Montique’s demise?

Barely had Monti finished his tale when my forkful of tender Kobe steak took on a life of its own. With a sparking flash of light and a sudden desire to force its way into my mouth, the common utensil became a weapon, stabbing my tongue. Glancing over at Monti, I see him already slumped over, face down on his plate, his blood mixing with the juices from his steak. Instinctively, I dive for the floor. I un-holstered my backup piece from its home on my ankle, I generally don’t carry my regular weapon when I dine. Before I can retaliate and or defend my life, I’m rendered unconscious by a nearby table landing on my head as its occupants run for cover from the blizzard of flying lead.

“The bullet meant to kill you actually saved your life”, a white lab-coated thirty something man tells me. I awake warm and comfortable and well rested. I would have assumed I had died and gone to heaven, except people in my profession usually don’t end up there, and the light I awake to is just a penlight checking my pupil reaction. Instead, my haven is a private room in a Swiss hospital.

Fortunately my Survival Insurance broker also handles medical; that is why I’m in a private room and not bleeding out on the street. The Swiss are very proficient in patching the body and draining the wallet; I will leave here several hundred franc poorer. As I await my release papers, a local police inspector gives me a rundown of what the hotel’s security cameras caught.

“Lucky for you”, the inspector begins, “The assailants were using Uzi Sub-machine guns”. How is that lucky? The 9 millimetre round should have punched a hole through the fork and taken the back of my head off. Inspector Ásbjörn continued, “They were using a new, German made, Uzi rifle, modified for full auto. Chambering only the .22LR round, the gun doesn’t have quite the same punch as the original Israel Military Industries version. As the narcotics start to wear off, my brain starts churning; they must have thought an Uzi is an Uzi; amateurs. Other than the considerably lower cost of ammo, the only reason to use a calibre of this sort is because of limited local availability, hmmm.

Ásbjörn continues, “After the mêlée, the balaclava wearing gun persons…”, Gun-persons? I interrupt, the inspector holds his hand up, “… the gun-persons picked their way through the sparsely populated restaurant, to your table. Satisfied that both you and your companion were dead, the gun-persons left, boarding a waiting van and disappeared into the night. We don’t have anything else”, the constable concludes. “Gun-persons?”, I repeat. “We at the station are assuming the assailants are female judging from their petite stature”.

Released from the hospital and  relieved of all but a few francs of walking around money, I decide to poke around a bit. Gunter, a local gunsmith with ties to some rather nefarious groups, is my first stop. Since I didn’t have enough cash to purchase information, I figured I’d just have to “press my case” to get what I needed from Gunter. It wasn’t necessary. A slight man of about sixty years on this planet, Gunter’s thick horn rimed glasses mask his well known, remarkable, marksmanship. Recognising me, he greets me like an old friend.

“The Alpine Underground has been very active lately”, Gunter begins as he pours hot cocoa. “Bi-directional arms transactions, more than usual. And something else”. Blowing on his drink to cool it, the gunsmith carries on, “Information. The Alpine Underground has been asking questions about the intelligence community, particularly about ongoing operations”. Gunter takes a sip of his brew. Seeing it is safe to drink the beverage, I too taste the concoction, it is delicious.

Gunter revealed he supplied the Alpine Underground the Uzi rifles. On short notice, they demanded the weapons to be modified for full auto. Gunter was suitably embarrassed by the shoddy workmanship on the modifications, Inspector Ásbjörn mentioned several of the guns left behind were jammed, with half full clips. “They didn’t want any ammunition”, Gunter offered, “they said they have all they need from their P.R.C. suppliers”. In exchange for the name of the Alpine Underground front man, I agree to purchase a SIG556 Classic. Fortunately, Gunter takes Mastercharge.

Dimitri

I reconnect with a weary looking Montique in the bar of a hotel that overlooks the Geneve Cointrin International Airport in the Swiss Confederation. Noticing his odd limp when he walked in, I ask, “What happened to you?”. Monti orders a tall scotch and soda, hold the soda, and begins his tale.

“Born in 1947 in the tiny South African nation of Basutoland, Dimitri had dreams, big dreams. Born into money, his parents were successful rare goods traders, Dimitri  was rich. He could have simply assumed ownership of the family business when his parents retired early to a villa on the coast of Spain, to live out their lives in the lap of luxury. Alas, with the country’s independence from the UK in ’66, the business climate in Basutoland began to change. Dimitri decided it was time to move on to bigger and better things. Selling the family business for about nine hundred thousand Lesotho Maloti, Dimitri was bent on multiplying his wealth. Dimitri spent a considerable amount of time and money on confidence schemes.”

