Dinner is Canceled ...

The Four Seasons, Paris
Source

Rodin landed at Le Bourget shortly after 4:00 PM. After taxiing to Kargin's reserved spot, the two men deplaned.

Rodin looked around, Kargin usually had a car waiting for them whenever they arrived in Paris. Today there was no car to be seen. Looking towards his employer, he saw that Kargin was on his cellphone, probably with the car service he used in Paris.

Kargin put his cellphone away and walked over to Rodin, "Most unusual, my car left the garage over an hour ago, should have been here by now."

"Traffic perhaps?" Rodin offered.

"Anything is possible, I suppose." Kargin pulled out his cellphone and made another call.

Pierre Junot was typically a patient man, but the two car fender bender just up the street was pushing him to his limits. The police were nowhere in sight and he was tired of watching these two men arguing over who was at fault. It was a simple accident, the two should have taken photos with their cellphones, exchanged information, and cleared the street, but no, they were still arguing.

Junot got out of his car and walked the short distance up the street. He tugged his jacket into place to make sure his weapon was hidden, though he had a permit, he didn't like to advertise the fact that he was armed.

"Gentlemen, can't you see that you're blocking the street in both directions? Take pictures, exchange insurance information, and go. There is no need ..."

One of the men turned in his direction and told him to "F**k off," the other man simply ignored him. Junot sighed, then looked around. No one was paying any attention to this squabble, this sort of thing happened all the time.

Claude Picard was very drunk, the accident was his fault as he had pulled into traffic without looking. He hadn't hit anyone in his own lane, but he had swung out far too wide and hit a car traveling in the other direction. Slow speed, not much damage, but the other man had jumped from his car and screamed, "idiot" at Picard.

So of course he had returned the favor.

Picard was having a very bad day, he had been fired from his security job that very morning. When he had gone home, his wife had screamed at him and left to go visit her mother, probably permanently. Picard's problem was his drinking, though he didn't see it that way.

So of course, he went to a bar to drown his sorrows.

Junot tried to get the men's attention once more. He'd seen the cops do this to get people's attention, so he opened his jacket and slapped his holstered weapon.

"Hey, asshole! I'm talking to you."

Time seemed to slow down at that point. Junot watched in horror as the man who had initially ignored him turned in his direction, a pistol suddenly in his hand. Desperately reaching for his weapon, he realized that it was too late. He saw the muzzle flash, felt the pain, and then was writhing in the street, drowning in his own blood. He gasped as he tried to put pressure on the wound. Something inside told him it was too late.

He coughed once, then stopped moving.

Louis Jacquinot stared in shock at the man lying on the ground, blood spilling from his opened throat. The guy who had hit his car was staring at the man on the ground as well. Jacquinot took off running, he didn't want to get shot.

Kargin's phone rang, he looked at it for a moment, he didn't recognize the number. He answered anyway.

"Kargin."

What followed was a flurry of French, he understood none of it, though he recognized what might be his name a couple of times.

"Sorry old boy, don't have a word of French, don't suppose anyone there speaks English, or Russian perhaps?"

The flow of words stopped as the man on the phone spoke to another man in the background. Then a new voice came on the line.

"Allo, monsieur, I am speaking the English. There is a problem avec your hired car. The driver has been killed in a, how do you say, un accident de voiture, a car crash."

"Who is this?" Kargin asked, gesturing at Rodin to prepare the aircraft for an immediate takeoff.

"Inspecteur Adolphe Proust, you are Monsieur Kliment Kargin, yes?"

"Yes, yes, this is he. What can I do for you, Inspector?"

"Is it possible for you to come down to our station and identify the body. He has papers on him, which is how I have your number."

"I'm sorry Inspector, I don't know the man personally, he works for a car service I use when I'm in Paris."

"Ah, pardon, where are you now Monsieur?"

"I am at Le Bourget, preparing to return home."

"Home is?"

"Moscow, in Russia."

"Ah, pardon, I know where Moscow is, we French have been there before."

Kargin gritted his teeth at the arrogance of the man. Yes, the French had been there, damned few had returned home. "I'm sorry Inspector, my aircraft is ready to leave, I must depart immediately."

"Ah, very well. We will be in touch later, if it is nécessaire, you understand?"

"Certainly, Inspector, now I really must be off. It's a business emergency."

"Ah, oui, le business, I understand, have a safe journey." And with that the French policeman severed the connection.

Kargin's aircraft lifted off from Le Bourget just before 9:30 PM. Rodin had had some trouble getting his flight plan approved, Kargin made a donation to the airfield's "charity fund" and within minutes they were taxiing.

Kargin was sitting up front with Rodin, his bogus First Officer's certificate was in his jacket pocket. He had half expected the French to make further trouble, but they did not. Kargin stood up.

"I'm going back to the cabin and sleep. If you are hungry I can bring you a sandwich from the galley."

"No Sir, all the excitement has destroyed my appetite. Your driver, he's dead, yes?"

"Yes, the police say a traffic accident, I have my doubts though. Seems far too convenient. I'm guessing the man is in police custody and this is some elaborate ruse."

Junot was indeed in police custody, well, his corpse was. The police were convinced that the man who had killed him was nothing more than a distraught drunkard, fired from his job, his wife having left him, and had snapped when Junot, armed, had confronted him.

It was unfortunate they couldn't talk with the man who had killed Junot. That man, one Claude Picard had killed himself, no doubt in remorse, shortly after gunning down Junot.

When Proust had pulled the firearms permit for Junot, he saw the name Kargin and a contact number. Apparently Kargin was extremely wealthy and very well connected. As a felon, Junot should not have been issued a permit.

Interesting. "Marcel, get me Interpol, would you?"

"Oui, Inspecteur."

Four days later the Interpol report came across Johansen's desk, Declan Watts had alerted him to the Russian name in the report.

"He's suspected in the illicit arms trade out there, isn't he?" Watts had asked.

"Yes, very much so. I think we have a file on him somewhere. Also, use this phone number to pull any phone records there might be in the past few days. Awfully suspicious to fly to Paris, then turn around and leave almost immediately."

"And there's a dead guy involved, an employee of a car service in Paris used by any number of high rollers."

"Hhmm, check them out as well." Johansen looked at the report, saw a name.

"Get me someone who's French is impeccable, Wilson down in Records is very good, isn't he?"

"He is, Sir. You want to talk to the French cop, don't you?"

Johansen smiled, "I'll bet Wilson is already driving back to work, isn't he?"

"Of course, Sir."

"Declan, I don't deserve you."

Watts simply nodded then went back to his own desk.