My Journal

By Harriman Nelson

25

By the time Sharkey docked the flying sub in the moonlit marina along the Seine, I was certain the team was heartily sorry that I had amassed so much historical data about France. But at least I’d had something to occupy my mind other than Lee’s predicament.

The dock had been cordoned off by military police, and two armed gendarmes were waiting for us to disembark.

They were a little confused on how to greet me.  In the end, the gendarme who appeared to be the leader of the two, set any kind of protocol aside and wrapped his arm around my shoulders sympathetically.

“Admiral Nelson. Paris is doing everything she can to find him.”

There was no need to explain who he meant.

“Your flying submarine will be guarded around the clock, and the captain’s friend, Commander Jackson, has arranged transportation for you  to your hotel," he said, nodding toward the taxi, then,"we will provide uninterrupted escort.”

And so after twenty minutes of going through red lights at a higher rate of speed than I would have liked, the police cars in front and behind us, sirens blaring, we soon arrived at the entrance to the Ritz Hotel.

Even at this time of night, word had leaked out that I’d arrived. The flash bulbs were blinding. There was a  deluge of questions from reporters. All anxious to learn if I’d heard anything new.

All I could do was to say that I was grateful that the Paris police had things well in hand in the search for Lee.

Finally, squished in the relative safety of the elevator, accompanied by the hotel manager, two bellhops, one bell cart, Riley, Ski, Patterson, and Sharkey, I nearly sagged in relief.

"Thank you.”

“Ah, here we are,” he said as the elevator doors opened and we stepped out into the elegant hallway. It was a rather long walk to the suite. Proudly the manager unlocked the door himself and motioned us in, drawing open the curtains that had hidden the sliding glass doors to the balcony.

“Magnificent view,” I said of the "City of Lights", which included the illuminated Eiffel tower. “I just wish I could enjoy it better. Knowing Lee’s out there…lost…alone….” (Of course I didn’t include the fact that we believed he’d been kidnapped.)

“I am sure we will find the captain,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “The largest bedroom is over there, Admiral, if you will follow me?”

I wasn’t surprised that he’d assumed I’d expected the biggest  bedroom. I’d been treated that way for years. It had a king sized bed, walk in closet, and private bathroom with the latest hands off, motion sensitive fixtures.

“Well, if this isn’t the penthouse, it’s close enough in my book.”

“Thank you. You must be very tired from your long trip. Would you like a little something sent up from room service? Perhaps some sherry for you  and your companions?”

"Splendid, splendid. The chef will be right up. I bid you good evening, then, Admiral.”

“Please, just Mr. Nelson for now.”

“Of course.”

After he and the bellhops had left I wearily sat on the bed. “Chief,” I called out, as I took off my shoes which had really been killing me, “why do they need a chef to bring up Hot Chocolate?”

“Ah, well,” he grinned from the bedroom's doorway, “if it’s what I think it is, it ain't that instant stuff. I'll bet he’s going to make a show of it. Melt the chocolate right in front of you with a portable burner, heat the milk, I don’t think they use cream for it here, whisk it up into a froth, maybe add a few flavorings, then pour it out for you, adding a dollop of whipped cream and maybe some fancy stuff like a few raspberries on top of it.”

“No marshmallows?” Ski asked, joining us.

“How should I know? I’ve never been here before,” Sharkey replied.

Just then a knock on the suite's main door interrupted us.

“That was fast,” Ski said.

“It’s Commander Jackson,” Riley said rushing in to my room.

I must have hopped off the bed like a jackrabbit to join him in the sitting room.

“Admiral,” Jackson said. “NCIS was able to isolate the conversation the suspects had with Lee. Seems one of the Louvre’s guards had his cell phone on at the time. Took awhile to isolate the audio with Lee....it’s not good news.”

In seconds we watched and listened to the augmented video on Jackson’s laptop.

“I wouldn’t try anything if I were you Captain,” the man with the knife said. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to risk blowing up, say, the Eiffel Tower or the Golden Gate Bridge right now? Or any of the other targets Ozno has in store.”

“What does he want with me?”

“That’s for him to know. Our job is to take you to him. By the way, the bugs you so carefully planted on yourself were rendered useless as soon as your traveling companion, a spy for ONI we know, went to relieve himself. So don’t think that anything you’ve said since has been transmitted to him or to ONI. Now, move it. Or I warn you….”

“All right, all right, I’ll go with you,” Lee said. “Hey!’ he added as his walking stick was grabbed out of his hand.

“You won’t need this with us to guide you,” the man said taking his arm, “besides, do you think we’d let you keep a potential weapon?”

Just then the fire alarm rang, and  the audio and visual from the Louvre employee were no longer.

“So Ozno rose to the bait,” I muttered as Jackson turned the laptop off.

“Now what?” Sharkey asked. “If even the cops can’t find him…where the hell is he?”

Just then there was another knock at the door.

“Damn, room service,” I said as I nodded to Patterson to check the peephole before opening the door.

It was a miserable few minutes, as we all had to feign interest while our hearts were on edge. The chef, utilizing a special cart complete with burners and equipment, prepared the Hot Chocolate from scratch. Just as Sharkey had described, except our demitasse cups were topped off with our choice of  marshmallows (which were set afire for a second or so, as if for a ‘smore),  or whipped cream.

Jackson declined his offer to return to the kitchen for an extra cup, and I think we only managed a few sips after the chef left. We had other things on our minds than the exquisite, yet not too sweet concoction.

“They had to get out somehow,” Sharkey said, “but if all the exits were covered….”

“Unless they didn’t leave by an exit,” I mused. “Joe, “do you have access to the blueprints of the place?”

“Yes, but…”

“The Louvre’s been rebuilt and rebuilt,” Ski said, “maybe’s there’s some old door exit not on the blueprints, right Admiral?”

“Or maybe a false or secret door or something?” Riley asked.

“Joe,” I ordered, “get copies of all the blueprints, back from day one of the place even when it wasn’t the Louvre yet. And can you get us in before business hours?”

And so after a little assistance of the French Government, we made our plans to get up close and personal with the famous museum.

It’s been difficult to sleep. All I can think of is Lee at the hands of Ozno and his men. Oh God, protect my boy. And those targets Ozno has.

Hold on, Lee. Just hold on.