“By the time he was forty, Dimitri has lost two thirds of his fortune, but had devised the ultimate money making plan; literally. Using the remainder of his money, plus whatever cash available from “investors” from his shady business dealings, Dimitri embarked on his grandest scheme to date; Drachmas. The standard currency of  Hellenic Republic, before it joined the Euro monetary system, Drachmas were an easy currency to counterfeit. Dimitri had billions printed up. His plan was not to flood the world with Drachmas, that would have been foolish, but to use the phoney money to purchase real estate, yachts, businesses; become the largest corporate magnate in the Mediterranean. Unfortunately for Dimitri, his timing was a bit off. Before he could distribute his newly minted wealth, Hellenic Republic switched it’s currency to the Euro, rendering his Drachmas worthless.”

Taking a long pull from his tall soda-less Scotch, Montique continues. “For most, this would have been the end of Dimitri’s story. Instead of admitting defeat, Dimitri hatched an even bigger plan. Convincing his “investors” that the Euro was always a known risk, and he had a contingency plan all along, Dimitri was able to defer his execution.”

Montique paused while the waiters placed the steaks, baked potatoes with all the fixings, knives, sauces, and condiments at our table before continuing his story. “Utilising mining contacts from his home country, Dimitri was able to acquire a few hundred kilograms of low grade gold. Feeding the gold into the Large Hadron Collider, some scientist members of the Rosicrucianism society are making oil using an ancient alchemist formula. Instead of petroleum, though, they are producing olive oil. A by-product of the process is plutonium. Selling the plutonium on the black market produces enough cash to finance production.” Of course, I now realise, “Stacy’s John of Arc” job was just to move the plutonium out of the country.

Monti’s tale is interrupted by the waiter as he offers fresh ground pepper from a giant pepper mill. Montique accepts, I decline. “By flooding the market with olive oil, the primary national product of the Hellenic Republic, Dimitri hopes to bankrupt the already troubled nation. Once the country leaves the European Union, voluntarily or otherwise, they will return to the Drachma as their currency.” Making Dimitri a very rich man, Monti didn’t need to conclude.

Complimenting Monti on his investigation, I point out that there is one question unanswered. How did he get that limp? “First, this doesn’t leave this table, understand?”, Montique demands. I give him my assurance. “Remember, I was deep undercover, and I only did it for king and country”, Monti declares. “Armand, the owner of the cabaret in Rouen, offered me a weekend at his penthouse in Paris. He apparently took a liking to me, I am, after all, the more handsome of us two. Anyway, after too many Rob Roys and Cosmopolitans, I ended up in a ten-way Banana Ladder. As everyone knows, each participant of a Banana Ladder has to concentrate very carefully on their pole, lest any seepage occur. We were nearly at the climax of the exercise when I spotted a silver attaché case under the duvet. My concentration broken, I missed the second to the last instruction for the Banana Ladder, and the whole thing came crashing down. Attempting to leap out of the way, I slipped on the banana juice and pulled a muscle in my back”.

“Pity.” I offer, “And the silver attaché case?”. Monti hands me two Hellenic Republic Drachmas. I study them carefully, they are counterfeit, meticulous craftsmanship, but fake nonetheless. Then I realise, I can tell the difference, having handled the real currency many years ago, but the majority of the population of the Hellenic Republic is either young enough to have never used any currency than the Euro, or too old to care. A beautiful plan!

90 days

Nine days turned to ninety. As I sit in this popular American bar/restaurant, just fifty miles north of New York City, I begin to take inventory of the last couple of months. The cute barmaid hands me another 7&7. I wonder how I got here; is it love? Can love do this to a man, make him give up a lucrative career to follow a dream? I know if I continue this path, my career is over. I hope I can live, literally and figuratively, with that.

Three months ago I was working Stacy for information connecting CERN, Rosicrucianism, and John of Arc. Being merely an otherwise out of work actress, Stacy took the John of Arc gig to alleviate starvation. Her assignment was to pass out the pamphlets and call out her soliloquies several times a day. When pressed about the pamphlets, Stacy confided that the pamphlets from the top of the stack were for those that gave the ” Harry Connick Jr.” signal, you know, ‘A Wink and a Smile’. The rest of the public received a pamphlet from the bottom of the stack.

