Chapter 33 The Patriot Game
*
'What a dreadful place,' O'Briain said. Dakhla with about 65.000 inhabitants and some 550 km to the South of Al Aaíun lay on a narrow peninsula of the Atlantic coast. It was the capital of the Oued Ed-Dahab-Lagouira, had been founded as Villa Cisneros in 1502 by Spanish settlers during the expansion of their Empire and today, in 2009 after decades of neglect and civil war was just a ramshakle full of dirt, misery and poverty in the midst of one of the most hostile regions of the world. The main economic activity of the town –other allowing all sorts of illegal trafficking – was fishing. But the sunset at Dakhla was magnificent, almost like one at sea. The sky was clear of the usual urban pollution and the dunes gave a crisp, if crenelated line for the sun to slip behind.
The odd thing was the temperature range pf course. The noon temperature had reached 35,5°C – and the locals thought of this as a cool day. But now as the sun sank, a cool wind came up and soon the temperature would drop to freezing. The sand could not hold the heat, and with the clear, dry air, it would just radiate away, back to the stars.
Padraig knew sub-saharan Africa very well indeed. He'd spend a considerable amount of time in desert training camps in Lybia, in Chad, in Mauretania and even here in Western Sahara in the zone that had always been held by the POLISARIO. Unlike most men born in the higher latitudes, he had no trouble tolerating this sort of climate. At sixty years of age, O'Briain had never slacked down, also his job as habitual job as a Professor of Celtic Studies did not really require excellent physical condition, nerve and marksmanship! Apart the salt and pepper in his close cropped hair, he did not look a day older then 45, which was quite an advantage, since his ID showed exactly that age.
O'Flaherty and his friends had provided Padraig with a exellent and absolutely authentic Irish passeport on the name of Sean Miller, who looked sufficiently alike to rise no suspicions. Should his Russian contacts be encline to check up on Sean, they'd find exactly, what the would be looking for….a real adress, a real past and an authentic criminal record and time in prison for "patriotic" activities.
The real Sean Miller had also a considerable amount of entry and exit visas from most curious countries in his passport….including Afghanistan, Lybia, Algeria and a couple of other not so recommendable vacation locations. And at this moment in time Sean would not mind being without his ID, for he was spending a peaceful sejourn in a private medical facility in Belgium, where some clever doctors tried to arrange a knee problem, that would keep the comrade placid and locked up for at least eight to twelve weeks.
Padraig was nonetheless tired. It had been that sort of a day! The French had dropped him like a hot potato at Nouadhibou in DGSE bloke who had been on the Falcon 50 with him had pushed a solid envelop full of US Dollars into his hands, had given him a smart Beretta 93 R Full Automatic and a doggy bag with five 20-rounds box magasines and had added a cute Kalashnikov AK 47.
A man without a Russian-made assault rifle would look slightly out of place in this region and furthermore it was easy to get fresh ammo together with the water bottles and food stuff at the local grocer's for a handfull of bucks. Paddy liked Kalashnikovs…..they'd given him a good one!
He had taken the easy way from to Nouadhibou to Dakhla. For 2000 Dollars he had hired a local with a slightly shabby but still complete Cessna 702, who had flown him over the landmine infested desert and right into Dakhla Airport without asking any questions. The additional free-of-charge plus had been that no "border patrol" of the POLISARIO had asked him, why he came to Dakhla, what he wanted there and how much they could get from him, if they'd just leave him alone. The disadvantage was, that O'Briain had only his two well-trained legs as means of transportation. But the contact with the Russians was ok and they had promised a "taxi".
Two headlights appeared on the horizon, heading south towards his place. The horizon was far away. He put his arms into the sleeves of his well-worn kaki jacket to ward off the gathering chill as he watched the lights slid left and right, their conical beams tracing over the dunes. The driver was taking his time. The lights weren't bouncing about. The man was careful of his vehicle and the climate made it pretty hard for a man to push himself. Things would get done tomorrow. God willing- Insh'Allah. A comrade from the Basque ETA had once told Padraig that Insh'Allah meant the same thing as "mañana"-but without the urgency.
