Interpol Headquarters
Lyon, France
Jordan Michaels had been on assignment at Interpol Headquarters for a full month now. He wasn’t sure exactly which regulation he broke that pissed off his superiors back in London, but given his reputation, it could have been numerous infractions. Detective Chief Inspector Michaels drank too much, was known to start brawls and to take married men’s wives to bed. He should have been promoted to Superintendent a couple of years back but was caught in a compromising position with the wife of a member of the parliament. The parliament member was an older man married to a lovely girl twenty-five years younger. Jordan said he was just trying to help the old man out. Anyone else would have been fired, but Jordan was the best detective in all of London, maybe all of England. In order to save him, he was being exiled to Paris and attached to Interpol to learn something from them. Paris would allow him to screw himself silly and maybe get his wild side satisfied for a while.
When he had to explain his bad behavior to his superiors, his typical excuse was, “If their husbands would pay a little more attention to them, they might not jump in bed with me.”
Jordan was tall, muscular, and handsome. In his late thirties, he had startling blue eyes, a chiseled jaw, and thick, dark brown hair that was much too long to be within regulation guidelines. It was possible some of the ladies might have come to his bedside on their own accord. He didn’t have a problem getting women—his problem was getting rid of them later.
As he sat looking at his TAG watch, waiting for quitting time, the phone on his desk came to life. It was an old, strange-looking hard-plastic French phone. He hated anything made in France, except the women.
“Yes, Inspector Michaels here.”
“What’s your full name and rank?” the gruff American voice barked.
“Detective Chief Inspector Jordan Michaels—London Office. Here in France on assignment. What’s your full name and rank?” He used his tough guy voice—reserved for people who acted like assholes.
“Bill Samuelsson, Assistant Executive Director of Homeland Security. Is the General Secretariat there?” Bill said in an increasingly aggravated tone.
“Nope! I’m going to be the highest muckety-muck you get to talk to today. Rest of ’em are at a soccer game. What can I help you with?” Michaels asked.
“Have you guys been picking up chatter from sat phones with people talking in Arabic?”
“Everyday. What’s unusual about hearing voices?”
“These are coming from strange places,” the American said.
“Such as…?” Jordan asked.
“Middle of the ocean, around docks, and all over the fucking world—but always near the water. It might not mean anything, but we wanted you to be aware of it. Please pass this information on to the General Secretariat, but be careful who you tell about this.”
“I will tell him you called. And if we find anything, should I call your office?”
“Yes, and request to speak to me,” Samuelsson replied and gave him his direct number.
“Thanks for the information,” Jordan said.
Jordan started asking around the huge office complex for the individuals that monitor terrorist activities. After questioning no fewer than ten people, he found his man, or rather his woman. According to a plaque on her desk, her name was Maria Moreau. She was hiding a pretty face behind large glasses and frazzled blond-streaked hair. It was one of the hairstyles that he liked because it was wild looking but just tame enough to be fashionable. Her hair was actually two shades of blond, and on one side it hung down just above her left eye. Jordan felt sure she had a nice body to go along with the gorgeous face, but she was wearing baggy pants. They weren’t fashionable pants—just baggy pants.
“Miss Moreau, I am Jordan Michaels. Over from London for a few days or months. Maybe the rest of my life, if I can’t stay out of trouble.”
“You look like trouble,” she laughed.
“Listen, have you been picking up Arabic noise coming from the middle of the ocean and around docks and such?”
“Yes. I pointed it out to my supervisor, and they said it was normal chatter.”
“If I wanted you to pinpoint those signals, could you do it?” Jordan asked with real excitement in his voice.
“Close, but not precisely on the spot, since some were moving as they talked on their satellite phones. Their trail is captured in our scanners. Would you like me to start on the project?”
“Yes, and if anyone wants to know what you’re doing, tell them it’s for Homeland Security in the States.”
“Is it?” she asked.
“I’m not at liberty to speak about it,” Jordan said, with a crooked smile.
“Are you at liberty to buy me a drink after work tonight?” Maria asked, locking eyes with the man who had just given her a work assignment. She liked him instantly.
“Uh … of course. You name the place. I’ll be back by at 5:30,” Jordan stuttered.
Jordan tried to picture her naked. It was always the first thing that came to his mind when he went out with a new woman. Next, he would plan how to get her to bed. It was a game he usually won. In this case, the baggy pants didn’t help his normal fantasies, but her face wasn’t just pretty, but gorgeous. Her lips were full, especially her top lip—and he couldn’t wait to kiss her. She was very forward, and he found that sexy. Jordan was under the assumption that Maria was someone’s secretary or maybe a file clerk, and he could use the power of his position to his advantage. What he had failed to notice below her name plate was her title—Senior Intel Director.