While pumping Stacy for information, I began to realise just how much she reminds me of my long lost love; Mandy. Stacy and Mandy share, shared? a real zest for life and adventure. It was Mandy, after all, that insisted we take that deep sea fishing expedition that ultimately lead to her disappearance/demise. Stacy has no interest in fish but does have big plans to make it big in America’s Hollywood. The John of Arc gig will net enough cash for a plane ticket, in another fourteen months.

A call to the home office to let Jae know Stacy is a dead end. “Hello Majes” it is Laura. What the heck is going on in Kathmandu these days, I wonder to myself. “Are you back in the game?”, I query Laura, her response, somewhat hushed, “no… it’s complicated, ask me another time”. I hear Laura call across the noisy office to have Jae pick up the phone. Jae gives me carte blanche to handle Stacy in any manner I see fit. In retrospect, I’m pretty sure that didn’t include the option of running away with her to the United States.

It wasn’t hard to convince Stacy that I have Hollywood contacts, nor was it hard to convince her to leave Rouen behind and come away with me. Ten has contacts in the film industry; though I not sure what type of films they are. The multifarious route we have chosen is designed to obfuscate any potential tails. This is what brings me here, a town called Southeast in New York, waiting for Stacy at a bar a half mile from the rail station.

A cowboy at the end of the bar eyes me suspiciously, I avoid his gaze. Looking like an extra from ‘Midnight Cowboy’, replete with the two tone embroidered, snap chest pocketed western shirt and a ten gallon hat. Nursing  a Belgian Ale, Arizona methodically scans the room; he’s looking for something, or someone. Arizona is clearly out of place in this northern North American tavern. I make a mental note to be on the lookout for him when we board the train to a safe house in Harlem, New York City.

Stacy strolls in the front door, back from her shopping for girl products at a nearby pharmacy. I start to get up, Stacy, spotting me, motions for me to sit. She saunters over and gives me a peck on the cheek. “I’ll be right back” she says, and heads to the ladies restroom. Turning back to my nearly empty glass, I notice Arizona is not in his seat. After a panicked look around the bar, I watch Arizona stride toward the tavern’s restrooms. This doesn’t look good. I decide to have a look, just in case. As I arrive at the restroom area, there is a scream from within the ladies restroom followed by the sound of breaking glass. Forcing open the locked door, my worst fears are confirmed. Stacy dead on the floor, a growing pool of blood beneath her, and a water closet handle protruding from her chest. A window at the far end of the lavatory is broken, and there is, of course, no sign of the assailant.

Well, that settles that.

Stacy d’arc

Refreshed, after my nine hour “vacation” in my Menton retreat, I’m packing all of the clothes I still own, my spring wardrobe; it’s all I have left and it’s almost springtime anyway. A festively wrapped box catches my eye. Inside the store wrapped box is a Satellite Phone that was supposed to be a gift for Captain Mike; it turns out his girlfriend gave him the same phone. I was going to return it, but because I left mine at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, I’ll just use this one.

Rouen France, is a small city, population a little over 100 thousand souls. A port city, it chiefly imports and exports agriculture related cargo. 57 Place du Vieux Marché, in the old city is a largely pedestrian area, cafe’ tables line the street and tourism abounds. Close to where Joan of Arc was murdered, Stacy Bonaparte has been using this village square as her dais. Nearby is the Church of Eglise Sainte-Jeanne d’Arc, her sanctuary of strength and retreat during rain showers. Pleading her case to tourists, locals, and the curious, she draws quite a crowd most days.

Enjoying a pasty, al fresco, from the Cafe de Rouen, even the coffee is good. Sitting at one of the small tables I am afforded a perfect view as Stacy arrives for the day’s diatribe, with her entourage. Don’t tell me she has security, this will make execution more difficult. On closer inspection, her associates are simply tourists and autograph seekers already familiar with her cause.

While I contemplate Stacy’s demise, I notice a small boy playing with a wooden toy rifle. I see the child put something in the muzzle, then whilst holding the stock in one hand, with the other he slides the barrel quickly back; pop! and a cork is ejected from the device. I realize I have discovered the fat green worm delivery method I’ve been looking for since I left Winsel’s shop.

