Don Pendleton - Deadly Salvage

“Ah.” The captain lifted an eyebrow. “You are Americans, n’est-ce pas?”

“That’s right,” Grimaldi said. “How can we help you?”

“You will both give your passports to the sergeant,” the captain said.

Bolan and Grimaldi handed over their documents. The big man glared at them and handed the passports to Le Pierre, who took his time paging through them. “No luggage?”

“It’s in the trunk,” Bolan said.

“Open it immediately, Gipardieu.” He uttered the rest of his instructions to the sergeant in French, and Bolan gathered that Gipardieu had been directed to search their luggage.

“We already went through customs,” Grimaldi said. “What’s the problem here?”

“Here, as you say, is the problem.” The captain took another step forward so that his face was only a few inches from Grimaldi’s. “You are now in French territory.”

Bolan saw Grimaldi’s face start to redden. “Jack,” he barked. “Just open the trunk.”

His mouth set in a firm line, Grimaldi turned and opened the rear compartment of the Citroën.

The big man stepped forward. “Move aside,” he said. His voice sounded high and whiny for such a huge man.

Bolan and Grimaldi exchanged looks and stepped back.

Sergeant Gipardieu took out the three bags, moved around to the side of the car and set them on the roof. He unzipped the two suitcases and fingered through the clothes and toiletries. Then he opened the third case, which had a hard outer shell and silver clasps.

“Be careful with that,” Grimaldi said. “It’s fragile.”

Gipardieu hesitated.

“What is it?” Captain Le Pierre asked.

“It’s our camera and video equipment,” Bolan said. “We’re magazine reporters. We’re here to do a story on the new movie being filmed, and the Mr. Galaxy contest.”

Le Pierre muttered something else in French and made a quick motion with his hand, adding “Vite, vite.”

Bolan watched as Gipardieu took the cameras, camcorder and various attachments out of their foam encasements.

“And what is this?” The captain pointed to a pair of angular handles with grooved, flat metal tops.

“Those are handles for our camcorder,” Bolan said.

Le Pierre studied the items, then blinked a few times.

“Captain,” Bolan said, “can we do anything else for you? If not, it was a very long flight, and my partner and I would like to check into our hotel and relax a bit.”

Le Pierre raised his eyes from the case and studied Bolan’s face for several seconds. He glanced down at the passports and then up again. “Monsieur Cooper...”

Bolan waited. Had their cover been blown? Did this guy know them from somewhere?

Le Pierre gestured to Gipardieu, who slammed the camera case closed. The sergeant turned and walked back to Le Pierre, leaving the three bags on the roof. Le Pierre handed the passports back to Grimaldi and Bolan.

“It is my hope that you enjoy your stay here, messieurs,” he said. The two officers began to walk back to their jeep. “Au revoir.”

“What an asshole,” Grimaldi said as they reloaded their bags and climbed back into the Citroën.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bolan said. “You and he have might have more in common than you think.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Well, I know you have a thing for pretty French girls.” Bolan settled himself into the seat. “And it looks like you both share a preference for SIG Sauers.”

Grimaldi slammed the Citroën into gear and peeled out.

Chapter 3

Bolan dialed Brognola back on the sat phone as they pulled into the Omni hotel’s parking lot. “What’s the latest on that hookup with the Feds?” Bolan asked after he’d filled Brognola in on their encounter with the local police.

“Should be all set,” Brognola said. “I’ll email you the agent’s info and sat phone number. We’re trying to finalize a meeting time now. I’ll send the location as soon as I get it. I’ve also arranged all of your hardware—it will be delivered directly to the hotel. And I’ll see if Aaron can run a check on Le Pierre and that Dutch customs agent. What was his name again?”

“J. Van der Hyden.” Bolan spelled it.

“Got it. I’ll get back to you.”

“Roger that,” Bolan said.

He ended the call. Inside the main lobby, the clerk behind the polished teakwood counter was all smiles and efficiency. He offered them complimentary drink passes to the beach bar, and snapped his fingers at a bellman, telling him to carry the luggage up to their room.

They stepped into an elevator with a glass wall that gave them a postcard perfect view of the beach and ocean. As they rose to the fourth floor, Bolan could see numerous piers with boats of various sizes tethered to the moorings.

“They have boats over there to go fishing and diving?” he asked.

The bellman nodded and flashed a wide smile. “Yes, sir. Fishing, diving, waterskiing, paragliding, anything you want. The concierge can arrange it for you. If you wish, I can have him call up to your room.”

Bolan and Grimaldi exchanged looks. Special attention was not what they wanted right now.

“Maybe later,” Grimaldi said. The elevator stopped and they moved down the hallway toward their room. It faced the ocean, and was much closer to the stairway than the elevator. Good for slipping in and out without drawing too much attention.

“These bags are a bit heavier than they look, sir,” the bellman said.

“Give the kid a nice tip, Matt,” Grimaldi said as he stuck the key card into the slot. “He’s earned it.”

Bolan tipped the bellman, who continued to offer assistance in procuring anything, anything at all, that they might desire, including an introduction to some beautiful island girls who liked Americans.

Bolan declined and closed the door.

“Not so fast,” Grimaldi said. “That last part about the island girls sounded kind of interesting.”

“We’re here to work,” Bolan said drily.

The room was fairly expansive, with two beds, a wet bar built into one wall, and a lounge area. The drapes on the window were open, offering a perfect view of the ocean side.

Bolan secured the dead bolt lock as he and Grimaldi continued their innocuous conversation about the nice flight and the pleasant drive from the airport. As they talked, Bolan pulled out his bug detection scanner and searched the room for any type of listening or recording devices. The scanner detected bugs in the bedroom, bathroom and lounge area.

Grimaldi picked up the phone, dialing the main desk. “I’m sorry, this room won’t do,” he said as soon as the clerk answered.

“Is there a problem, sir?”

“Yeah,” he said. “There’s a strange smell in here, and my partner is very sensitive.”

The clerk hemmed and hawed a bit, but when Grimaldi threatened to vacate the room and send an email to the bureau of travel and tourism, the man agreed to send up the bellman to show them to another suite.

“Tell him to hurry up,” he said. “My partner’s getting nauseous and has a tendency to throw up when he gets a whiff of something rotten.”

After five minutes of waiting, Grimaldi repeated his call to the front desk, this time inserting a bit more anger and outrage into his tone. The bellman’s knock came approximately a minute later. It was the same one as before, and he was carrying a large, locked suitcase.

“Delivery for you, sir,” he said to Bolan.

Bolan thanked him and grabbed the heavy case, giving it a quick once-over for signs of tampering. This had to be the weapons and gear Brognola had arranged a CIA contact to secure and drop off for them. The bellman picked up the remaining three bags and showed the men to another room on the same floor, at the opposite side of the building. It was close to a second stairwell. Grimaldi went in, checked it out and came back into the hall with a smile.