*****
“I had to come meet the new manager of the spa. A spy friend of mine in human resources said you had a great background with managing salons and health resorts. This same clandestine person said you were single and very attractive,” the officer said.
“I would think personnel could root out these spies, so they wouldn’t be breaking confidentiality laws. Someone appears to be in the matchmaking game. And you are …?” asked Simone.
“Second Engineer Officer Monte Hendrix, and you, of course, are …?”
“Simone Visser from South Africa and you are from …?” She took his outstretched hand and shook it.
“Fort Lauderdale, Florida, but went to school here in California. Would it be possible for us to have a drink together later tonight?” Monte said with a persistent smile.
“I guess so. I have a meeting with my staff in a few minutes. What bar and where?” she asked.
“The officer’s bar, since I know it’s open. I will be back to escort you after your meeting. How long will it take?” Monte asked. He kept his eyes trained directly on hers.
“Not sure. One of the staff is supposed to be trouble. I may need to do either counseling or something worse.”
As Simone looked closer at Monte, she realized that she was actually taller than him—not much, but when she put heels on he would be looking up at her. Nevertheless, he was very handsome. She thought, Tom Cruise is very short, and Monte is taller than Cruise.
“Is it that one wearing the hijab?” Monte asked, snatching her back from her movie star fantasy.
She nodded. He is really good-looking, she mused. Deep blue eyes.
“Her husband works with me as an electrical engineer. He’s very good at his job, but kind of quiet. I’ve tried to talk to him, and he’s courteous, but not much of a talker. Some of the staff say they’re a little frightened by him and his prayer rug.”
“Jesus! I have worked with them in South Africa, and they never scared me. They seemed harmless enough. The big problem in spas is that they can’t do any jobs except clean up and keep the fresh towels and linens in stock. They’re not allowed to use perfume. They can’t help with hair extensions. They’re not allowed to see anyone naked. No way can they see people getting bikini waxing. Pretty much just towels, linens, and sweeping up,” Simone said.
“Good luck with your problem child. I’ll be back in an hour,” Monte said.
“Thanks. I believe I will need a drink afterwards,” Simone laughed and watched as Monte left through an automatic glass door.
Most of the spa crew showed up for the meeting. A few had gone ashore and some of the new personnel were still being processed; Simone would have to call these employees tonight and touch base with them. She laid out her rules and regulations, as well as the policies from the cruise line, and reviewed the massages and hair salon appointments for the next day. Simone repeated the rules about cruise workers having sexual relationships with passengers.
“Locked in your room until the next port. You will be taken ashore and then it’s up to you to find a way home.”
After the meeting was over, she asked to see Ziya Moussa in her office. Once there, Simone asked her to be seated.
“I would rather stand,” Ziya said in a shaky, accented voice.
“Suit yourself, Ziya.” Simone said sternly. “Tell me about your relationship with the former manager.”
“She was always after me. Very unfair!” Ziya answered.
“I would like to know more about that,” Simone said.
“Suzanne would make me clean up after bikini waxing. I cannot see those hairs, and I cannot touch them.”
“I had Muslim women working in my South African salon. We had a high cleric rule that they could not look at pubic hair on a person, either male or female, but after it is taken from the body, it is okay to see it then. Also, you may wear plastic gloves to remove it to the trash. Would you like to see a copy of the cleric’s ruling? I will see if I still have it.” Simone hadn’t seen the document for years, but at least she would make an effort.
“Yes, thank you,” Ziya said, pleased to know Simone had worked with members of her faith before.
“What else is bothering you?”
“I cannot take towels into the sauna since nude women are in there.”
“Again, it is only against Islamic principles if you look at their pubic area. Just look down and take the towel in and pick up the used ones. There is no need to stare at their crotches. Anything else?”
“My prayers. I have to have time to say my prayers.”
“Use your breaks for that. I’ll not allow extra time, or I would have to allot everyone prayer time. If you have problems with anything we discussed here, let me know now, and we can part company.”
“I am fine. Thank you.” Ziya turned and walked out of the spa.
Monte said hello to Ziya as he walked past her on his way into the facility.
“Need that drink?” Monte asked Simone as he neared the front reception desk.
“Yes. Several, please.”
Simone followed him to the elevator and talked all the way from the fourteenth deck to the fifth deck, and then all the way to the officer’s bar. She liked him immediately. He was easy to talk to, funny, and treated her like a lady. He introduced her to several officers, both men and women. Afterwards, he escorted her to her room. He asked if he could see her again. She really did want to see him, at least for a second time. Maybe more.
“How about dinner tomorrow after your first full day?” Monte asked.
“I may not have time for dinner, but I’ll take drinks again, if you want. Just call me tomorrow evening to see how things are going.”
She then leaned forward and gently kissed him on his lips. He smiled as he walked away.
