Pigeons Do Talk

By Tony Wilson

A sleepy French police substation near the Pyrenees is inadvertently involved in the trail of a corrupt revengeful female executive of an undercover hostage rescue organisation funded by many countries near Clermont Ferrand. The abduction of a family in North Africa, includes a beautiful teenager, Rochine

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tony Wilson
• Release date: Oct 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781802277319

Tony Wilson

Tony Wilson is a much-loved Australian children's book author and one-time Hawthorn draftee. His books include Harry Highpants, The Princess and the Packet of Frozen Peas, Stuff Happens: Jack, Emo the Emu and The Cow Tripped Over the Moon, which was an Honour Book in the 2016 Children's Book Council of Australia Awards. Tony lives in Melbourne.  

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pigeon_front_cover

PIGEONS DO TALK

PIGEONS DO TALK

Tony Wilson

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Tony Wilson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

First paperback edition

978-1-80227-711-1 (paperback)

978-1-80227-731-9 (ebook)

To Nigel and Helen for letting me and Cathy stay in their beautiful Chateau near Limoges. It inspired me.

To Mr Sharma for a successful hip operation. I took time off work December 2016. Then a month delay (no beds) and time after I did the first ten chapters. The second lockdown 2021, Debz instructed me to finish it. 6 years a slave to my dream.

To Debz Hobbs-Wyatt (author and literary advisor for her guidance and patience.)

To Alan Marsden who sadly lost his wife but lived in Tremolat. This beautiful French village has a Michelin star hotel with a helicopter landing area. The Pizzeria has tables where you can watch the world go by. I stayed at Lou Cantou in Tremolat. My imagination wandered.

To anyone who has felt trapped, not knowing what the future might hold, hope is eternal.

To all my friends who smile, laugh, socialize , discuss randomly, and spread the love of life.

To Cathy who has put up with me for many years and my rock and help.

I hope one day this might be a film.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

When I ache to live, my mind loves to stay with the peaceful whiteness of a pigeon’s care… in boundless amity.

– Munia Khan

The Tunisian guard had a machine gun.

It’s the first thing Rochine saw.

It was her governess, Francesca, who first woke her. As Rochine’s hands moved over tired eyes she’d seen the guard, who was frantically telling her to get up – they needed to get away.

She stumbled over her slippers as Francesca grabbed two small bags. The gunfire and explosions were far too close. Rochine instinctively threw on sweatpants and found her favourite Nike trainers, pushing her feet in as she grabbed a warm sweater for over her nightdress. The guard left her to move to the upstairs landing, holding the machine gun, wearing a belt of hand grenades. He was there to protect them. What normal families needed protection?

Her parents were now in her room frantically throwing items into the bags. Rochine saw Francesca trembling, tears wet on her cheeks as she followed Rochine’s father down the emergency chute that lead to the outside. And what normal families needed emergency chutes?

It was built for times such as these; but in the hope it would never be used.

On the beach, Rochine clasped onto her mother’s hand and they moved quickly… the rat tat tat of machine gun fire behind them; from the garden and now from the house. The boat was anchored next to their private beach. They had to get away. Rochine looked up; at least the full moon made it easier to see. A cold breeze came off the ocean. When she looked back, she could see whoever was after them now had control of the house.

Rochine’s father was armed. She saw him trip as he ran towards the moored boat. Next thing there were men gagging him and tying his hands. She tried to call out, but it was too late. Now more men were doing the same to her mother and governess. She felt a hand close around her throat. Her hands were bound together, as she was pushed with force towards the boat.

No. This was not happening.

But it was.

Stay calm, Rochine. Do as they say…

Dear God. Two of their trusted crew were dead, one lying near the boat with his throat cut; the other in the water. Was this to do with her father? He worked for the Exxon Corporation and had just come back from America. Trump nonsense. Her mother was to be the new French ambassador in Tunis, was it to do with her? Surely not. Rochine looked at her governess sobbing as the rest of the raiding party came down the chute. Two were injured but okay to join them on the boat, dinghies on tow as they set a course out to sea.