The vehicle was your standard "liberation movement" Toyota Landcruiser, the four-wheel that had replaced the Land Rover in most places. Paddy checked his watch. He had not been sleeping for 48 hours. Paddy didn't care. The RUC had once tried to make him crack that way, but they had given up before he had faltered.
He pushed his AK-47 behind his back, made sure that the Beretta was in reach and the security withdrawn, pushed the little bag with his trackers deeper into the pocket of his sand coloured trousers and hoped that the bloke who'd pick him up was not an old acquaintance….else he'd start his Western Sahara vacation with cold blooded murder and some hare brain excuse in the port of Dakhla.
Claire would skin him alive, boil him in hot oil and probably have him castrated by the local vet; he had been careful to not told his woman, that the boys and O'Flaherty wanted him to go onboard the 'Sherazade' if humanly possible in order to see the MISTRALs and radars right into the hands of the French and their attaché case with 2 million Dollars right back to Europe and the Sínn Fein bank account.
While they liked to work with the French, who had always been most understanding with the Irish….they also liked to see the colour of their money…..Paddy did not care: Ever since he had turned respectable, his life had been pretty much quiet and university classes would not start before September 2nd…which meant another 8 weeks without responsibilities. And he could always plead extenuating circumstances with his favourite Harpy….he was only trying to help Ryan…..
Padraig hoped that the French legal attachée in Miami had a good idea how to get him out of the US and back home as soon as they were done with the 'seizure' of the 'Sherazade'!
**
It was surprising how little sleep you needed when there was important work to be done!
When Ryan's third cell – the secure French police cell – rang at five in the morning, he literally bounced from his flea-ridden and slightly unstable bed at 'Hotel de l'Etoile'. And hardly fifteen minutes later he was sneaking out of the hotel through the back entry and worming his way into a tiny little sidewalk off rue Saint Denis. Nobody had seen him go! Ryan would have given his right hand for a huge cup of strong coffee. He felt as if the entire US NFL had passed over him. He was not striktly speaking a morning person: He liked his coffee, his breakfeast and his creature comforts.
He entered through a back door of a rather delabrate building and found himself in an antics. Apart a delabrate table upon which a discreet hand had placed an envelop without a name, Ryan saw nothing . He considered the envelop his, folded it and pushed it into the pocket of his well-worn leather jacket. The gaffe with the Russian mobster hd been fortunately without consequences.
Emanuellle's hooker friends had been kind enough to prevent the worst and since until now nobody from Paris law enforcemet had knocked on his jittery door to book him for 'coups et blessures' – criminal assault, everything seemed to be fine. Anyhow, he had just pressed a knife against the bloke's jugular…..the many blacks and blues were courtesy of the hookers and the Chinese. He was more or less innocent…..
Ryan left the sordid premises and decided against a tour back into his sordid hotel room. At six o'clock in the morning, some of the more decent places in Paris 9th arrondisment would already open up for customers… A large breakfeast would leave him refreshed for his daily "hanging around" even if he could not get a shower and shave. Touring the pubs was after all the only past time left to him until he'd receive a texto from Poniatowski.
Ryan accelerated his pace. Paul's was a good place. Nobody would pay attention to an unshaved guy in worker's outfit. He had offered himself the luxury of two days with nine hours of sleep. He felt rather refreshed. And his reminders of that nightly encounter with one Dimitrij Belkin were slowly fading. Even the ribs were on the mend!
His physical condition was much better then a week ago. He had actually even gained a few pounds under Claire's loving care, but he had already run them off on the streets. A forsaken place like the 9th was good for that.
Ryan got himself a café creme and two croissants. He retired into a cosy corner, retrived the envelop from his pocket and flipped through the pages.
That was incredible! Caine had somehow managed to bully Erica into a coopération and his woman had not only taken Horatio's challenge to heart and started to rumage thoroughly through the antics of the mob, but she'd gone further and dug deep….very deep.
He had not expected Erica's help and he most certainly did not want it. He loved her, he still loved her desperately and he wanted his woman out of harms way…..preferably some place like the Kerguelen Islands on the other side of the world. Alredeady that stupid stunt she'd pulled with Leo and Sienna had almost driven him over the edge and the flesh wound on Erica's arm had hurt more then the nail in his eye and the two 9 mils in his shoulder a couple of years ago taken together. Ryan was old fashioned; he did not care all too much for his own safety and well being, but he cared for his girl….
