Skin the Wolfe

[Griffon]

Re: Skin the Wolfe: Chapter 12 - The Wolfe's Lair

Chapter 12 The Wolfe's Lair
*
Nevzorov stood on the beautiful terrace of 'The Forge' overlooking the white beach
and the deep blue sea. His employees were preparing the restaurant for tonight's
opening. As usual, 'The Forge' was booked until the last seat. Situated at 432 Forty
First Street Miami Beach it was one of the finest and most fashionable eat-outs in
town.
Night after night , the sweet smell of money mingled with the heady aroma of dry-
aged steaks cooked on an oak-fired grill. For 30 years, the Forge has been culinary
ground zero for Miami's well-off and well-fed.
This had not changed, when for and on behalf of the 'Bratstvo' Vladimir Nevzorov
had acquired the place from its former owner for a rather modest price.
Inside, the ornate decor features antique brick walls, pressed-tin ceiling, giant
tapestries and stained-glass windows were pristine. The deco had been the former
owner's choice, as it had been his choice to prefer money and his life to a rather
violent death and no money at all.
Nevzorov and his hand picked staff continued the former owner's culinary legacy:
Steaks, chops and grilled fish, prepared with little regard for current culinary trends,
dominate the long and pricey menu.
Now, the Forge had also one of the world's finest wine cellars. This was nevzorov's
doing. He prided himself on good taste and good ideas. In addition to his five
dramatically elegant dining rooms, the Wine Cellar and the Forge Bar, select guests
were now also invited to visit Nevzorov's adjoining nightclub, Jimmy'z at The Forge
and The East Room at The Forge, the greatest private event space in Miami. The
handling of these places had been entrusted to Gregor Kasparov, a recent climber
from the 'Bratstvo' ranks, who had show dedication and brains. Vladimir observed
Gregor discussing with one of their three events managers. They sat at a small table,
enjoying some fine white wine from South Africa, that Nevzorov had undug recently
on a wine auction and went through the bookings for the evening show.
Nevzorov prefered it that way. It was better that Gregor kept out of this whole CSI
business. They needed at least one man with a pristine record to maintain the
business if ever something should go wrong. The other man, whose record was kept
pristine was Alijosha Danilenko. But Alijosha was different from Kasparov…..he
lacked Gregor's ruthless ambition and was much more down-to-earth and
reasonable.
Nevzorov reflected upon the discussion he had had with Ivan Sarnoff a bit earlier in
the afternoon. Ivan approved that Tim Belkin had followed Ryan Wolfe overseas and
encouraged the idea to team up with their Paris-based brothers in order to get rid of
the CSI. But while Ivan was enthusiastic about the developments in the 'Wolfe Case'
he was also prudent. He had insisted that Nevzorov would take each and every
precaution that if ever Belkin should make a bad move overseas, nothing could be
traced back to them.
The owner of the Forge flipped a handmade luxurious cigarette from Benson&Hedges
London from its silver casing and lighted it with a silver Dupondt lighter. He inhaled
deeply. Tomorrow morning at the first hour, he'd contact Danilenko and ask the IT
wizard to isolate Belkin's BlackBerry from the 'Bratstvo's' Intranet and secured
internet and place it upon an independent account, unrelated to them.
Ivan was perhaps a bit paranoiac at times, but it was never a mistake to be extra
carefull!
**
Ever since Commandant Jean Paul Moulin had left their house to meet his son at the
airport, Dr.Padraig O'Briain had been as high strung as a composite olympic bow.
First he had paced the living room like a caged, wild animal, driving Claire
Charpentier almost crazy. Then he had taken to starring out of a window into the
night, standing there motionless and silent for almost three hours. Now it was four
o'clock –Sunday morning- and Paddy had finally broken his unhealthy and unsettling
silence.
"Why doesn't he call!" The former head of PIRA's intelligence said softly. Never ever
since Jean Paul Moulin's bloddy showdown with the serial killer of the Huelgoat had
Claire seen O'Briain in such a state of complete emotional uproar. In his normal state
of mind, Paddy was the most self-possessed living being, Claire had ever met and
never one for showing overwhelming feelings or wearing his heart on his sleeve.
Many people, who knew O'Briain only superficially considered him cold and remote.
She knew perfectly well, that this was not the case. The man rather boiled like a
vulcano inside.
She laid a slender hand on his broad, muscular back. She felt him trembling. "Paddy,
please try and be reasonable. Ryan is not alone. He is with Jean Paul and at least a
handful of Delveaux's people."
O'Briain turned around to face his soon-to-be wife. "That does not discourage these
people." His eyes were still the colour of the Atlantic during a winter storm and as
hard as diamonds."The Russian…." He said softly, "…they are afraid of nothing…..not
even death!"
Claire shock her head. "Do not wind yourself up like a clockwork. This does not help.
It will not change….."
Just before she could finish her sentence, they heard the noise of a car, moving up
their driveway. O'Briain shock off her hand, crossed the living and the entry as if the
devil was on his heels and flung the door open.
Claire could literally feel the tension that had buildt up in the house during the last
few hours disappear into nothingness. She recognized Jean Paul's voice, then
Paddy's and finally the voice of Ryan. He sounded tired and a bit downtrodden, but
he was home and he was in one single piece. At a leisurly pace she rejoinded the
three men outside.
Paddy stood in front of his son, hands on his hips, shaking his head and biting back
something she had not seen in his eyes for a very long time: Tears! He did not even
manage to say a word.
Ryan hung his head. His shoulders slumped. "I could not drag you into this,Papa!"
She heard him say in a soft voice. "Not before I was sure that this man was off my
heels."
Claire smiled. They were so much alike, father and son. The same built, also Ryan
was not yet as broad-shouldered and square as Paddy. The same square,
determined, stubborn jaw. The same eyes –only one blue the other brown-that could
turn from silent waters in a second to storm over the ocean. The same gestures and
mannerism. Ryan also had this habit to put his hands on his hips, when he wanted to
make a point or cross his arms over his chest, when he wanted to be left alone. And
that was precisely what he did now.
Jean Paul Moulin just smiled, waved Claire a good bye, went back to the police car
and drove out of their property. JP had always been one who behaved with the
utmost tactfullness, instinctively understanding when his presence was welcome and
when not.
It took a little while before the staring contest between father and son was over.
Claire chuckled. For once, it was Ryan who had won. Paddy gave up, flung his arms
around the younger mans shoulders, and drew him into a bear hug.
Ryan winced and Claire realised that his knees were giving in. She had not intended
to intervene addy and Ryan were family and they had the right to enjoy a family
moment completely of their own, even if she had been part of O'Briain's life for
almost half the lifetime of his son. But she was also an M.D. and the fact, that
someone almost fainted, just because he was hugged was something that smelled
fishy.
Even some around the clock work and a transatlantic flight were no explanations for
this type of weakness. This was physical. Already when she had heard his voice, she
found it…..not as it should be.
Claire disentangled the two men and softly admonished her soon-to-be husband
"Give him some space to breath, you big prat! Let us get into the house and have a
cup of tea or something. Ryan must be completely exhausted and it is almost 5
o'clock in the morning!"
O'Briain obeyed immediately. His son shot her a grateful glance that said more then
words.
He followed them inside and literally sank into a cosy armchair in their living. Claire
noticed that he did not take off his jacket and tie to make himself comfortable, but
buttoned up. She had the feeling, that the young man insisted on hiding something.
"Tea, the two of you!" She asked her males friendly, accepting for the moment to
play her stepson's game.
Paddy shock his head and served himself a tremendously stiff whisky. Ryan refused
his father's offer of a glass and accepted Claire's invitation. "Rather some herbal stuff
for my! Do you have lime-tree blossom or something that type?"
Claire nodded and went into the kitchen, putting some water onto the hearth and
preparing their cups, honey and some pastries on a plate.
"Now, will you tell me what is going on, Ryan?" She heard Padraig's voice.
"Tomorrow, Papa! I will explain everything tomorrow….not yet…peace…I am dead
tired and between the jet lag and almost three days without sleep perhaps not very
coherent."
O'Brian seemed to accept his son's explanation. "Have it your way, young man!" He
gruffed. "But tomorrow you better explain yourself….these people are highly
dangerous and they will never ever give up, no matter the price they have to pay!
***
Sergeant Frank Tripp had been surprised after Caine's phonecall. They were both off
duty for the weekend and Horatio habitually would not bother anybody on his team
during their time off. Nonetheless he had abandonned a round of friends, with whom
he had been out fishing on the pier of Miami Beach and immediately driven over to
the adress, Horatio had indicated.
It was in the Wynwood Art District, a rather expensive area, where old-fashioned but
nicely resored houses stood side-by-side with glass and steel art galeries, museums,
painters' studios and the homes of the cities Puerto Rican community. It was
therefore also known as 'Little San Juan". The sergeant wondered what Horatio may
want and who'd be living in the small but cute 1830 villa that harboured a brass plate
indicating that it was a 'Historic Monument of the City of Miami'. Being a Texan by
origin, Tripp had not even known that a simple house could be a 'historic
monument'.
Caine must have seen him arrive, because at the moment Tripp stepped inside the
gardens, the main door opened.
"What the heck, H.?"
"Come in Frank! I am sorry to have disturbed you on a saturday afternoon, but I do
need your help!"
Tripp entered and with the experienced eye of a long-time police officer took in the
surroundings. It was a beautiful, well cared for house and its interior – mostly
antique European furniture – matched up perfectly with the exterior. The kitchen was
cream coloured and absolutely pristine. To Tripp it gave more the impression of a
miniature museum of the 'Good Ol'Days' then of a lived in place. Furthermore a
rather upsetting smell of bleach and cleaning products hung in the house.
The sergeants eyes fell on the newspaper on the kitchen table. It was foreign. He
gave it a closer look. "Some Frenchie living her, H. or what?"
Caine had not seen the newspaper before. He took it carefully with gloved fingers. It
was three days old. "No,.." he said to Tripp. "This is CSI Wolfe's place!"
Frank Tripp chuckled."Wouldn't have thought it on first side….although….bloke who's
wearing Italian designer ties and German designer suits may be quite capable to
have a bunk like this. What's going on? Gambling again?"
Horatio took his sunglasses from the pocket of his jacket and put them slowly on. He
stemmed his hands onto his hips and turned slowly over to Tripp. "Not in the
habitual sense, Frank!" He said in a very serious voice. "It is rather…I am afraid, that
Mr.Wolfe is trying to play on his own a very dangerous game with our friend's Ivan
Sarnoff's bunch of mobsters!"
"What! He must have finally gone over the edge. Always said, it was no good for a
man to have too much brains…"
Horatio chuckled. Frank was one of the few living beings, who could make his point
and hit the bull's eye straight and at the same time, make you double over with
laughter…even if this situation was far from risible. He took of his sunglasses, folded
them and put them back into the pocket of his jacket.
'I am afraid, Frank, that it was maybe us, who pushed Mister Wolfe over the edge.
Come with me upstairs….I want to show you something." Horatio took the French
newspaper and put it carefully into a large plastic bag. The house may have been
asepticised by whoever had written in blood on the bedchamber wall, but he strongly
doubted that these people –the Russian mob-would have also paid attention to a
French newspaper on a kitchen table.

 

[Griffon]

Re: Skin the Wolfe: Chapter 13 - Taming the Wolfe

Chapter 13 Taming the Wolfe
*
He had always known that life was fragile and as Shakespeare says 'can be ended
with a little pin". Ryan Wolfe gave a deep sigh of content, when he was finally
capable to retreat to the guest's room Claire had prepared for him. He had spend
about one hour with her and his father, telling them that the situation was now in
hand and there was no need to worry overmuch.
It had been the longest hour of his life, much longer then the 12 hours he had spent
with his Russian tormentor hardly 2 days ago.
Thinking back, he was even a bit surprised, that he had taken these 12 hours
relatively well: From his own job as a police officer he had known what everything
was about, after the first surprise and shock after having been taken had passed.
Interrogation can take different forms, but these had all a similar aim: to control the
subject in such a way that it yields to pressure and provides the information being
asked for.
He had been often enough on the other side of the table –being the interrogator- to
fully understand the mechanisms of the entire exercise. And while physical pressure
had always been out of bounds, beyond some occasional roughing up of a subject,
that was mostly limited to a shake or a push or a blow at best, he had himself more
then once employed methods that could be called – by more sensitive bystanders –
psychological torment. Contrary to many other civilized countries in the world, the US
allowed a police officer in an interrogation to lie to a suspect in order to contrive the
subject to a confession.
The Russian had tried exactly this; to control him and to "soften him up", so he
would comply with the 'Bratstvo's' demands. The task of breaking someone's spirit
involves the coordination of activities, and the use of certain techniques and
technologies at certain times. He had been slightly taken aback by the Russian's
choice of techniques and timing.
Wolfe stood by the window of the guest room, looking out into Claire's beautiful
garden and watching the sun rising. He shook his head; the mobster had been a
rather bad interrogator. He could have saved himself approximatively 11 hours and
50 minutes of efforts, had he come straight to the point immediately after Ryan had
recovered from his blow over the head.
Thinking back, it had been a rather strange experience: In a classic police
interrogation blows had only scant criminological significance. They were tacitly
practiced all around the world and accepted; a normal measure employed against
recalcitrant prisoners unwilling to confess.
Blows were applied in more or less heavy doses by almost all police authorities,
including those of the civilised, Western-democratic countries. And while Ryan did
know exactly, that they led to nothing, he had also been in situations –when in the
heath of an interrogation or after severe psychological stress during a police action-
his fist had slipped. He was perfectly lucid concerning his own potential level of
violence and the surrounding factors required to make him strike out.
The Russian mobster's thing had been different: That violence had been perfectly
controlled, even if in the end, the man had understood that it was a fairly useless
undertaking with his subject.
Not much is said, when someone who has never been beaten makes the ethical and
pathetic statement that upon the first blow, the victim loses its human dignity. What
was that, human dignity? One person thinks he loses it, when he cannot take his
daily shower or bath. Another believes he loses it, when he has to speak to an official
authority in a foreign tongue. Human dignity had so many faces, from personal
convenience to freedom of speech to political freedom or freedom in the availability
of sexual partners of the same sex. Ryan did not know, if a person lost its human
dignity at the first blow from a police officer during an arrest or follow-on
interrogation. Yet he was sure, that with the first blow that descended onto such a
person, this person lost –at least temporarily- something that might be called "trust
in the world", trust in the world in that sense, that by reason of written or unwritten
social contract the other person would spare him, would respect his physical and
therefore also his metaphysical being. The boundaries of the body were also the
boundaries of one's self!
And the Russian mobster had trespassed upon these boundaries of Ryan's self!
At his first blow, Wolfe's trust in the world had broken down.
In almost all situations of life where there was bodily injury, there was also
expectation of help; the former was compensated by the latter. A soldier wounded
on a battlefield knew that there was the chance to be recovered by either his own
medics or the Red Cross, a police officer wounded on duty knew that the utmost
would be done to get him into an ambulance and to the ER, a child that hurt itself
knew that its mother would come to help……
Surprisingly, after that and with trust shattered to pieces, he had recovered
extremely quickly as soon as the shock had faded: It had been a strange, joyful
surprise that the pain was not at all unbearable. The Russian mobster's blows had
acted after a while as their own anaesthetics and all Ryan had been thinking was "Hit
me as much as you like, it will get you nowhere!"
Either the Russian had been very thick, not realising that, or he had simply enjoyed
inflicting pain. Ryan did not really care. It did not matter. It was over and he was
done with it, at least at the strictly intellectual level where abstraction of the entire
situation would allow him to simply store that whole night away in a far off corner of
his brain, never to be retrieved, never to be pondered upon. At a lower level –the
guts level- these twelve hours would stay with him for a lifetime. The torture would
be ineradicably burned into him, even when clinical traces of the event would no
longer be detectable on his body.
He had simply been lucky, because especially in regard to the possibilities to
manipulate and falsify a CSI enquiry, there was not the slightest chance for one
single CSI to do so on his own and without the help of his colleagues. What the
Russian mobster had wanted him to do was simply impossible! If he had seen
whatsoever possibility to comply and do what the had asked him to do, he would
have done so. A calamity would have occurred, an innocent man would now be in
prison for a crime he never ever committed and he would stand here, watching the
morning sun rise as the traitor and the weakling he most likely was.
Yet it was not at all that he had opposed his tormentor with the heroically
maintained silence that befits a real man in such a situation and about which one
may read –almost always incidentally in reports by people who had not been there
themselves or in novels.
He had talked, he had screamed his lungs out, he had struggled and kicked and he
had tried to reason with the man, telling him honestly that it was impossible…in the
hope, that the Russian mobster would see reason and after such incriminating
disclosures, with a well-aimed blow to his head, would put an end to his misery and
quickly bring on his much-promised death.
A soft knocking on his door tore Wolfe out of his musings. He had almost expected
it, having realised that Claire did not believe him and had only played along for a
while.
"Come in, please!" He replied softly.
**
They had gone through the house top to bottom and were once more back in Wolfe's
kitchen.
"He had no intention to leave, Horatio!" Tripp was a methodical man and the first
thing he had checked was the freezer. Nobody intending to leave would fill up his
freezer with fresh food for the weekend. And from what he had seen Wolfe had done
a normal shopping for a normal weekend at home….well, normal was a big word for
what he had seen in the freezer. That bloke seemed to cook….fresh veggies, fresh
fruit, nothing to just stuff into the microwave and swallow quickly in front of the
telly. Had no television set either, just books, books, endless ranges of books and
CDs with music. Nothing really to Frank's taste, but a bit less eccentric then the
choice of books. Most of them were in French and the others were scientific stuff,
biochemistry, genetics, chemistry, physics. Loads of these.
Frank had been surprised that Wolfe's personal computer was not even password
protected. He'd run it up and without the slightest resistance from the machine had
been inside. Used it as a sophisticate typewriter! Ryan was obviously working on his
PhD. Frank had found quantities of scientific stuff on the machine, a lively e-mail
exchange with some professors at Boston College and tons of handwritten notes,
mainly formulas and calculations. What had been absent from Wolfe's inbox were
personal e-mails, things from friends or sweethearts.
These things were entirely entrusted to handwritten correspondence. On the young
CSI's desk, Tripp had found a leather folder with personal communication. Most of it
in French, a little bit in English and some in a language he could not identify. He
showed such a leaf to Horatio.
"Have any idea what this is, H:?"
Caine smiled and shook his head. 'No idea, Frank! But we will find out. But I agree
with you, he had no intention to leave. It must have been a on-the-spot decision
caused by circumstances.' He handed Tripp a ticket for tonight's presentation of
'The Dragon's Kiss' at the Gusman Center of the Performing Arts. He had wanted to
watch this Japanese legend of a powerful crystal egg that holds ominous powers
himself and knowing how difficult it was to acquire decent tickets, doubted that
Wolfe would have bought one, just to let it rot in a wicker basket.
"And while I am not entirely familiar with my CSI's wardrobe, I do not have the
feeling, that he packed whatsoever, Frank." Caine continued. "He must have left in a
hurry."
"And where is he now?" Tripp asked curiously.
Horatio smiled. "What would you do, if you come home and find this type of menace
written onto the wall of your bed room?"
"Give you a phone call, H.!" Frank replied without hesitation.
"Indeed, you would Frank, because I never ever pushed you with your back against
a wall…..I made a huge mistake yesterday, my friend! I pushed Ryan against a wall
and left him with no way out."
"What?" Tripp went over to the freezer, took an apple and the milk bottle and went
rummaging for a glass in Wolfe's kitchen. He had been on the Miami pier since
sunrise and had not eaten breakfast. Horatio decided that Frank's idea was not bad
at all and joined him at the kitchen table. He had some explaining to do.
When the milk bottle was empty, Wolfe's food reserve for the weekend thoroughly
plundered and the explaining done, the homicide detective gave a deep sigh."
Sometimes, H., you are really an asshole, you know! Poor kid! I do hope, that you
come up with some kind of brilliant idea to set things straight and get him out of
trouble….preferably unharmed."
Caine nodded. Tripp –once more- had made the point. "I do have an idea, Frank!"
He pointed at the French newspaper that still lay on the table, neatly covered by its
protective plastic bag. "I think, that Wolfe may have left the country….which is
basically not a bad idea, because it will make it much more difficult for Sarnoff's
people to follow him."
"You think, he gave the slip to Canada?" Tripp enquired. Would make sense with a
Frenchie newspaper. He could have simply crossed the border with nobody realising
it . There was hardly any control between the two countries and if he'd taken some
plane and then one of the trains, he'd be sure to go undetected.
"I do not think so, Frank!" Horatio replied. "This is not a French Canadian
newspaper, but a newspaper from France over in Europe. Let's check with the
airlines and see if we find Ryan on any of the Transatlantics."
"I have an old buddy at America Airways!" Tripp proposed reasonably. "I will call him
immediately. No need to go through official channels, I think."
Caine nodded his approval.
***
Although he had been completely unwilling to tell her what had happened, Ryan had
at least allowed her to check him up. Claire had been a little bit shocked, when he'd
flinched at her slightest touch, breathing heavily, like a panicking animal. It had
taken her almost half an hour of careful coaxing to get him simply out of his jacket
and shirt. Under normal circumstances, Ryan was not shy at all. He had known her
for half his lifetime and did not mind her seeing him in whatsoever state of undress.
She was the closest thing he'd ever had to a mother and she knew perfectly well,
that Padraig's son –even while growing from boy into man-had never seen her as a
female. She was Claire, not a woman in front of which he might feel uneasy for
reasons of gender tension or hormones.
When he had had his eye problem, after that crazy woman had shot him with a nail
gun, he'd not only allowed her to check up but stubbornly insisted that she'd do it.
He had even refused to consult over in Miami and simply taken some antibiotics
prescribed by their ME Dr.Alexx Woods.
He'd already gotten himself shot on service and had not cared, when she had bullied
him out of his shirt during a visit to France in order to have a look and see if he was
ok. He had not cared for his father to see the mess either and he had not hidden it
from JP and even from the girls Mari and Gwen, who rather undiplomatically and
without invitation had dared to touch his scar. And he had not flinched then, just
joked with the girls and told them that they find more interesting reminders of a
policeman's professional hazards on their father, if they'd dare to undress him.
Ryan had never ever been self-conscious in this respect. Claire was a very
experienced ME and had not been made for nothing Director of the lab at Garches.
She was considered to be the best in her field in France and she knew immediately
what had happened to her step-son and why he could not talk about it….would
probably not be able to talk about it for a very long time She gave a small sigh.
"Ryan, there is no way around for you!" She said gently. "I do not want to know and
I promise, I will not ask you any questions. There is nothing I can do now and I will
let you sleep as long as you need to sleep. But when you are up to it, we'll go to
Garches and and I do some x-rays and a sonographic examination.. Just let me
make sure that there are no complications upcoming….its stupid to risk
pneumothorax for the sake of male pride!"

