Hunter Killer Read online

  “Okay, Charlie. You’ve been a real help. We may talk later.”

  “So long, Jimmy.”

  The Lt. Commander replaced the telephone and looked over to the big desk where Arnold Morgan and George Morris were talking. “He’s very definite,” said Ramshawe. “The guy was called Chasser, like Nasser. Spelled C-h-a-s-s-e-r.”

  “And right there we got a real problem,” said Admiral Morgan, a little grandly. “The French do not have the sound e-r…like we say Chasser or Nasser. E-r on the end of a word in French, any word, is pronounced ay. If this guy’s name was Chasser, the French would say, Cha-ssay.”

  “Well, Charlie said he heard Chasser, like Nasser. And he repeated it. He was certain how it sounded.”

  “But he’s uncertain of what he spelled,” said Morgan. “It’s elementary. The sound does not exist in French.”

  Now, Ramshawe thought, for a bloke whose French accent sounds like Jackie Gleason trying to imitate Maurice Chevalier, the Admiral is being pretty dogmatic. So he pressed forward.

  “Okay, sir. What’s the nearest sound the French do have for E-R, and how to they spell it?”

  “Well, they have e-u-r. As in professeur, professor. Sounds much the same. But that’s how they spell it.”

  “How about Chasseur…is that possible? What does it mean?”

  “How the hell should I know?” replied Morgan. “We got a French-English dictionary around here?”

  “Probably not,” replied Admiral Morris. “But I can get one sent down in about one minute.”

  At that moment the fresh coffee arrived with, miraculously, a blue tube of Morgan’s preferred “buckshot,” the little white sweeteners that tasted like the sugar both his doctor and his wife had banned. Word had already hit the kitchens: the Big Man was in residence. It was just like old times.

  Admiral Morris poured, Morgan stirred, and a slightly breathless young secretary from the Western European language department came through the door with the required dictionary.

  “Let me have that, kiddo,” said Morgan, sipping gratefully. He skimmed through the first section, French–English, for the elusive word Chasseur.

  And on page seventy-four he found it—chasser, the French verb “to hunt,” or “to drive away.” Pronounced, obviously chass-ay. Right below it was the word, chasseur, the French noun “hunter” or “fighter.” The dictionary added chasseurs alpins, meaning “mountain infantry.” The feminine was la chasseuse. But Arnold Morgan had it. Le Chasseur. The hunter. That was plainly their man.

  “And a goddamned good nickname that is,” he said. “For a tough sonofabitch French mercenary. Question is, who the hell is Le Chasseur. Better call Charlie back, Jimmy. Ask him if he thinks it’s possible that Chasseur was his nickname rather than his correct name?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “That you, Charlie? Jimmy here again. We just wondered whether you thought Chasser could be a nickname rather than a real name?”

  “Sure it could. I heard it more than once, but it could have been just the name he was usually called. Like Eisenhower was ‘Ike,’ Ronnie Reagan was ‘Dutch,’ John Wayne was ‘Duke.’ Sure, it might easily be a nickname.”

  Ramshawe confirmed the conversation. Morgan stood up to leave. “Keep at it, guys,” he said. “Watch for the submarines, and keep checking the Brits for more on that message from the Frog in the Desert. Sounds to me like Le Chasseur might be the Frog in the Desert. Stay in touch.”

  And with that he was gone, and neither Admiral Morris nor Lt. Commander Ramshawe had the slightest doubt what they needed to accomplish next.

  “Jimmy,” said Admiral Morris, “we have to establish that this Chasseur guy is a French citizen, and/or a French resident, with a French home and possibly a French wife. If we can’t establish those things, we have nothing. Not enough to point the finger at France.”

  “You mean the ol’ J’accuse,” said Ramshawe, in his Aussie accent, utilizing one of the only three French phrases he knew—along with Je ne sais quoi and Arrivederci, Roma, which he readily accepted could turn out to be Italian.

  Admiral Morris shook his head. “Exactly,” he said. “We must have sufficient evidence before we point the finger. And if this Chasseur in the front tank is really French, coupled with all the other stuff, we’ve probably got ’em.”