He was already mightily pissed with Paddy who had accepted de Kersausson's challenge and was counting MISTRAL missiles somewhere in the Western Sahara. But Paddy was a big boy who could take good care of himself! Ryan was not tremendously worried about his father. Padraig was well aquainted with all the nasty little rock states on the other side of the Mediteranean. He was also mean, lean and pretty much self-sufficient, as long as he had a calibre, a couple of magazines, carte blanche and the freedom to do whatever he liked…. Paddy had always lived by the sword…..!
But the idea of Erica snooping after Sarnoff's friends gave Ryan the creeps. "Damn" He whispered to himself. She was on the other side of the Atlantic, far away and all on her own….and he was here…sipping coffee and waiting for a texto.
It wasn't that much that things were getting pretty tight for him or that his father was philandering like a grouse on a shooting range….it was just that he'd discovered that his boss had put a life at stake that was very precious to him….more precious then his own.
Their operation had been meticulously planned, everything done just right until now, a primary plan and a number of alternates, with each segment thought through till the end……and now Horatio had decided to throw in a variable….about the one thing, that could throw Ryan truely off balance!
He had caved in with the Russians, as soon as Dima Belkin had brought little Billy Gantry into the game…he knew, that he would cave in immediately, if he'd feel that Erica was in danger. H. had made the one fatal mistake; he had brought Ryan's weakness into the game.
He was very much aware of his weakness in this respect. The fact that he had not seen her for two years did not change anything! Erica was still his, would be until she decided otherwise. She had let him go, but she had not given back the engagement ring!
When she had thrown her fit over the restraining order, he had accepted his fate, picked up his stuff and brought the legaly required distance between the two of them to avoid her a Catch-22, but he had not given up on her. Ryan was too much old Europe to do so: He could not give up on her….they had too much of a history together…
Ryan prayed that Poniatowski or Delveaux or JP would send him the go. It was highly interesting that Ivan Sarnoff had a weak spot and he'd most certainly use this knowledge, but in order to do this he had to be back in Miami.
During the last twentyfour months Ryan had not touched another woman; he simply could not and from what they had pushed into his hands via an anonymous envelop in a sordid location he deduced, that Erica had not gone on with her life either.
Ryan sipped his coffee. He had a bad feeling about H. having involved Erica into this whole business. Erica was absolutely reckless and completely fearless when it came to her job as a journalist. After the Leo and Sienna shout out she'd even told him, that cable news was worth a flesh wound. She'd done so many a foolish thing and she would continue to do foolish things…
Ryan still remembered the day, when he had told her that he'd dump his PhD and do Boston Police Academy instead. Erica had thrown a fit. It had been one of their few serious fights. She had told him that she was not sure that she'd be able to cope with a cop…trembling in fear each time there was an 'Officer down' on the radio…never knowing, why her man would not answer his cell….She had finally accepted his choice and admitted that Ryan was born to be a cop, but she had also told him, that she did not like it! As if he enjoyed it seeing his woman taking risks!
He was born to be a cop, that was different. But he had also mainly walked patrol to pay for Erica's Master's Degree in Journalism: Erica had four younger sisters and good, decent parents, but they had simply not been able to afford another year at Boston or whatsoever university in the US and so he had rummaged through the Internet until he had found a sollution. At Miami International University the M.A. year in journalism cost 8000 Dollars less in study fees then anywhere else and Dade had been keen to give him a job right out of Police Academy.
He could have asked Clemence or Paddy for the money to see his chick through university and pay their bills but his stubborn pride had prevented him from doing so. Ryan never ever asked anybody for help! The day they had hooked up for serious, she had become his responsibility…It was his job to protect her…not her job to give him a hand in a prediacment!
