The Geneva Decision (32 page)

Pia’s gut flipped over.

Her eyes clamped shut, teeth clenched, insides churned. She struggled to get a grip on herself. She took a deep breath. Alphonse had saved her life by losing his.

If she had let him go first, would she have done the same to save him?

Mustafa said, “How can you help me?”

“I have a jet fueled and ready to go. It’s on the executive apron, near a wall easily scaled. In all the years I’ve flown, they never once looked in the aft hold. I’m not sure the customs agents know there is one. Not luxurious but pressurized and accessible from the main cabin. You tell me what I need to know and you get a ride to Brussels in the hold. Deal?”

“What do you need to know?”

“AK47s all over the place. I counted ten in Cameroon. You probably had twice that many. There were more at Maison Marot. And enough Sig Sauers to re-arm the Geneva police. Where’d she get them?”

“Two years ago, she broke up an arms deal between Libyans and some Swiss in Chamonix. The guns were held in the evidence locker here in Geneva. The dealers pled guilty, the case was forgotten. Last year she checked them out and never checked them back in.”

On the shore, Philippe’s agitation level was rising fast. He shouted at Mustafa. Mustafa shouted back.

“Wave him over,” Pia said. “Show him the recording. Ask him to listen to it. She was his girlfriend, I’m sure he’d like to hear her voice. Especially the part where she sells him out. She said he hired you.”

Mustafa shouted to Philippe, who came running. Philippe picked up the player, put the earbuds in his ears. Hit play.

“Did you know they still have the death penalty in Cameroon?” Pia said. “And I hear Vienna is ready to send Calixthe back there. She already told the Austrians you were the mastermind. Backs up Villeneuve’s story. When she gets back to Cameroon and faces the death penalty, what do you think she’ll tell them?”

Mustafa huffed.

“Tell me this, just curious. Why kill Conor Wigan? Seemed a little unnecessary.”

“Who is Conor Wigan?”

“He was dying when I found him. I don’t think people lie about that kind of thing when they know they’re dying. So why kill him?”

“That useless old man? Did he talk to you? Did he tell you my name?”

“That’s it, then? He talked, so you had to kill him. What else could you do?” Pia paused for a minute. “Hey, you fixed for cash if we can get off the ground? I mean, I’ll give you a lift, nothing more. Have they already paid you for doing Clément and the others?”

Mustafa’s head spun around, searching the buildings high and low. Philippe threw the player on the ground and jumped on it. He shouted into the night and shoved Mustafa away from him.

“He is tired of this,” Mustafa said. “He wants Carla. You promised Carla would be here.”

“Oh, she’s nearby, don’t worry about that. But it’s not midnight. You’re early. Now listen, Mustafa. Philippe’s clean, and Carla might get away with it, but you and me? Mustafa, we’re screwed. And they screwed us. I need your help. I need a way out of Geneva. I’m desperate. I’ll give you a ride if you can give me something that will clear my name.”

Mustafa held the phone to his chest and spoke to Philippe. Pia’s heart cranked up, she felt the deal slipping away. Was Mustafa telling Philippe what she was asking? No, he was smart enough to keep his options open.

Mustafa put the phone back to his ear.

“We want Carla now.”

“So he’s giving you a ride out of Geneva, then? You know he’s heading for Kiribati or someplace like that. He has a lot of money stashed away somewhere. Has to. If he hasn’t paid you yet, has he at least shown you the money?”

Mustafa said nothing. He tensed and breathed deeply. His eyes wandered across Lake Léman. He clenched and unclenched his free hand several times.

“Think about it, ” Pia whispered. “I have the kind of money Philippe and Carla dreamed about. If your price isn’t too steep, I’ll pay you to toss your friend in the river right now. Then I can blame Philippe for killing Alphonse. That gives me a shot at getting away. I get away, you get a ride. So just tell me. How much would you charge to kill Philippe right now?”

“Twenty thousand euros.”

“That’s what they promised you for Clément and the others? Whoa, that’s cheap. So how come they never paid you?”

Mustafa huffed.

“Conor told me his cut was a hundred thousand per ship. Did Philippe treat you that badly too? I mean, you know they made seven million off the
Objet Trouvé
alone, right?”

“They what?”

“The last ship, the
Objet Trouvé
, seven million euros went to Philippe. Fifteen guys worked that ship. Should’ve been more like three or four hundred thousand euros each, right? That means they were skimming more than expenses. They skimmed five million. And you took all the risk for the murders for just twenty thousand?”

“Each.”

“Oh. Yeah. Now that makes sense. Five bankers, a hundred thousand euros, you doubled your cut. Nice. Still half of what you deserved for that last ship alone. You should get a manager to negotiate your deals for you.”

Mustafa laughed. “You perhaps? How much is your offer?”

“Well, I can get you out of town. Villeneuve got you out of town once. But she’s not going to do that this time, is she? Hey, wait a minute. She wasn’t the one who got you out of town. She was with the cops the night I found you at the Marrakesh shop. And you were waiting for a ride. Holy crap—it was Philippe, wasn’t it? No one would have looked in his car. Not even the best police would be so rude as to search the bereaved.”

Mustafa laughed. “You just figured that out? You’re so stupid.”

He turned to Philippe and said something in French.

Pia turned and shrugged at Marco Berardi and whispered, “Good enough? Or should I keep going?”

Beradi looked at Capitaine Serge Bavaud for approval. Bavaud nodded. Marco barked French into a public address system. He said, “This is the Geneva Police. You are under arrest. Drop your weapons. Put your hands in the air.”