I move to get up to inquire the lad as to where I might procure such a device, when two strong hand grab my shoulders from behind and push me down onto my chair. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” inquires Montique. Sitting in front of me, Monti motions to a pistol he is holding in his coat pocket, aimed roughly in my direction. I tell him there’s no need for the strong arm tactics, someone had to go into the postal office. Besides if I was going to run out on the mission, what am I doing here?

Relaxing a little, Monti orders a coffee and delivers more bad news. “Rosicrucianism. A secret brotherhood of alchemists”, Monti responds to my incredulity. Stacy may have, not only, ties to them but may be moving product to support ongoing research into modern day alchemy. “That’s rich” I retort, alchemy is nothing but get rich quick dreams. Lowering his voice, Monti disagrees, telling me about experiments being conducted in western France. “Ever hear of CERN and the Large Hadron Collider?” Monti asks sarcastically. “They intend to turn a profit on that research project by rearranging subatomic particles into valuable commodities. In fact, there is some chatter from the intelligence community that they’re making oil!”

OK, fine, what does this have to do with us I want to know. Do we rub her out or not? Montique relates that the job parameters have changed. We need to investigate Stacy a bit. The church wants to know what evidence she has supporting her claim about John of Arc. They suspect she may have found real, damaging, information. If she has, we are to locate and destroy it. Regarding the alchemy angle, the Russian Alliance for Petroleum Equality has expressed a keen interest in what secrets Stacy is keeping. If certain precious elements or compounds could be created, world markets would destabilise.

Investigate? Investigate? No, I don’t do that, Nepal has people that do that! NZSIS has people that do that. Even the Yanks have people that do that. Not me, I’m supposed to be the sharp end of the stick, not the whole stick! Fuming, I whip out my satellite phone and call the home office. “Hello Majes” coos Trish, “what’s going on in your part of the world?”. In disbelief I double check the number dialed, the number is correct for Kathmandu. “Um, is Jae there?” I manage to croak out. Trish puts me on hold, a couple of minutes later Jae picks up. After pleasantries, Jae explains the situation at the CIAA. The Nepalese government decided to bring all security, monitoring, and clandestine operations in-house, to better monitor what their money is being spent on. Trish was called in as a data management consultant to assist with organising case documentation. Before I can quip something about asking a bear to fill your honey jars, Jae assures me she is carefully monitored and isn’t permitted access to copy equipment. Sure, OK, I think to myself.

Back to my problems. I explain to Jae what is being asked of me and what can be done about it. “Nothing” is the terse reply. The Stacy job comes from powers much higher than usual and I am “the man on point” right now. “Just infiltrate her inner circle, get close to Stacy, work your magic, and pump her for information. Once you have what you need, you can snap her neck and call it a day” Jae explains as if instructing a rookie. I’m told just do what I have to do, then do what I do best.

Montique and I spent the majority of the day casing the square, profiling Stacy’s followers, and studying Stacy. When the weather started to turn ugly, we retreated to our hotel, the Mercure Rouen Centre Cathédrale, located at 7 rue Croix de Fer, right in town. Just a 9 minute walk between the hotel & the town square. Very convenient for us, and for, as it turns out, Stacy; avoiding her may become challenging, at least until I work out a plan. The hotel is now fully booked, so at least we can hide in the crowd. The only room I could get when I checked in, the Standard Twin, allows Monti a place to sleep. Had I been able to procure my choice, a Superior Suite, Monti would be out of luck, probably forced to sleep in the lobby. I knew the second bed was a bad omen.

Monti and I decide to use a “Dim witted Frog” scam to infiltrate Stacy’s organisation. Since Montique’s French is better than mine, he will play the Frog. It will take a couple of days to assemble the resources to run the work, time I’ll use to learn Stacy’s comings and goings.

While finishing dinner at the hotel, we spy Stacy leaving the hotel. I decide it’s time to brush up on my stalking skills and chase after her. I tail Stacy to a cabaret called “La Garçonnière”. Slipping in a few seconds after her, I head straight for the bar. On the stage performing a song and dance routine are three quite ugly women, oh wait, they’re not women; it’s “avant-garde”. Beyond the stage, I watch Stacy disappear up a narrow staircase, to what I presume are the private rooms. Too dangerous to follow her up there, I settle in for a couple of drinks, unsuccessfully trying to be invisible while fending off unwanted advances, ” Je ne suis pas ce genre de garçon”.