For a while they had lived on 15 square meters in 'El Barrio' with a shower on the staircase …Erica doing her degree and him walking patrol on double shift, but somehow they had managed without their parents help and they had been happy…happy on spagehtti with tomato sauce six days a week, second hands clothes and cold showers through summer…happy on holidays in the Everglades and outings on Erica's student's pass with one place for two in the last rank of a theatre and cheap sparkling wine on the beach after their outings. His two years on patrol, while Erica finished her university curriculum had been perhaps the happiest days in his life….
After a while, they had managed to scrap the money for the decrepite place he'd found in Southern Miami while on extensive sick leave, after he'd got himself shot in the line of duty: The collar bone had been broken and one of the two 9 mm had just missed his brachial plexus. It had taken the doctors quite some time to find all bone fragments and put them back in their proper places. Ryan had restored the place between shifts with the help of his buddies from patrol. One of the reasons, why he had so much resented Officer Aaron Jessup's death had been the fact that he and Aaron had walked patrol together and that they had helped each other out when the weekly paycheck had been to small to cover everyday's fees…..
His and Erica's life had finally changed when his granny Clemence had suddenly died at age 96, leaving Ryan with a lavish trustee fund and 10 grands a months in addition to his weekly salary from the county. He had never told her her, but he had immediately bought them a new roof for the house, some creature comforts and an engagement ring for his woman….and he had even brought two scrawny kittens from Animal Control ………
In his second year as a CSI, Erica's first as a reporter for CBS TV4, he had taken the nail in his eye. It had been pretty funny: While Erica had really resented the two 9mm in his shoulder and fainted in the ER over a little bit of blood and some oxygen tubes attached to him, she had taken Charlene Hartford's nail with relatively good graces, simply reminding him of the fact that she'd prefer him alive and kicking to ….nailed….and that a nail gun was a pretty melodramatic weapon in a shoot out! Still, her china-blue eyes had been rimmed in red and she'd been shaking like a leave when she had given him this piece of her mind.
After Ryan had been out of hospital and with Al and Capone the two cats grown up and stripping they'd been talking marriage and children pretty seriously. They'd been even down to the point where Ryan had suggested to take the paternity leave since Erica earned much more as a journalist. Ryan had not minded. He was very fond of children and pretty good with them and the idea of pushing a buggy had not turned him off at all……they had been really happy together until H. had decided that he could not accept that one of his own would live together with a journalist and make plans for a common future……..
Ryan finished his breakfeast, stuffed Erica's superb investigation work back into the pocket of his jacket and left Paul's. He ran his hand over his full-fledged beard. Nature again had provided some additional cover. He was very much pissed off with his boss over in Miami. He'd been quite capable of pardoning Horatio many a thing, but to get Erica involved was….beyond the pale!
He gave the sky a cursory glance. After almost a week of boiling heat, a summer storm was rolling in. Dark clouds hung over Paris and the wind brought in swirling leaves and a hope of rain. Ryan pulled his second cell from the pocket of his leather jacket and wrote a small texto for Poniatowski, which he forwarded also to JP and de Kersausson. Serge had been hanging around discreetly at his own favourite hide outs for the last two nights. Tracking someone in a car was harder then it habitually appeared upon TV and Ryan had seen two new Russian faces in their sidelines. If you followed too closely you ran the risk of being spotted. That was exactly what had happened to the sucessors of Dick and Harry last night. He blessed the immaculate, bright red Renault 107….nobody on Rue Saint Denis or in the 9th arrondisment would ever drive a new, immaculate and red car! So it could only be his new Russian tail anyhow.
He gave Serge a rendezvous at the Irish Pub at 17h30, suggested that they'd offer a nice show with hide and seek in the Metro and meet for the final showdown right under the Pont Neuf in the heart of medieval Paris. If Serge had to go, he should go in style….nothing better then the higly touristic oldest standing bridge over the river Seine….they had no intention to be discreet….they needed public…preferably some tourists with cameras. And the place was convenient, because it was not too far away from 36 Quai des Orfèvres and the HQ of Delveaux's unit.
