Lucky me. I was the “one traveling companion” Dickson picked to go with him. Arrangements were made for us to travel by the jet plane PeePee Rococco kept at his private airfield on the island. Rococco’s personal pilot would fly us to Paris.
The plane was a Lear, a twin-jet cabin job which could hold six passengers comfortably. The only ones aboard, however, were Dickson, myself, and the pilot. The pilot piloted, Dickson dozed, and I pondered.
A beehive; that’s where my head was at; a beehive of questions. Why had the kidnappers’ message pointed us northeast toward Paris when the copter that had snatched Alicia had headed due South toward the South American coast? Why had Rococco tried to have her abducted from Paradise Island that first time? Where had his three goons vanished to? What was Rococco’s connection with this latest, successful kidnapping of the ex-President’s secret daughter? Who was behind the Japanese chef’ s try at poisoning Dickson? Where did “Insecticide” fit into all this? Was D.O.P.E. involved? The Mafia? Any of the other members of Dickson’s coterie? And even if I had answers to any of these questions, what specifically did Charles Putnam expect me to do about it?
Dickson Woke up and started playing with his Yo-Yo.
“Mr. President?”
“What the [expletive deleted] is it, Karl?”
“I wonder if I might listen to that tape from the Lilliputian Liberation Army again.”
“What is the specific purpose of this [unintelligible] request, Karl?”
“I was hoping I might hear something I’d missed the first time around, Mr. President. Some clue perhaps—”
“That sounds suspiciously like a fishing expedition to me, Karl. My responsibility to the high office I have held and to the future Presidents of this country who will one day have held this same high office — an office, let me be very clear, which I will not be responsible for seeing weakened—precludes me allowing you to bring your U-haul trailer to the back door of the White House and haul it all out. It is not because of a lack of desire to cooperate; it is first because we believe—-”
“Mr. President! All I want to do is listen to the one tape!”
“Would you settle for an edited transcript?” Dickson’s voice was suddenly cajoling.
“I’m afraid not, sir. I really think it’s necessary that I listen to it with my own ears.”
“A dangerous precedent undermining the high office –“
“I won’t even tell anybody you let me listen to it, Mr. President.”
“That’s what Fritz—or was it Hans?—-said. And look at the trouble he got me into with that mother- [expletive removed] Senate committee. [Expletive deleted]-sucking publicity-hunting politicians!”
“All right, Mr. President. I’m sorry I asked.” I gave up.
“Now don't sulk, Karl. That’s just like Hans-—or was it Fritz?—-when I had to announce I was firing him. He sulked. Even though I let him keep his office, and his assistants, and even let him take some tapes home to cheer him up, the [characterization omitted] sulked.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President. I didn't mean to sulk.”
“Oh, go ahead and listen to the [expletive omitted] tape, Karl. Just don’t-—and let me make this very clear -- don’t let Dan Rather30 find out about it. I don’t want any [adjective omitted] press on me! Co ahead and listen to it. Only take it to the back of the plane. [Expletive deleted]! I don't want to hear that tape -- any tape -- ever again!”
Nothing could have suited me better. I took the tape and a portable cassette player to the rear of the Lear. Here I took a blank cassette and a tiny recorder of my own and rerecorded the tape from the Lilliputian Liberation Army as it played. I definitely didn’t want Dickson to know what I was doing. I intended to send the rerecording to Putnam from Paris to have him check the FBI files for a voice print that might match that of the man speaking on the cassette. But I certainly didn’t want Dickson to know I was working for Putnam and the U.S. government.
It was night when we landed near Paris. We didn’t come in at any of the three major airports—Le Bourget, Orly, or the new DeGaulle Field. Instead we set down—as arranged by Rococco -- at a small private airfield owned by a wealthy business connection of his. A limousine and driver were waiting. We went directly to Le Petit Palais, the small hotel in the Clichy district of Paris where Dickson had been instructed to stay.
Dickson registered as “Mr. Checkers,” as per instructions. I signed in as “Karl Powers.” We were given adjoining rooms with a bathroom to share between them.
It was almost midnight when the phone rang in Dickson’s room. He answered it. I listened on an extension across from him as we had prearranged between us.
“Mr. Checkers?” It was the same male voice as the one on the cassette.
“Who is this?”
“Don’t ask questions, Mr. Checkers.”
“In response to that, let me put it in perspective by assuring you that I’m sorry.”
“You sound like you’re talking for publication, Mr. Checkers. Is this line bugged?”
“Would I do a thing like that?” Dickson was indignant.
“Only to members of your immediate family.”
“That’s different. The family that’s taped together stays together.”
“They’ve got no choice.” There was a dry chuckle at the other end. “Here are your instructions, Mr. Checkers. The gentleman with you—”
“Mr. Powers, yes?”
“He’s known to us. We trust him.”
Dickson looked at me with acute suspicion. I could only look back bewilderedly. These people knew me? From where? And as who? Karl Powers, or Steve Victor?
“Does that mean you don’t trust me?” Dickson’s feelings were hurt.
There was a long silence which spoke volumes -- historical volumes. When the kidnapper did finally speak, he ignored Dickson’s question altogether. “Mr. Powers is to go immediately to Sacre Coeur, the Church of the Sacred Heart, in Montmartre. There is a staircase leading up to the front of the church which parallels the funicular running up the hill to it. Mr. Powers is to station himself halfway up the staircase and wait there. A blonde girl in her early twenties wearing a black beret and a black raincoat will meet him there.”
I covered the mouthpiece of the extension phone. “Ask him how she’ll know me,” I hissed to Dickson.
“How will she know Mr. Powers?” he asked obedient y.
“Never mind how. She will know him. She will come up to him. She will tell him what to do. And he is to do exactly what he is told to do if you ever want to see your daughter alive again.” The phone clicked as the kidnapper abruptly hung up.
As per instructions, I left immediately. Dickson was to wait for me at the hotel. The desk clerk obligingly got me a cab. “Sacre Coeur,” I told the driver. He’d take me to the top of the hill, I knew, but I figured it would be easier walking halfway down that steep staircase, than trudging halfway up it.
I hadn’t been in Paris in quite a long time. The view from Sacre Coeur brought it all back. The church, which runs second only to Notre Dame itself as the most beautiful in all France, stands on the highest hill in Paris. The city spreads out beneath it at night like a glittering jeweler’s tray.
Paris! It’s not a city at all, really; it’s a state of mind. On the other hand, it’s the city of cities, queen of the world's metropolises. Turn a corner in Paris -- any corner!—and you will find a scene out of an Utrillo painting, a fille out of a Modigliani portrait, a park celebrating a Renoir picnic, or an artist as obsessed as Van Gogh or Gauguin. The spirit of Toulouse-Lautrec (hemmed a little short at the knees) sketches madly the dancing gamins still to be found in the most inexpensive niteries of Montrnartre and Montparnasse.