"Claire…."
She lifted her hand and gave him a hard look that did not encourage any opposition.
"Ryan, I am fully aware that you are 32 years old and major and that you can do
whatever you like, but there is a certain limit to idiocy and you are terribly close to
crossing that border line."
Wolfe nodded."Ok, Claire! You won. I do not want to fight with you…"
"Better not, Ryan!" She gave him a hard look. Her lips curled in an uncompromising
smile and she snatched the Glock and the French police ID from the bed table."
Erwan de Kersausson may have given you this shit and Carte Blanche to do whatever
you are going to do together with that rascal JP, but I can promise you, that my arm
is almost as long as Erwan's. Believe me, son! After more then a quarter of a
century in the business, I do have the power and the connections to prevent you
from even putting a toe outside this house………."
Ryan shock his head. "Claire, listen! I am not an idiot. I am pretty much aware of the
situation. I do know, that I have at least two broken and two bruised ribs and that
there may be either damage to the spleen or the liver. I am not an MD, but I have
been living with one for quite some time and I have a certain notion of anatomy etc."
"Ah!" Claire replied, a gleam of victory in her eyes. She knew exactly how to handle
the males of the O'Briain family. "So you admit that you feel like crap, look like crap
and belong into a bed!"
Wolfe nodded. She was right and he settled down on the bed without further
resistance. He allowed Claire to tuck him in, as if he were a three-years old, relished
in her soft, caring hands on his face and even accepted her kiss on his cheek
unflinching. It was stupid to behave like that. He was dead tired, but he knew exactly
that he'd not close an eye, if he'd not tell her…simply let go and trust –once again- a
human being. He took her hand, sneaked his other arm around her midst and curled
up against her like a kitten. Then everything spilled out. He told her…from the very
beginning and down to the last, gruesome detail. She did not say a word, just
listened and gently stroked his shortcut, brown hair.
In the end, he fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. Claire was thoroughly shaken,
chiefly because Ryan had told her in such a detached and unfeeling manner…as if
everything had happened to somebody else. She decided not to disentangle herself
from his dead grip but simply stay and hold him until he'd wake up.

 

[Griffon]

Re: Skin the Wolfe: Chapter 14 - Cats and Mice

Chapter 14 Cats and Mice
*
The "Direction centrale du renseignement intérieur" or Central Directorate of Interior
Intelligence - DCRI is a French Intelligence agency which reports directly to the
Ministry of the Interior. It became officially operational only on 1 July 2008, through
the merging of the Direction centrale des renseignements généraux – the Central
Directorate of Intelligence - RG and the Direction de la surveillance du territoire – the
Directorate for the Surveillance of the National Territory - DST of the French
National Police.
This brand new agency was kind of an inbetween of the FBI and the Department for
Homeland Security and with an annual budget of 41 millions of Euros in its first year
of existence, 3600 agents, 85 % of whom where cleared to the level of "Sécret
Défence" rather impressive in manpower and size.
Its eight sub-directorates worked on economic protection, counter-terrorism,
intelligence technologies, cybercrimes, violent subversion and counter-espionnage.
They had an own IAB, their own central administration independent of the French
national police and a own supplies and support structure and were located at 84 rue
de Villiers at Levallois-Perret in the departement of Hauts-de-Seine, at about 6,5 km
from the center of Paris and their normal national police colleagues on the Ile de la
Cité. Their building was brand-new, high security, equiped with top of the notch
technologies and whatever available fancy IT gadget, mot of them customized for
the DCRI's special purposes.
This impressive building was the very place to which Tim Belkin's BlackBerry had
been transported, after some IT-wizard at the « Brigade d'Enquêtes sur les Fraudes
aux Technologies de l'Information » -the Special Brigade for Cybercrime of the
national police had had a go on it. They had not given up the BlackBerry to
'BigBrother' because they would not have been capable to handle the job
themselves, but rather because they had handled it so well, that they now needed
the top-of-the-notch equipment of the Cybercrime guys at Levallois-Perret. Préfet
Erwan de Kersausson's IT-wizards carried on their uniform badges a very cheeky cat,
toying with a mouse. And this symbol was more then justified.
Jean Paul Moulin, whom Kersausson had maintained on the Belkin Case for a variety
of reasons, although the Russian Mob was not strictly speaking a terrorist group and
Francois Delveaux of Organised Crime had accompanied their IT-wiz and the
BlackBerry to the DCRI.
The fourth man of the team that sat in a state of high exitment in a pristine
computer lab that buzzled and sizzled like a bee heave and was filled to the crack
with all imaginable high tech gadgets, was a 1,95 cm bear, with broad shoulders,
close-cropped hair, piercing blue eyes and high, Slavonic cheekbones. With his
impressive muscles and scarred face, he looked more like a professional boxer or
wrestler, then a police officer.
The man was in fact very rarely at the premises of his employer on Ile de la Cité and
hardly ever appeared there in the bright day light or through the front door. His
name was Serge Poniatowski. He was 4th-generation in France of ancestors that had
fled Russia during the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917. He was a former special forces
officer with France's crack unit 13ème RDP and now working as undercover agent for
the national police.
Other his linguistic skills in English and Spanish, Serge was fluent in four Slavonic
languages; Russian, Polish, Bulgarian and Czech. And he also spoke Albanian and
Romanian.
He had been infiltrating South-Eastern, Central European and Russian organised
crime on the French territory for the last 10 years and was still alive to tell the story.
Delveaux had requested his services, because they did not intent to let Mr.Tim Belkin
loose. They were rather fancying to replace Mr.Belkin with one of their own in order
to lay hands upon Alexandr Rossinski, alleged boss of the Ismaiylovskaya Bratva
French branch and lieutenant-commander of the infamous Oleg Ivanov. Belkin's
BlackBerry had given them not only the necessary information on how to contact
Rossinski, but also on how to convince him, that the man in front of him was a
'Brother' from the US and belonging to the soldiery of the Ismaiylovskaya Bratva
Miami branch.
Delveaux had explained to Poniatowski what they had learned from Ryan Wolfe and
from Mr.Tim Belkin himself and the first message the French undercover tipped in
Russian language into Belkin's BlackBerry was a message to some Vladimir Nevzorov
in Miami, explaining that he was hot on the heels of CSI Wolfe, but that it might take
some time to accomplish the hit and kill the target.
"Ok, this is done!" The police officer stated matter of factly, having pushed the send
button and relaxing in his chair. "What next?"
"Next, we are going to contact Rossinski and you arrange to met him in order to ask
for his help with your hit job, Serge!" Explained Moulin, taking the BlackBerry from
his colleagues hand and passing it over to the DCRI IT expert. "And you….you try to
track this BlackBerry back to its network.We need a precise geographical location
together with IP etc."
The young IT expert of the national police Cybercrime service took over, explaining
in short and precise words what he had found out the night before and that the POA
was indeed connected into a network composed of a secure LAN with an intranet
and a secure internet.
"I believe…" The boyish, bespectacled computer wizard explained, "…that the
network administrator over in the US might take this BlackBerry soon off their secure
LAN and put it on an independent computer. This is at least what I'd do, if someone
having passwords and access codes into my secret realm is beyond my physical
reach and control for a while. These Russian blokes are very good with computers
and IT stuff and what I have found on that BlackBerry proves, that we are playing
against a very high-flying expert, a world class programmer!"
His DCRI colleague nodded, plugged the POA into a complicate-looking device and
ran a set of programmes. "Indeed, world-class!" He stated with awe. "I have seen
quite a lot in here, but this is much better then the stuff from the Al Quaida
programmers….much better." He requested a couple of hours of peace and quite,
called in several of his colleagues from their Sunday off and set to work. " We keep
you posted, guys!" He said to Delveaux, Moulin and Poniatowski. "Send us someone
tonight, who can pick up the BlackBerry. Would you like us to put some tracer on it,
too?"
"Yep, do please." Poniatowski said cheerfully." I rather like to cover my ass, when I
go out for lunch with the Mob!"
**
Préfet Erwan de Kersausson left the office of his boss at Place Beauvau. He was very
satisfied with the conclusion of the sixty minutes discussion he had had with Madame
le Ministre – the French Secretary of the Interior – Michèle Alliot-Marie. He had been
authorised to proceed against the Ismayilovskaja Bratva in Paris. Madame le Ministre
had accepted and cautioned that Mr.Tim Belkin, although a citizen of the US and not
directly implied in an act of crime allowing the application of "loi Perben II du 9
mars 2004" and a prolongation of provisional detention to 96 hours could be
maintained in detention –for exceptional circumstances- for six days under the new
extension of Perben II applicable on terrorism and pressumed acts of terrorism.
This had been a rather unsuspected victory for de Kersausson. When he had asked
for and being accorded the interview with the Secretary of the Interior, he'd assumed
that he would leave with 96 hours and her blessings. But she had listened to him
very attentively and understood perfectly well the unique chance they had to set up
one of the most dangerous criminal organisations on their national soil.
Erwan de Kersausson was now on his way to the Quai d'Orsay, France's Ministry of
Foreign Affairs. Madame le Ministre had requested interministerial support from her
Foreign Affairs counterpart and the Quai d'Orsay had agreed to help them.
The French Embassy in Washington, D.C., was the largest French diplomatic mission
in the world. On the Embassy's political staff, the legal advisor had several technical
attachées who maintained liaison with US law enforcment agencies including the FBI.
Furthermore, they supervised the liaison officers of the the French Consulate
general's branches in Atlanta, Boston, New York, Houston, Chicago, Detroit and
Miami.
De Kersausson needed the help of the Miami guy in order to officially get in touch
with Ryan Wolfe's superior Lieutenant Horatio Caine and to convince this officer, that
they should cooperate on the Ismailovskaya Bratva case. For a number of very good
reasons, he and his superior in the Ministry of the Interior had agreed to not include
the FBI and to circumvent the heavy machinery of the US Federal Law Enforcment.
De Kersausson also needed to talk directly to this Caine guy in order to smooth down
Ryan Wolfe's impromptu and unauthorised leave of absence and request his bosses
authorisation to integrate his CSI into the French team that would hunt down the
'bratija' in Paris. In exchange for Caine's good graces and guarantee, that Wolfe's act
– the circumstances were truly extenuating and the young man had had literally no
other way out – would not influence his career at the MDPD Crime Lab in a negative
manner, he'd give Caine the intelligence his IT-wizzards had retrieved from Belkin's
BlackBerry together with further intel from their attempt to hack into the Bratva
Miami Branch computer system.
He knew that he was offering the American policeman an excellent deal….so good,
that it was impossible to refuse. And the cost for Caine was minimal: The French
police would do the IT fiddling and fidgeting, which was the hard part, and serve
Caine on a platter their results….perfectly employable as proof in front of each and
every judge of the country. And in exchange, Caine had simply to promise not to
take disciplinary sanctions against one of his officers, who had in fact done nothing –
apart attempting to save his skin from a hit order of the Russian Mafia. If that Caine
man was not a complete asshole, he'd not even need de Kersausson's little
blackmailing attempt to see the truth and comprehend his CSI's action.
Under similar circumstances, a French police officer under his authority would neither
face IAB nor even been brought to the attention of himself. The guy's direct superior
would ask what had happened, check the veracity of the explanation and in such a
case with a hit order of a highly dangerous crime organisation involved, send his
man together with family on full pay off to some green prairie until the shit was over.
De Kersausson shook his head, when he leaned back on the backseat of his black
service Renault Laguna, indicating his driver that their next stop would be Quai
d'Orsay. That Caine must have been completely blind or completely ruthless: If even
he recognized -without being an MD or familiar with CSI Wolfe - traces of severe
abuse on the man, how could his direct superior, who worked with him on a daily
basis do not? It had been literally impossible to oversee the abomismal physical state
in which the young police officer had been. This together with the man's own
admission that he'd been spending a whole night –against his will-in the hands of a
crime organisation, that was well known for its extreme cruelty would have meant
under de Kersausson's authority, that such a police officer would have gone first to a
medcheck and then straight to psychological evaluation in order to figure out what
had happened. He'd never ever allowed one of his own to even come close to a
criminal case until things had been straightened out and made clear.
But Miami was not Paris and the MDPD were not his boys. All he could do, was to
speak with that American copper and propose his deal.
***
"Gotcha!" grinned one of the French IT-wizzards inside the DGRI building at Levallois
Peret. Hardly 20 seconds later, the BlackBerry of that Russian Belkin mobster the
colleagues held in detention down at Ile de la Cité was unhooked from the LAN on
the other side of the Atlantic.
"Pretty careful you are, little prat!" The French supervisor who was observing over
his man's shoulder stated with a broad smile. "But not careful enough…"
While the BlackBerry was off and no longer usefull for them, they had something
much better now. The were inside the Miami Branch of the Ismailovskaya Bratva and
a huge and powerfull server of the DGRI was downloading all contents of Aliosha
Danilenko's carefull constructed LAN and Intranet. They would drain the servers on
the other side of the Atlantic till the last Ko, while the tiny little electronic undercover
agent of the DGRI would infiltrate the system, find itself a cosy place somewhere in
between the DLLs of the exploitation software and report on a daily basis back to
Paris.
"Well done, Lise!" The supervisor padded his IT-wiz, a girl of hardly 20 years of age,
with a punky haircut, several facial piercings and a colourfull tatoo under a Lara-
Croft-Tank Top on the shoulder.
The girl chuckled evily, took a sip from her RedBull can and continued hacking like a
maniac on her key board. She loved her job. She had been a hacker since she was
12 years old. After she had sucessfully hacked her way into the secure network of
the French MoD at age 17, a judge had condemned her…….to work for at least 5
years with the newly created Cybercrime Department of the French Interior Security
DST. When DST had merged with RG to become DGRI, she had gone straight into
the new premises of the new service. No parol was given to the best hackers of the
country, even if they behaved well and performed even better. But she did not mind.
She got a nice paycheck and was allowed to perpetrate her sneaky little cyber
crimes….legally now! She even got extra money from Uncle Sarko for the
development of extra-nasty stuff, like her little spy, who was now enjoying the
Sunshine State and Miami Vice…
****
Aliosha Danilenko rubbed his tired eyes. He had been working 48 hours non stop.
Half of the time in order to hock Belkin's BlackBerry off his network and put it into a
safe place somewhere far away from his principal server. He had managed the job
beautifully. Ivan Sarnoff had been right to advise Nevzorov to play it safe with Belkin
out of the country and out of touch. But he would have appreciated, if Valodija
Nevzorov had called him immediately after Ivan's phonecall. In cyberspace time was
everything and the quicker you were, the safer you were. He shout down his
computer, stretched his weary bones and left his company HQ. The fingerprints
gloves were ready too and now all they had to do was to wait and see and keep their
eyes on Lieutenant Horatio Caine and his pack.
He decided to pay a Sunday afternoon visit to Babushka and Ramona Sanchez. While
working double shift, he'd been pondering upon the words of Piotr considering
Ramona's devotion and willingness to take risks on their behalf. And while he did not
want to put the girl into harms way, ther was a nice little job for her, if she really
wanted to support Ivan through his gastly stay at BunkerHill.
Cameron West, that greedy little paparazzi and part-time rogue, had sucesfully blown
his anonimate with Caine and his friends in the MDPD. Furthermore, the guy had a
big mouth and could not keep it shut. He'd see to it that he'd be discreetly
dispatched off. A good job for some young and untried soldier on their payroll. He'd
leave it to Valodija Nevzorov to chose a hitman.
But Ramona Sanchez was completely unknown. She had no criminal record at all.
She was as white and pristine as a virgin. She would be perfect to keep a very
discreet eye on Horatio himself. Not all the time, just when he was off duty and out
of reach of their other spy eye inside the MDPD CrimeLab.
Anyhow, he did not like the place where Ramona and her brothers lived. It was not
safe for a single woman of her age and beauty. It was not, what he'd call a decent
neighborhood and the boys ha to go to a prep school with human scum. There was
drugs dealing in front of the school and some Latino gangs were making the
environment even more insecure.
He flipped his cell phone open and called a real estate's agent, who owned him
something. Lieutenant Caine lived in a very nice place, safe, secure with a good prep
school close by. It was private, but that was no problem. The 'Bratva' would pay for
Ramona's brothers' education. Anyhow, the had no use for undereducated people
and it was never too soon to think of the next generation that would fill the better
jobs in their business.
"Hello Peter!" He spoke into the phone."This is Alex Daniels calling. I have a little
request. You see, friend of mine, she would like to move with her youngsters
into…….Yeah, you see, that is right next to St.Antony's PrepSchool….exactly…and the
MaryHope Clinic. Yes, excellent place…..can you help me to find something pretty for
her….you see, with a garden for the boys and as close as possible to the school, so
that she must not worry if the go on foot."
Ten minutes later the deal was done. Peter, the real estate agent had exactly what
Mr.Daniel's lady friend would need. And since Mr.Daniels had assured him that
money did not play a role, they agreed to meet a bit later that evening, with the
future inhabitant of the place and the actual house owner.

 

[Griffon]