Unfortunately for my potential suitors, Stacy re-emerged after only twenty minutes carrying two heavy looking briefcases. After another five minutes, I left, to return to the hotel. Montique, whom had been tailing me, and who’s French is better than mine, decided not to go inside the cabaret. Instead, he managed to eavesdrop on Stacy’s meet through an open second storey window around the side of the building. The info Monti gleaned didn’t make a lot of sense: she was given the latest shipment of leaflets, they will start moving fifty percent more leaflets in the coming weeks, and sometime in the next few weeks she’ll get additional help distributing the increased volume of leaflets.

Discussing the night’s revelations, Montique and I lounge in the hotel lobby; enjoying Birius Cognac and fine cigars. We are puzzled over the secrecy and importance of these leaflets Stacy picked up an hour ago. While we pondered the hotel lobby doors open for a delightfully attractive brunette. Dressed in a slinky black evening gown, sheer black stockings and five inch stiletto shoes, the lady attracts the gazes of many gentlemen in the hotel lobby. Fingering her pearl necklace, the lady in black approaches us, coyly asking “Majes?”. “Did you bring the hamster suit?”, I reply, she nods in affirmation . Extinguishing my cigar in the cognac, I advise Monti, “If anything comes up, handle it”. The lady and I head up to my room for some naughty fun.

Just before midnight, I escort my companion down to the hotel lobby, Montique hasn’t moved in the three hours we were occupied, Kissing her goodbye, I send the paid professional on her way. “Done so soon? I thought you were in for the night. What is it with you and hamster suits anyway?”, Monti inquires.  Ignoring the second question, I offer, “the hamster suit wasn’t a good fit, I tried to make a go of it, but it was just too small, and after a while it stopped being any fun”. Monti wanted to know how she knew me, I fished out a business card from my pocket. Flipping the glossy card to Monti, “one of the cabaret patrons knew exactly the kind of entertainment I’d be interested in”.

. . .

“What, is that?” I ask Monti  rhetorically. Monti shows up for breakfast wearing a beanie with a propeller attached to the top. “It’s for the work” he replies, “and look”, gesturing toward a shopping bag, “I’ve got the not quite long enough pants and ill fitting shirt to go with it.” I cannot believe what I’m hearing, when was the last time the training manual was updated, 1960? “Take that off, you look ridiculous”. I educate Monti that the modern version of the Dim-witted Frog is more a cerebral performance than a freak show.

Before I can think of starting the “Dim witted Frog” work, I need to know what the importance of the leaflets is; time to introduce myself. After breakfast Monti and I go to work. Montique has some calls to make and a shopping list to fulfill. I need one of those leaflets. 9:30 AM Stacy is in her spot, in the town square, calling out her rhetoric and distributing her leaflets. Simplicity, I decide, is the best here, I’ll just approach her and get one of the leaflets. A good plan, had I done just that, instead, as I neared Stacy, I noticed she carries herself with an irresistible and familiar “je ne sais quoi ” that reminds me of Mandy. I also noticed that some people got a leaflet from the bottom of the stack and others from the top; interesting. Introducing myself to Stacy, we chat for a short while before she hands me a leaflet, from the bottom of the stack, signalling the end of the conversation.

Reviving my rusty pickpocket skills, I manage to acquire a “top” leaflet from an unsuspecting rube. Comparing the two versions, they are identical. There must be something else that makes the “top” leaflet unique. The leaflets convey the same information on both sides, as far as I could tell, English one side, French on the reverse.

The thirst for knowledge is quenched at the Université de Rouen. Montique and I sneak into the university’s science lab, after hours of course, with one of the “top” leaflets, hoping to discover what makes them special. First are the narcotic tests; back in the mid twentieth century hallucinogens like LSD were painted on paper and the user only needed to lick the drug off the page. Monti declined the “lick” test, we opted for more scientific methods instead. We found no drugs, or anything else. We ran every test available in the laboratory; the spectrometer results looked promising, but were inconclusive.

Not contraband, then it must be information. We ran the leaflet through the lab’s automatic Enigma Decryption Machine; we couldn’t believe they had one either. After nearly an hour of cipher crunching, the Enigma determined there is no secret message on either side of the paper. To the microscope. In the early part to the twentieth century microdots were invented to pass sensitive information via insecure channels. A microdot could carry a page of text or diagrams in the space of typographical dot. The text on the leaflets could conceivably contain reams of secret data. The university’s 1000x optical microscope yields nothing, if only they had an electron microscope here.