***
It wasn't much of a camp. Six buildings, one of them a huge and corrugated galvanised iron, a unused hello pad and a small road half-covered in sand, a firing range. Nothing else. But the loading facilities were impressive. They looked about as good as loading facilities for container ships in Le Havre or Cherbourg. Padraig counted 25 inmates, twenty of them were Russian or Eastern Europe, the others locals with hard unbidding faces. This was the Dakhla storage facility of the Ismaiylovskya Bratstvo, well separated from similar facilities in POLISARIO country that were used by other criminal organnisations. They had learned security during the days of the USSR. They kept up the standards!
On the blackboard in hut Nr.1 was a schedule that gave the pass-over times of reconnaissance satellites from respectable countries; US, France, Europe even Russia. So everyone knew when to be out of sight and the vehicles etc. were under cover. Two headlights appeared at the horizon. Paddy noted their appearance but said nothing. It were probably the people with whom he'd to deal. He allowed the hard-faced Russian driver to show him into hut Nr.3. A scrawny local youth, armed to his teeth closed the door but otherwise ignored them. His driver held out a hand. Paddy understood and gave the man Sean Miller's passport. The Russian left without a word and Paddy decided that he could relax for a while.
Hardly an hour passed before the door reopened again. A Western face, less brutish then his driver's and the kaki attire was cleaner and better cut. "Welcome to our business facilities, !" The Russian said in heavily accented English. Padraig acknowledged the greeting with a nod.
The man held out a bottle of vodka and two glasses: "The locals here have an attack on Allah and decide that civilised people cannot have a drink."
"And you decided to break God's law nonetheless!" Paddy replied in his heavily accented Russian.
The man smiled approvingly, put the two glasses on the table and served them vodka.
"Your friends have paid us, ! When do you want to see the goods?"
Padraig accepted the glass, motionned to the Russian and drowned it. He hated vodka. "What a bloody nuisance!" He thought, but he also understood that occasional sacrifices were necessary to ensure the smooth collaboration with comrades of what had former been known as the 'International Revolutionary Community'.
"Now!" He replied non-plussed, returning his glass and indicating that he'd enough for tonight. " You do not mind if I accompany our goods?"
The Russian shrougged his shoulders. ", your organisation paid us 2 million dollars. That should be enough for a small cabin and some food onboard our luxourious cargo 'Sherazade'. But we cannot take care of you once the merchandise is delivered in Miami and it is up to you to organise whatsoever with your comrades in the US."
Paddraig smiled. "You do not worry. We are well organised. When do you expect the "Sherazade" to leave?"
"As soon as our friends from PIRA have checked their merchandise and hopefully before the first US recce satelitte appears off Dakhla. This stop over is not on the ship's manifesto….you understand?"
Paddy understood perfectly well. He'd been playing this type of games for a long time and this was not his first business interaction with the Russians. They were well organised, competent and highly professional….and so was the PIRA…and today they had a huge advantage over the 'Bratstvo'…they were not in for real, just for the fun. But this, the Russians did not know and it would be a great pleasure to use that fact in the aftermate of the delivery to Miami and the seizure of their hardware: They would send someone to Oleg Ivanov and complain bitterly. Paddy followed his host over to the hangar.
It was easy to put the tiny trackers onto the French cargo: He did, as he was expected to do, taking some random MISTRALS, screening them closely and then putting them back into their crates. He also insisted to check two of the twelve ATLAS launch units at random. It was much easier to put trackers on lunch units. Placed close to the sight system they were literally invisible. Padraig had to admit that the stuff was worth its money….apart the fact, that they no longer needed MANPADs. The people in parliament and in Brussels and Starssburg at the EU were much more useful then physical violence and random bombings.
"That's ok!" He admitted and gave the Russian a satisfied not. He had also taken other crates. They looked very familiar and even without opening them he knew exactly what they contained. The markings of the Albanian Armed Forces were only badly made up. The 'Bratstvo' was saving on black paint! So instead of giving their stuff an exclusive shipping, Oleg Ivanov's collaborators in Paris and Miami were profiting from the cargo for some more business. Padraig estimated that about 5000 Kalashnikov assault rifles were stored in these crates. Together with the ammunition he saw standing close by, this would make a nice additional benefit. Well….if they could. Since MDPD and US Customs were already on stand by in order to give the very criminal cargo with the very poetic name 'Sherazade' a worthy reception, the loss of these assault rifles would add upon Ivan Sarnoff's failure with the MISTRALs and the French radars.