Re: Skin the Wolfe: Chapter 15:1 - A Matter of Truth

Chapter 15 A Matter of Truth
*
Horatio knew, that Ryan Wolfe would not be all that happy about the invasion of his
privacy, but at this moment it was easier for him and Frank Tripp to set up
headquarters on Clemente Park then in the MDPD.
While Frank had been away to charm the passengers lists on the planes from Miami
to Paris, France out of a former colleague, who had left the Department to work as
Head of Security for American Airlines Miami Branch, he had reviewed the bedroom
and the bloody inscription on its wall.
It had been possible to get a rather good photograph of the menace and he'd been
running it against a database with writing samples from various criminals. The
database had been an idea of BonaVista, when she had received her research grant
that had allowed to transform their premises into a lavish, top-of-the-notch CrimLab.
A name had come up, but it was impossible that this filed criminal had written the
menacing words. Dimitrij Belkin was dead. Horatio had shot the mobster himself 48
hours earlier when freeing little Billy Gantry from his clutches. So Mister Belkin had
probably a sibling –a son or a brother- whose writing was sufficiently similar to turn
up a 78% match in the database. Horatio made a note to check this discreetly with
immigration. A man whose father or brother had been killed was more liable to act
with determination against the perpetrators of that killing. And if he appreciated the
Russians at their right value, family matters were of the utmost importance to them.
So it was possible that Sarnoff from inside BunkerHill had set a killer onto Wolfe's
heels who had a cause.
He stared moodily at the French newspaper. He would run it for fingerprints, but
logic was, that a newspaper had many fingerprints on it: From the postal services
through which it had transited, to the local postman and its owner. While the origin
of the paper, together with Wolfe's collection of books was an excellent hint, the
paper in itself may be not.
He flipped his cell phone open and called Neill Hunter, a prison guard at BunkerHill
with whom he was on friendly terms and who had agreed to keep him posted on
Sarnoff's activities inside the Detention Facilities.
"Neill, sorry to disturb you on a Sunday, but are there any news from our mutual
friend?" He enquired.
The voice on the other end of the line requested some rowdy children to shut up for
a second, because Daddy had some work to do. Then he greeted Horatio. "Indeed
Lieutenant Caine. I intended to call you anyhow on Monday. I was on duty,
yesterday for the visiting hour. Ivan pulled quite the show. You remember, I told you
about that old lady and her governess, who come to see him every week.'
Caine replied in the affirmative. He'd run both, finding nothing on either, besides the
fact that Ivan Sarnoff was born in Nizhnij Vartovsk, Russia like the elderly lady, Marja
Fedorovna Danilenko, who visited him. But Granny was as white and as pristine as a
freshly washed bed sheet. She had come to the US about a year after her grandson
had settled down in Miami. Her grandson was a respectable computer expert, with a
PhD from some Russian University in IT and Applied Mathematics. He ran an IT
company with no history and his principle clients were film and music studios, who
acquired sound-enhancing software from Danilenko's company. Danilenko held an
international patent for this software, was a regular in IT-standardisation
organisations in the US and abroad and a guest lecturer of Miami Dade University in
applied maths. Horatio even knew, that the Russians had nothing against the man,
because their Moscow Embassy had checked him out before he received his US
Passport. The guy's company was even a sub-contractor to an American defence
contractor with their MoD. He presumed, that the old woman knew Sarnoff perhaps
from their days in Russia and visited him for this reason.
The young woman who accompanied her was also as white as only Snow White
could be: Hard-working, tax payer, perfectly legal and taking good care of two
younger brothers who did very well at prep school.
"Tell me, Neill!" He encouraged the prison guard.
"Well Lieutenant Caine! It appears, as if the old lady is really nothing more then a
Russian acquaintance. But the young chick….from what I saw, she is rather Sarnoff's
girlfriend, then the old lady's governess. Ivan had his long fingers all over her
yesterday and even from my position at the door I could almost hear her moan with
delight. That was quite a hot show. I never believed that Ivan had it in him…."
Caine chuckled softly." We all have a soft spot, Neill! Thanks a lot and keep your
eyes open."
He hung up, went over to Wolfe's pristine gas hearth and a device that looked as if it
dated from before WorldWar I. He supposed that this thing was an espresso machine
and he wanted a coffee desperately. He just needed to figure out, how the device
and the hearth worked, without blowing up his CSI's home. Things had never been
easy with Ryan. His prehistoric device was just another proof of this!
"H.!" Tripp's deep voice tore him out of his musings. Frank had used the back door
to enter the premises and was just standing in the kitchen door. He held a folder
with printouts in his left. He went over to the hearth, pushed the folder into Horatio's
hands and motioned to his friend to get away and let the expert work. "You check
through the passengers' listings, I make the coffee, man! Takes a bloke from Texas
to use these things. You know, we too, still live in the backwoods down there."
Horatio gave up his place gracefully. "Didn't know you could operate such a hellish
device!' He joked, opening the folder and starting to run his index down the names
on the first printout page.
When Tripp served a hot, strong and pleasant smelling black brew in two delicate,
hand painted cups, that were probably twice as old as the espresso machine, Horatio
had reached the end of the relatively short listing.
"Only three flights left!" Horatio stated matter-of-factly. Ryan is neither on the AA via
Orlando to Paris nor on the UA via JFK, but I may have something on the French
carrier, the AF 95 direct to Tscharles Digaulles….. "He assumed this was Paris Airport
and pronounced the name American style.
"Charles de Gaulle! » Tripp corrected him to his great surprise. "Have been over
there on our honeymoon with the wife some 20 years ago.. that is Paris Main
Airport."
"Ok, Charles de Gaulle!" Horatio repeated, pronouncing the name correctly. He hated
it to look like some uneducated hunk, although languages had never been his strong.
He only spoke relatively convenient Spanish, because he had been living in Miami for
a very long time and could not avoid it, but it was still either Delko or Wolfe who
translated, when they had voice tapings of Hispanic gang members to analyse.
"You remember the name of the Russian mob, I shot?"
Tripp nodded. "Belkin!"
"Indeed!" Horatio pulled his sunglasses from his pocket. Sunglasses firmly in place,
he revealed in five short and determined words to Frank, that one Tim Belkin was on
the AF 95 passengers list. Once the implements of justice back in the pocket of his
striped shirt, he held the list out for Tripp and pointed another name: Ryan-Padraig
Wolfe O'Briain, Irish EC passport, no return flight indicated.
The passenger with the curious double name, that partially resembled CSI Ryan
Wolfe's patronymic had a one way ticket only, but nonetheless. "May be interesting
to try and check that one out, too, if we can. Should be registered with the
Homeland Security Database if he already has a biometric passport. If not, there
must be a visa request somewhere."
Tripp finished his coffee and got up. "I'll do it, H. I come back to you, as soon as I
have something interesting."
Hardly had Frank Tripp left the house on Clemente Park, Horatio Caine's private cell
phone rang. Since there were only very few people, who had his number, he was
slightly surprised as the voice on the other side of the line identified itself.
**
Habitually Dr.Padraig O'Briain was an early riser and belonged to a special race of
people who defied even the holy laws of France on Sundays. But after the roller
coaster over his son and the Ismailovskaya Bratva, he had been completely
exhausted; emotionally as well as physically.
He gave the clock on the bedside table a cursory glance. The last time, he had slept
till lunch hour….He'd never ever slept till lunch hour. He considered such an act high
crime and only grudgingly agreed to staying under his sheets till seven in the
morning during winter time and when Claire nagged, that she needed her human
warm-water bottle.
Claire's side of the bed was empty. He knew, that she had never come to join him
and he was convinced that this was due to the fact, that she had stayed with Ryan.
He felt a warm rush of gratitude in his heart. He had not been blind. He, too had
realised that his son was not only completely drained, but also in a state of physical
distress.
Padraig O'Briain was a very keen observer. Buttoning up his jacket had not helped to
hide all the bloodstains on his shirt and the angry, red welt around Ryan's neck, just
where the collar ended had told the former IRA more then a thousand words. It was
a ligature mark!
He skipped his morning shower, not to wake up his son, who was hopefully sleeping
it off in the guest room upstairs and dressed. Then the professor of Celtic Studies
tiptoed down to the kitchen, brewed some strong coffee and prepared a solid
breakfast. When he was finished, he tiptoed upstairs and without the slightest noise
opened the door of the guest room.
From his place at the door he saw Claire, sitting unmoving like a statute. She turned
her head and gave him a smile. He smiled back, relief on his face when realizing that
his son slept peacefully, his arm slung around the midst of his soon-to-be wife and
his head resting in her lap. Claire looked a bit tired from a sleepless night in a rather
uncomfortable position. O'Briain used the internationally accepted basic sign
language for food and hot drink and motioned to her, to disentangle from what
seemed to have magically transformed into a kind of octopus.
Her lips formed the words "Help me!" And in a joint effort they managed to unlock
Ryan and Claire without waking up the former.
"He told me everything!" She explained to Paddy over a cup of coffee on the terrace
in front of the kitchen. Her muscles were still slightly sore from having been a
motionless pillow over several hours.
"How is he?"
Claire shook her head. "Not well at all, Paddy. As soon as he wakes up, I take him to
Garches for x-rays and sonograph. He has been subject to severe physical abuse."
O'Briain snorted. Claire was an MD and employed the vocabulary of an MD. "You
mean "tortured", Dear…..for that is what the Bratstvo habitually does to people who
step on their toes and have the misfortune to fall into their hands. It's a miracle he's
still alive and compared to their habitual standards probable even in 'good shape'."
He spat the last two words literally.
When still the Chief of Intelligence of the PIRA, Paddy had had many doings with the
'Bratstvo', they being a discreet and inexhaustible source of weaponry of all kind, his
organisation had needed desperately in their fight against the Brits. But his
connections with the Russians dated back to long before the fall of the Soviet Union.
In their strategy to slight the capitalist oppressor states – the UK was top of the list,
preceded only by the US- Moscow had been for decades a willing provider of training
camps to 'Freedom Fighters' of every colour, as long as they had the 'Socialist Touch'
on their labels. And while fully qualifying politically, PIRA's relationship with the USSR
had not always been harmonious.
More then once, Moscow had seen to it, that O'Brian was delivered the gory
remainders of one of his fellows in order to make a point over some
misunderstanding or difference in political doctrine. And later on, he had lost
precious lives of very brave fighters to a similar tendency in the 'Bratstvo', although
differences between the Russian Mafia and the PIRA were not grounded in politics,
but rather in economics!
Such an economic dispute together with its collateral damage – several hardly
recognisable corpses that once had been comrades of Paddy – had led him, to break
with both sides, the PIRA and their Russian provider of military hardware. Also his
former comrades had been much less annoyed with O'Briain, then the 'Bratstvo'.
Since Paddy had not chosen to go over to the British foe, but to the French and since
he had betrayed nobody in PIRA, only blown a fatal weapons deal, they had
pardoned him after a while. With the Peace Process in Northern Irland under way
and a strong desire inside his former organisation to acquire political respectability
together with political influence and acceptance from political players all over Europe,
they had finally made him something of an informal "ambassador" with the French, a
role he played extremely well.
But the Bratstvo had never ever forgotten, also many years had gone bye. Oleg
Ivanov, 'vozhd' of the Ismailovskaya had still a standing hit order on O'Briain's head
together with lavish head money for the happy killer, who'd bring him the bloody
skin of the Irish wolfhound! And now his son had a similar hit on his
head…..problems with the Russian mob seemed to run in the family!
Claire padded his arm gently. "Yes, you are right. This is exactly what happened, but
I believe that Ryan would not like to hear this word, when you talk to him. From a
mental point of view, he is coping extremely well. Your son is pretty solid, you know.
But you may not wish to push the button too far. It will take some time. Believe me."
"I do not intend to distress him, Claire. You may assume, that I have a certain
experience with situations, like the one he was in. I have done my time with the
RUC and with the Brits and while they have never managed to reach the
professional heights of the 'Bratstvo' when it comes to sheer sadism, they had been
hardly…….easygoing partners in an afternoon chat." He gave Claire the genuine and
patented 'O'Briain-the-Bastard' sarcastic smile, but there was no real punch in it. His
clear blue eyes staid peaceful waters, not changing into stormy-ocean blue, as if he
meant business.
"Did he tell you more…about what happened in Miami, what his boss did to unsettle
those Russian rascals so much…?"
Claire shook her head. Ryan had been extremely tired and not very coherent in the
end and she had just picked up about a racket on boat slids in a posh Miami marina,
some homicide investigations and con game on the Miami Horse Racing Track!
O'Briain decided, that it was time to ring up JP and ask the police officer a few
questions. Even if Moulin had told him that Ryan wished Paddy to stay out of this
whole business, he was not in a disposition to demurely comply with his son and had
every intention to stick his nose very deep into this business. He had already been
successfully wrestling with that Russian mob, when both JP and Ryan still went to
prep school.
The fact, that he was still alive and very much kicking, notwithstanding Oleg Ivanov's
desires was proof of him handling these bastards rather well, even if some of the
credit went to his French friends in high places, who'd conveniently clean up behind
him, when one of Ivanov's men, notwithstanding utmost prudence, came too close to
him.

 

[Griffon]

Re: Skin the Wolfe: Chapter 15:2 - A Matter of Truth

Chap.15 continued

***
The bed was soft and warm. The duvet was tremendously comforting and so where
the natural sheep skins underneath, that Claire fancied over standard cotton or
flannel bed sheets.
Ryan felt hardly any pain, if he did not move too much. Claire had had the good
sense to put a generous dosage of a strong, morphine-based analgesic into his veins,
which explained probably the light-headedness. He smelt the delicious scent of
freshly brewed coffee that was drifting upstairs from the kitchens into his room and
he was hungry.
Claire had been right to push him and make him tell the story. It had been relief to
speak the words and get rid of the thoughts that had harassed him, ever since that
Russian mobster –Dimitrij Belkin- had kicked him unceremoniously out of that van.
He tried to turn around. A soft hiss escaped him, when his raw back made contact
with the soft sheep skin. A piece from a plastic water hose was a frightful instrument
in the hands of a determined and strong man. And that Belkin guy –may he rot in
hell till Doomsday- had been very strong and very determined.
Ryan tested the solidity of his knees. He wanted to stand up and go to the bathroom
and he would go there, even if that meant to crawl on all fours. Before he could even
think of drinking coffee and eating food, he had first to get completely rid of the
smell of that sugar refinery that still hung on him…..together with the smell of his
own fear. He had only cleaned up superficially after the mobster had released him.
His priority had been to simply disguise the event from Delko, Calleigh and Horatio.
It took him some time to get onto his legs; after almost fainting three times in a row,
he decided that the wall would make a good, solid friend. Anyhow, his eyes were still
hazed and he hardly distinguished the room from the bright sunshine in front of the
windows. Fortunately the bathroom door was dark oak and while it seemed to move
a bit, he was convinced that in the end he'd somehow get through it and into the
shower.
He had told Claire about the night, but he had not felt up to tell her about the
following day: He had obviously managed to get through that day, the case had still
gotten solved and the boy –Billy- got saved. But Ryan had not gotten over the
accusatory looks from his co-workers. He hadn't confided in Eric or Calleigh about
what had happened to him, because their looks had told him immediately that they
could not care less. Anyhow, they tended to never give him any slack and their
constant little snubs –over almost five years now- were clearly intended to keep him
in his place…which was…down under.
It was exactly this attitude together with a building full of people constantly
comparing him to a dead man he'd never known and coming up short to in their
eyes, due to the fact that he still existed and breathed air, while Tim Speedle was
gone and rotting to dust in his shallow grave, that had created in Wolfe a strong
reflex to never ask for help. Calleigh's and Delko's impatience with him seem like
they were punishing him for just being himself. And so was Horatio's blatant
favouritism and covering up for these two, while he was perfectly capable of opening
himself the knife, into which he would let run Wolfe….without any warning.
Somewhere deep inside, this attitude hurt , even if – on a strictly intellectual level-
he did not care.
He loved his job and enjoyed the work he did, the intellectual challenges and the
practical application of science gave him deep professional satisfaction…a satisfaction
he was not willing to give up, just for the sake of the emotionally less stressful
environment of some university research lab or a research job in industry. Power
games were plaid everywhere and working relationships in highly competitive
environments never tended to be easy. This was the top reason, why he kept his
private life….well, strictly private.
They did not like it and Delko, more often then once, had reproached him with being
a jerk and not knowing the meaning of team work.
Wolfe managed to get into the shower. That had been quite an effort, but he was in:
Now all he needed to do was open the taps, mix a convenient water temperature
and prepare himself for the small shock that warm water would be on raw skin for a
few moments. He had coped with his nosy co-workers for almost five years. He'd
cope with the stitching and itching of the water for 5 seconds.
Somehow it worked: After almost 25 minutes under the warm water he felt like a
human being again. The analgesics veil lifted from over his eyes, he saw clearly
where he was and unfortunately also the spectacular transformation that Mr.Dimitrij
Belkins craftsmanship had worked on his body. He was tremendously tempted to
throw the towel over the mirror instead of using it on the tasteless composition in
various colours that reminded him slightly of the later works of Pablo Picasso.
He hated Picasso! He had never understood, what that man tried to tell the spectator
through his paintings. Shaving was not an option and he'd survive this day with five
o'clock shadows. Claire and Paddy wouldn't care and he doubted that the x-rays
operator at Garches would make an unkindly remark. It was basically an excellent
idea to have that x-ray. Already running a soft towel over Nr.5 to Nr.9 was torment,
but his knees were pretty steady now. He managed to fumble some clothes out of
the armoire in the guest room….as ample as possible. Best not to test if he'd manage
to slip into a T-shirt. Then he decided that he could manage Claire's and Paddy's
staircase without breaking his neck.
It took nonetheless ten minutes to get from his room down to the kitchen and when
he finally slipped into a chair on the terrace – watched with slight horror by both his
father and Claire – who were taking a very late breakfast, he felt as exhausted, as if
he'd run a cross country half marathon.
"Bonjour, vous deux!" –« Good morning, the two of you ! » He mumbled, slightly
ashamed of his rather foolish behaviour and embarrassed by their horrified eyes.
"You…." Claire started.
"Can I just have a cup of coffee and some toast, before you give me a well-merited
piece of your mind?" He asked innocently, looking at his father and soon-to-be step
mother with hazel puppy eyes.

 

[Griffon]

Re: Skin the Wolfe: Chapter 16-A Matter of Honour

Chapter 16 A Matter of Honour
*
The supervisor snatched the sixth RedBull can from the hand of his IT-wizard whose
eyes were glued on the screen like a leech to a particularly tasty blood vessel.
"That's enough, Mademoiselle Duprès!" He said. His voice was hard. He had been
handling these IT-crazed folks –most under the age of 25- for many years and knew
exactly when the time had come to put his foot down. The girl had been working for
the last 24 hours non-stop. Also she seemed literally doped by the sound of the
buzzing Hard Disk that downloaded from the Russian Mob server in Miami, she was
bleary-eyed and he had realized that she was fidgety…had not been to the toilets for
hours and needed a pee desperately.
The girl gave him a nasty look, but he could not care less. "This works without you
sitting in front of that screen like a cat sits in front of a mouse hole. You leave now.
You will stay out of this lab for at least 12 hours. If you come back earlier…." He did
not need to finish his sentence. The girl –Lise-stood up, snatched her can from his
hand and put it back in the drawer and nodded. "Ok, boss! But'ya call me if their's
something crazy!"
The supervisor nodded.
A group of six analysts sat around a table in a conference room next door. They
were going through the printouts and could hardly believe what they were reading.
These Russian guys over in Miami seemed to keep everything on their IT system!
It resembled strangely to a company history from A to Z: Projects under way,
projects accomplished, short term strategic planning, long term strategic planning,
accountability, human resources evaluation of collaborators and annual reviews for
the years 2004 to 2009.
One of the analysts shook his head: "That is absolutely incredibly!" He sighed. " He
had found documentation on an Off-shore company with a Bahamas address, dealing
in ship slids in posh marinas in Miami and southern Florida. The habitual prices, that
off-shore paid, when acquiring slids, was around 10.000 US, while the sales prices
ranged between 800.000 and 1,6 million US. "These are benefits, I'd say!" He
explained to Commandant Francois Delveaux, who sat with them, listening avidly,
while his brain worked on high speed.
"Interesting, but no good for us. We will pass this over to that Caine bloke on MDPD.
Does it look legal?"
The analyst, he was a financial expert and professional accountant shook his head.
"For the innocent and on first glance, yes! But as a matter of fact, according to
Florida's laws on real estate, it is absolutely not. If you compare the prices, you see
that there is an enormous difference between acquisition and sales price. The
maximum allowed in Florida would be 25%, then some special taxes would kick in
and even if the company's off-shore, these taxes are taken directly at the notary's
level, when he creates the sales act. I could not find anything in this respect."
Delveaux smiled roguishly. "Meaning that while they may not be able to squeeze that
bunch of Russian mobsters for high crime, they'd make their lives miserable on tax
fraud?"
The analyst chuckled: "Just like Al Capone. Remember, Eliott Ness got him on tax
fraud….."
"What else?" Delveaux asked. "Anything that connect them to our special friend
Alexandr Rossinski and the French branch of the Ismayilovskajya?"
A female analyst showed him some printouts. "There is indeed. And in my view, the
things I found out have potential, although it may not be useful at all to the guys in
Miami."
She explained in short words to Delveaux, that the electronic equipment was
perfectly legal on the US market and that there were no restrictions on it. Whoever
had the money could buy such a surveillance and site protection, although it was
more common in high risk industrial facilities or with the military, then with some
humpty-dumpty private person. The issue was: The specific systems that had been
acquired in France and via Rossinski were subject to a very severe French export
restriction and a so-called end-user certificate.
"They have scanned in the shipping docs. On arrival the stuff became perfectly legal.
US Customs could not care less. But I can tell you, that our Customs blew up, when
letting it leave France. Rossinski's company did not request an authorisation to
export from the MoD, they did not provide an end-user certificate either. Well, this
may make a bit of noise, Commandant, because from my point of view some sales
manager at Group SAGEM will have to face a very serious enquire, may loose his job
and will find himself in prison for at least 24 months….and the Customs guys who
checked the cargo on Roissy-CDG will face an IAB Board for sure…..but we have
Rossinski….for illegal sales of high tech goods subject to specific MoD regulations. He
will not spend a lifetime in prison for sure, but his company can close doors and my
heart sings, when I think of the penalty he'll have to pay to the Treasure."
Delveaux clapped his hands, applauding the analyst and gracefully bowing his head
to her. She gave him a most charming smile.
"You..", he told her five colleagues, "…keep up your good work. And we…" He
pointed at the young lady,"…come with me. We have a state attorney to see."
"He'll be enchanted on a bright sunny Sunday afternoon!"
"I guarantee you. He'll be enthusiastic."
Delveaux left the DGRI premises with the female analyst and her attaché case full of
wrought-iron proof. They sprinted to the parking lot and literally jumped into the
Commandant's service vehicle, a blue German four wheel drive. He turned on the
engine and immediately pushed the dial button of the car phone. The loudspeakers
were on. Moulin replied and Delveaux briefed him quickly. Then he called their
undercover agent Poniatowski and gave him the go to contact Rossinski under the
false identity of Tim Belkin. They had retrieved Belkin's US passport and the
document had undergone a rather clever makeover, so it would correspond better to
Poniatowski's outward appearance.
Without the habitual traffic jams that made Paris and its greater region a mad-man's
house to live and work in during the week, it took them less then 25 minutes to
arrive at the state attorney's place in St.Cloud. As foreseen by Delveaux, the man –
notwithstanding the fact that he had to leave the family table and a tasty looking
fruit cake – was enthusiastic. He had been dreaming of an occasion like this for
months, ever since he had to let Rossinski go with excuses, after they had been
unable to prove the mobsters involvement in a gory murder of a police officer.
Francois profited shamelessly from the attorney's good mood: "Monsieur,.." he
asked,"…the man whom we have in custody…is there something you can do…we
cannot let him go with that undercover operation launched, but according to the law,
we must release him tomorrow at midnight."
The attorney shook his head. "You must not, Commandant. He's been taken care of.
Préfet de Kersausson called me and we shall keep him in isolation for at least one
week under Perben II amendment 1. He may not have a lawyer and he may not talk
to anybody, apart you guys."
Delveaux gave a curt nod. « Monsieur l'Avocat Général Adjoint ! » He left the
magistrate with the female analyst who'd brief him in, told her to call a taxi, when
she was finished and hurried off to gather his team. None of them would object to
break up their Sunday afternoon and return to work. This was too good an
opportunity to be whimsical. Once Rossinski bagged and off the streets of the French
capital they'd all recuperate and take well-merited time off.
***
'Lieutenant Caine?" The voice was polite and well-bred and while the caller spoke
perfect English, it was tainted with a soft accent that somewhat reminded Horatio of
New Orleans and the deep south. He replied in the affirmative.
The caller identified herself as Commandant Regine Marais, legal attaché at the
French Consulate General Miami Branch Office. She excused herself politely for
having called him on a Sunday and for having used his private phone number. And
she admitted immediately, that this phone number had been obtained through
"specific contacts", which was the diplomatic description of some intelligence devices,
that the French had probably running on US national territory without the Americans
knowing it. But it also worked the other way round and while both countries behaved
civilised and where longstanding and stout-hearted allies, they were also unforgiving
concurrent at many levels, the first of which was defence technology and military
hardware.
The attaché seemed very tight lipped about the reason for her call and spoke only of
matters of utmost importance to certain law enforcement organisations in her
country and a link of these matters to some recent enquires of the MDPD CSI.
Horatio had a gut feeling that he knew precisely what Commandant Marais refused
to talk about on a cell phone. The French diplomat suggested to him, that they might
perhaps better meet face to face, if this would be convenient to him and indicated an
address at Coral Gables.
"I shall be there in 30 minutes exactly!" She told the police officer, "And I would
appreciate your coming alone, for the time being."
When Horatio asked her, how he'd recognise her, she assured him, that she'd
recognize the Lieutenant. He gave a small sigh, acquiesced to the proposal and shut
his cell phone.