“I think there is a TIMA in the Geology department”, volunteers Monti. The  Integrated Mineral Analyser, manufactured by American company TESCAN is an automated scanning electron microscope designed to detect mineral abundance in ore samples. We sprint to the Geology wing and fire up the TIMA. Although neither of us know how to use it, we manage to load a sample into the reactor chamber. “What setting should we use?” I ask. “Just turn it up all the way, we’re running out of time, classes will start in about an hour”, is Monti’s answer.

In retrospect, we probably should have ramped up the intensity on the TIMA, though going directly from zero to full blast confirmed the results we saw from the spectrometer tests. When the electron beam struck the sample, the material formed a critical mass, a small fusion detonation occurred, and a jet of super-hot plasma shot a hole through the side of the containment vessel. Yup, the Daedalus reaction confirmed; plutonium. We managed to extinguish the fire started when the plasma jet hit a nearby computer monitor, but not before the fire alarm was triggered. This actually worked for us, as we were able to blend in with the panicked students and faculty evacuating the building.

. . .

After Tuesdays embarrassment regarding the costume selection for the “Dim witted Frog”, I could tell Monitque wasn’t comfortable with the work. When I suggested we switch to a “Rusty Carpetbagger”, Monti was more than happy to endorse the idea. What’s good for Monti, won’t be good for me; I’m about to slide, face first, down a slippery slope that will end at a brick wall. I’ll handle Stacy, of course, Monti will follow the cabaret lead. We’ll meet back at the hotel in nine days and take it from there.

I thought French cuisine was supposed to be delicious, this is awful. I’m eating, or attempting to, what seems to be salad, held in suspended animation, in a beef flavoured colourless gelatin. I endure this horrific culinary calamity because my lunch date is Stacy. Over the past few days, Stacy and I have become quite chummy. With any luck, I’ll be able to close the deal before Monti gets back. The meal is tolerable not only because I am getting valuable information from Stacy, but because I am smitten by her. Here we go again.

The red shirt

A day and a half in Monaco reveal that while the variety and quality of clothing available is good, the value is not. We are also finding it difficult to arm ourselves, the usual channels are dry. Seems there has been some sort of international small arms restriction talks in the works. The discussion to make guns harder to get are making guns already harder to get. Even the black-market is sold out.

I convince Monti that the most expeditious way to provision ourselves is to take a side trip up to Menton. The bulk of my travel gear is waiting for me at the Post Office in town. A short twenty minute ride will save us a whole day of shopping. We get to the Post Office in Menton by ten AM, there’s a problem.

The Menton Post Office is closed. Not only closed, but cordoned off with CDC Biohazard tape and signage. We decide to send Monti in to retrieve my stuff. On the outside chance the building is under surveillance, Monti’s criminal record is clean. I jot down a list of my possessions he needs to retrieve; side arms, clothing, and fat green worms. After cautioning him to not touch the worms, I send him in.

No sooner does Monti duck under the security tape and prise open the front door,  then my suspicions are confirmed. Urban assault vehicles and CDC vans rumble in from all directions. Machinegun wielding solders, protected by full coverage bio/radiation hazard suits, surround Monti. This doesn’t look good.

Monti surrenders and is hauled off to a location unknown. My curiosity piqued, I wait until the commotion subsides, until nearly dusk. I sneak inside the building and confront the grisly site that prompted Monti’s arrest. Blood everywhere, puddles of goo, parts of bodies strewn about, and the air thick with an unusual odour. Being careful not to sep on anything moist, I locate the source of the odour.

The fat green worms have been feeding; and multiplying. I mange to salvage only a couple of clothing items; the rest are ruined, soaking in puddles of putrid goo. My guns and ammunition, remarkably, high and dry. Locating an empty coffee tin in the post office’s break room, I collect a half dozen of the fat green worms, collect my weapons and garments, and make good my escape. Despite the risk, I decide to spend the night in my place in town.

My vacation a shambles, at least I am armed and clothed and will enjoy a good night sleep in my own bed. In the morning I’ll catch a train to Rouen to begin the mission, the sooner I kill Stacy, the sooner I get back to my normal life.