O'Briain left the hangar. The Russian who accompanied him might have interpreted the little smile on his face as satisfaction with the quality of the military hardware the PIRA had bought. In reality it was malice pure: This was probably the greatest blunder in the overall history of the Ismaiylovskaya Bratstvo's criminal activities on the soil of the US
****
Frank Tripp gave Horatio Caine a huge grin. "Erica can go on the air with her first story."
"So the news from France are good?" Horatio pulled off his sunglasses and settled on a rock.
He felt drained. Stetler had called him in. The Russians had tried to set up Calleigh via her father Kenwall Dusquene. While he had been working the case 'Ivan Sarnoff', Calleigh had gone through a private hell…..he had not seen it. He had been so very much preoccupied with this sophisticated stratagem that he had once again neglected one of his own.
The crisis had been managed and he had spoken at length with Calleigh and tried to explain things without giving away what was soon going to happen. Basically it had been Rick's merit, that Kenwall Dusquene was completely vindicated…..Rick and Erica Sykes. Calleigh was not aware of the later 'benefactor' of her father and they had decided to keep the whole issue on very low heat.
Tripp saw, that Horatio was not at his best. He appeared bone weary, preoccupied and slightly anguished. But they were almost there. Just a few more days, a big clash, some gory prime time glory and the seizure of a huge cargo full of illegal weapons.
"The trackers have been activated. The French missiles seem to be already on board that ship and Regine told me, that – weather permitting – the 'Sherazade' will enter US territory in about two weeks time. We have also prepared the extradiction papers for Ryan. Powell did a great job…..the stuff is better then real."
Caine pulled his sunglasses from his breastpocket and started to play with them. "And the great show in Paris…..?"
"….is about to start, H.!Ryan had a first run in with the Russian mob three days ago….he almost killed his assailant….couple of hookers managed to drag him off before he could slice that rogue's throat. He seems to be quite on the edge of the knife….I hope the kiddo does not lose it." Tripp was honestly concerned with Ryan. He was perfectly aware of the fact that the young CSI had been through quite a lot in a very short time. The very idea of find himself soon in the spotlights, object for a vicious mud throwing campaign of the media and scorned by his peers was probably an additional stress factor.
"I hope he will not break." Horatio replied honestly. He had done a lot of undercover work and was perfectly aware of the gruesome strain this type of misson put on an officer. Furthermore, Ryan had not really been given a choice. It was basically Ivan Sarnoff…And his young CSI was probably not at his best right now…physically and psychologicaly, also Erwan de Kersausson had assured him that he did much better then expected.
"I do not think, Horatio, that Ryan will break!" Tripp had taken a seat on the rock next to Caine's. They had been discussing this issue with Regine and after he had told her everything he knew about the kid, she had drawn his psychological profile…kind of…
"I hope you are right, Frank." Caine flipped his cell phone open and tipped a short texto for Stetler. Also it was much easier to live with his 'Russian shadow' since they had been able to put a name and a face on the man thanks to the fieldwork of Commander Regine Marais' collaborators, he still did not like the idea of being followed. He knew that at this very moment, he and Frank had a teleobjective pointed on them and they had chosen the seaside, because the Russians were hard nosed enough to point even sophisticated microphones on their targets. The noise of the waves made it difficult to listen into a conversation.
Tripp had observed his longtime friend carefully. Regine was convinced that Ryan would not break. "So tomorrow at lunchtime we are all going to watch an Erica Sykes Special?"
Horatio pushed the send button and nodded. They would and he would make sure that not only the whole Crime Lab watched it.
*****
Jean Paul Moulin kept a keen eye on the Pont Neuf and on the riverwalk. Notre Dame, brightly illuminated sparckled like a precious gem. Tourists and ramblers were haunting the place, because it was summer and there was nothing better then a Paris sunset over the river Seine on a bright summer day. No serious and down to earth criminal woul ever have chosen this very place to off another criminal discretly….but 99,99% of all stage directors of thrillers or police television shows would: Poniatowski and Ryan had a 100% guarantee to have a most admiring public!
