The mayor purpled with rage. Before he could speak, Slade hit him again. “Do you know that right now, in your city there are harems of kidnapped girls — daughters of France, your daughters — and they are kept as sex slaves for the Islamists? You know this, but you let it happen — how?”
“I will not let you twist the subject onto me! There will be payment for this vigilante!”
“There will indeed,” Slade said.
The Chief of Police whispered an aside to Brueget, saying, “Slade sounds more like the Mayor of Paris should sound than the mayor himself!”
Brueget chuckled quietly, and remarked, “Would that we had fewer citizens who hate France and more Americans like Jeremiah Slade who love her!”
Brueget’s phone rang and he turned away to answer it.
The remark stung the mayor, and he stood there like a statue for a long moment. With no renewed attack on him, the mayor regained his composure.
He leaned over Slade and doubled down. "I will give you one last chance to deal monsieur. If you are willing to plead guilty and publicly apologize to the Muslim community, I will be satisfied with, say, ten years. Your government can get you out in five. Think of it, monsieur, murder alone is twenty-five years. You would never see the light of day.”
“Actually, no, Monsieur Mayor,” Brueget told him, turning back around and pocketing his phone. “This is the deaclass="underline" release Slade now and give me Abdulla Hussein. He’s the man Slade was questioning.”
“Hussein? What do you want with that poor boy?”
“Monsieur Mayor, Abdulla Hussein works for a man named Khallida, a notorious Al Qaeda terrorist who is on the terrorist watchlist of France, INTERPOL as well as the United States. He has been implicated on every plot from Nine-Eleven to the current ISIS crisis.”
“That has nothing to do with Monsieur Hussein!” the mayor retorted.
“Monsieur Mayor, Hussein is one of Khallida’s recruits,” Brueget said sternly. “We also think he is involved in the disappearance of Malaysian Flight 666.”
“You cannot speak to him,” the mayor said firmly. “I will not be dictated to by INTERPOL!”
“This is an international terrorism case,” Brueget informed the mayor. “I have the authority to take him into custody and I will not hesitate to do so.”
“You are too late, I released him as a sign of good will to the Muslim community,” the mayor told Brueget.
“You what?” exclaimed the Chief of Police. “Monsieur, you had no authority to do such a thing! That is my department!”
“I have every authority!” the mayor countered. “This is my city; my police force; it is my responsibility to keep the peace in Paris! I will do as I see fit!”
“We need to get Hussein before he disappears; he can lead us to the missing jet,” Slade said urgently, ignoring the mayor.
“I am on it,” Jean nodded, taking out his phone and placing a call.
“You will do no such thing!” the mayor protested, red faced with anger.
Brueget put a finger in the mayor’s face. “You are interfering with an international counter-terrorism operation — back off Monsieur!”
The mayor refused to back down. “This is my city!”
The mayor got his own phone out, shaking at Sorensen. “You want to play games? This is Paris — my town! I will have you all thrown into prison or deported! There, how is that for calling your bluff?”
“I’m not bluffing Monsieur Mayor; I’m deadly serious. I warn you, you will not win this fight.”
“Oh so you want to play politics?” the would-be Napoleonic mayor smiled. “Well my President of France trumps your INTERPOL any day. How do you like that?”
“Game on Monsieur Mayor,” he replied. There was a pause, during which the mayor flushed red but became suddenly silent while Brueget was on the phone with his superiors.
“Director, we have a situation brewing in Paris and a possible compromise of NATO security.”
“Compromise of NATO security, what the devil is she talking about?” the mayor blurted.
Brueget’s eyes flashed in anger. “Our investigation and our agent is compromised Monsieur Mayor, under your jurisdiction — that’s an international crime under the NATO treaty — so are you part of the solution or part of the problem?”
“What, I didn’t have anything to do with that!”
“Really? I suggest you call your president Monsieur Mayor, you’re going to need him.”
“How dare you!” he started, but Brueget held up a single finger and the mayor’s mouth snapped shut.
“Sir, it’s more serious than that,” the INTERPOL officer continued. “Slade was ambushed in his hotel room by three assassins. All three have ties to Al Qaeda in Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia, Qatar and Yemen and Malaysia — yes, Malaysia. In fact, he is the son of the missing Malaysian Airlines captain — yes sir, Slade was interrogating Hussein when the French gendarmes interrupted him. Yes, this occurred after he saved the life of Cardinal Martel at Notre Dame yesterday, not to mention saving the Cathedral itself.”
“An attack on Notre Dame — what attack?” the mayor blurted. “Why wasn’t I informed of this outrageous event?” The mayor was clearly in a panic. The one thing Parisian’s loved more than Paris itself was its history and especially the cathedral. “Why was I not told of this?”
His aide rolled his eyes, “Monsieur Mayor, you will not take verbal briefings. It was the first item in your electronic brief yesterday! However, if you missed it there, then you might have seen it elsewhere.” He handed the morning paper to the mayor. The front page main headline was simple and ferocious: Muslims try to Assassinate Cardinal Martel and Destroy the Blessed Notre Dame!
“Mon Dieu!” he sweated. “I was meeting with Ali Habib; trying to defuse the unrest in the city. Why didn’t he mention this outrage? Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!”
Against the backdrop of the mayor’s rising panic, Brueget continued, telling the director, “No, Slade is fine. Yes sir, Khallida was behind this. Slade was about to get the particulars on the Paris cell from Hussein when the gendarmes interrupted and arrested him.
“Slade is still in custody, but the mayor let Hussein go. We are tracking him down now. There’s more I’m afraid. Our next most pressing problem after recapturing Hussein is that the mayor has seen fit to mobilize the local Muslim Brotherhood factions. Yes sir, the mayor brought them to the police station — yes sir, it’s Habib — regardless, we are in serious danger of losing Slade’s cover permanently.”
Slade couldn’t help but admire the way Brueget handled the situation. The mayor was growing paler by the moment. After a moment, he said simply, “Yes sir, we will!”
He put the phone away, and said calmly, “Monsieur Mayor there’s no need for you to call the president.”
He regained his confidence and smiled, “You see, I told you.”
Brueget stepped up to the mayor and lit a cigarette.
The mayor looked at him with disproval, and said, “You can’t do that. I signed an ordinance banning smoking in public buildings.”
He took a long drag and blew the smoke in the mayor’s face. “You misunderstand me Monsieur Mayor. You don’t need to call the president; he will call you!”
“He will call me?” the mayor stuttered. “I don’t understand.”
“No you don’t,” he agreed. “However, it’s about to become all too clear to you.”
The mayor’s phone rang.
He tapped it and answered with great surprise, “Oh it’s you Monsieur President! What a pleasure — what? Yes sir, I’m listening.”
As the mayor listened with growing distress to the President of France, who though no hawk, nonetheless was a politician.