Zeki’s Moroccan Lamb Stew

“It may not look like much, but when the scent of the cumin braised lamb hits your senses, you know you’re in the promised land.” … Jaxon

1 Large Onion (cubed)

3 Potatoes (cubed)

1 – 2 Pounds Lamb (trimmed and cubed)

1 cup cubed carrots (or baby carrots halved)

1 cup cubed celery

2 Bay leaves

1 quart Beef stock

1 quart water

1 can chickpeas (garbanzo beans)

2 small turnips (cubed)

1/4 teaspoon Ground Cumin

1/4 teaspoon Ground Cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon Black Pepper

1/4 teaspoon Salt

1 cup flour

1 pound thick slice Bacon (cubed)

1/2 cup White Wine

…

Heat the quart of Beef stock and quart of water in a Slow cooker or Crock Pot; adding the Bay leaves. Render fat from Bacon, put cooked bacon aside, retaining bacon fat in pan. Mix Salt, Pepper, Cinnamon, Cumin, and Flour. Drench Lamb in the flour mixture and brown in the bacon fat. With the remaining flour mixture, add enough water to make a roux and add to the Crock Pot. Once the Lamb pieces are browned, add to the Crock Pot. Drain excess bacon fat from the pan and deglaze with the White Wine; add to the Crock pot. Add the remaining ingredients and heat just below simmer for 3 hours. Add the cooked bacon (crushed) and serve.

Serves 6

Capucine

I prefer hotel bars because there will be no accidental deaths from my intoxicated operation of heavy machinery; drinking to numb the pain of my reliance on liquor to provide comfort and blur the line between living and un-dead. An eye-catching, voluptuous slender brunette sits down next to me wearing a felt hat intended to either add a hint of mystery or cover a bald spot. She orders a Molotov cocktail, Monti glances at me, and we both look for the nearest exit.

False alarm. Capucine was new to the bar scene, having just “graduated” from a distant convent. We learned Capucine’s escape from Saint-Cyr convent was only part of her sordid tale. She grew up in Falher, Alberta. An only child, her parents died tragically, during the annual Honey Festival, the giant Honey Bee statue fell, crushing them. As she was sixteen, the state declared her an adult and Capucine was on her own.

Sixteen, alone and jobless. After exhausting what little charity the town could offer, following the Falher Alfalfa bankruptcy in the spring of ‘08, Capucine turned to a life of crime. At first she stole what she needed, food, clothes, and sundries. Soon real bills started coming in, utilities, mortgage, etc. At this point Capucine did what any gorgeous, innocent, voluptuous, desperate young lady would do, she decided sell her cookies.

Understandably nervous about selling her cookies for the first time, Capucine was, after all, a virgin in the cookie business. Desperation and exhilaration energised Capucine as she tried her hand in a brand new and sordid world. Her first customer came with a price on his head. Capucine got a call from Marcie, while preparing her cookies; Marcie suggested Capucine could make a lot more money if she followed her instructions.

The poison cookies didn’t work as planned, evidently the victim had built up a strychnine tolerance from his wife’s cooking. Capucine was in trouble and with no one to turn to, she had to leave town, fast. She hitchhiked east, selling her cookies along the way. In Elk Island National Park she learned that if you sell cookies to a moose, it taints the meat. Half way through Ontario she hired on as cook on a Hudson Bay freighter.

During her year and a half at sea as ship’s cook, Capucine learned many of the jobs on the ship. Piloting the ship proved useful one stormy October night after the last of the crew mysteriously died and or fell overboard. Capucine ran the freighter aground in Frobisher Bay, swam to shore and stayed a few months in the women’s shelter in Apex, just southeast of Iqaluit.

Capucine made her way south through Quebec selling her cookies as she went. Capucine became known as “The Girl Guide Cookie Killer”. Notoriety like that, in this business, can be a career ender. Realizing her days in North America were numbered, she immigrated to Europe. After unsuccessfully seeking honest work, and pulling a few jobs in desperation along the way, Capucine entered Saint-Cyr convent to hide from life.

In the convent, Capucine learned biology, anatomy, toxicology, forensics, and martial arts. She was educated in proper weapons handling practises. Given her updated education, her beauty, charm, and cookie baking talent, she may have a future in the business. I gave her the contact information for my organisation, finished my drink and went to bed. I never date assassins, too many complications.