  “What do we do? Get the CIA on the case?”

  “Right now,” said Morris. “And they start in Brazzaville, where the Chasseur held high command in French Special Forces ten years ago. There must be people who remember him. There’s still a major French embassy in that city. I’d say the guys could identify him with a proper name in less than a couple of days.”

  “I’ll call Langley right away,” replied Ramshawe.

  SAME DAY, 0600 (LOCAL)

  BRAZZAVILLE, CONGO, WEST AFRICA

  Ray Sharpe had been stationed in the former capital of French Equatorial Africa for two years. Here in this swelteringly hot city on the north bank of the Congo River he had held the fort for the U.S.A. in one of the least desirable foreign postings Langley had to offer.

  But Brazzaville was an intensely busy port, a hub between the Central African Republic and Cameroon to the north, the former Zaire to the east (now the Democratic Republic of Congo), and Gabon to the west. The mile-wide Congo was the longest navigable river in the whole of Africa, providing a freeway for enormous quantities of wood, rubber, and agricultural products. And an enormous amount of skulduggery. Ray Sharpe was well tuned in to the buzz of the African underworld. Sometimes he thought there was more underworld than overworld.

  But today he was not stressed. For a start, it was lashing down with rain—warm rain here at the back end of the season but, nonetheless, sheeting, soaking squalls that rendered several highways impassable. Drainage right here was not precisely top of the line. But, for Africa, it was almost adequate.

  He was sitting on the wide, shady veranda of the French Colonial house he rented. For a change, he was not pouring sweat—thanks to the cooling rain clouds—and he was taking a man-sized suck at his first cold beer of the evening.

  Sharpe was a native of New England, south Boston, a devoted fan of the Red Sox and the Patriots. A burly black-haired Irish-American of forty-three, he had volunteered for Brazzaville mainly to escape a particularly messy divorce. All right, he probably drank too much, and his work took him away from his wife for much of the year, but he could not for the life of him understand why Melissa had to run off with some goddamned hairdresser named Marc—with a c, he always added contemptuously.

  And he was always baffled by the fact that Melissa, without mercy, had skinned him alive financially. Christ! They’d been at Boston College together, where she’d been a cheerleader, and he’d been a star tight end. Their families dated back to the same county in Ireland, Limerick. And she’d tried to nail him to the wall.

  All of which conspired to turn Sharpe into a classic expatriate colonial resident—stuck out here at the ass-end of West Africa, still drinking too much, missing home, but too short of serious cash, too disillusioned, and rapidly becoming too idle to return. He had learned to speak French, and he had friends in Brazzaville, but most of them were much like himself, with big expense accounts and nowhere much to spend the money, except at restaurants and bars.

  Still, great fortunes were made in places like Brazzaville—importing, exporting, buying dirt cheap, selling back to the U.S.A. or Europe. He’d seen it, he’d had opportunities, and there’d be more. But somehow he had never gotten around to making a commercial move himself. Not yet, anyway. But he’d get to it soon. Definitely.

  Sharpe was just reaching into the cooler for a fresh beer when the phone rang. Who the hell was that? The beautiful chocolate-colored French waitress, Matilda, from La Brasserie in the Stanley Hotel up the street? Or maybe even Melissa, now without her faggot boyfriend, calling for more money.

  “Jeez,” he muttered, walking inside to pick up the telephone.

  “Sharpe,” he said, inwa
rdly groaning at the all-too-familiar Good evening Mr. Sharpe, Langley here, West African Desk…just a minute for the Chief.

  Five minutes later he was back in his big swinging couch, staring at his notes. French Special Forces Commander, June 1999. Evacuated the U.S. embassy. Envoy Brooks and Ambassador Aubrey Hooks. Believed nicknamed the Chasseur. Please trace—get real name, background, and current residence if possible. Urgent FYEO. Soonest please.

  For your eyes only. Sharpe’s eyes were a tad bloodshot, and it was still raining like hell, but he drained his beer, grabbed his light mackintosh, and headed his Ford Mustang out through the tree-lined boulevards of the biggest city in this old French colony, toward the modern-day French embassy on Rue Alfassa. Of course, he knew the resident secretariat extremely well—like every diplomat, spy, and journalist.