Rochine had always felt a prisoner in her own home, now she really was a prisoner.

Her eyes were drawn to a soldier. He had released two pigeons. For a moment, she watched transfixed as they flew up, silhouetted in the lunar glow; flying a full circle before heading in different directions over the ocean. A sense of strange irony mixed with the fear.

The boat slowed down, and everyone transferred to the two dinghies. She watched the soldier give instructions as he put their family boat onto autopilot. She watched the boat drift on the moonlit water, until it disappeared. Rochine shivered; her governess sat trembling. She felt her mother’s heart beating and saw fear in her father’s eyes for the first time.

All Rochine could think was those lovely innocent pigeons flying to freedom.

Danielle Bousquet approached the barrier just before midnight.

On the outside, the board said ‘Horticultural College’. It was located amongst the dormant volcanoes of Clermont Ferrand, France. A mere forty-minute drive from the city. But this was no college.

She parked her Peugeot 606 next to the accommodation unit; helicopters in the distance next to the hangars, across from the medical centre. She walked past the building with YMCA inscribed at the front. Of course, that was its pet name. Everything about this building was a façade.

Nestled off the D145 it was an ideal location; south of Le Lot D’Aydat. The area boasted hiking routes around the extinct volcanoes; hilly areas good for farming and industry. The ‘college’ was well hidden, two concealed entry points. Who would ever guess what really went on there? Or what Danielle did. Or any of the two hundred personnel for that matter.

The park, with its littering of benches, was to her left and the library and gym/pool complex to her right. The medical centre was by the hangars, the ambulance parked out front. She was on speaking terms with some of the nurses, not all sixteen, though she knew the four doctors, but not well. The short walk took her to the entrance of the RAID building. She was greeted as usual by the serious stares of Margaret Thatcher and President Mitterand in the framed pictures on the foyer walls. Underneath a plaque that reminded all of their function: Research, Assistance, Intervention, Dissuasion.

Yvonne, the Polish receptionist with her blonde hair neatly in a ponytail, raised her hand. Evening, Danielle, not often you work nights, wonder how the big election in America is going?

English was the chosen language for all.

With a short movement of her head, and without stopping, Danielle said, Hillary is going to win.

If Trump won it would have massive consequences for RAID. Since the Brexit talk, Britain had reduced staffing levels. Annual budgets were always agreed on February 1st to coincide with the American President’s inauguration. Danielle’s status and earnings would be seriously compromised if the unthinkable happened and Trump won. So it couldn’t happen. Wouldn’t. Mustn’t.

Danielle knew what they all thought of her; the girl who excelled in everything and at forty-eight she knew she was a force to be reckoned with. It didn’t always make her popular but this was no popularity contest. She was the designated unofficial ‘Boss’ at RAID.

Danielle moved hastily to the French booth. There were forty such small booths all with their own computers and soundproofed. A master board of the world was on view to them all with two rows of seats in a semi-circle in front of it. People could congregate in front like a cinema and openly discuss it if they wanted to. Lights and numbers would distinguish where an incident or abduction had taken place, the countries involved and a colour-coded grading of the state of that incident. To an outsider it looked like a stock market floor.

The staffing levels varied from country to country but it was imperative most were manned every day of the year, twenty-four/seven. Some countries shared one room to reduce costs and staffing levels. Great Britain had two booths to include all of the British empire.

Danielle was well versed in its inception, its function and how important it was. It was her job to know it all, from when it was started by just four countries: France, the UK, Germany and America to its present status with thirty countries. The Russians were always in their booths, as were the Israelis, Tunisians and the founding members. If a country couldn’t man its booth for the full twenty-four hours they would at least always be on standby.

The role of RAID was to see and respond to any act of terrorism and abduction for member countries. They were busy every day.

It was only when you had to go to the Mole rooms at a lower level that the work became deadly serious. It became life or death for someone somewhere.

Norway had flagged up red on the map. The team in the Mole section had transcribed an action plan to the negotiators in Norway. Danielle reviewed the information on the abduction in progress.