****
Ryan Wolfe sat on the x-ray table at Garches Hospital's ER, his feet dangling and his
eyes fixed on a set of x-rays that were fixed to a screen. Claire and a colleague of
hers examined the shots attentively.
" Numbers Five to Nine are broken, Numbers Three and Four definitively bruised."
Claire's colleague stated matter of factly. "Clean breaks, Madame le Professeur!
There should be no complications and I exclude the risk of pneumothorax." He
scrutinized the results of Ryan's sonographic examination and shook his head. "No
damage to the liver, that is a fact. Lungs are perfect…..wonderful lungs, bye the
way!" He stated, as if Wolfe was not even in the room and he was discussing with
Claire about some business that did not concern the CSI. "But the spleen is bruised.
That will be a pretty painful reminder of whatever happened to your young man for
the next three or four weeks at last."
Claire turned to Ryan. "Tu vois, cheri! C'est pas si banale… » -You see, sweet ! It is
not so innocent…"
Her colleague turned his attention from the x-rays and sono to Wolfe. " From a
medical point of view, it would be the best if I keep you for a couple of days,
Mr.Wolfe. This would be wise! Considering the fact, that you already explained to
me, that this is not an option for you and considering the fact that Madame le
Professeur is an M.D., I will release you under her care. But I must impress upon
you, that you should not try and fool around….physical efforts so to say. You also tell
me, that you refuse the steroid and morphine-based painkillers adapted to your
situation. I will not try and talk you into these, also you may wish in a couple of
hours that you'd taken my prescription."
Ryan nodded. "Maybe, but there is no way you make me take this stuff. It gives me
the creeps."
"Then, my friend, you'll be obliged to take it very easy and to behave very
reasonably. I shall see you in three days time for a follow-on examination. Should
you start to cough up blood once more, you must immediately come and see me.
Your spleen is bruised and it is swollen. Should you be stupid enough to ignore the
symptoms, you may lose that spleen and I believe, that you are fully aware of what
that means to your health."
Ryan lifted himself carefully from the x-ray table. "Je sais, Docteur! Je reviens, si
jamais il y a problème! » - « I know ! I will come back, if there's a problem !"
The ER M.D. gave Wolfe a hard glance, then he turned back to Claire. The two
doctors did not talk, but only exchanged desperate looks.
From the ER M.D.'s body language, Ryan could deduce without the slightest
problem, that the man was mightily pissed with him. But nothing in the world would
make him take morphine-based painkillers again over a certain timeframe. He'd been
on that stuff for about a week, when he had been shot while still on patrol and he
had gone through hell, when they had taken him off the drug.
He'd rather have the pain, then the psychological stress when the drug was off. He
had been irascible for a months afterwards and not really in control and if there was
one thing Ryan Wolfe could not bear, then it was to loose self control. He knew, that
he was quite capable to deal with pain, but he was unable to deal with loss of
control.
Once, many years ago he had called this incapacity to deal with loss of control OCD –
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder – just to make Horatio Caine stop asking him
questions he was unwilling to answer, also he knew perfectly well it was not that
rather obscure illness that causes people to have unwanted thoughts and to repeat
certain behaviours over and over again.
Ryan had no obsessions and no compulsions in the OCD sense of the words. He was
just….who he was and this included, beyond other things that he avoided losing
control, did his tasks well, assumed his responsibilities and cared for those close to
him.
That was no OCD…just a matter of education and perhaps conditioning during early
childhood.
After his biological mother's and unborn sibling's violent death, Ryan had found
himself for a long time literally alone with a father who led a very dangerous life and
had a highly illegal occupation.
Paddy had never ever lied to Ryan about what he was doing or why. Wolfe had still
some very early memories of disconnected body members, a completely destroyed
car and blood, blood all over and of a huge crowd of people who gathered around
that horror, gasping and peeping.
He had been three years old then and like most three years old boys in Belfast he
was not frightened by the sound of a gun or the explosion of a bomb. He'd heard it
before and he'd seen it before. But that time, on this 26th June 1980, it had been
different. His father had fetched Ryan at the kinder garden, because his Mum had
been to a meeting of the Irish Republican Socialist Party of whom she was a high-
ranking, important member. Paddy had always been the man in the shadows, while
his mother had fought for Ireland's freedom in the bright light of the day.
Ryan remembered, how his father had lowered his head and simply turned away
from the scene. When Wolfe had asked Paddy about Mummy, his father had taken
him into his arms and turned around and had told him unflinching and truthful, that
his mother had been blown to pieces by a car bomb and that there was nothing they
could do about it and that she'd never come back, because she was dead.
Paddy had struggled on for about three years with his small boy on the one hand
and his PIRA occupations on the other, dragging Ryan from safe house to safe house
and sometimes even taking him to secret and highly illegal meetings, where he
would put him to sleep on some couch or canopy under a blanket, while he'd decide
about the life or death of some political enemy or a Brit with his comrades in the
very same room. Ryan did not always sleep but sometimes-with the curiosity of a
young child-would listen and peep. Then afterwards he'd ask his father and never
once Paddy had lied to him. He had always answered truthfully, entrusting his little
boy with secrets that even many of the high-ranking PIRA comrades would not learn,
before the deed was done. But always his father had told him to keep his tongue in
check, to not tell, to never talk and to be extremely careful where he'd put his trust,
because trust was a thickly thing and to much trust led only to death and
destruction.
When Ryan was old enough for school his father brought him discreetly to France
and entrusted him to the mother of his deceased wife, the Dowager Countess
Kilwarden Clemence Wolfe, who had chosen to life in Brittany after her daughter's
violent death.
His grandmother – while a wonderful woman, spirited, educated and lively – had
been probably even more of a fanatic then Paddy and she had continued to instil this
tendency to secrecy, profound distrust and complete self control into Ryan.
Clemence had taught Ryan to think, to be logic, to excel in whatever he did…to
never show weakness, to never bend, to never give in and to never cry!
His French childhood with his grandmother Clemence Wolfe had been wonderful and
carefree, but it had also been the time of his life where he had built his character
and he could neither deny his heritage, nor his years with Clemence.
Only when Dr. Claire Charpentier had arrived like a tropical hurricane in their lives,
Ryan's attitude had changed a little bit. He had seen his father's defensive fences fall
like autumn leaves in front of Claire. He had seen his stubborn, stout and very aged
Grandmother bend to the young, almost rowdy woman. Only after both Paddy and
Clemence had been fully convinced, Ryan had given Claire her chance and his
trust…completely. She was probably the only person in the world, he'd listen to and
most certainly the only one, he'd show weakness with.
Her M.D. colleague from the Graches ER was most certainly competent, right and
perfectly honest, but Ryan had met him for the first time two years ago and then
only for a couple of hours during a diner. That was neither long enough nor good
enough for even the slightest hint of familiarity…and most certainly not for trust.
He put on his shirt, fixed his tie and took his jacket from a hanger. Straightening his
shoulders he went over to the M.D. and stretched out his hand. " Thank you for your
time, Sir!" He said formally, but he meant it." I will try and follow your advice. I am
sorry that I inconvenienced you on a Sunday!"

 

[Griffon]

Re: Skin the Wolfe: Chapter 17 - Revelations

Chapter 17 Revelations
*
Coral Gables was well-known for its outstanding restaurants. With more than 40
great places to eat, all within walking distance in the downtown area, the hardest
decision was habitually which one to try first. There were places to meet for a casual
outdoor lunch as well as elegant, top-rated restaurants for fine dining.
Horatio's secretive caller had chosen one of the more casual outdoor places, but it
was still an excellent address and would have been –under normal circumstances –
beyond his pay grade as a Lieutenant of the MDPD.
At Da Vittorio's at 264 Giralda Avenue it was possible to taste the best of Italian food
and wine in a homely, yet very sophisticate dining atmosphere. The specific thing
about the posh place managed by a famous chief from Rome was, that De Vittorio's
would close down for the public, just in order to cater lavishly for a handful of special
guests.
Horatio entered the restaurant and a discreet waitress showed him immediately into
the terrace gardens. Also he had never seen Commandant Regine Marais before, he
recognized the woman immediately in the midst of a lavish choice of Miami beauties
and their retainers. She was in her early forties, compared to the Sunshine State
female standard relatively small and had the coldest and most determined eyes he'd
ever seen on one of the weaker sex. Her outfit was a walking understatement and
had 'Made in France' written right over it…very expensive designer clothes that
impressed not by their gaudiness and flash, but through an excellent cut and select
materials. Even her wristwatch and black handbag were slaps into the face of
Miami's 'belles' as mostly everything "Made in France".
Somehow, Commandant Regine Marais gave him the impression of being the female
version of one of his CSIs – Mr.Ryan Wolfe.
She reacted immediately when he entered motioning with the glass of white wine in
her hands that he may come over and join her.
"Lieutenant Caine!" She greeted him politely. "It is a true pleasure to meet you.
Please be seated."
Horatio remembered conveniences, gave a slight bow, took her outstretched right
hand and kissed it. Deep inside he was quealing. This women seemed to be an
absolute nightmare! She was a diplomat and posted to the US, she should know that
this way of greeting a female was not very habitual in his place. He tried to think
quickly and came to the decision that touching her hand with his lips would probably
been considered a familiar gesture and not convenient. So he simply exhaled, careful
not to make contact.
Commandant Marais attitude changed within the second and her icy eyes became
warm and friendly.
"What a perfect gentleman, you are Lieutenant Caine! Your reputation seems to be
an understatement. Please accept this diner as an invitation of the Republic and do
not offend me and my superiors. " She gave the waitress a signal and the girl
handed Horatio a menu without prices.
"Will you allow me to chose the wine, Lieutenant? " Regine asked. Normally a well-
bred female would let the male make the choice, but she was here in the name of
France and France would chose. It was inconceivable, even in the presence of an
officer, whom she outranked largely, that this foreign national should have the
impression to be treated in a degrading or impolite manner.
"Commander!" Caine smiled and bowed his red head. "Please feel free to make our
choices. I will follow you."
It was a little bit strange to be confronted with such formality and extreme
politeness, but Horatio assumed that the legal advisor of the Miami Branch of the
French Consulate General in the United States of America did not dine with him, but
with his nation and therefore formalities were required to the utmost. He was not
used to this type of encounter, having only worked on his national territory and on
US state level. He considered it more prudent and better for productive work, if he
allowed the cold beauty taking the lead.
Commandant Regine Marais made her choice in fluent Italian, ordering aperitifs
starters, main course, cheese, salad and wine. " I hope, Sir, you will approve. She
gave him a polite, friendly and totally non-committing glance. Then she engaged in
small talk with him; perfectly non-committing and at a level that would not even
touch the outskirts of what Horatio considered private life.
He played along, hoping that this impromptu invitation to diner was not just a "Hello
bloke! I have just been dumped into Miami by my Foreign Affairs Department and I
am your official counterpart , should ever something happen to one of my
countrymen on holidays in the Sunshine State!"
When they had finished starters and main course, Commandant Marais – by simple
hand movement – made the waitress…wait and cheese was suspended in thin air.
Suddenly the French diplomat became all business and her charming, non-
committing attitude was gone.
It took her less then 10 minutes to explain to Horatio in precise words, what he'd
been trying to figure out for the last 48 hours.
"You understand, Monsieur le Lieutenant, that it would not be to our mutual
advantage, if this went up to the level of your Federal Bureau of Investigation ! »
She concluded, giving Caine a hard look.
Horatio understood Commandant Marais perfectly well and if he'd been in her shoes
he would have done exactly the same thing.
"You have a deal, Commander!" He replied, also he had not yet figured out how he'd
bypass Rick Stetler and the IAB.
Regine Marais took a sip from her glass. " I can assure you, Sir, that you will not
regret your decision. These people are extremely dangerous, no matter where they
set up shop."
Another nonchalant motion of Regine Marais' hand finally released the cheese from
its free flying position onto their table.
"So we have a deal?"
Horatio nodded. "We have a deal, Commander!"
Regine enjoyed her cheese, crispy, fresh white bread and red whine in silence, also
Caine realised that her eyes were those of a hunter close to his prey and the kill.
When only one last bit of the delicacies was left on her plate, she lifted her head
gracefully and locked her eyes into his. Once more they were cold, uncompromising
and tough as nails. Horatio asked himself, how brown eyes could suddenly turn cold.
He'd need to wait for Wolfe reappearing in Miami. Perhaps his stray CSI had an
answer. He was also able to play this trick.
"There is one point I almost forgot!" She said. " We would appreciate, if you could
find a credible way with your authorities to explain the absence of one Mr. Ryan
Wolfe…and we'd equally appreciate, if you'd simply ignore this fact and not ask him
too many questions, when he returns."
Horatio smiled. "If I accept your conditions, Commander, would you tell me the
whereabouts of my CSI?"
Regine returned his smile and gave him a wink of the eye that betrayed that there
was something else underneath this highly formal diplomatic mask of hers. "Maybe!"
She said softly, putting down her fork and knife and pulling an elegant silver fountain
pen and a small notebook from her handbag. She wrote down a phone number,
ripped the sheet from her notebook and gave it to Horatio.
" There is seven hours between Miami and Paris…" She stated matter-of-factly. "
Please call this number at your convenience and you may receive answers to a
certain number of questions!"
She sighed, drank some more wine and kept her own council for a short while.
"Lieutenant, a word of the wise, if you permit: It may be inconvenient to try and dig
too deeply into Ryan Wolfe's past. I can assure you that there is nothing you need to
worry about and that your officer –while he may find it difficult to trust you – is
perfectly loyal……" She played with a small, left-over crust of bread and avoided
Horatio's eyes. " I should not tell you this and I implore you to keep this between
you and I….."
Caine nodded in acquiescence and in a compassionate reflex put his large, warm
hand over Regine Marais slender, icy-cold long fingers. The woman flinched and took
a breath….flinched and took a deep breath in the same way Ryan Wolfe did, when
someone invaded his personal space without a formal invitation. But he persisted
and the French Police Officer relaxed a little bit.
"You may have figured out, that your CSI has left the territory of the USA some 48
hours ago. He came to us for reasons, that I cannot tell you, but they are perfectly
legal. He did not do this to slight you or to make trouble, but because he had no
choice. Should you decide to call my superior, he may be willing to tell you more. All
I can tell you, is that your officer brought us a member of the Ismailovskajya
Bratstvo and allowed us to enter their IT network. He could not have given this
evidence to you at the risk of his life and perhaps even that of your entire team."
Horatio took his hand away and gave his French counterpart some breathing space. "
I am sure, he did the right thing, Commander." He replied gently. "Just tell me; what
exactly happened to my man to take such desperate measures?"
Regine took the last piece of cheese with delicate fingers and nibbled at it:" Only you
can answer this question, Horatio!" She said very softly, using for the first time the
familiarity of his given name. "We are just trying to stick some broken pieces
together, avoid unnecessary collateral damage and get rid of the French Branch of
that Russian mob!"
**
Frank Tripp was rather satisfied with the results of his investigation. And while the
research into the passenger with the Irish EC passport had brought no result – he
was perfectly clean and registered with Homeland Security – the Belkin guy was in
fact the brother of the mobster Horatio had shot early on Friday afternoon. It had
been extremely tricky to find out more without attracting the attention of the MDPD
and whatsoever other law enforcement entities in Miami-Dade, but Frank had
managed.
He was drained, hungry and tremendously satisfied, when he returned to CSI Wolfe's
rather lavish bunk….as always through the back doors.
"H.!" he shouted merrily. The house was empty and nobody would mind the noise.
"Got him!"
It was close to midnight and Horatio's voice sounded a bit tired and subdued when
he replied to Tripp. But the homicide detective made his way straight into the heart
of their headquarters – CSI Wolfe's kitchen: "Bloke on the Frenchie plane's the
brother of the mobster you offed, H.!" he explained happily, zooming immediately to
the freezer and rummaging through Ryan's provisions for something edible that
needn't be cooked or prepared otherwise. He found some dried sausage that looked
rather appetising.
"I know, Frank!" Horatio replied over his cup of herbal tea. He had still no idea, how
the espresso device worked and while he could not understand that people would
drink grass with hot water, the stuff was better then nothing, Wolfe's milk supply
having been exhausted.
"There is no need to try and hunt down Ryan…." He explained.
Frank Tripp was cutting the sausage in small slices and preparing a nibbles plate for
himself. Wolfe had unfortunately no beer in his house, but the wine Tripp had seen
down in the cellars would do fine. All he needed now was bread and some salt for
the tomatoes. He rummaged through a cupboard and found 'Salt' somewhere behind
coffee filters and a small glass full of jelly fruits. This place of storage did not make
any sense, considering the fact that Wolfe pretended to suffer from OCD, but to
Tripp –divorced and living all on his own – there was a certain logic in the
arrangement. The CSI rarely used salt and was not too fond of jelly fruits, so he put
it out of reach and far away from more important things like tea bags, small change
for the milk man and his set of spare car keys.
"The boy gave the slip to France, didn't he? " Frank replied flatly, settling down on a
kitchen chair and tasting the dry sausage. That stuff was good. Already from the
taste, Frank could say that it did not come from the supermarket but from one of the
small Italian grocery stores between North Miami Beach and Hallandale. When he
had time, he also did his shopping there and enjoyed the wonderful fresh stuff
directly brought in from Italy.
Horatio nodded and sipped his hot grass water moodily. " While you where chasing
after the names on the passenger list, I had a rather fancy and very strange diner at
De Vittorio's!" He explained to Frank everything he'd learned from Commandant
Regine Marais of the French Consulate General.
Tripp nibbled his food and listened. No wonder Ryan had ran off and asked for help,
where it was willingly given. He had never ever understood how Horatio could
tolerate the very off-hand behaviour of Calleigh and Eric, as if it was Wolfe's fault
that he was not Tim Speedle. But Horatio's team was Horatio's team and he had no
right to interfere with Horatio's personal management. He found it strange and
unhealthy and often rather upsetting, but it was none of his business.
"So what are we going to do now, H.?"
Caine gave his watch a glace. "Call that number in France in about three hours,
when it is Monday morning over there, listen to this Prefect Erwan de Kersausson,
take the intel he is willing to give us on Sarnoff's mob and blow that organisation to
pieces, if we can."
"Ok, H. This seems a good idea. How will you explain this sudden bounty of intel on
Sarnoff to our superiors?"
"The French will do it, Frank. They will tell our bosses that they incidentally stumbled
over the stuff during an enquiry of their own and believed it would be useful to us.
The only thing we have to do is to cover up for Ryan in a credible manner. That's
their condition…"
Tripp grinned. Never ever before he had heard Horatio use Wolfe's first name so
often in a row. Habitually it was "Mr.Wolfe this….Mr.Wolfe that…", while it had
always been Calleigh and Eric and Tim. Perhaps suddenly H. had come to his senses
and understood that Wolfe would simply never be Speedle, even if they'd bully and
jackass him to no ends. He was Ryan…take it or leave it.
"I believe, you accepted it, H."
"What else could I have done, Frank?" Caine replied moodily. "Compared to the
bounty on the Russian mob they offer me, Wolfe's misdemeanour is peanuts….I'll
handle it, as soon as he turns up again…." Almost as soon as he'd spoken the words,
Caine realised what he had said. "Do not look at me like this, Frank! I do not mean
Ryan any harm and you can believe me that I got the message, even without these
French trying to lecture me on leadership and personal management.." He lifted both
hands in defeat and gave Tripp a rueful look.
"Better you do, H." The sergeant replied. His stomach filled and a nice cuppa in front
of him he felt sufficiently rewarded for a hard Sunday's work. "You do not mind, if I
call it a day, go home and catch some sleep?"
***

Serge Poniatowski had been briefed in carefully on what they had found out about
the Miami mobsters and their French colleagues. He was entirely convinced that he
could play Tim Belkin better then the true Tim Belkin would ever be.
"So what is happening to my little Russian sibling right now?" He asked Delveaux,
admiring the Russian mobsters diamond-studded Rolex and monogrammed Dupondt
silver lighter.
The boss of the Organised Crime Unit chuckled. " I believe that he is taking his diner
under the well-meaning eyes of his guardians, who will prevent him from doing
something stupid with a plastic spoon and fork.
"Did he talk?"
"Not a word, Serge, not a single word….but we do not really need him. The
colleague who brought him to as –alive and kicking- is out of hospital and according
to JP's words sufficiently annoyed with our Russian buddy to give you a full length
briefing together with loads of information he has on the Miami bunch." He held out
the BlackBerry to Poniatowski." You have a tracer inside and the little star works as a
panic button should things turn bad. As soon as you are out in the street I call the
colleagues at Levallois-Peret and they remove their veil from the POA, so that over in
Miami they can see that you are going to Rossinski's."
"Where am I now, officially?"
"Dining at the 'Etoile Concorde Hotel', Serge." He motioned his colleague, who
strapped the Rolex to his wrist and pocketed the lighter out of the premises and they
went together to his car.
When they arrived 45 minutes later at Saint-Nom-la-Breteche, the hostess shot the
police officers a rather nasty glance, while the host and his son received them with
great enthusiasm.
Delveaux was slightly surprised to see Ryan Wolfe so nicely recovered after such a
short rest.
His CSI colleague from Miami, also obviously still sore and very stiff, had brilliant,
lively eyes and a rather healthy colour to his face….irrespective a rather impressive
and colourful haematom under his jaw. Nothing compared to the ashen face he'd
first seen inside the Roissy-CDG Metro!
Delveaux first greeted Madame le Professeur, trying to play nice boy and handing her
a sinfully expensive box of chocolates, he'd picked up in a rush at Fauchon's on Place
Madeleine, who was open on Sundays. When Claire thanked him with a look that
would have frozen over the equator in no time, he made a hurried strategic retreat
towards a garden table that had been obviously set for their purpose of discussing
business with Ryan and his infamous father.
Serge Poniatowski, while a brave man and full of courage followed him in a nick,
avoiding the Medusa's killer eyes. Only Moulin, who was somehow like family resisted
slightly longer, took her harsh admonitions with grace and walked over at a leisurely
pace, while Padraig O'Briain and his son still tried to appease the boss.
Ten minutes later she literally threw drinks and glasses on the table and left, head
held high in the air and murmuring something about male brains that were about the
size of a chicken's.
"Ouff!" Padraig O'Briain gave a deep sigh, when Claire was finally out of sight.
"Believe me, boys! She'll make me pay for this…" He gave his son a roguish smile. " I
cannot guarantee, that she'll not do something foolish that will spoil the fun!"
"We shall deal with it, if it happens, Papa!" Ryan replied in kind. Then he turned his
attention to Delveaux, Moulin and Poniatowski. " So what did you get from the
BlackBerry, guys?"
"A world of wonders!" Moulin was still slightly shocked that a criminal organisation
could entrust so much to such a fragile device as a computer. He let Delveaux
explain in detail, what the cute little IT-wiz had done to Sarnoff's network and what
their analysts had found on the printout. Then he told Wolfe and his father about the
illegal export of the SAGEM security systems and that they had enough to book
Alexandr Rossinski for about 5 years into the Fresnes Detention Facilities.
"So, why do you want to take the risk and send Poniatowski inside!" Padraig O'Briain
enquired reasonably. From his point of view, with what the French had in hands,
there was absolutely no need to risk the live of a good man.
Delveaux poured himself some of the cidre, that Claire had grudgingly offered and
started to explain.
Ryan understood perfectly. "No problem. I will tell you, everything I know, Serge!"
He addressed the undercover officer.

 

[Griffon]

Re: Skin the Wolfe: Chapter 18:1 - A Matter of Family

Chapter 18 A Matter of Family
*
Frank Tripp sat on his favourite chair in front of the TV set. He had turned the sound
off and ignored the show on the screen. His cell phone lay on a small glass table in
front of him. He had been fixing it for the last 15 minutes.
"So you believe, you know where the kid is, H.?" He spoke softly to himself, nursing
his second glass of wine of the evening. " I'd rather know for certain and speak to
him, just to make sure, he's right…that's what I'd do, if he were one of my own…."
He opened the two upper buttons of his flowery cotton shirt. He loved these shirts
for fishing. Kept a man cool in the blazing Florida sun and put a touch of colour into
Sunday pastimes. He thought for a little while, then picked up his cell phone and
dialled the International White Pages. It was a little bit foolish. There were probably
tons of people with the names Wolfe and/or O'Briain in the Paris region. Half the
Irish of the World were called O'Brian or O'Briain, and the first names Padraig and
Ryan were as common as sable on a Miami beach…but he wanted to try.
A polite operator answered dutifully. "Do you have the exact address in Paris, Sir?"
She enquired.
Frank replied in the negative, but asked her to extend her research to the greater
Paris region. After some minutes she chirruped like a little song bird: I do have a Dr.
Padraig O'Briain at Saint Nom la Breteche and a Patrick O'Briain in the XVI.
Arrondisement. All the others spell their name as O'Brian. Which one of the
remainder is yours, Sir?"