From both sides of the river, police in body armor swarmed onto the footbridge, machine guns aimed at Philippe and Mustafa.

Mustafa put his hands into the air, facing the searchlight of the approaching helicopter.

Philippe Marot ran toward the building seeking refuge, unaware Pia was inside. Marco and Capitaine Bavaud stepped out, guns leveled at him.

Pia stepped in front of them and, betting Philippe did whatever a woman told him, shouted, “Sauter!”

She thought that was French for
jump
.

As he ran, he glanced at the landing just beyond the railing and made the same mistake Pia had a few days earlier. If you were desperate, it looked closer. In his panic, her instruction made sense. He swerved and vaulted over the railing.

He made his decision. The cold water sucked him into the penstock.

His body would surface in the morning.

The world was a safer place.

Tania’s crutches plonked on the walkway behind Pia. She said, “That was mean.”

“Depends on whether or not you believe in free will.” She turned and patted Tania’s shoulder. “Besides, I spend every waking hour of my life wishing I had five more minutes with my mother and father. He killed his.”

The Major joined them.

“When he figured out what his son was doing, Clément called Sabel Security,” Pia said. “He didn’t call the Swiss police because he wanted us to save Philippe from the pirates.”

“He also had an appointment to meet with Elgin Thomas,” the Major said. “Maybe to pay off the pirates? He was doing everything he could to help his son—and this is how the son repaid him.”

Pia walked over to Mustafa. “Did you guys really think the police were too stupid to check the trigger for fingerprints? Or the shell casings? Or the gunstocks?”

Mustafa hung his head but the hatred remained in his eyes.

The Major tugged her arm and pointed to the waiting limo. They walked away.

Pia’s phone rang. Dad.

“Jonelle texted me,” he said. “It’s all over and you won. Congratulations. I was scared.”

“You were scared? Holy crap, Dad.”

She gushed the details of her last three days, kept talking as she stepped into the limo and the driver closed the door. She recounted every shot fired and punch thrown. The Major, Tania, and Miguel smiled when she gave them credit for their parts. She choked up when she told him about Ezra and Alphonse. She loved how he listened to her even though he’d already read the reports. He listened without interrupting, without judgment, offering only kind consolations and heartfelt admiration. By the time she wrapped up, they were at the airport.

“I’m glad it worked out,” he said when she’d settled in the jet’s seat. “But I have to speak as a father, not just as your largest equity partner. I care about you very much. I don’t want you running missions. I want you behind a desk or taking clients to dinner. Not dodging bullets.”

“Most of what Sabel Security does stays secret, Dad. Our clients don’t want anyone to know how long their engineers were held by revolutionaries in Venezuela. But I can do something different here. I can do something good. I can help small countries throw off oppressive generals. I can root out child pornography rings. I can stop drug dealers. I can help people, Dad. Really help people. I’ve made my decision, I’m going to use Sabel Security to make the world a better place.”

“No. Stick to what works. Stick to the government contracts and the kidnapped executives. Don’t open any—”

“What’s the matter, Dad? Afraid I’ll find out who ordered my parents’ assassination?”

THE END

A note from the author:

Thank you for reading my story. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I’ve enjoyed conjuring it from the ether. If you have any comments, suggestions, or ideas, please don’t hesitate to email me (see About the Author at the end of the book for contact information). The reader is king in my mind and I listen to all manner of feedback. I am an independent author, which means I survive on the recommendations of others. If you would like to see more Pia Sabel stories, you can help by writing a review on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, Goodreads, or any other fine site. You can also put it on Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter or the Social Media of your choice. Your recommendation to others means a lot to me and Pia Sabel. Thank you.

© Copyright 2012 Seeley James

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

Published by the author with the help of a few good friends.

Pia Sabel Adventure #1, The Geneva Decision v1.0-6.33, 7-January, 2013

For more information about this book, visit
www.seeleyjames.com

Digital ISBN:

978-0-9886996-0-1

This edition was prepared by The Editorial Department

7650 E. Broadway, #308, Tucson, Arizona 85710

www.editorialdepartment.com

Cover design: Pete Garceau

Cover photograph: Andrew Montooth

The Geneva Decision is a work of fiction. All persons, places, things, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or events or places, is purely coincidental—the author is simply not that smart.

Acknowledgements

My heartfelt thanks to all the backers of the Kickstarter project (listed on the following page) for their support. I am especially indebted to the many pioneers of 21st Century Indie Publishing. The most influential pioneer is
Joanna Penn
, who documented every success and failure in her
journey
but also brings the most relevant guests to her blog.
RE McDermott
, who never hesitated to detail everything that worked for him. And
Giacomo Giammatteo
, whose constructive criticism was instrumental in adding some crucial dimensions to the characters.

The unflagging support of many friends and family helped tremendously as well: My wife who actually knows the English language and managed not to roll her eyes while helping me construct complete sentences, as well as her support for the crazy idea of a career change. The many friends who suffered through my early attempts and still remained positive. The many writers who’ve helped me in various writers circles and groups.

My children, ranging from age thirteen to forty, helped keep my imagination fresh and full of ideas.

Friends of Pia Sabel: First Wave

Exceptional Friends of Pia Sabel

Avalia

Cheryl & Jahm Najafi

Anonymous

Anonymous

Close Friends of Pia Sabel

Bev and Peter Ax

Anonymous

Maria Goreth

Schwartz Family

Dan Baumann

Mike Allison

Jeff Foreman

Sokolov Family

Margo Montooth