Act immediately. Father has daughter; unlikely to kill as would have been done by now. Remove petrol from requested car so only a few miles in the tank. Take car to him and swap for daughter. Intercept when he runs out of petrol.

It looked to be in order so Danielle left the booth; she needed to look at her own French news. Of course, she could not help but be drawn to the American election. 2 am was the key time in America; 9 am French time. The counting would only start at 5 am French time but felt she was better at work as sleep would be difficult for such a major event.

An hour later: applause. Thumbs-up signs everywhere, some rushing to the Norwegian booth as the main board came up green for success.

Daughter back with Mother. No need for aerial support. Details to follow.

Another crisis averted. For now, the Norwegian team was top dog and celebrating with coffees, chocolates and, of course, fish. Smiles everywhere, even Danielle when a cheeky Norwegian blew her a kiss. He got no response from her.

Danielle was thinking of her stomach. A long corridor led to the ground-floor dining room. It reminded her of a college refectory with a self-service area of hot and cold dishes, salad bar and breakfast bar.

Armed with a latte and a croissant, she sought a table.

There were by now a few Norwegians at the long table. It was natural to join the group and ask for more details of their success.

Danielle was still listening when one of the Russians joined them. I was sorry to hear about your husband, my sincerest condolences.

At first Danielle did not look up, it wasn’t as if she was in mourning.

The whole marriage had been a sham. Even her son had left home and refused to have any contact with them. Last she heard he was living with his grandmother in Marseille.

Husband Pierre had been the other boss at RAID. They kept together because of their high-powered jobs and the hefty income. He was the second of the French committee members along with the American/British/German that was the select committee that ran it. They met at her chateau.

With Pierre dead, a vacancy was open and the French government were sending a new member that weekend. Pierre had died of AIDS and his Tunisian lover, Cas, still worked on the premises. It was well known by the main committee that there were two ISIL infiltrators working in the village, one was Cas. Mobile phone trails and classified information deliberately leaked to him, was a necessary part of counter espionage and helped negotiations. Cas came from Casablanca, hence his name. He was not on duty that night and Danielle had noticed his paler complexion recently and hoped he would not be on this planet for much longer.

Danielle despised her husband, but because of her own failings, and the need to maintain her chateau and lifestyle near Limoges, she’d accepted his dalliances with Cas. He only returned to the chateau for committee meetings. Danielle had not made herself popular with the French government. She had joined protest marches against Francois Hollande in the failed effort to stop same-sex marriages. She feared the threatened divorce proceedings would lead to her humiliation with his marriage to Cas. On top of that she was a fierce supporter of the thousands of entrepreneurs that had been hit with a 60% tax. The movement in France was labelled ‘Les Pigeons’. Francois Hollande’s administration was under attack and his ratings were at a record low along with high unemployment. Against this backdrop she felt the implications of the American election along with Theresa May’s rise to power as a brexiteer did not bode well for RAID, but who would win, Hillary or Trump?

It was no surprise that ISIL or any other organisation with inside information had levels of reward expectancy for the ‘type of person’ up for ransom. This simply was not a level playing field. Insiders could relay the amount expected to save an ambassador as against a banker or a politician. These people at RAID secretly scaled those abducted from one to ten on a level of importance. What was finally agreed was down to ‘the five’ on the committee to decide. Saving the abducted was still the number one objective, irrespective of that person’s status.

Danielle sat with her hand cupped around a tall bottle of the local water: Volvic, when she saw Doc, one of the Germans. So named because he claimed to have a doctorate. Most people did not believe him, but it was well known he was Merkel’s man at the YMCA, reporting to her on a regular basis. Germans had now become a target because Mrs Merkel’s policy of allowing many immigrants into Germany was not popular. Hostage demands got higher as funds from other sources were hit; targeting more selective, so fewer demands but for a few dollars more. Danielle exchanged greetings with Doc as she left to return to her booth. She was not one for small talk. She had far more important things to attend to.

It was now well into the early hours and she had already decided to sleep in the quarters provided when her shift finished at 8 am. A bedsit had been allocated for her. She picked up a phone in her room and pressed 2.

