The French Man

 

The Charles River isn’t the Seine, but it is pleasant nonetheless, particularly in autumn when the smell of burning leaves permeates the cold air of the North Eastern Unites States. He strolled, taking in the buildings of Harvard University and listening to the cadence calls of the coxswains as they guided their eights west toward Boston on the Charles.

 

Why was the French man in Cambridge? Sometimes he wondered himself. 

The Agency suspected a man working for Assad in Syria was coming with a group of operatives to M.I.T. to steal the formula for Syrex, a new poison inadvertently discovered by two professors. The C.I.A. has requested the French Man’s help from the National Intelligence Agency in Paris.

 

The Frenchman, who spoke Arabic among several other languages, was an expert on Syria. The destructive potential of the new poison was so high that the Company was using every resource available to them to apprehend the interlopers.

 

At the Union Oyster House on Oxford Street, the French man talked with Charlie Farrell, number two man at the C.I.A. Farrell ordered clam chowder followed by local cod. His guest: lobster bisque and a bucket of steamed clams. Farrell enjoyed a Sam Adams, and the French man had his usual Stella Artois. After lunch, they each had a drink. Farrell preferred another beer, and the Parisian, a Remy Martin XO. 

 

Over lunch, Farrell briefed the French man. They knew little other than a caper was imminent. Security at M.I.T. was tight. No one could move the poison, as an accident could diminish the East Coast population by 3 million! The formula was protected by an encrypted code known only to three people.

 

The French man didn’t like it. The whole outline was too clear and straightforward, and the Syrians didn’t think in a straight line. Farrell was planning for a deep volley, but a drop shot was coming. He was sure of it.

 

Sure enough, within days, the lead Professor of the team that developed Syrex had been kidnapped. Leaving his home in Concord, he had been forced off the road on Route 2 and grabbed. One witness said three masked men had thrown him into the back of a white van, which was later found in Bedford, abandoned. The French man couldn’t believe that the C.I.A. hadn’t posted guards at the M.I.T. peoples’ houses. Now they had, but it was too late. 

 

The French man wasn’t surprised at the kidnapping. He knew the way the Syrians operated. He went to local headquarters and waited. Within hours the demand came in. Release the formula or be prepared for the Professor’s death. The French man listed carefully to the call and was sure he had heard something. What was it?

 

It was the sound of a rushing river. There weren’t that many rivers in the immediate area.  The French man immediately brought up several maps of an area 50 miles in circumference around Boston. Many people gathered around his desk. Then he asked for the phone call to be amplified and replayed. There it was! The river but something else. It was a loon’s call. He was sure of it! But where did they have a loon population nearby? They made a call to The Audubon Society, and they had it! The Ipswich River.

 

Soon satellites were searching the north shore of Massachusetts for anything unusual from rental cars to houses with no lights. Bingo! An eavesdropping satellite 30 miles in the atmosphere picked up Syrian chatter in a place five miles north of Ipswich.

 

The Agency mobilized a team, and several black Chevy Suburbans headed north on Route 1. The French man was calm. He ate a ham sandwich with hot mustard in the car. For drink? A Stella. The Americans couldn’t drink on the job, so they had Coca-Cola. The French man smiled. 

 

When they reached the outskirts of Ipswich, the French man finished his sandwich and turned to the head man on the job from the C.I.A., Julian Evers.  He outlined a plan. A Protensic T25 GPS Drone would be deployed at midnight. The drone would be carrying a payload of disabling non-lethal gas. If they had any luck, they would dispense the canister of gas down the sizeable chimney atop the Colonial-style home. Within minutes all occupants should be asleep.

 

At 12:10, the French man entered the Syrians rental home. He wore a 3M7162 Respirator and carried a Famas G-2 pistol. He observed numerous sleeping bodies, including that of the Professor. “Good morning.” he said in Arabic, followed by.” I hope you had a nice rest.”

 

On the way back to Paris, the French man enjoyed a glass of Dom Perignon followed by fore grass and smoked salmon. After landing at the Charles DE Gaulle Airport,  he stepped into a Mercedes S Car, which took him for debriefing at the Hotel Ritz Carleton.