'Listen, give me both numbers. It may be either. We lost touch couple of years ago."
As you please!" The operator replied, gave Frank both numbers, reminded him that
the prefix for France was 0033 and hung up.
Tripp stared at the sheet of paper in front of him.
That was completely, utterly stupid! Call someone completely unknown on the other
side of the Atlantic Ocean, ask him, if incidentally he had a relative called Ryan Wolfe
who worked for the MDPD and enquire, if that relative might perhaps be around
around?
That was a fool's game and would probably make him the laughing stock of the
people on the other side of the line, but after 26 years of service, a broken marriage
and three kids who would not talk to him any longer, he had nothing to loose.
The sergeant took his cell, composed the first number at Saint Nom La Breteche and
listened to a melodious, female voice. She spoke French…..Frank was so perplex,
that he wanted to close his cell immediately shut, but then the professional reflexes
kicked in 'Do you speak English?' He asked in his best ' I am at your service,M'am-
voice.
The lady on the other side of the Atlantic replied in the affirmative. "I do, Sir? Whom
do you want to speak to?"
Tripp gave the passenger list printout from AF 95 a glance. " May I speak to Mr.
Ryan-Padraig Wolfe-O'Briain, please? Habitually he calls himself just Ryan Wolfe!"
"And whom shall I announce?" She asked politely and a little bit stiffly. Frank could
literally see a pair of surprised, brown eyes, in a terribly French living room, full of
old-fashioned stuff that would immediately explode if you put it on an oven. He
suddenly felt triumph rising in his chest.
"I am a friend of his from Miami." The homicide detective explained to the lady on
the other end. "My name is Frank Tripp! I work with Mr.Wolfe."
"Just a second, Mr.Tripp!" Le Professeur Claire Charpentier replied in impeccable
English with only the slightest twitch of an accent and a tinge of annoyance.' I shall
see what I can do for you. Hang on."
Frank hung on, also his watch told him that he might be in for a long wait and that
somehow this phone call might be too little too late. But he was not in a mood to
give up on Ryan. After all that he'd seen and all that Horatio had told him, he felt
that he simply had to do it…sit and wait until the kid was willing to come to the
phone and talk to him.
He was surprised, when a very familiar voice drifted from far away into his ear. And
while the voice was familiar, it was harder then usual, uncompromising and rather
cold. The voice on the other side of the Atlantic was not very happy to hear him. So
much was clear to Sergeant Frank Tripp. But this was no reason to give up and
bend.
" How are you, son?" He asked Ryan gently.
"Frank,…!" The far-away voice replied coolly, "…there is no need to ask. Did H. put
the puzzle together and send you with pearls and laces as a peace offering?"
Tripp gave a deep sigh, put his feet comfortably on the telly table and leaned back in
his comfy chair. He had the curious feeling that in a months he'd receive a nasty call
from Stettler to explain about his sky-rocket phone bill. He'd cope with Stetler, when
time would come. "Son, this has nothing to do with H. He does not even know that I
puzzled it all together. Now, you tell me, if you are all right."
Ryan Wolfe sank on the small love seat by his parents phone. He felt suddenly
drained and worn. He had taken lots of pains to not leave any traces behind, even
travelling with a passport nobody knew he owned.
He had –at least on paper- double nationality and Irland was one of the few
countries in Europe that would not automatically report back to the Americans, as
soon as they were made aware of the fact. He supposed that Frank might have gone
through passengers lists of airplanes out of MIA and stumbled over a name that
looked familiar, if not exactly the same.
The old copper then had simply tested his luck at the risk of making a fool of himself
and stumbling over some innocent Irishman who had no clue but incidentally lived in
Paris and was called Wolfe or O'Briain, like about 80 percent of the Irish.
"I am ok, Frank! But please, leave me alone for a while. Will you? You were always
better then the others and at least respectful of my privacy."
"This may be the very reason, Ryan, why I call you in the dead of the night, from my
home and with nobody around. Does this sound reasonable to you?"
"It does Frank. But nonetheless, I am really not in a mood to discuss certain
things…."
"Like a hit order from the Russian Mob, for example?" Tripp replied.
His voice was dropping with sarcasm. He would have slapped the boy around his
head if he'd been at arms reach….several times and very hard, in order to make his
brains work once again.
Tripp had always been rather lucid when it came to Wolfe: The kid was an excellent
cop. He was born to be a police officer and he was probably one of the best CSIs the
sergeant had ever met in 27 years on duty.
But Ryan was also stubborn, proud, arrogant, reclusive and tremendously untrusting.
He gave Frank on occasions the impression of that famous dog who'd had one
beating to much from his master, who'd nonetheless still obey but was no longer
capable to show either fear or joy at the sight of the owner.
Already when they had bullied him ruthlessly because he had a thing with that pretty
journalist Erica Sykes, Frank had found the team's reactions completely exaggerated:
Wolfe was a nice, young bloke; good-looking, well-bred, polite etcetera. It was
normal, that some pretty female about his age would fall for him at one moment in
time and Sikes had neither been on MDPD payroll nor related to their direct working
environment, so no harm done….even if the chick had been a bit ruthless with her
boyfriend and Ryan a bit to soft and forgiving with his chick.
But Frank understood how difficult it was for a bloke to put his foot down hard with a
chick, when he was sleeping with her. H. himself had all gone soft and puppy-eyed
over Marisol Delko, notwithstanding the fact that they picked her with
Marihuana….and then he had not even bedded Delko's sister.
The same went for Calleigh and Eric, when they skilfully covered up for each other,
because there was more to'em then working relation. And he wanted not even to
think about Julia, that tricky little bitch, who managed to make Horatio turn in circles
and do tremendously stupid and very dangerous things. Wolfe on the contrary had
kept job and bed separated….
"Indeed Frank!" Ryan replied reasonably. "But I manage. Do not worry. Everything
will be fine. Just leave me alone for a while and please….keep this to yourself."
Tripp shook his head. So the kid was actually trying to fix his problem with the
Russian mob all on his own and without getting them involved. He could always
try…" Ryan, if you were so keen to handle that all on your own…" He enquired and
suddenly there was steel in his voice, " …why did you call H. and lie to him, that
you'd be on sick leave for a fortnight?"
"I never did, Frank!" The younger man answered. It was obvious, that he was very
much surprised by Tripp's accusation." I did not even take the cell…..I am not so
thick, to wander around with a phone that has an MDPD tracker on it. I never ever
told Horatio whatsoever…"
Tripp put his feet down, hunched and gasped audibly." We were at your place, son
and believe me, after we found that message on your wall, we turned it upside
down…no cell and no gun….I thought you might have taken the stuff with you."
"I took neither….not very discreet to try and board an international flight with your
hardware, even if you can show the plate that goes with it. So you found the whole
gory mess, Sarnoff's people left behind?" He was slightly surprised that Caine had
even taken the pains to come and have a look. He had not expected this from his
boss.
When he'd gotten himself nailed a couple of years ago, H. had not taken the pains to
come and see him at the hospital. So why should he now suddenly develop a sense
of responsibility or feeling of compassion just because he had spend 12 nightly hours
with some brute from Sarnoff's mob?
Considering that H. had not cared when he had asked Ryan to help him stage his
death, Wolfe was perfectly aware of the fact that if it had gone wrong, it would have
been his career that was over. Not Horatio's. He knew Horatio had chosen him
because he didn't want to damage either Eric or Calleigh. H. had not cared if he'd
damage Ryan, so why would he suddenly start to care now?
Frank detected bitterness in the younger man's voice.
He could not blame Wolfe: Ryan had many a reason to be bitter. Friday had just
been another of these days, when Ryan had found out once again that the team –
Horatio in the frontline- just saw him as kind of talking and walking crime analysis
machine that had to function, and if the machine was bugged, they would just turn
away and complain. They'd never ever try and find out why the "machine" bugged.
He had been feeling sorry for the young CSI for a long time, having quickly
understood that since H. never stood up for him, Calleigh and Eric joyfully used him
as their scapegoat.
With Delko Frank was not surprised at all. It had been clear from the beginning that
he resented Ryan with every fibre of his being and that he hated him for not being
his buddy Speedle.
From Calleigh Frank had expected somewhat better at first, but basically she had
never really cared. But Miss Dusquene had neither cared for either Hagen or Berkley
or Eliott , although these three men had been her lovers. It was, as if she could not
really care about others, being too absorbed in her own world and taking the males
around her either as career enhancers –Horatio- or as cosy pillows –Hagen, Eliott,
Berkley and now Delko. And when the pillow started to smell, she threw it into the
bin, getting herself a new, clean one.
"Listen, there was no mess, Ryan. Someone has cleaned your place as if it has been
a murder scene….couldn't even smell those nice flowers in your garden….only bleach
and detergents. They'd taken care of that wall too, but as you know…..blood always
sticks, even if you cannot see it any longer! H. found it through Luminol."
Suddenly, while he spoke these words, many thinks began to make sense for
Sergeant Frank Tripp: The Russians had intentionally put up a show at Ryan's place
–he could only imagine what the young man must have found there when coming
home after his extremely stressful night and day – in order to separate one of their
kind from the pack. And very cleverly they'd chosen the one, who would not be
missed immediately.
The hit on Wolfe's head was more then serious. Sarnoff really wanted that kid down!
And the cleaning team or whoever had been so liberal with bleach and detergent had
found his gun and cell, perhaps even his plate. They were planning very bad
mischief. He decided to tell Wolfe everything he'd learned from Horatio and impress
upon the kid to stay where he was…..as far away from Miami, as possible.
Ryan was slightly surprised that his French friends had acted with such speed and
determination: Within 24 hours Erwan de Kersausson had not only solved whatever
problems he might have had with H. for being absent without leave and
authorisation. They had also cracked down Sarnoff's IT system and were handing
their findings to the MDPD like Christmas cookies.
He could not help, but smiled. The Americans always enjoyed thinking, that the
French were lazy, lascivious, food-and fashion crazy and not very efficient! How
wrong they were.
The French were habitually very determined, entirely ruthless and had a handful of
gadgets even the NSA could only dream of. Just due to the fact, that they'd not sell
their stuff to XYZ on the world market, because more often then not the US put
economic and political pressure on potential clients to buy American, this did not
mean that the other guys were dunce heads.
And just because the French did not consider it wise to send troops onto the Iraqi
killing fields, because this was contrary to their economic and political interests in the
Middle East, it did not mean that they were cowards or cissies.
"Thank you, Frank!" The young CSI replied slightly more cheerful.
"If you permit, Ryan, I will keep you discreetly posted on what's going on." Tripp
offered straightforward. "I suppose, I can catch you at this number?"

 

[Griffon]

Re: Skin the Wolfe: Chapter 18:2 -A Matter of Family

Chap.18 continued

**

Dr.Padraig O'Briain had spend almost two hours detailing for Poniatowski how the
Ismaiylovskajya worked inside and what structures of command this branch of the
Russian mafia had.
His son had already explained the entire Miami business, starting with a fraud on
boat slids including ruthless murder, the tampered horse races, the contents of Ivan
Sarnoff's little black book and the names and positions of his known associates
including Gregor Kasparov, who was believed to be Sarnoff's second in command,
Jacob Jarovsky, who seemed to be the manager of their illegal arms trade and one
Victor Marenko who had taken over the Aegean Fight Club, while Ivan was in prison.
From the downloads from the mob IT network, they had found out that concerning
Kasparov they had been wrong. He was indeed Number 3 behind a guy –Vladimir
Nevzorov – who had not yet attracted police attention and was only under some light
surveillance, because he owned a famous Miami restaurant that was a hang out of
the rich, the famous and the rogues.
Poniatowski had been very demanding concerning everything in which Ryan had
been directly involved, since he had to pretend credibly with Rossinski, that he
needed his help to finish Sarnoff's hit order on the police officer.
They had agreed, that Poniatowski would explore and document how far Rossinski
would push this help. Then they'd stage at a convenient moment and if necessary
Ryan's death at the fake-Belkin's hand and fake-Belkin's own demise in a shootout
with Delveaux's Organised Crime Unit.
This stage management would allow the French to keep the real Belkin in their
custody. Moulin and Delveaux knew, that Erwan de Kersausson was already working
on a possibility to encourage the real Belkin to turn his coat. All would depend on the
level at which the mobster was amenable and receptive to the things they could
offer him.
He was not of high rank and had not committed a crime on French territory, but he
was the first of the Ismaylovskajya, they'd caught alive. Everything was possible;
from a new life, a new identity and immunity in exchange for information to
becoming their mole inside the organisation in exchange for money, new face and
new life when he'd draw out. Should Belkin accept such a deal, it would mean that
Ryan had also to die a fake death but then to keep up the true Belkin's credibility.
Delveaux and Moulin knew, that if this hypothesis should become reality, they'd ask
a lot of their friend: His one-way ticket from Miami would be also his final flight ticket
from Miami. A man who was officially dead could not return to his former job and
life. In reality it would simply mean that the Ryan Wolfe of US passport and fake
birth certificate from Boston would cease to exist, while the actual Ryan-Padraig
Wolfe-O'Briain with place of birth Dublin, Republic of Irland would not even need to
eliminate one part of his double name from his EC Passport.
They had been talking about this, just before Claire had called Ryan to the phone.
"I have a strange feeling,.." Jean-Paul Moulin told Delveaux and Paddy O'Briain,
"…that Ryan would not mind much! Already when he's been over for Christmas,
something was wrong and it had nothing to do with that Russian mob."
Paddy nodded. He had also felt, that his son had come over for the season with a
heavy heart and he had seen a haunted look in the young man's eyes that he had
not liked a lot.
Some years earlier, when Ryan had gotten himself that job at the MDPD CrimeLab
he'd been enthusiastic and readily told them during visits about his life in Miami. But
then something had happened and his son had become less loquascious, reducing
information exchange mainly to the scientific side of his profession, which very much
interested Claire, who was as a matter of fact also something of a CSI, even if it was
hard to compare the system of French scientific police and institutions with the US
system.
This first level of silence had been obviously related to his break-up with his girl
friend Erica Sikes, a journalist with a Miami TV station.
This break-up had been a huge surprise for Claire and Paddy, because their
relationship had almost evolved to a point, where Ryan planned to bring Erica to
France so she might meet his family. It had been indeed so serious, that Paddy and
Claire had been informed that he intended to propose to the girl as soon as she'd
met the family.
From Erica's side, this family meeting thing had already been done and it had
appeared to Paddy and Claire, that the girl's relatives approved of their son.
Then suddenly everything went to pieces: Ryan would not explain why and they had
never met the girl…nor any other female creature that might have come closer to
Ryan then arms length!
The first veil of silence had fallen and ever since he seemed to carefully avoid the
other sex. All he had been willing to tell, was that there existed a certain cultural
incompatibility between him and a majority of available females in Miami and that
whatsoever closer and more serious relationship with any of these females would
only lead – at one moment in time- to misunderstandings and heartache.
Over time he had become even more tight lipped about his job and life in the States
and Claire had had the impression that after each visit he paid to them in France, he
departed with an ever heavier heart, as if he had to force himself to step onboard
the flight back to Miami. And last Christmas it had been particularly visible, so
obvious that even Jean-Paul brought the subject onto the table.
"Did he tell you anything, JP?" Paddy asked. Habitually he was not nosy and did not
mess around in Ryan's business. His son was a grown man and had the right to keep
his own council.
But the situation actually at hand was somewhat special and some further knowledge
might be useful and help them all together.
"He was not very explicit, Paddy. Ryan is not a complainer! They seem to have
problems in personal management and the working climate is degrading. He's told
me a bit about a freak show of his boss and the rather reckless manner in which the
guy had him involved in that 'fake death', notwithstanding the fact that if things
would have turned badly, Ryan's head would have been immediately on the
block….with some pretty sharp axe right to his neck. No written statement, no
written orders, nothing from the boss to cover his subordinate in case of
problems…no coordination with his own superiors…It did not sound messy but right
out dangerous."
"Telling Paddy stories about my wonderful boss, JP?"
Ryan had returned to the garden without the others realising. He was still trying to
make up his mind about that strange phone call from Frank Tripp, but could not
convince himself that the old copper was trying tricks on him or had even consulted
with H. before ringing him up at this place.
Tripp had told him, that he'd simply called the 'International White Pages' operator
and asked for the phone numbers of all people in and around Paris who went by the
name O'Briain. He had really intended to phone up 50 people should need arrive,
and only stumbled over him at first call, by sheer fools luck!
A little voice deep inside told him, that he could trust Frank. Anyhow they'd find out
soon enough.
In a couple of hours H. would either call or not call the Paris Police Prefect Erwan de
Kersausson, then he'd know exactly what was going to happen and which role he
would play. He had already made up his mind to follow de Kersausson, JP and
Delveaux on the Belkin thing. Should it prove necessary to kill off his American self,
he would not cry and mourn over this part of his life.
They had started to discuss at about 16 hours on Sunday afternoon He realised that
it was now two o'clock on Monday morning.
Paddy had explained to them, that there were only two possibilities with the Russian
mob, when you had them on your heels and they wanted your life: Either you'd die
or you'd see to it, that the man who placed the hit on you died!
Habitually – inside the 'Bratstvo' if a stag managed to kill the hunter his problems
were over and he had his life back. That were the rules of the game between the
Russians themselves.
For an outsider the hunt was only over if he had the power and the influence to kill
the inside man who wanted him dead.
So for Ryan, a fake demise might actually be not the worst solution. By fake-Belkin
Poniatowski's hand, this would allow him a relative freedom of movement against
perhaps even Sarnoff himself, if they reacted quickly and played it tight.
By the hands of the true Belkin, who'd be willing to return into Sarnoff's mob as a
mole and subvert their activities from inside, the sacrifice would be worth the price
and somehow he no longer minded the job with MDPD CrimeLab too much.
Green pastures existed in France too! They had seven excellent crime labs in the
country, their scientific level probably even much higher then that of their Miami lab.
He could perhaps finish his PhD in Genetics, a project close to his heart and which he
had laid a bit on ice in order to work for the police. He was looking at his father and
his two friends.
"And if we'd call it a day, guys! That Belkin man cannot run away and calling Mr.
Alexandr Rossinski at 2 o'clock in the morning might be considered bad education,
even by the standards of the Russian Mob."
He was tired. His body was still very much aching. The jet lag finally kicked in and
somehow he did not want to take a decision right now. He wanted to mull things
over. Wait and see.

 

[Griffon]