Simone thought about Peter, her ex, as Monte walked away. He had been a stock broker, handsome, tall and intelligent. Initially, they both wanted kids. After failing to get pregnant, they sought medical advice and found Peter was sterile. They discussed adoption, in vitro fertilization, and other methods of having a child.
Peter had said, “I want a child who is my offspring—not from some test tube or some kid thrown away from a crackhead family!”
Peter became depressed over his sterility and used his new spermless condition to freely spread his barren seed everywhere he could. Effectively, the beginning of the end of their marriage started when he was told he couldn’t father a child. Simone rightfully saw his behavior as immaturity.
Even though it was early in their relationship, Monte seemed so much more mature.
*****
Jordan and Maria drove to a bar called Rock ’n’ Eat that was in the middle of the rock-and-metal-scene in Lyon. After obtaining a table away from the loud group playing near the bar, they placed orders for hamburgers and fries. They then began to go over Maria’s notes. She laid out a condensed map of the world marked with highlighters where there had been recent chatter in Arabic—San Francisco, LA, several ports along the Mexican Riviera, then all along Central America, on both oceans. Great ports in China and Japan, along with many in Europe, had multiple hits. Several spots were around the eastern coast line of Australia.
“It seems that most of the chatter is around Central America on both sides. Yet, it’s all over the world,” Jordan remarked, scratching his head.
“If we could pinpoint and identify one ship, then maybe we could find what they have in common,” Maria said. She was drawing circles around hits near France as drinks were placed on their table.
“It would be great if you could,” Jordan mused.
“Marseille! Marseille! I have two hits and it appears one ship is still there—just got the hit yesterday,” Maria said, almost knocking over her beer reaching to show Jordan the spot.
“How long is the drive from here?” Jordan asked.
“About three and a half hours on A7. I would need to get our portable scanner at the office and pick up a few things from my flat. What do you need, and can you get permission to go?
“I’m a Chief Inspector, so I plan my own investigations. We can take my car, and I’ll take you by your flat, but are you sure as a clerk you’ll be able to just take off on a case?”
“Clerk! I probably outrank you. I am a Senior Intel Director,” she said with a great deal of indignity in her voice.
“Sorry, Maria—I sort of assumed—sorry about that. But, correct me if I’m wrong—Interpol doesn’t have a police force. It contacts the police that are members of Interpol, and they go out and get the bad guys you have found. Is that right?”
“Yes, you’re right. I didn’t mean to snap at you, but women—that is, as a woman, it seems we are taken lightly unless we assert ourselves,” Maria said in a much calmer tone.
“So, when you asked me out for a drink, I should have known you ranked way up there next to chief inspector?” Jordan asked.
“You could have inquired about my position. Let’s just forget it. No harm, no foul. Are you married?” It appeared that this question came out of nowhere.
“Uhhh, was … not since two years ago. You?” Jordan wondered why she asked, but he wasn’t going to pry for fear of his life.
“Also ‘was.’ It’s been a year. I have a teenage daughter in boarding school in Paris. I was just curious whether I should bother to like you. You will find I’m rather direct. Not much of a bullshitter. I’m thirty-five and really haven’t had many dates since the divorce. My ex-husband has already remarried. Same girl he was seeing before the divorce. I was putting in a lot of hours, and he had too much time on his hands. He’s good to our daughter, though. He wasn’t as handsome as you. Not too many men are. You must be incredibly successful with women.”
“I have two boys, seven and nine, who live with their mum. They spend most of the summer with me. Take my vacation then. I don’t really formally date much, Maria—don’t waste much time either, which places me in a lot of one-night stands, which I’m not proud of. I’m thirty-eight next month. I already like you, and I’ve never met a woman in law enforcement as pretty as you—or any place else either. Let’s be ourselves and see what happens.”
Maria smiled and reached across the table and gently squeezed his hand. They were obviously attracted to each other, but some egos might have to be pushed aside for them to take this much farther. She had purposely worn clothes that made her less attractive and less approachable. Since her divorce, the pain was still fresh, and those horrible feelings of rejection were still close to the surface. Maria desperately wanted to have the good parts of a relationship back. Maybe this guy was the one to make it happen.
They quickly finished their meals and filed the necessary reports to their superiors. Not included in the reports were the feelings developing between the two officers.
Jordan couldn’t wait until Maria changed out of those baggy pants. He didn’t trust his ability to keep a relationship going after the sexual intensity cooled down. Maria was the best-looking woman he had ever known. He knew he had to change for many reasons. If he continued to lead a wild and promiscuous lifestyle, there was a chance he would lose his job and compromise his relationship with his kids. He mumbled to himself, You asshole. Get your shit together and quit acting like a teenager.
As they finalized their overnight trip to Marseille, it was likely they both shared a common thought: would they share the same room?