  His route took him straight through the central area of Brazzaville, which was still dominated by the Elf Oil tower jutting above the skyline, a symbol of French industrial power. He never gave it much of a thought, of course, and he would probably never know how significant that building was to his evening mission.

  As luck would have it, most of the French embassy staff had gone home for the evening, leaving only the famously ill-tempered Monsieur Claude Chopin on duty. Aged about ninety-four and claiming direct bloodlines with the great composer—who was, anyway, Polish—Monsieur Chopin was a stern French patriot. The Republic’s tricolor hung above his desk, next to a large portrait of General Charles de Gaulle. Old Chopin had worked here for about thirty-five years, and had spent most of those years sipping wine and griping and moaning.

  He looked up and, seeing that his visitor was the American Ray Sharpe, issued what he thought was a smile but turned out to be a suppressed sneer. “Bonsoir, Sharpe,” he said. “Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?”

  Which was only a marginally polite way of asking what the hell the CIA man wanted.

  “C’mon, Claude, what’s eating you, old buddy? I’m here on a simple mission. The smallest piece of information, that’s all I want. You’ll probably know it off the top of your head.”

  “Possiblement,” replied Chopin, lapsing into his customary combination of broken English and pure French. “But whether I tell it to you is a matter différente.”

  “Claude, I have come over to see you because it is a rainy evening and I was just relaxing, having a beer, when I was interrupted by a phone call of such insignificance it made my hair curl…”

  “It’s already frisé,” growled Chopin, who was very bald and thought Sharpe’s mop of curly hair made him look like a pop star.

  Sharpe grinned. “Seriously, old pal, you can end my problems very easily…you remember when the gallant French Special Forces liberated the besieged Americans in the embassy right here in Brazzaville in 1999?”

  “Who could forget?” Chopin shrugged, his mind roaming back to those terrifying days in the 1990s when armed gangs drove around the city with their victims’ severed heads stuck on their car antennae. “Of course I remember.”

  “Well, I’m trying to remember the proper name of the Special Forces leader…they called him Le Chasseur…the hunter. Did you know him?”

  “Of course I knew him. He was stationed here for several months. He stayed up the street, at the Stanley, for a few weeks—all those French officers stayed up there.”

  “And Le Chasseur…you remember his name?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Well, I’ve just been told there is to be a new presidential award for foreign nationals who have helped the United States beyond the call of duty.” Ray Sharpe was a think-on-your feet liar of outstanding talent—like most spies.

  “We would like to bring them to Washington, with their wives and families, and decorate them for their bravery. President Bedford insists on conducting the ceremonies personally.”

  “Very commendable,” said Chopin. “And they picked Le Chasseur after all these years?”

  “It sometimes takes a new President to recognize a debt of honor,” replied Sharpe.

  “Well, I can’t help you much,” said Chopin. “I heard he’d retired from the military. But his name was Jacques Gamoudi. Maj. Jacques Gamoudi. Everyone called him Le Chasseur, the hunter. He was a tremendous soldier, and a true hero, as I expect your American diplomats would confirm. Someone did tell me he’d made Colonel.”

  “Thanks, Claude. That’s all we need. Washington will take it from there.”

  Five minutes later Ray Sharpe was back on the line to the West African Desk in Langley. Three minutes after that, the phone rang in Lt. Commander Ramshawe’s office and a voice told him, “Jimmy, your man is Colonel Jacques Gamoudi, but he’s retired from the military. And you’re right about his nickname. He’s Le Chasseur, the hunter.”

  Langley also told Ramshawe that their man in Brazzaville was still on the case and would call as soon as possible with anything more he could find. And this was not long in coming. Matilda’s boss, behind the long wooden bar in La Brasserie at the Stanley Hotel, had been there for years and knew Jacques Gamoudi.

  The barman was not full of precise detail, but he remembered the Major as he then was—a light-skinned French North African, originally from Morocco.

  “Was he married?” asked Ray Sharpe.

  “Yes. Yes, he was,” replied the barman. “But she never came here. I saw a photograph of her, though. Her name was…er…wait a minute…she was Giselle…and either her parents or his…they lived somewhere up in the Pyrenees. I remember that.”