Re: Skin the Wolfe: Chapter 19:1 - Wise Man's Words

Chapter 19 Wise Man's Words
*
Ramona could not believe it. Tears were welling up in her eyes and she had to bit
her lip. She had her arms around the shoulders of Rodrigo and Pedro her two young
brothers. The boys stood there transfixed and completely silent and stared at the two
rooms that would soon be their bedrooms….their bedrooms: They could not believe
it, too!
Aljosha Danilenko smiled. It was a honest and carefree smile. She liked it and Ivan
had been formal: She was to have it. Not just rented out for her, but Sarnoff had
ordered him to buy the flat from his own, personal money. Ivan –on occasions-was a
man of rapid decisions and occasionally these decisions did not come from careful
evaluation of a situation but straight from his guts. Danilenko shook his head. There
were worse investments then 200 square meters, a garden and two garages in South
Miami's Homestead Quarter. It was a part of Miami, where you could still find
agriculture, fruit and veggie growers, young middle class families with small children
who cared for a safe and healthy environment and coppers like Caine, who could not
afford better, but wanted to life in a nice and peaceful place.
Ivan had been formal: he did not want his name connected to anything Ramona…he
wanted her safe and well protected…he wanted this to look, as if Babushka Marja
Fedorovna – the Snow-White of the Bratstvo- had just seen to the comfort and well-
being of her beloved governess. They had excellent lawyers on the mob's payroll
who'd fix that deal.
"Peter,.." He told the bear of a man, who stood a little away from them, careful to
employ his anglicised name and speak English to him "You may wish to take Pedro
and Rodrigo out for some ice cream, while we conclude with Mr.Franklin !"
Piotr the body guard beamed and bowed his head. Then he took the two boys hands
and led them away. They were nice children and he loved nice children. One day, he
would have boys of his own with a good woman like Ramona, teaching them to hunt,
to fish and to take care of themselves and spoiling them rotten. Nothing to do with
his own, bleak and tough Moscow childhood in a broken country without any law.
The boys chattered happily with the hulk, asking him, if he'd come and see their new
rooms, telling him what they'd do in the gardens and that he needed to help them
building a tree house.
Ramona was slowly recovering from her shook. , the owner of the house decided
that this and sending off the children was an excellent sign. With the economy crisis
that also struck hard real estate owners like him, a buyer, who would pay cash was
God's gift. And as far as he could understand, this pretty young mother of two who
had come with a very respectable looking business man not only could afford his
house, but had the cash to pay for it. Heavens, the chick was pretty. Already the
necklace around her neck was worth at least 5 grands and the small ear studs on her
beautifully shaped ears where another 2 grands. The car in front, while not flashy,
was nice, new and solid. And they'd come with a driver. Both boys well bred, clean
and polite….he could hope for nothing better as a buyer. The neighbours would
certainly take quickly to her little family.
Danilenko ignored Franklin and took Ramona's arm:" So you like it, Dear? It feels
right?"
She beamed at him and nodded. "It is perfect, I do not know…"
Alexej chuckled and lifted his hand. "If it is perfect, than there is no need to talk. It's
yours. I will see to the legal business and make sure that you and the boys move in
as soon as possible." He gave her his most charming smile. "Now off you go and find
the boys and Peter. I will finalise everything with and then find you."
She nodded, pecked a kiss on his check and went of after Rodrigo, Pedro and Piotr.
She could hardly believ what was happening to her, also had explained everything.
They had had a very long discussion that afternoon at Marja Feodorovna's house.
had told her, that was a shy man who had had a very difficult and hard life and was
a bit awkward, when it came to expressing his feelings. He had told her, that was
very fond of her –very fond and that this flat was just peanuts for ….but to know,
that she owned it simply made him feel much better. So he just wanted her and the
little ones to be fine until he'd come back. Being at BunkerHill was just bad enough
and –having seen were Ramona lived with Pedro and Rodrigo –felt even worse. He
was upset to know, that every day she returned to a place where bad things could
happen to her, while he was locked away and could not help.
Ramona had finally given in. It was true that her neighbourhood was a nightmare. It
was true that she blessed Piotr and his colleagues, when they drew her home from
Marja Feodorowna's, giving those rascals from the Latino gangs in her place hard
looks and telling them to stay away from Ramona and the boys. But Piotr and his
colleagues did not stand guard over the entry of Pedro's and Rodrigo's prep school.
They were not always around and her little brothers often told her how frightened
they were, when another shoot out between the gangs would leave another bloodied
body on the street. This neighbourhood was different. It was closer to Marja
Feodorovna's place, better, calmer and with no problems of THAT kind. People here
were peaceful and lived peaceful lives. They'd enjoy it.
"So we have a deal !" Danilenko replied in excellent English.
"We have…" The owner smiled. " Miss Sanchez can move in immediately if she
wants. You see: The place is pristine. There is nothing to do. Just put in the
furniture, sign up the boys at school and enjoy!"
The Russian mobster nodded. He liked the place too. Lieutenant Horatio Caine
obviously had a pretty good taste. He had seen the convenient shopping mall close
bye, but it was not a sore onto the eye. He had seen the nice and modern medical
facilities. The prep school was beautiful; brand new and appealing to children. The
bus stop right in front of a gate with a security guy and electronic portico to check
for mean stuff like knifes or guns. There was a park nearby, the beach hardly 30
minutes on foot away and the centre of 'Homestead' harboured many nice little
shops and restaurants.
"We'll meet tomorrow at 8h30 precisly at Websters&Brooks downtown, ." Danilenko
grinned. "I give you cash, you give me the keys right now. I want to see my friend
move in immediately."
Franklin slapped the proffered hand. "You have a deal, !"
**
Tim Belkin was not a happy man!
His world had been reduced to 9 square meters. He could not even have a pee
without watchful eyes on him.
He had no shoe laces, no bed sheets, no paper, no pencil…even his food was served
together with a plastic spoon on a unbreakable plastic plate for toddlers. His drinks
came in baby cups…no sharp edges, nothing….and always those eyes....
The guard in front of his holding cell changed every hour, but one thing did not
change: The eyes of the guard were upon him 24/24 and the watchful creatures
would neither move nor speak to him, while on shift. They just sat and stared.
Nobody had been rude with him. Quite the contrary! Nobody had been violent or
abasing. They called him Sir, would change the telly channel as soon as he asked,
brought him edibles and drinkables at demand and never invaded his personal space.
They were perfect. Only he was tremendously upset: Tim felt like a rat in a cage!
"Hey, buddy!" He called out to his guard. " Where's my lawyer! What is going on!
I've done no wrong!"
The French robot just stared at him unblinking. He smiled. Tim was mightily pissed.
"Get me a beer!" He shouted.
The robot nodded, whispered into his walkie-talkie and made a beer appear within
seconds right inside a toddlers plastic cup. Robot passed it through the bars of the
holding cell and smiled. His shift was over and another French robot entered the
premises. It was female, this time. It smiled!
Belkin gulped his toddler's cup, realized that once again they'd given him alcohol-free
and sank depressed upon his plastic covered mattress. He really wanted to strike
out, hurl at these bullshitters and give them a piece of his mind…..but whenever he
did, all they'd do was…..smile at him.
He had no idea, how long he'd been in his rat cage: One hour, one day, one months,
one year….how should he know; light was always dim, but it never went off.
He felt completely disoriented and weak. The only visual stimulation would come
from the telly set….but they had turned off the sound….he could watch, but would
not hear human voices. It was sheer torment. He'd never been subject to more cruel
treatment, not even during special forces training with the Russian Army a lifetime
ago.
The French police officer who was observing Belkin on a computer screen smiled.
There was no need to rough up a man to break him or inflict bodily harm to make
him squeal and bend. It was sufficient to deprive a prisoner for a relatively short time
span of all external stimuli and he'd go to pieces.
No national law, no international convention obliged them to have small talk with
that rogue…… Some more hours all alone in this pristine, warm, comfortable cell
surrounded by faceless and voiceless kindly shadows and that Russian bloke would
be ripe for harvesting. He was already at the brink of a nervous breakdown! He did
not understand what was happening to him….before the end of the day, he'd be
completely distressed….
The officer lifted up the phone and dialled an internal shortcut. "He's surprisingly
weak, Sir!" He explained, as soon as they were on line.
"He expected pain…" The voice on the other end of the line replied." And we did not
give him, what he's expected and what he'd been able to cope with. Change his
guard, send in an elderly officer, one whom you'd give your house keys and whom
you'd have look after the children….cup of coffee, some chocolate…tell the man to
talk with Belkin…"
The officer chuckled. "You are a cruel man, Sir!" He replied. "Hopefully, I will never
ever be in trouble with you!"
"Hopefully not, my friend…" The voice said cheerfully. "Call me immediately, when
our man is falling apart…"

 

[Griffon]

Re: Skin the Wolfe: Chapter 19:2 - Wise Man's Words

Chap.19 continued

***
Ryan Wolfe had found his cosy bed upstairs at Claire's and Paddy's.
He loved this place. Saint Nom la Breteche was the most beautiful living area on the
outskirts of Greater Paris and Claire's house was situated in the most ancient and
most beautiful part of that place.
Once upon a time, the park had been private and belonged to the Chateau de la
Breteche, the Breteche Castle. But in the 1920ies the owners had been in financial
trouble and had been obliged to sell off the dependencies.
Claire's grand-parents – the butcher and the village groceries maid – had
immediately jumped on the opportunity. Even when times were hard, people had to
eat – and had bought the place.
Ninety years of good money and good care had done wonders to the former barn
and it was now the prettiest and largest private property on the 20 hectares of the
Chateau's Park.
As it was his habit, he sat on the window sill and looked at the pond with its lavish
sea roses in cream, pink and red. He loved the pond, even went swimming in it also
Claire always chided him, that the water was not tidy because of the ducks and
water chicken. But Ryan had never cared.
Miami had wonderful beaches and water of the colour of blue diamonds, but it was
impossible to simply swim there without meeting sharks or even worse –madmen on
speedboats, water scooters or other stuff. And he hated swimming pools. There was
something unnatural about a swimming pool –chlorine and chemistry!
With Erica they had occasionally gone down to Ball Harbour Island, but he could not
really enjoy a place where everything was about fashion and hardly anything about
the ocean. Well, there had only been 10 shark attacks in Dade County, with the last
fatality happening back in 1961, but Miami had a world reputation for nasty jelly fish
and sting rays and if there was one thing in the world Ryan Wolfe hated even more
the idea of sharks, it were jellyfish!
As to his OCD, this might perhaps be single proof, he might not have been lying to
H. some five years ago; Calleigh got crack-a-nuts over spiders! Valera could not
leave a room without cleaning it. BoaVista seemed to have an obsession with
showers and being proper herself and Delko....well Delko was obsessed with sex....
Ryan was not different from his colleagues. He too had certain obsessions: He would
iron his shirts, could not cope with the death rising from their stretchers in the MDPD
morgue and he hated jellyfish. And this was the one thing he loved about Claire's
pond –although the water was habitually at a temperature that would even
discourage a whale from the South Pole: There were absolutely no jellyfish
inside....not even small ones!
Ryan shuddered when he thought of his childhood, their carefree adventures on the
beach in front of JPs place at Crozon and the huge, glibbery, translucent and very
cold thingy with tentacles that JP had dropped on his naked belly, while he had been
drowsing in the sun…exactly the day after TF 1 had had the first part of 'Alien'
starring Segourney Weaver on the telly screen.
They had been watching the program at JPs, because Clemence would not allow him
to watch television at home….their whole bunch: JP, five years Ryan's senior,
Maewyn, the boss of their little band of brothers, JP's sweetheart and the only one of
age, Pierre-Louis, who was now a French Navy officer on the Jean-d'Arc, Louise, who
had become an ophtalmologist at Brest –she had seen Ryan after he had gotten the
blasted nail into his eye and saved his vision – Olivier, who had been working for Elf-
Aquitaine as a security manager and was now somewhere down the Amazon River
on three-master La Boudeuse to study climatic changes, Frankkie who was still a
fisherman in Brittany and him, the baby of the bunch.
They had always kept in touch and close.
Perhaps it was not such a bad idea to die by the hands of whatsoever Belkin and
leave Miami and the US behind. He loved France, loved his friends and loved his
family!
He had inherited Clemence's villa at Morgat on the Crozon peninsula, also Paddy and
Claire lived in there most of the time. He had enough money to do what he liked
best and Brest –at 25 minutes from the peninsula – had the second crime lab of
France, which was run by Claire's old buddy Professeur Daniel Clarys, an M.D and
paleo-antrophologist of European repute.
Clarys would be happy to have him, even without Claire giving him the push up.
Clarys been already external examiner on Ryan's Master in Biochemistry.
The young CSI took a huge towel from a cupboard in his chamber and silently
trotted down the staircase, through the house and back into the gardens. Claire and
Paddy were asleep; Paddy happy to be allowed to mess with exciting stuff once
again, Claire mightily pissed with the two males of the O'Briain family.
He was content not to be in the midst between these two very strong characters. It
did not take a lot of imagination to divine what piece of mind Claire would have given
his father as soon as JP, Delveaux and Serge Poniatowski had departed and him
gone up to his room.
He chuckled evilly. Paddy could take it once in a while! His father was a wonderful
man and he loved him dearly, but at 60 years of age he was also the most
irresponsible, harebrained and carefree creature Ryan had ever met in his lifetime.
He closed the terrace door and enjoyed the wonderful summer night: It was warm,
but not hot as in Miami and the humidity was decent. Over his head, stars were
sparkling in the skies, untainted by the lights of Paris. Crickets were chirruping and
the water chicken gave an annoyed 'pluck-pluck' when the potentially unfriendly and
highly annoying two-legged bio-entity approached its territory.
Ryan dropped of his ample jeans shirt and light cotton trousers. Fortunately he and
Paddy were about the same size and he'd fit into his father's stuff or else he would
have come to the pond in Hugo Boss and blood-soaked Forzieri.
Occasionally he would regret that he could no longer share moments like this with
Erica...but not tonight. He was happy to be on his own!
Part of himself still loved Erica and her many good sides, but another part told him,
that the career management of a Miami-born 'Belle' in the show bizz would never
ever agree with the family values and code of conduct of a French-bred Irishman.
Ryan was fully aware of his shortcomings: he had spend 1/3 of his life in the US, but
he had been born and bred in Europe. While he had good brains and an above-
average IQ, he was simply not capable to admit that someone who pretended he'd
love you, would put career in front of personal feelings and use someone else's
personal feelings to simply further a professional career.
He was perhaps too petty-minded to get this greater picture….he'd never ever
imagined to further his career at the expense of Erica: Either you loved or you did
not, but a job had nothing to do with personal feelings. Paddy and Claire were the
best example for this: The former IRA terrorist and the French CSI!
Claire and Paddy never ever even talked about it….they simply lived
together…happily: Him now teaching Celtic languages at La Sorbonne, her slicing up
rotten bodies at Garches. They never ever talked shop….And this had been the very
problem with Erica….she'd been talking shop while they were making love. He had
always been incapable of talking shop or whatsoever, when with a woman…he was
just a pretty normal male, who'd rather think of the she under or above him, then of
his pay check!
Ryan glid into the cool waters of Claire's pond, relishing in the fresh cleanliness and
enjoying the feel of tiny little fish nibbling at the wet hair on his legs. He could smell
the heavy scent of Queen of Prairies and blue and yellow wild irises and the
moonlight was reflecting yellowish in the black surface of the small lake.
His killer ribs stopped aching. The water was very cold, colder then he'd expected on
a Midsummer Night. It did him a world of good. No pain any more. No feelings…just
deep and dark waters.
He turned onto his back and drifted over to his favourite root. Claire always chided
that this place of the pond was really disgusting, since the water lenses grew there
and all the toads eggs floated under the surface, but Wolfe did not mind. He liked
toads!
Claire and Paddy had a tame toad going by the name of Trevor, who visited them
during summer on the terrace. They'd caress Trevor and give him tiny nibbles of
worms, when they had no guests watching. He had no problem with toads and their
eggs. He found Trevor rather endearing. Ryan hooked his arm over the root and let
himself drift in the cold waters.
Claire had told him a bit earlier that he'd keep the scars. It had not been a good idea
to stitch up the worst reminiscences of his encounter with Dimitrij Belkin. In order to
prevent scaring, wounds needed to be stitched up immediately! Ryan had not known
this. Quite often he had been together with Marc, when his veterinarian friend had
been stitching together a horse or cow. Ryan had grown up on the countryside and
liked animals. His love of wildlife and domestic pets had been one of the reasons,
why he had formed a solid friendship with Marc Gantry. Marc was the reason why he
knew, how it was done…stitching up!
But Marc had never told him about timeframes. He stretched out his hand and
touched the soft feathers of one of the baby water chicken who were drifting in their
sleep upon the pond. They were not afraid of humans. Paddy and Claire fed them all
the time and if you were careful you could lift them up and pet them. The water
chick did not even lift its tiny red-beaked head.
He could not care less: What difference did it make in the end, if he had a scar or
two or not? He just enjoyed being alive, be himself and be here –under the moon
and the stars – in a dark, cool pond and far away from all the troubles of the world,
feeling the water on his skin and watching the night. Tomorrow would be another
day and he'd think about what he'd do and how and when and perhaps wait for
another phone call from Frank…..just in case that H. might have come to his senses
and done something reasonable.
***
Lieutenant Caine was tired. He yearned for a bed and some hours of sleep. Eight
o'clock in the morning on the other side of the Atlantic was 2 o'clock in the morning
at Miami.
And it had not been a quick phone call! His colleague from Paris had kept him on line
for almost two hours. And while the intelligence he'd received on Sarnoff's mob had
been absolutely exciting, the few, short remarks concerning CSI Wolfe had been a
down turn. Horatio had never ever felt so humiliated…by a stranger he had never
met and would most likely never met face-to-face. Just one sentence, but this had
been enough!
This prefect of Paris Police Forces – Horatio had understood that the man was
something like a super-Chief with powers over police, military men, civil emergency
responders and internal security – had simply asked him, how he could not have
seen that his CSI had been tortured!
Nothing else: Ten simple words in rather good English with a heavy French accent!
"Have you not seen, that your officer has been tortured?" Nothing else. Just ten
words! Ten words and a voice that said more then one thousand words…
Hoartio felt guilty; he had not seen; he had not realised. He should have! In the end,
he'd asked his French counterpart and the man had grudgingly revealed what one of
their MEs had seen, but the French prefect was completely unwilling to dwell upon
the issue; all he'd gotten from de Kersausson was a word to the wise; that it may be
simply the best to leave his CSI alone for a couple of days, because he was just a
human being and needed time to cope with what had happened.
De Kersausson had cut the discussion on Wolfe short, telling him in detail, what the
French IT wizards had found out and explaining to Horatio what they were planning
to do next. He also told him that he'd call his MDPD boss and make things right –
from a strictly legal point of view. There was nothing strange about police forces
cooperating beyond borders when it came to dangerous criminals like the Russian
mafia.
"We shall stay in touch, Lieutenant Caine!" De Kersausson had told him. "This may
be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to clean out some scum…and I'll send your CSI
back as soon as he's up to it !"
As soon as Ryan was up to it?
Horatio had agreed with de Kersausson, accepted his lavish gifts and shut his cell
close.
He was brewing himself a strong coffee, rejecting the idea of getting some hours of
sleep because he wanted to be at the MDPD as soon as his superiors would start
their week and pondering upon the French idea to set up Sarnoff with an arms deal
that would leave the Russian mobster most probably dead by the hands of his own
friends. The French idea was excellent, also it was completely ruthless and immoral.
But he wanted to mull it over. Have a cup of coffee, shower, shave, dress, go to the
MDPD, wait and see and ….mull it over.

 

[Griffon]

Re: Skin the Wolfe: Chapter 20:1 - Many Secrets

Chapter 20 Many Secrets
*
Frank had been waiting for Horatio right outside the MDPD. It was imperative that he
caught Caine far away from prying eyes, curious ears and Rick Stetler. The boss of
the CrimLab's Day Shift arrived at 8h30 sharp and at 8h45 was aware of the fact that
the phonecall from CSI Wolfe had been a fake.
Horatio gave Tripp a hard look. "What else have you been talking about? How is he?
I need to talk to Ryan now!"
Frank smiled and shook his head. "You do not need to talk to him, H.! Just let him be
for a while and wait until he comes back."
Caine gave in. "Ok, Frank! Now all we need to do is cover up for him with Stetler and
with Human Ressources. I suggest, you call Alexx Woods, explain everything to her
and ask her, if she can get us some medical certificate, preferably with the signature
of one of her colleagues….so it does not ring a bell with Rick."
Tripp nodded. He'd been thinking already of this possibility. Since Alexx had left the
lab, she worked part time at the Miami Dade Hospital ER. "I take care of this
immediately H. How was your phone call with that Frenchie chief of police?"
"De Kersausson! Surprising! They had more good luck then should be permitted and
probably some very gifted IT people. He promised me to talk to our Chief and tell
him a credible story. Considering the fact, that the guy seems to be as sleek as an
eel and as glibbery as a jellyfish, I have no doubts, the Chief will swallow his bullshit
and follow his lead. The argument, that we have incidentally a once in a lifetime
occasion to crack down on the Russian mob in Paris and in Miami will do the trick."
Tripp took his leave, heading off to Alexx Wood's place and Horatio entered MDPD.
The day shift receptionist handed him an envelope with his name written on it. He
was slightly surprised, turned it around and saw CSI Wolfe's name and address as
the sender. He thanked the girl, glid the envelope into his pocket and decided to give
it a more thorough check up later on. With Frank's revelations concerning Ryan's
phone call it was hardly possible that his CSI would have send him something. So
this envelope was most probably another fake from the Russian Mob. He doubted
that there would be anything concluding on the envelope or paper inside, considering
the fact that Sarnoff's bunch had already professionally cleaned up Wolfe's house,
but it might be still worth a try.
He had hardly made his round of greeting his collaborators, when a uniformed police
officer hurried towards him and told him, that the Chief wanted to see him
immediately.
"De Kersausson is quite the reactive partner in crime!" Horatio thought, giving the
officer a smile and following him upstairs. "Now wait and see, what the Chief will tell
me."
**
Dr.Alexx Woods was cleaning up the kitchen. After a nice family breakfast, following
a wonderful family weekend, she had seen Peter and her children off and enjoyed
the peace and the quite of a Monday morning alone at home. She never worked on
Mondays. It was her day for cleaning, washing, ironing, shopping and other chores.
In the early evening, before the family would return home, she went to her weekly
yoga class at the local fitness studio. Monday was Alexx's day!
When the doorbell rang, she was a little bit surprised to open and look into Sergeant
Frank Tripp's large, benign face. She was nonetheless happy to see the old copper,
motioned him inside and settled him comfortably on the large terrace in front of her
kitchen.
"You take some coffee with me, Frank! It's freshly brewed and I need a break from
my chores."
Tripp acquiesced, dropped into a comfortable chair and they engaged in five minutes
small talk about her boys and Peter, Alexx's husband. Frank dutifully admired Peter's
latest handiwork, a beautifully carved teak cupboard on the terrace and admitted,
that would the man not have been such a good osteopath and bone surgeon, he
could have made a brilliant career as a carpenter.
"Now, Frankie-baby, what brings you to my home early on a Monday morning?"
Alexx enquired with a cheeky smile. She had always liked the old copper, whose
heart was exactly in the right place.
Tripp enjoyed the wonderful Costa Ricca Coffee with its tip of whipped cream and
cocoa. There was nobody on the surface of the planet who could brew coffee like
this, but Alexx Woods M.D . It was pure delight.
"What brings me, Alexx? Ryan! He needs your help…desperately!"
Alexx turned instantly pale under her dark skin. Already when she'd met H. at that
garden party at McGregor's she'd had a bad feeling about Ryan. The few words,
Horatio had slipped concerning his young CSI had not been right! She had tried to
reason with Caine, get some more information….but the whole discussion had ended
in an almost-brawl between her and the Lieutenant and she had not insisted in front
of too many prying eyes and ears.
"What's the matter with Ryan?" She asked Tripp.
Her voice trembled. She had always had a soft spot for the hazel-eyed, brown haired
CSI with the temperament of a thoroughbred racing horse. After her initial
recalcitrant feelings, following Tim Speedles death in the line of duty and Wolfe's
recruiting had faded, she had taken very much to him. Her instinct as a mother had
told her that under his rather tough surface he was hiding a kindly, gentle soul and a
good heart. She had been one of the very few, who'd always stood by Wolfe's side,
not even shunning him, when Stetler fired him from the lab and H. did not come to
his rescue.
Frank took another sip of coffee. "Alexx, what I tell you now is strictly between you
and I, also it is Horatio's request that I do so!" He explained to her in detail, what
had happened to Wolfe including all about Billy Gantry's kidnapping and Ryan's
desperate stalling of their latest enquiry in order to save the boy's life.
" All we know, is that he's spend 12 very tough hours in the hand of that mobster.
The Police Prefect of Paris has told H., that the kiddo has been tortured and is in bad
physical shape…ok, they take good care of him over there and as far as I
understood, he seems to be with his family…but nonetheless, we must cover up for
him with Stetler and the IAB at least or else Ryan risks his job!"
"Poor baby!" Alexx replied, forcing down some tears that had welled up in her soft,
gentle brown eyes.
"Peter's associate can write out the medical certificate. You know, Jason Brown, the
huge teddy bear, whom you have seen on Peter's birthday party. He is also an
osteopath and bone surgeon and Rick Stetler will not make the connection. They are
altogether six doctors at the clinic and since it is only some 20 minutes on foot from
the MDPD and works 24/24 7/7, it would only make sense that he goes there. I will
see to it immediately, my friend. We will keep Ryan out of harms way as much as we
can. I believe, that four weeks of medical leave are more then justified, if we give
him a couple of broken ribs, damage to the spleen or the liver and a risk of
pneumothorax!"
Tripp smiled. "I trust you, Alexx. It must only be credible enough to give the kiddo
the time he needs to heal, to come to his senses and back into the fold!"
***
Serge Poniatowski stretched out his hand. "Otshen prijatno, Alexandr Sergeevitsch!
Thank you very much for receiving me so quickly."
The other man took the hand, pressed it firmly and led his guest to a table, where a
dutiful secretary had prepared coffee, tea and some pastries. They were alone in the
lavish office on the fifth floor of a six-floors XIX. Century Hausmann building on Foch
Avenue.
Poniatowski took the offered seat, accepted coffee and a fresh croissant and opened
his well-cut grey business jacket to make himself comfortable.
"Now, Timofeij Aronovitsch, what can I do to you, early on a Monday morning?" The
Paris-based Russian mobster replied in a strictly business voice. Each and every
innocent bystander who'd observed the two man in the office would have sworn an
oath, that a simply discussion between to executives was going to begin.
Outside the lavish Hausmann building on the Avenue Foch, a diminutive punky-
haired girl in a kaki green tank top, army trousers and DocMartens Combat Boots
adjusted her earpiece and chuckled softly. "He is in, he drinks coffee and he eats a
croissant, Commandant Delveaux!" Lise Simon said with a malicious smile. "My little
toy works perfectly."
Delveaux kissed her cheek."You are the best, Lise! We know. Now you give an
earpiece to the nice lady and shut up….as far as I know, your Russian is rather
weak!"
Lise Simon, the 25-years old IT-wizard of the DGRI Cybercrime Unit blew Delveaux a
kiss. "Everything you want, pretty boy!" She replied with cheek and handed an
earpiece to an elderly lady, who was a simultaneous translator for Russian with the
Paris Police Prefecture.
"Is it still night time in Moscow?" Poniatowski had just said the very sentence that
made Rossinski understand that the other man was a member of the 'Bratstvo' and
on official 'Bratstvo' business in Paris.
" In Moscow everybody is at work right now!" Rossinski replied, delivering his key
sentence. The atmosphere in the office on the fifth floor changed in a nick. Both men
had proven that they belonged to the same organisation and would work together.
The translator became suddenly very tense.
" Commander Poniatowski has stated his business and Rossinski is telling him that he
will provide whatever help is needed."
"Good!" Delveaux smiled. That was much easier then he'd thought it would be. The
tape recorder in the camouflaged police vehicle recorded every word of Rossinski and
their undercover agent.
Lise Simon was almost as tense as the interpreter, also she could not understand a
single word of Russian. All she was interested in was the BlackBerry in Commander
Poniatowski's breast pocket. She'd bugged it with a receiver that worked no matter
the BlackBerry was online or switched off. But the device was a fickly thing,
depending on a minute power supply that was still experimental and could break
down at every moment in time. The device was her brain's child and she trembled
for her baby.
Poniatowski was explaining Sarnoff's hit order on Wolfe and how he lost track on the
CSI at CDG-Roissy.
Rossinski gave a deep sigh. "The man must have travelled with a Schengen passport,
Timofeij Aronovitsch! Do not worry, no fault of yours! Only European citizens under
the Schengen agreement get through French customs at such a speed. But we have
friends at Customs and we shall find out where he is....no matter how much he tries
to hide!"
"I shall be eternally in your debt, Alexandr Sergueivitsch!" Poniatowski-Belkin replied
in his best 'I am an obedient soldier of the Bratstvo voice'.
"You do not worry, my friend!" The French mobster spoke. " Please give me your
phone number and the necessary information to reach you. I will send out my men.
We will be in touch"
Poniatowski-Belkin took the glorious occasion and pulled the BlackBerry from his
pocket. Lise had also integrated a little video device which was even more fragile and
experimental then the listening device. Suddenly Rossinski's office appeared on the
screen of the police vehicle. The image was very mediocre, but considering the fact
that everything worked on a turned off BlackBerry made even this mediocre image a
wonder of technology.
Rossinski did not react. He simply took the phone number Poniatowski wrote on a
yellow post. "You should check out from Concorde-L'Étoile, Timofeij Aronovitsch..",
the Paris-based Russian mobster advised his guest from Miami, " Unfortunatelly the
French police forces and intelligence services are a highly suspicious bunch and keep
this hotel under constant surveillance. The Concorde has many guests from the
Middle East, some of them suspect of involvement with Al Quaida...".
Together with Lise Simon and the elderly interpreter, Delveaux observed how
Rossinski fumbled a set of keys from a drawer. He handed it to their undercover
agent. "This is a safe place, my friend" The Mobster wrote down the address. "Stay
there until we contact you!"
"And my people?" Belkin-Poniatowski enquired innocently.
"I shall contact Vladimir Sergueivitsch in Miami. Timofeij Aronovitsch! We will handle
this matter together." With these words he dismissed his visitor and a pretty
secretary ushered Poniatowski-Belkin out of Alexandr Rossinski's office. What neither
Rossinski, nor his pretty secretary realised was, that Poniatowski had managed to
plant a minuscule bug on his way out of the premises.
The team in the police van down on Avenue Foch was jubilant. Delveaux flipped his
cell phone open and called headquarters.
***
The Chief of the MDPD had kept Lieutenant Caine for almost three hours, Leaving his
superior's premises Horatio greeted Stetler, who sat in his office, brooding over some
documents . The IAB Sergeant lifted his head and quickly acknowledged the boss of
the CrimLab Day Shift. He had other problems then Caine's unruly CSIs at this
moment. The file on his table was of the utmost importance. It seemed, as if two
patrol man under his authority had decided together, that the county's paycheck was
not enough. According to his notes. The two men had found a way to improve their
weekly pay by racketing the owners of several Chinese restaurants downtown. He
could not allow this to happen. Forgetting about Caine and the CSIs, Stetler send an
e-mail to the direct superior of the two coppers. He had tough work at hand. Two
rogue coppers, who were shedding a bad light at the MDPD.
****
Calleigh Dusquene gave Eric Delko a beautiful smile. They had spend a wonderful
weekend together enjoying the ocean, the sun and the soft breeze down at Ball
Harbour Island. Eric was teaching Calleigh how to scuba dive and she had
appreciated her experience under the seas, observing the colourful fish and beautiful
water flora through the mask of her gear. They had not gone deep. Just about 10
meters were sufficient to see the best of Miami's underwater wildlife and it was also
safe for a beginner. Calleigh felt a bit exhausted from the not so habitual exercise
and her legs ached from too much swimming and too much lovemaking, but she
would not have missed this weekend for the world. She felt so good with
Eric…complete and sated. He was different from her former lovers; kinder, more
selfless, much more caring! It were perhaps these few years of age that made the
difference. Never before, Calleigh Dusquene had taken a lover to her bed, who was
her junior. But maturity-wise Eric outmatched even Jake Berkley and he was less
obsessed, less interested in his own ego.
Calleigh's hand brushed discretely over Eric's when the younger man picked a
forensics journal from her table in the ballistics lab. Surprisingly their week had not
started on frenetic phone calls from 911 or some downtown coppers, who had
stumbled over some gory after-weekend crime scene just at the beginning of their
Monday morning shift. After a trying, highly exciting and most dangerous week,
Miami seemed as much at peace as she was herself. She chuckled softly when Eric
left the lab, brushing his body discreetly against hers and closing the door silently.
She would pick out some Cold Case to pass time until shift's end and try to look
forward to another evening with her exciting new lover.

