at the front of the building next to the door that never opens. I work in there."
"Go." One says, leaving the room to check about what he says.
"Please, call my team." The weasel pleads again to the lone officer.
"No matter how much you think you work in law enforcement, trespassing into this restricted area is forbidden. You will receive a letter regarding your court date, organise a lawyer or else one will be provided for you." The officer explains. "Although you will not win."
The weasel hangs his head in failure.
"Come, you have to go into a cell." He explains, getting up so that he can move the accused down to a holding cell. The other officer comes into the door holding a pile of papers staked up high. She places them on the small table and the pile collapses and speads the pile out. All of these documents that she brought from below ground level are only a tiny fraction of the total amount.
"My papers." The weasel exclaims hopefully. He is ecstatic, almost in tears.
"So." She begins. "You work on this case."
"Yes." The weasel replies becoming more composed. The other officer is sceptical so he proceeds to leave the room to see for himself. She starts looking at all of the bits of paper to get a picture of what he is doing down there.
"So you are…" She begins. But the door is opened by a crowded room full of officers.
"We have orders to arrest you." One says, drawing his gun. The female officer scurries out of the way, keeping her head out of the way of the gun. In the process, she isolates him in this cramped box but the weasel laughs it off.
"Barkley you bitch." The weasel curses under his breath.
"Stand up!" He shouts. The weasel is calm as he shuffles across on his seat and stands up slowly. He flicks his gun towards him, indicating to the weasel to walk out.
"You're making a big mistake." The weasel says normally, not in vain. "You're going to let him get away with it all when I am so close."
He continues to walk whilst being surrounded by police down into the cells below. Where he walks inside by himself and watches as the metal bar door slides across and locks. The weasel offers his hands towards them so that his handcuffs can be removed. After that is done, he goes and sits down on the metal bench on the other side of the cell against a concrete wall. The commanding officer on this station comes down after a period of time and slides a mobile phone through the cell door. It's already in a call that the weasel starts. He picks up the phone and knows who it will be.
"You are no longer in charge of this case." Barkley flatly says. "You team will continue on without you. You will be charged with whatever they decide to give you for your stunt you pulled, and you will plead guilty. After that, you serve whatever the punishment is and you can live a brand new life of whatever you want to do. Raise a family, get a decent job, who knows?"
"Then who will be in charge?" The weasel asks.
"I will be." Barkley says. "Me and him go far back, further back than you'll ever think possible."
"I recall the last time a director of Interpol tried to capture him, it's didn't work out too well." The weasel counters.
"Yes, it means I won't make the same mistakes. I won't receive bribes from criminal organisations who want to see him gone." Barkley says.
"I mean on the ground. You'll be paying golf." The weasel says.
"I will be." Barkley repeats again. "Because the next thing I'll know is that he'll be back again destroying the headquarters." The weasel can't deny the drive to get him caught.
"You'll need me at some point." The weasel says, trying to get some final leverage. Trying a last ditch attempt to cling to this case that he has been with for many years. "I am the last person in law enforcement or intelligence to see and talk to him in person."
"That doesn't count for anything." Barkley replies. His chances are gone. The weasel is cut knowing that all of the work he has done will lead to nothing for him. He will receive no credit for it nor for doing any service. For eight years he has tried to get this case solved and it hasn't worked. But what he has is a wealth of information and intelligence left over. And all of that hard work, him and his teams work, is suddenly snatched away from him just as he is within touching distance of the end.
"I guess it is over." The weasel says without remorse. "Goodbye."
"One last thing. Bentley, I know you're listening on this conversation from where ever you are and I'm sure you've had my friend's conversations tapped ever since Sly was here. Just know that none of you will be spared, especially Ms Fox." Barkley warns before terminating the conversation. He puts the phone away and turns to his intelligence partners with whom he met over a game of golf.
"We are in control." Barkley says pleased with himself, sitting in his padded leather seat in this private jet in a Lyon hanger.
"We are finally going to do it." The head of the CIA notes.
"After all of the trouble he has caused us, all over the world." The head of MI6 says.
"It might be the only thing that could bring us to cooperate." The head of the BND says. A speaker turns on from the cockpit.
"Ready to depart sir." The pilot announces before the planes jet engines roar into life and put both the wheels of the plane and the plan in motion.