  “How come?”

  “Well, he always talked of the mountains. He said he liked the solitude. I think his father was some kind of a guide. But anyway he often told me that when he retired he would like to find employment as a mountain guide, and he always mentioned the cool air near his wife’s parents’ home. I think the terrible heat and humidity here in Africa can really get to you after a few years. Anyway, Jacques dreamed of the mountains—somewhere cold, I know that.”

  Ray Sharpe got straight back on the phone to Langley, and finally returned to his beer cooler and swinging seat on the veranda of his Brazzaville home. It was still raining like hell, and he was comprehensively soaked. So he just sat steaming and sipping, wondering how the Red Sox were doing back home in spring training.

  Lt. Commander Ramshawe studied his notes. He walked along to see Admiral Morris, and wondered, “Have we got enough to find him?”

  “No trouble, Jimmy. I’ll have a quick word with our military attaché in the Paris embassy and then we’ll hand it back to the CIA guys in France to finish the job.”

  In the next two hours CIA agents in France made probably fifty phone calls, and one of them came up trumps. Their top man in the French city of Toulouse, Andy Campese, was especially friendly with his opposite number in the French Secret Service. And DGSE Agent Yves Zilber, knowing absolutely nothing of the highly classified nature of the work of Le Chasseur, was cheerfully forthcoming to an old friend.

  “Jacques Gamoudi. Oh sure. He and I worked together for a couple of years. I haven’t spoken to him recently, but he retired from the military and went to live somewhere up in the Pyrenees, near his wife’s family.

  “As I recall, he became a mountain guide up on the Cirque de Troumouse—that’s a massive range up near the Spanish border, in the snow. You can only get up there about four months of the year, but I think Jacques is one of the top mountaineers in the area. He lives somewhere near a little place called Gedre.”

  Just before the CIA man rang off, however, the French Secret Service agent remembered one further piece of helpful information.

  “Andre,” he said, “Jacques changed his name, you know. A lot of guys retired from the service do. I might even do the same myself one day. Anyhow, he suddenly decided to call himself and his family Hooks. I once asked him why he picked such a curious name, and he said he once had a friend of that name, out in Africa.”

  Andy Campese rang off with much gratitude. But twenty minutes later, Age
nt Zilber had second thoughts about what he had said. What was a CIA man doing inquiring about a retired French Secret Service officer? It was probably nothing, but he wanted to clear himself.

  Agent Zilber always reported directly to Paris, and he put in a phone call to 128 Boulevard Montier, over in Caserne des Tourelles, in the outpost of the twentieth arrondissement, way to the west of the city center of Paris. He spoke briefly to the duty officer and, somewhat to his surprise, was asked to wait. Then a new voice came on the line and said, “Bonsoir, Agent Zilber. This is Gaston Savary, and I would like to hear your report.”

  Agent Zilber was momentarily surprised at being put through to the head of the entire French Secret Service. This was very much a case of WOW! Gaston Savary! Mon Dieu! The head of the DGSE. What have I said? Or, worse yet, done?

  “Well, sir. A short while ago I received a phone call from an acquaintance of mine, Andy Campese—works for U.S. intelligence. And he wanted to know a few details about an old colleague of ours, just a retired officer. No one important. And I just gave him a clue as to how to locate the man. It wasn’t much. You know how we often swap information with the American agents. Andre Campese has always been very helpful to us.”

  “Of course,” replied Gaston Savary smoothly. “What was the name of the officer in whom he was interested?”

  “Col. Jacques Gamoudi, sir.”

  Gaston Savary froze. His whole system shuddered, his heart missed about six beats, his pulse packed up altogether, and his brain turned to stone. At least that’s what it felt like to Savary. But he was trained to accept shock. And after a three-second pause, he spoke again. “And for which branch of American intelligence does Mr. Campese work?” he asked.

  “He’s CIA, sir.”

  Gaston Savary, a thin, sallow-complexioned man, turned instantly a whiter shade of pale. He was so stunned he gently put the phone down without making one further inquiry. And before him stood a vision of France being outlawed from the international community.