Flight HQ.

It’s Danielle, I shall not be flying back till this evening now.

OK.

The phone went dead, it was a simple courtesy call. Flight HQ had several helicopters, two of which were the Westpac Rescue Helicopter BK 117-B2 and two smaller ones available for emergency calls and use by Danielle; the best and fastest way to get to her secluded chateau. These two older helicopters were called Maggie and Mitter. She was allowed this taxi service as they had regular summit meetings at the chateau, and it was also good for the aircraft to have regular outings. They were used by the RAID equivalent of the SAS to help collect/deliver the hostages in case fire power was needed or even just as a deterrent. Most of the time, a smaller helicopter was for her own use. The two Westpac helicopters were not standard by any means. They were always in action. It was a condition of all countries that at least one of their employees should have a helicopter licence.

Danielle also used Mari as a pilot on an emergency contract basis in case the helicopters were already on live exercises. Mari lived near Tremolat in the Dordogne. Mari had all the features to be a cover girl. Her steely approach to life embossed in her for ever due to the civil war in her native land. Her dominant father educated her in ways she never expected. Incredibly fit, Mari was a survivor, a marksman, a woman extraordinaire. One phone call from Danielle and Mari would fly anywhere, anytime. The contract for doing nothing or something was too lucrative to turn down. Mari’s other contract was a fortnightly trip to the Auvergne, a monastery called St Agatha.

Danielle wandered back to her booth concerned the American election was too close for comfort.

Rochine sat on the boat looking out at the ocean, a coating of salty spray on her lips; on all of the occupants being bounced in the dinghy. Rochine, in her helpless state, surveyed the scene. The victorious soldiers armed and with concentrated smiles. Her parents and governess, cold, shivering with frightened anticipation just like Rochine. She wondered what the hell was going on and who would save them all from this nightmare.

* * *

In Tunis not far from where he worked at the French embassy, Mohammed Aqbal studied the note a pigeon had brought before he went to work.

At 5 pm send this demand for 15 million dollars and a helicopter for the exchange of the Houston family and their governess to the French booth at RAID HQ France. Acknowledge within forty-eight hours or one dies.

Mohammed told his wife he would be back by 5 pm and wished his daughter, Elena, a good day at the primary school where she taught.

* * *

Captain Gerald Menzies of the American army reconnaissance training group had his small platoon of five vehicles on night patrol in North Africa. They had been sent to the Algerian/Tunisian border to monitor and look out for any ISIL movements. This mountainous region of Algeria, Kabylie near the provinces of Boumerdes and Bouira was homeland for an ISIL unit led by the legendary Tariq. Communication was a problem, given the terrain, so they stayed close to the coastline to easily report to land or sea. His role was to observe, note and report the instructions. Soft introductory work as a grounding for future operations. The vehicles kept within four miles of each other. The Americans were welcomed for the income and the added security they gave, especially after the killings in Tunisia was affecting tourism. They were well armed, but Captain Menzies was itching for a battle after his demotion for suspicious killings in the Iraqi war weighed unfairly on his shoulders. They were close to the border when his phone crackled into life.

HQ here, suspected ISIL attack near Bizerte, attackers have hostages and may be heading your way by sea. Observe and report regularly as they are well armed, hostages of high importance, do not engage if sighted.

Received and understood.

Captain Menzies smiled and stopped his vehicle. Other vehicles radioed and told to rendezvous. He checked the map. A team operation was required. He ordered each vehicle to be a maximum of three miles apart and check the coastline for any activity. The lead vehicle to go eighteen miles ahead immediately and each one three behind. He had trained these men and they obeyed willingly, action at last. They were on red alert. It was 5 am when all lookouts reported no sightings.

What about the mountains behind us? one cadet said.

Menzies was quick to advise using the heat-seeking equipment to check any movements on the mountain. Three vehicles replied, reporting something small; animal-sized, high up. Menzies had a look and agreed it was possibly a wild boar. Then excitement as one of them reported a dinghy-type boat off the coast in the distance but too far to see clearly. Menzies ordered all vehicles to be switched off. Leave one to guard the first and last vehicles and the rest go on foot and look for any possible landing site. He was supposed to contact HQ and observe. He sensed his advantage as the dinghy neared a possible landing area. An open beach and terrain where he could hide and prepare.