 

[Griffon]

Re: Skin the Wolfe: Chapter 20:2 - Many Secrets

Chap.20 continued

*****
Eric Delko kept his happy smile on his face until he entered his own lab. On the way
over from Calleigh's he had greeted BonaVista and Valera and he had said a quick
'Hello' to Travers. Since this Monday morning seemed peaceful –after a roller coaster
week with the Russian mob – he decided to pick up on the latest scientific
developments in the field of fingerprints. He poured himself a coffee from a ready
thermos on his desk and made himself comfortable.
The weekend with Calleigh had been an absolute success: She showed great
promises as a diver, being physically fit, astute and completely fearless. Never before
had he so much enjoyed teaching an absolute newcomer. Habitually he was short-
tempered and exacting with diving newbbies, expecting them to literally get the
knack by watching him. Eric new that he was not a good teacher. He was most
certainly not an enthusiastic one, but with her things were completely different.
After a long time spent, chasing after non-committing and mostly anonymous
encounters he had finally found the perfect woman! He had always liked Calleigh,
but after he had been shot, he had done a lot of thinking, putting his life and aims
into perspective and somewhere on that path he had to admit to himself that
running after the chicks and womanising as if his life depended on it had only been a
failed attempt to deny his true feelings. He was simply in love with Calleigh and
could not imagine living his life without her.
Turning over the pages of his forensics journal without actually reading them and
sipping at his coffee, Eric let wander his thoughts back to each and every moment of
the weekend with Calleigh, reliving in his head those tender moments, when she
woke him up with a kiss and a breakfast for two in bed, when they had been in her
shower together just right after returning from Ball Harbour Island and before going
out to diner, the soft candlelight that had made her green eyes look like emeralds at
their small restaurant close to Calleighs place, where they used to fed each other
with tiny bits from their plates, because nobody would be watching them….
"Eric?" The voice repeated for the third time, now louder and with more insistence.
Delko's head snapped up from the Forensiscs Journal. He could not prevent his
cheeks from taking some slight colouring and hoped, that the unexpected visitor
would not see and devine from his unease that nothing had been about fingerprints
and everything about Calleigh during the last few minutes.
"Valera! What can I do for you?" He asked the Lab Technician, specialised in DNA
analysis and habitually working with Nathalia BoaVista, who by now had become a
CSI trainee, working more on crime scenes then downstairs in her little scientific
world.
"I was just looking for Ryan and thought I would find him around her!" Maxine
replied.
Delko wrinkled his nose and gave her a disgusted look that was more explicit then
1000 words could have been. "I very much doubt, that he would be around
somewhere here. You may perhaps give it a try and look downstairs at the garbage
cans. Maybe he's trying to look out for more evidence he might have dropped last
week!"
Maxine gave Delko a surprised and somewhat upset look, thanked him frostily,
turned around and left the fingerprints and traces lab without another word. She had
been aware of the tension between Delko and Ryan, ever since the young former
cop had integrated the CrimLab after Tim Speedle's death. She had also been on
occasions witness to the very rough treatment, Wolfe was receiving from the good-
looking and habitually rather nice Cuban American. But she was somewhat surprised
by the extremely nasty turn, the relationship between the two male officers on
Lieutenant Caine's Day Shift team seamed to take, ever since Eric had gotten himself
heavily involved with Calleigh Dusquene.
While Eric and CSI Dusquene attempted to keep this relationship quiet, it was no
secret to the more gifted observers at the CrimeLab, that what was going on was far
beyond the habitual boundaries of work place friendship.
Maxine Valera, contrary to many other co-workers was not a chatty person and
never one for spreading rumours or messing around in other people's lives, but she
had eyes to see and the extreme downturn between Ryan and Delko had become
terribly obvious, even to the blind, when Eric's association with Calleigh started to hit
the eye. Maxine knew perfectly well that this had nothing to do with CSI Dusquene
herself or some kind of stupid male competition over a female prey.
Contrary to 95% of her co-workers at the CrimLab – and this included Lieutenant
Caine – she knew quite a bit about the loves and life of one CSI Ryan Wolfe, also it
was more by accident then by Ryan actually having confided in her.
All had begun some four years ago, when Wolfe had still been somewhat of a rokkie
with the day shift team, fresh out of his patroller uniform and in the oversized shoes
of Tim Speedle, that fitted the poor boy so badly.
Maxine Valera had just been looking out for another sports club after having bought
a nice, new flat close to Miami's "El Barrio" Latino quarter and the Wynwood Arts
District. Unfortunately, Fencing Clubs were scarce in Miami and Dade County! And
Fencing Clubs, where an experienced and performant fencer could train with equals
and not just annoying beginners to the sport were even scarcer! Finally and after
very difficult investigation, she stumbled over Miami International University's
Athletics Department and their fencing section, which would also allow good fencers
in, even if they were no longer students.
And there Maxine Valera had stumbled on bright Saturday morning over one Ryan
Wolfe!
Fencing was a sport misunderstood by most Americans, although the US fencers
habitually performed excessively well at the international level and always brought
home shiny medals against the crack fencing nations France and Russia. Fencing was
"physical chess" and almost as boring to the spectator as true chess on a black and
white board.
It was enormous fun for the athlete, so, and Maxine had taken to the foil already at
age 12, when attending her first-ever 'team sports fair' at her local school.
She had walk into the gym and there had been five 'booths' in front of her, each one
manned by a head coach eager to get her attention and size her up for the team. So,
what had those teams been? Why, the usual suspects of course: football, baseball,
basketball, soccer and–what's this?–fencing?
"What's Darth Vader doing in my gym?" Had been her first thought, but the coach
got her hooked and she had stayed on, through school, college, university and even
now, while working at the MDPD Crim Lab.
She'd been pretty much surprised when one of the sabre guys after a rather heated
and very aggressive fight with a lightening-quick opponent had torn off his protective
mask and brought his sabre to his front in a sign of defeat and reconnaissance. The
defeated fencer had been Ryan, the winner of the round Florida's sabre champion
Elliott Waters, who had been several times on the US team at the international level.
Maxine had been absolutely enchanted, when she realised that she'd be able to
practice in the same team with Waters. He was a living legend in Florida's absolutely
minute fencing community!
Ryan –seeing and recognising her- had greeted her friendly, but returned
immediately to his Saturday pastime, when Waters offered him 'revenge'. Maxine in
the meantime had been showing to the coach of the female branch what she was
able to do with her foil, had gotten approved as a wonderful addition with sufficient
potential and signed up. When the training session was over and Ryan Wolfe cleaned
up and showered, he had insisted on introducing her to his buddies and they had all
gone out for a drink and a bite.
And for the last four years, since Maxine was fencing at MIU, this had become their
Saturday morning ritual, also neither acknowledged that peculiar familiarity between
athletes of the same club at work. Wolfe was too private a man to do so and Maxine
felt a little bit upset to let her co-workers know that she was addict to a rather old-
fashioned and not very popular sport.
The MIU Fencing Club was the very reason, why Maxine knew that Wolfe never ever
had the slightest interest in CSI Dusquene and his frosty relationship with Eric Delko
was not founded in male jealousy.
During her first two years at the club, when the MIU Team went on competitions,
Maxine would see Wolfe most of the time accompanied by Erica Sykes, the CBS
MTVFour reporter, who had given them occasional trouble.
She had been surprised then, to realize how nice and normal Erica could be, as soon
as she was out of her reporter's clothes and what a nice, happy and funny couple
she and Ryan made. Also Wolfe did not talk about his life and/or Erica with Maxine,
he did not hide it either. Somehow he had assumed correctly, that Valera was no
talker or rumour monger, sufficiently well-bred to keep job and past times apart and
of the kind, who would not carry her weekends right into the premises of the MDPD.
Then –after a literally forced break up with Erica - Maxine still suspected Lieutenant
Caine and enormous pressure from the CrimLab authorities had caused Wolfe to say
good bye to the girl - she had always seen him alone.
No female company at all and no interest in hooking up with somebody else. He'd
become even a bit reclusive, which manifested itself in his fencing style. When
Maxine had seen him during Erica's days, he'd been very good and very swift, but
rather one of those playful fencers, who'd lose matches by doing something perfectly
stupid and illogic.
After Erica, Ryan's style had changed….Elliott Waters had been enchanted about it,
adding another guy who'd make points with clockwork precision for MIU at the
Florida State league level.
But Maxine had found it rather dull; Ryan had lost a lot of his natural grace and
playfulness with the sabre and during training sessions she'd actually seen several of
his adversaries flinch. He'd started to fight very tough and very rough! As an
opponent, he'd become outright dangerous and while during Erica's days she'd
enjoyed the occasional fooling around on the strip with him, now she'd no longer
accept his challenges. She was fencing for fun and did not want to get hurt, while
Wolfe had become quite a piece of….
This had also been the reason why she was looking out for him: Basically they had
agreed last week on Saturday, that they'd go together to the Vidosa Memorial
Tournement at Barry University at Miami Shores, which was also a sabre qualifier for
the Florida State Finals in October. Ryan had offered to drive and pick her up at MIU
together with her stuff. But the blasted man had never come and she'd found herself
literally the fifth wheel on the cart in the bunk of another team member.
Eliott Waters had been fuming with rage, when his sabre team had appeared at the
tournament one mean blade short and since they had not been able to reach Ryan
on neither his cell nor his private phone, Waters had asked her to give him a piece of
the team's mind right on Monday morning!
She trotted off, peeping into each and every office on her way back down to DNA
and hoping to stumble over the faithless sabre. Also it had not affected the women
score and they'd beaten their opponents heads high, the guys had come out only
second after the scrawny little rascals of Miami Fencing Club, their longstanding,
toughest concurrence.
To her great surprise, she did not find Wolfe anywhere around the Lab, but when
she finally returned to DNA, she stumbled over a rare visitor. Lieutenant Horatio
Caine was fiddling around with some of her most expensive hardware, seemingly
absorbed in his task.
She let him finish what he was doing, just standing at the side and keeping her
silence. DNA analysis was tricky and did not bear well any distractions. When he
lifted his head, she smiled. Valera had a day off and she was alone downstairs. She
felt a bit guilty for having abandoned her post just in order to find Ryan and rough
him a bit up over a Fencing Tournament.
"I am sorry, Sir! I was just upstairs looking for CSI Wolfe." She explained to the
boss.
"Then I understand, Miss Valera, that you were off for a long and unsuccessful
quest!" He replied in his calm voice with that patent tiny itch of sarcasm he seemed
to put in whatever he said…even if it was only a statement concerning the weather
or the quality of the coffee.
"Do you have an idea, where I may find him? It is not urgent, but …."
Horatio gave her a smile. "Unfortunately, Mrs. Valera, CSI Wolfe will not be with us
for a couple of weeks. He had a very bad encounter in the line of duty and is actually
recovering from several broken ribs and some other physical traces of his mishap."
"Oh, that explains certain things!" Maxine said softly as if speaking to herself.
"Miss Valera?" Caine gave her a curious glance.
Here was somebody who seemed to know something concerning Ryan, that he did
not yet know, but that maybe would shed some more light on the unsettling tide of
events since last week Wednesday.
His research into the originator of what he believed to be a fake medical certificate
had been unsuccessful, proving to Horatio that this thing indeed did not come from
his CSI or the doctor whose signature was on the sheet. He had found neither
fingerprint –other then post office workers- nor whatsoever traces –including DNA,
proof that someone rather knowledgeable had been setting up all this. …rather
knowledgeable, for a truly knowledgeable expert would have immediately understood
that complete absence of traces would set of all alarm bells ringing in another truly
knowledgeable colleague!
"Oh, he just did not turn up on Saturday morning for a sports event in which we both
were to participate, Sir….and the other team members were just wondering, why he
did not call. That's not his style, you know! But well….with broken ribs he'd not been
able to participate anyhow. Thanks for telling me, Sir!"
"You are welcome, Miss Valera!" Caine replied, picking up his folder with the fake
certificate and envelope and taking his leave from DNA. When he was just about to
close the door, he heard Maxine speaking into her cell phone to some unknown
correspondent, seemingly a sports buddy of hers and CSI Wolfe's and explaining to
the correspondent, that Wolfe had had some serious medical problem, which was the
reason why he had not turned up at Barry University. So indeed, Ryan had never
ever planed to disappear and had made his decision on the spot and under utmost
duress....

 

[Griffon]

Re: Skin the Wolfe: Chapter 21:1 - Smelling Blood

Chapter 21 Smelling Blood
*
It had been surprisingly easy to break the defences of the Russian mobster, Belkin!
Officer Jean Duval had given him the rest! Officer Duval was a secret weapon of the
Paris Police Forces.
Préfet Erwan de Kersausson smiled evilly, when he explained what they'd done to
the 'Procureur Adjoint" : Officer Duval was probably the most disturbing thing, they
could have put in front of a man like Timofeij Belkin and maybe some Humanitarian
Rights Watch would have declared him outright torture!
Duval was sixty years old, forty of them had been spent with the Paris Police Forces
and he was just twelve months away from a well-merited retirement with honours.
The old copper was happy father of four and happy grandfather of nine. He was
happily married to a nice, kindly wife, had a dog and a cat and went for his
weekends into the countryside to take care of his garden. He enjoyed his job, had
never ever drawn his gun in the line of duty and was something of a poster boy in
the Public Relations Department of the Prefecture. With his greying moustaches, little
belly and kindly blue eyes, good-natured, soft spoken and smiling, he habitually
toured the pre-schools and schools of the Paris region to sensibilise children to the
duties and tasks of the Police Forces.
This was one of the reasons, why they had hired out Duval for a couple of hours
from PR! The other was that the old chap spoke perfect English. Since school touring
would not fill a day, Duval had been put in charge of some European police officers
exchange program a couple of years ago and was very good at making a good
impression upon foreigners.
Not that it was tremendously important to project the perfect image of the French
Police upon Mr.Tim Belkin. The man was a rogue and they could not care less what
he thought of them. But it was all about manipulating him, to do their will….and
Duval had succeeded perfectly.
When the old copper had entered the premises with Belkin's secure holding cell, he'd
carried a tray with a nice afternoon tea break including scones. After the other officer
had left, Duval had pulled the table and a chair close to the bars and invited the
prisoner to join him in the break, chattering happily with him. Belkin –disoriented and
avid for a word from a human being- had literally jumped on the occasion. Two
hours later they understood, that the man was rather willing to take the bait and
accept an offer to talk in exchange for his freedom, some money, a new identity and
a fresh start away from his dangerous friends. Confronted with the choice of either
being expulsed to the Americans on charges of 'Association of Criminals', 'Incitation
to High Crime' and 'Planning of Murder' or to spend a very long moment –on the
same charges – in a French prison cell, Belkin had chosen to rather be free and quit.
"So do you think, you can turn him and make him go back as a mole?" The
substitute enquired avidly. This would have been the coup of the year, to manage
and infiltrate the Ismayilovskaja, even if it meant to turn the mole over to the
Americans for handling.
De Kersausson shook his head. "I am afraid this will not work! Belkin is very much
aware of the dangers to go back inside and play 'agent double'. He's told me flat out
that he would not life long enough to cash in the money we offer. He's not a dunce!
But he is willing to sing like a nightingale! He understands perfectly that it will be
nearly impossible for his buddies to find him over here, once we stage his untimely
death in conjunction with the "demise" of our young friend from Miami, CSI Wolfe!"
The substitute gave de Kersausson an approving nod. He fully approved the
Organised Crime Unit's project. The Russian mafia had slowly but determinedly crept
into France. On the surface it appeared that they had less problems then either the
Germans or the Americans or the Israelis. But under the surface the situation was
not better for Paris, then for Berlin or Tel Aviv or Washington. It was only different.
The 'Bratstvo' indulged in a different type of high crime here in France, then over in
Israel or in the US or in Germany. The Russians were clever, ruthless and very
flexible and they habitually exploited to the fullest and successfully the legal
shortcomings they could detect in their various host countries: In France the
Russians had exploited the banking system and the very slow and not always very
accurate communication between the National Bank of France and the countries
other banks. Between 1994 and 1999 the 'Bratstvo' managed to transfer 11 billions
of Euros out of the USSR and later Russia and straight into France with only six times
attracting the attention of the French Treasury and its investigators.
With this money from various fields of high crime –drugs, alcohol, prostitution,
blackmail, murder and arms trafficking, the Mob had then offered itself lavish real
estate all over the Hexagone, turning blood money into perfectly legal assets.
besides buying out top of the notch real estate in the most lavish parts of the
French capital, the mob had managed to acquire incredible real estate at the Cote
d'Azur . Luckily for the French, the Russian mobsters would rather get their gold into
the country and spend it on whatever luxury money could buy, then on wracking
havoc, as they did in the US and right over the border in Germany. But this did
prevent the 'Bratja' from also resorting to nasty acts of violence if they could not
meet their goals with a simple draft on some bank!
Although the French police struggled less with the more gruesome aspects of the
'Bratstvo', the Americans, the Germans and the Israelis knew so well, they had also
their yoke to carry: Other a rather practical banking system that allowed rather easy
money laundering, France was also an international platform for weapons, military
hardware and sophisticate IT that could be employed for military and security
purposes. Legal and not so legal arms merchants had elected the capital Paris to be
one of their favourite commercial turn tables already in the 1950ies, when the
decolonialisation of Africa and Asia offered opportunities to the ruthless. And next to
London, Paris was the best place to go, if you wanted to hire irregulars –
mercenaries.
The 'Bratstvo' fully understood this opportunity and was giving the French authorities
quite a handful in aforementioned fields!
And the French authorities hated it…which was the very reason why the substitute of
the State Attorney of the capital was so keen on Mr.Tim Belkin's revelations and so
enthusiastic about Erwan de Kersausson's most recent pet project.