"You go soft on my guy!" He told the patrol chief. Even if they intended to make it look real, Jean Paul did not want his patrollers overexcited.
The man flipped a pack of Camels and offered one to the big head from the RAID. "You do not worry, boss! We is a set up. Nobody kills and nobody dies. We'll just hit your bloke over the head once or twice for the show…..hey, my folks never get prime time!"
Moulin accepted the Camel gratefully. It was gift of God that the uniformed folks did not take the administrative regulation of 1st January 2007 against smoking all to serious. In stressfull moments like this, he truly enjoyed his little lung cancer stick. He drew a deep breath and gave the patroller a most grateful smile. " You can hit my bloke over the head if you must…..but try and avoid his ribs etc. …they are already broken and he's not that fit!"
"Send him on sick leave, Boss!" The uniformed policeman joked. He had told his folks to be credible but easy. They had been called in for the show, because they used to work with Narcotics and had a certain experience with set ups.
Moulin lifted his hand. "Here we go!" He said cheerfully. He had no idea how Ryan and Poniatowski had worked their timing, but Ryan had managed to appear just in front of a tourist-packed 'bateau-mouche' with Serge literally on his heels. His childhood friend from Morgat had somehow managed to avoid a young mum with a buggy and a black labrador, but he rolled over a fit looking young jogger who immediately came back to his feet and called him very ugly names. Hopefully the guy would continue with his workout and not try and mess up a police operation.
"That's real good!" The uniformed cop smiled and pointed his finger at Poniatowski. Serge had flung himself vigurously over Ryan and shouted something incomprehensible in Russian.
"That would be great in a film, Boss! These guys know what they do!"
Moulin was not so sure, when he saw the tourists and ramblers step back to give the two brawlers some space for their action. Some bystanders already pulled mobile phones from their pockets.
"Ryan, " He squealed, throwing the rest of his cigarette out of the window and pushing the door of the police car open, "….you are not supposed to kill Serge!"
A very,very nasty right punch to Poniatowski's jaw made some blood drops fly. Even at a distance it was clear that Poniatowski had lost….a tooth.
"Your blokes are real good!" The patroler grined. "We run down to the riverwalk as soon as the younger one in the leather jacket throws the other guy into the Seine?"
Moulin found the whole scene not all that funny. He wanted Serge and Ryan in one piece. Serge had a fiancée who was waiting for her man at La Rochelle and would give him hell if instead of spending a well merited holiday with her, the officer would spend time in the hospital. And Ryan….JP did not know for his fiancée, since the girl was over in the US and they had kind of a break up 24 months ago…but he had to get him back to Miami in one piece.
Ryan somehow managed to struggle down Poniatowski, who seemed to be not realy enchanted with his opponents right arm slung around his neck and a knee on his spine. Suddenly everything became horror. Several of the bystanders, who'd observed the catfight cried out.
"Go, go, go!" Moulin shouted. He saw that Delveaux's plainclothes police officers were already sprinting down the staircase that led up to Notre Dame. Poniatowski literally flew into the dirty waters of the Seine and Ryan slumped to his knees…exhausted.
Delveaux was quicker then Moulin. Before Jean Paul could reach his childhood friend, the CSI was already spreadeagled on the eighthundred years old cobblestone of the Pont Neuf river walk, his arms behind his back, panting and breathing heavily. Moulin let Delveaux handle Wolfe. Now it was important to catch the body. He threw of his jacket and jumped into the river Seine. Poniatowski was drifting off.
Jean Paul was not for nothing the boss of the toughest unit of the French police forces. He reached his 'body' with forcefull strokes, caught Serge under the arms, turned him over and started to make his way back to the riverwalk. A splendid crowd was gawking and goggling at them. Many had their mobile phones drawn.
"You own me a tooth!" Poniatowski sizzled.
"You shut up!" Moulin replied, heaving with the effort to drag an uncoopertive hulk about his size back to the shore.
"Ryan's not terribly cooperative!" Poniatowski whispered between clenched teeth. He was officailly dead, so speaking was not an option.
"He's not supposed to be!" Moulin replied matter-of-factly