"You try to negotiate Belkin's leftovers with our other European friends, with the
Americans and the Russians, I presume? " He enquired with the Préfect, giving his
watch a nervous glance. He had a very important meeting at the Ministry of Justice
in less then an hour, but he was curious.
"As usual, Monsieur le Substitute!" De Kersausson replied with a smile.
They'd pick the cherries from the cake for themselves and hand out the rest to
friends, allies and associates….harvesting in exchange interesting intelligence, good-
neighbourly services and occasionally also allowances for economic actors of France.
A terrorist together with proof of his involvement in 9/11 for example could bring a
nice, juicy contract with the US MoD for some French defence contractor with a
dependency over in the States and financial information on Russian money laundered
through a French Bank together with the name of the launderer and the print outs of
the account would always bring splendid intelligence on some unruly French
businessman, who'd earn Euros in Russia, which he may not have declared to the
French Treasury….Belkin would be as good a deal as all his predecessors and
successors in the business of law enforcement. De Kersausson complimented the
substitute out of his beautiful office, rubbed his well-manicured hands and went to
work.
He had some most interesting projects for the day.
**
Professeur Claire Charpentier had been quickly over at Garches hospital to organise
her team and the work for the next few days. She informed hospital administration
that she would take a few days off for family reasons, then hurried to the
dependency of Paris University V and picked up a doctoral thesis for which she would
provide an initial evaluation by the end of the week.
The secretary pushed several envelopes into Claire's hands, reassured her, that she'd
keep in touch should need arise, had everything under control and would herself be
on leave from Thursday till July 14th.
Claire pecked her long-time employee French style on both cheeks, wished her nice
holidays and hurried like a whirlwind from the Medical School Building.
She wanted to stop by the open market at Garches in order to buy some of Ryan's
favourite food stuff….all these little things he could simply not find over in Florida.
She hoped that the unruly 32 years old "child" would stay peacefully in his bed to
sleep out at least his jetlag and the nightly conspirators meeting with JP, his
colleague Delveaux, that Poniatowski bear and her very unreasonable almost
husband.
She had given Paddy a nice piece of her mind, when he had finally turned in from
the session in the garden and Paddy had taken his punishment with good graces and
only the hint of a malicious smile on his lips.
Claire hurried towards one of her favourite fruit stalls, choosing rapidly four beautiful
Cavaillon melons. Ryan loved them together with air-dried Italian ham.
Hopefully Paddy would not bother his son out of bed, just because he needed to
discuss "something very important" with the younger man.
Being a Professor of Celtic Studies, her soon-to-be husband was unfortunately
already on holidays for three weeks. Spring term with France's universities was over
by the end of May and Autumn term would only start on September 1st, so the man
had all the time in the world to wreak havoc and do mischief.
She knew that he had a bit of work to do over the holidays. Nothing breathtaking,
just some evaluations of doctoral students, the preparation of a postgraduate course
in Middle Breton and translation work on a recently discovered manuscript form the
IX.century and attributed to Duke Conan.
But considering the fact, that said manuscript had been sleeping for one thousand
years in a tomb, she doubted that Paddy would rush it……the Celtologist community
of France, Europe and the World would not mind receiving his brain's child a couple
of days earlier or later!
Claire decided to take some wonderful green asparagus fresh from the Loire Valley
together with new potatoes from Mont Saint Michel and a kilo of aubergines.
Ryan loved her green asparagus with a light butter crust and bread crumbles. He
was capable to wolf down an entire kilo all alone and without difficulties.
She made a mental note to stop on her way home at the Saint-Nom grocers, who
sold a range of bio dairy products from farms in the vicinity to pick sour cream and
also some white farmers cheese for next day's breakfast.
Claire wandered along the market stalls with her wicker basket over her arm.
Part of her needed to rush back home in order to keep an attentive eye on the
younger male of the O'Briain family, but another part needed to think for five
minutes all alone and away from the guys.
She understood perfectly well what was going on with Paddy: Having been informed
A to Z about what had brought the wrath of his old Russian enemies upon his son,
her man was not only very, very angry, but also terrified.
Padraig loved his son desperately. Ryan was all that was left of his first wife, Mary
Wolfe. Claire knew that even 29 years after her death, Paddy still loved her. He
always would, although this did not change or lessen his feelings for her. But it was a
fact!
Ryan had inherited his father's physic and temper, but he had his mother's eyes and
every time, Paddy looked into the eyes of his son, he'd see Mary Wolfe.
Padraig – made angry- could suddenly turn into a highly dangerous predator. His
past was not yet so far away, that he'd lost his punch and old reflexes. Padraig –if
sufficiently terrified, because he felt, that his son was in danger- would become
literally uncontrollable! And Moulin would not try to control him. He might even be
tempted to encourage her man to go out hunting with the pack. He had done it
before!
She still remembered vividly the case of the Huelgoat serial killer which had brought
the two of them together and that image of her man snapping another man's neck
with his bare hands; unflinching, without hesitation, pitiless and without remorse.
She still remembered his inhuman eyes.
Well, the situation had been extreme then; the killer had managed to put two rounds
of 9mm into JP, leaving the rookie police officer slowly choking on his own blood at
the bottom of the so-called "Grotte du Diable" – Devil's Grotto, a famous site in the
legendary forest, that the beast had chosen to perpetrate his atrocious crimes. She
had been caught between his last victim and the killer, armed with one of his famed
antique, priceless Celtic daggers and an automatic that held still another 11 rounds,
when Paddy had appeared on the scene. They had been expecting police backup,
but her man – just involved for his expertise as a linguist and historian- had had
better instincts then Moulin's colleagues from law enforcement.
It had taken him less then two minutes to asses the situation, make a decision, act
upon it, leave a dead man behind and get her and JP out of the worst trouble. She
was the M.D., but she had been too shocked after her almost-murder, to provide
Moulin with emergency first aid. Paddy had known exactly what to do…..it had been
the first and only time in her career, Claire had seen someone do a tracheotomy on a
choking man with a simple Swiss Army Knife and a BIC ballpoint pen.
Claire decided, that it was more important to rein in Padraig, then to keep Ryan
under control: Ryan was reasonable and he always played within the confines of the
law. He would not suddenly turn bad cop, because he was out to take some revenge
or settle his score with the Russian mob! He'd simply try and help de Kersausson,
Delveaux and Moulin to solve this case and get a maximum profit from a splendid
opportunity. He might be tempted to play nasty, if de Kersausson would relax his
leash and give the whole bunch kind of 'Carte Blanche', but this would never go
really over the edge.
Her man was different: Paddy had never ever played within the confines of the law
and had absolutely no qualms about getting his hands dirty, should need arise. He
was a wonderful person and she loved him, but he was also dangerous like an
enraged dog and in the given situation –with a clear and present danger to his son -
Claire felt, that it was more prudent to not trust Padraig!

 

[Griffon]

Re: Skin the Wolfe: Chapter 21:2 - Smelling Blood

Chap.21 continued

***
As soon as Claire had left the house to do her biddings, Dr. Padraig O'Briain took the
opportunity to call in some favours. First he made sure that his son was still asleep.
No need to bother Ryan with this! Then he retrieved a cell phone from a drawer in
his office and disappeared in the garden. The phone numbers were all confined to
Paddy's memory. He was a strong believer in memory; for what was not written
down could not be spied upon by unwelcome eyes!
The first call went to an old comrade at arms, who had taken a strangely peaceful
retirement in Moscow, managing a fashionable riding club – Pradar - in one of the
extensive parks of the Russian capital. Paddy had been surprised, when he'd learned
of the reconversion of ex-KGB Colonel Vasilij Petrovitsch Tiomkin, whose former
business had been to see to the management of several very secret training camps
mainly in Northern African states oriented towards socialism.
During the 70ies and 80ies, the PIRA had been using these camps, as had Action
Directe , the German RAF , the Italian Red Brigades and many other Western
terrorist organisations of the extreme left political wing. But times had changed and
so had these groups. Most of them had been exterminated, others were reduced to
sheer insignificance and others –like the IRA and its emulations- had become almost
respectable and were playing the political game in the light of the day under new
names and without weapons.
But some of the friendships that had been formed between comrades during these
bloody years, had remained intact. Paddy and Vasilij were one such strange
fellowship of reconverted and superficially rather respectable survivors. It had been
Tiomkin, who had tipped off O'Brian, when the last hit man of the Ismaiylovskaya
had been sent after him by Oleg Ivanov, the "vozhd". Paddy never asked Vasilij how
it came that he was so perfectly aware of the ongoing inside the Russian mob.
The conversation between the two men was short. Paddy spoke fairly good Russian
– PIRA obliged and Tiomkin, also he was fluent in English, French and German
appreciated the courtesy. He promised O'Briain that he would see what he could do
for him and return the call within the next 48 hours. Paddy felt slightly better, after
he closed his cell phone shut.
The next call was not an international, just a short ring to Strasbourg –headquarters
of the European Parliament – and since the last European elections home to Sean
O'Flaherty, Irish Member of the European Parliament, originally from the Sinn Fein .
O'Flaherty was an old comrade of Padraig's who had turned –at least officially- to
honourable politicking- when on 28 July 2005, the IRA announced the end of armed
combat and its intention to pursue reunification of Ireland with peaceful means.
Ten minutes later, Ryan Wolfe's father had a fairly good idea on how he'd get his
son's hit definitively cancelled. That Russian mobster in Miami, Ivan Sarnoff would
probably not appreciate, but he could not care less.
He dialled the next number. It belonged to Erwan de Kersausson, Police Prefect of
Paris and an old friend.
****
Half past eleven! Ryan gave his watch a defiant glance. This blasted timepiece would
not make him feel guilty! He decided, that he could not care less. He'd merited every
single minute of this peaceful night and he even might draw the cup to its very
bottom, turn around, snatch his cosy duvet and lay in for another 30 minutes.
Nobody would care! Claire and Paddy would be happy to see him turn up just in time
for lunch….Claire for medical reasons: "Poor baby needed some rest!", Paddy
probably, because Claire had given him a piece of her mind and he was not incline to
have another….
He carefully tried to stretch: Well, he was as stiff as a broomstick, but apart this little
inconvenience everything seemed fine. Wolfe decided to give it a try: Legs? Two! In
place, on the ground! Head? Right on his shoulders….a bit stiff and aching, but they
reported present too. Arms? Right one …Ok! Operational. Left? Stiff! Hurts like hell!
Probably due to that blasted iron tube that had hit it several times…but he could do
without it. He was right-handed anyhow. Vision? Not tremendously clear, but he
knew where the bathroom was and he could life another day without shaving. Erica
once had told him, that he was sexy with a three-days beard! Claire would not mind
and she could not even imagine him to be something like "sexy"….how could she?
She'd seen him a scrawny, dangly cub with acne buttons all over his face … a face
only a mother or benign step-mother could have loved in those days.
He crawled out of his comfortable nest and right into the bathroom. Better not to
check on the other body parts! Habitually, haematomas, concussions and other
blows hurt best three days after. It was a rather joyful experience to get into the
shower…..for a diehard masochist!
Ryan cursed softly between clenched teeth, but fortunately nobody was listening and
he simply slumped to the ground in the cabinet, leaned against the tiles, opened the
water and waited. According to his watch it took twenty minutes to lift the veil, but
he felt definitively….more human. He even rediscovered his brains…lack of caffeine
together with a strange double vision and several parts of his body not working as
they should had almost pushed him downstairs with a white towel slung around his
hips. Not that anybody would have minded…but he himself, could not imagine to
drink a cuppa with his stepmother and father in such a state of undress!
A good ghost obviously had replenished the armoire with stuff. Ryan was still not
incline to wear Hugo Boss and bloody Forzieri if he could avoid it and his hasty
departure from Miami had prevented him even from taking the essentials. He gave
the pristine underwear, Claire had provided a hateful look: How could a normal
woman even imagine a normal guy of 32 years of age to wear such stuff. He could
not imagine, it belonged to his old man. Paddy would never wear cotton boxers with
a Black Watch tartan pattern. And the white T-shirt –he rejected it on the spot –
looked as if it belonged to Antony Quinn in "Zorbas the Greek", dated 1964….about
12 years before he had been conceived! The kaki shirt and kaki trousers were ok. He
did not mind. Since he could not put a toe out of the property for at least 24 more
hours, or else his French friends would take away the 9 mm and the plate, he was
something of a prisoner anyhow. It did not matter that he looked like Ivan Sarnoff's
elder baby brother in the days of the Gulag. He made a mental not to get himself the
adequate haircut.
"Wolfe, either that cider was not 4 degrees but 40, or you forgot your common sense
at home in Miami!" He chided himself. "You are not Erica getting crack-a-nuts over
your wardrobe!" He gave the hand-knitted sweater –kaki- a hateful look and made
his way to the door and downstairs. Who'd wear a lovingly hand knitted pure new
wool sweater with an Irish pattern on a 21st of June in France? It was boiling hot
outside! Grannies and Grandpas dying all around like flies from asthma or sunstroke.
Even Miami seemed suddenly cool to Ryan.
Frank Tripp's impromptu phone call was still trotting inside his head. Basically it had
not been a great surprise! There were altogether 2 people in the CrimLab, who had
the mental acuity to figure it out : The first was indeed Sergeant Frank Tripp! Frank
had it all: instinct, intuition, keen sense of observation and humanity to try and find
out what really happened and why! Frank could not mess around in Horatio's
business, but he could think for himself and he was a fair player. Ryan was rather
happy that it had been Frank and not the second guy with brains: Stetler!
Rick Stetler –if Horatio would have told him approximatively 25 % of the truth –
would have been able to figure it out, too! Ok, contrary to Tripp, Stetler had the
advantage to know the full contents of his file at Human Resources, including his
address, the fact that he had a bit of money and the origin of it, a very legal
inheritance from a European relative. Stetler was also anything but a dunce and
while he always bothered and embarrassed them, he was a good guy with his heart
in the right place, He would have understood immediately that Ryan had had no
option but to take a slip and probably would have added two and two together; the
origin of the inheritance from Europe and the possibility that their might still be other
relatives around…across the Atlantic! Horatio and Stetler hated each other and H.
had the tendency to cast the IAB sergeant always in the role of the bad guy. But
Stetler wasn't. He did his job and did it well. Ryan would not have been surprised, if
instead of Tripp, Rick would have called him!
When he arrived downstairs in the kitchen, the place was empty, also the good
ghost, who had had the graces to provide him with clothes had also left a nice
breakfast for him behind. The table on the terrace was laid, thermos with coffee,
fresh croissants, fruits and everything. And the sun was warm and friendly. He
dropped onto a chair, helped himself to coffee and dosed a fresh croissant liberally
with butter and Claire's delicious strawberry jam. Before he could plunge the delicacy
into his Café crème – an act, most Americans found completely disgusting, so Ryan
refrained habitually from doing it in public – he saw his father appear from between
the bushes.
"You look definitively better, son!" Padraig dropped into a chair next to Ryan's,
helped himself to coffee and milk and gave his son a happy smile.
The short discussion with Erwan de Kersausson had been concluded successfully.
Erwan liked his nasty little idea a lot and did not mind to help set up a mobster, who
was not making mischief on the territory of France. De Kersausson had told O'Briain,
that the US counterpart –the Chief of the MDPD- had been extremely receptive and
was avid to get rid –at least partially- of one of his larger crime problems. Erwan was
relatively certain, that he could convince the man to play along and since the MDPD
chief would be able to reap the whole profit –no obligation to share with the boys in
Paris- he'd probably even jump on it. Erwan would tell him, that they wanted to do
this in order to find out about loopholes in their Customs Services – people who
might be either blackmailed into cooperation with the mob or doing it for personal
profit.
"Claire's off to work?" Ryan enquired casually with his father.
Padraig shook his head. "She just went over to organise her staff for a couple of
days and take a bit of leave. Even if the occasion is not as merry as usual, when you
come and see us….we want nevertheless to spend our time with you. So –besides
mishaps with the Russian mob – how's going in Miami?"
Ryan gave his father a suspicious look. "May I suppose that this innocent question is
related to the stuff JP told you, while I was hooked on the phone?"
It was not his habit to complain and Moulin had only learned of some of the incidents
in the CrimLab and with Horatio, because he had been so mightily pissed, that his
tongue had slipped over a bottle of wine. Anyhow, the stunt H. had pulled to fake his
own death at the end of last year had been so incredibly dangerous –especially for
all those involved and who had not been Caine himself – that he simply had to get it
off his system. Horatio's downward spiral had begun to take speed, when one Kyle
Harmon had surfaced, his illegitimate son with a half-mad witch –Julia Winston –
conceived while working undercover some two decades earlier. The half-mad witch
too had resurfaced and was putting some spice into the stew. In the meantime they
had H.'s son at the Lab, working with the ME, although the boy had already quite the
criminal record and was only slightly saner then his mother. And Miss Winston – or
was she now Miss Saris or had she perhaps recovered her maiden name, even if
maiden and this creature seemed to a contradiction in itself – was regularly winding
up her ex.
Paddy chuckled. "What do you think, son?"
Ryan smiled. "When did you last ask me an innocent question?"
"All my questions are innocent, Ryan….even if I confess that this time, I may be
motivated by something, you may call "fatherly concern".
Wolfe took another croissant and prepared himself another high calories treat. In
Miami he was already running desperately low on Claire's homemade. They were
atrocious at US Customs, when it came to foodstuff and he had to literally smuggle
the jam into the country, hidden in socks or wrapped into dirty T-Shirts. He took a
generous bite, gave the issue a small thought, then decided that it was time to talk
and that Paddy was probably the best person in the world to confide in.
"For a while now, Papa, my boss over there has gone a bit…..crazy." He started with
Marisol Delko-Caine's death by the hand of the Mala Noche and Horatio's and Eric's
strange trip to Bresil.
Two hours later he ended his tale with the discovery, that Delko's biological father –
Sherova – was an active member of the Russian mob and the events around Sarnoff
and his henchmen. He'd told Paddy even about Horatio's former sister in law, Yelina
Salas, a cop turned private investigator, and whom the lieutenant had convinced to
approach the man, he supposed to be Sarnoff's Number 2; Gregor Kasparov.
"I have the feeling,.." He said softly, "…that H. is repeating it all over again…only this
time it will be one of us, who'll get himself killed. They are trying to break us and H.
simply takes this as a personal challenge. I have the curious feeling that all he's
interested in, is proving Sarnoff, that he's wrong…even if proving it becomes a very
costly challenge."
Paddy shuddered, notwithstanding the warm weather and blazing sun on the terrace.
He had done many dangerous things in his life, but he had always avoided, doing
stupid things, especially stupid things that would bring other people right into harms
way. He was also fully aware that his son had chosen a rather risky profession;
policemen were wounded or killed in action all over the world.
When Ryan had started his university curriculum at Boston College, both Paddy and
Claire had felt, that he was not studying biochemistry to become a lab rat or
researcher. They had not been surprised, when he'd told them –hardly one year into
his PhD- that he'd successfully applied for the Boston police Academy and would
simply try and do his doctoral thesis during free time.
After the ice between them was broken, Ryan had been fascinated by Claire's job as
an ME and paleo-antropologist. Often, after school and before the ferry would leave
for Morgat from Brest – he'd sneaked into her lab, watching the team working
through the glass windows with greedy eyes. After his baccalaureate and shortly
before winning himself a full scholarship into the Jesuite-run, prestigious Boston
College, well known for its excellence in the field of science, he'd managed to get
himself a two-months internship with the ME at Rennes University, another of the
reputed French scientific units that worked for the police forces as crime
investigators.
Paddy had accepted his son's choice with good graces and also some pride. Deep
inside, he'd been happy that the young man had been so much taken with his choice
of a new partner in life, that he'd even follow her professional footsteps. When he
had first brought Claire to Clemence's place, he'd been dead frightened, that his son
might reject her, because he believed that O'Briain attempted to replace his
unknown, but nonetheless glorified, deceased mother.
'Have you ever been thinking about quitting Lt.Caine's team or the CSI Miami,
Ryan?" Paddy enquired carefully.
He knew Ryan inside out. When his son decided to tell about a situation he
considered difficult of hard, before having attempted to handle it all alone, then
something was indeed very, very wrong.
The boy was no complainer! Rather the contrary. Ryan was a bit too much a person
who tried to cope with everything on his own and never ever asked for help, even if
a situation would break him. He also had a strong tendency to be extremely hard on
himself. If something went wrong, Ryan habitually found a reason – even a
ridiculous one – to be the guilty party.
Paddy still remembered that stupid incident, when one of JP's girls had fallen off the
highest branch of their old apple tree and broken her wrist.
Notwithstanding the fact that his son had managed to catch the girl before she hit
the ground and truly hurt herself, Ryan had been completely hysterical. They had
not been able to convince him, that it was impossible for a 1,80 m 71 kg bloke to
remain upright when hit with a tangled mass of limbs of 1,65 m and 51 kg in free
fall from a height of approximatively 3,50 m.
"I have." The younger man replied thoughtfully. " More then once. And perhaps I
will. But not yet. First I want to see this through, then I will think about my life and
career over there in Miami. It may not be worth it…."