Two more small contacts up the mountain. Menzies checked again but they all concurred: still looked like rabbits or wild boar. Menzies prepared his ambush meticulously. Ordering marksmen to take them out from left to right as they finished alighting the dinghy. He told his men they would not be able to stand easily after time at sea. Two from each group would go for the hostages as soon as the shooting started and take them to safety. As he gave his instructions a second dinghy appeared.

Shit! he said, Hostages all on the first dinghy, prepare smoke bombs to distract the second dinghy.

He then instructed two of his men to rapid fire at the other boat as soon as the action started.

* * *

Rochine lay back, her back ached, she felt nauseous. The dinghy was approaching the shore. Francesca had thrown up several times into the sea. The soldiers were preparing their machine guns and looking out to land with binoculars. One had a rocket-type launcher on his shoulders, aimed at the beach. She saw the other dinghy closing in on them fast as they slowed down to wade out. A strong arm held each of them, so the soldiers were all behind them as they struggled to get out, especially Francesca.

Rochine felt a soldier behind her, guiding her to stand and exit the dinghy. The cold water covered her trainers and soaked the bottom of her sweatpants. It was difficult with hands bound, the soldier’s hands holding her, so she did not fall. Gazing down at the water to feel the solid beach and safety of land. Then the soldier released his grip and she saw the others in front of her with a soldier behind each one; guns raised and aiming at a sand dune.

Rochine sensed danger; moments later there were explosions in front of her. Some dived, some fell onto the sand or into the sea; waves beating against them. Rochine stood firm; watching bodies flying into the air in their sandy brown uniforms; human carnage dispersed all around the beach and from where they had been hiding. Missiles and bullets smashing into the overgrowth in front of them. She heard Francesca shouting I am going to die then saw her father trying to kick a soldier, but he was no match with his hands tied and he was hit hard twice. She was helpless as she stared at the dead bodies. She saw people charging down the mountain chanting Death to the Americans! followed by Tariq, Tariq, Tariq. Rochine was fluent in three languages, having had a governess with forced learning and virtually no contact with the outside world… she knew what they were saying, but had no intention of revealing her skills. She chose to speak French and a little English. She heard soldiers celebrating Tariq’s battle plan and his ambush site. Rochine saw men, women and boys with weapons. She watched as soldiers took two jeeps going in the opposite direction. She heard them pray for a pigeon that had brought them the news. She guessed it was one she saw released earlier… but why were they using pigeons?

There were two stretchers to help the wounded soldiers. Rochine watched as the dead, and remaining jeeps, were stripped of anything valuable or useful. Rochine looked up at the formidable mountains above the beach and knew it would be a long hard walk to wherever they intended to take them; they were hostages now. But why? It had to be connected to her father. Not her mother. She hated him. She tried to look at him, but he always wore the same look of hate when she was in his company; like she was a bad smell. Earlier he had looked away from her questioning gaze. She was scum to him; she knew it. She heard the crackle of fire, felt the heat of flames, as the remaining jeeps were burnt.

Rochine looked at the weather-beaten but proud commander, contemplating her fate. Francesca had warned her of men like this. She noticed her now with her parents; hoods being forced over them and now shackled by ropes to one of the other soldiers. Rochine then felt a rope being tied around her and a hood with air vents near the nose and mouth. She could hear birds, people close by, muffled voices and feet. The smell of the clear mountain air the only relief as they began their march uphill. She heard the panting of two men and the words, Only one got away, all jeeps burnt. She knew the commander was close to her.

The pigeon is an important symbol in the traditions of many different cultures from around the world. In religious symbolism the pigeon features in Hinduism, Buddhism, and Christianity. The pigeon has a long history of association with gods, goddesses, and spiritual teachers of many traditions

Mari woke just before the alarm. It was 6:30 am and the AW009 helicopter with its Rolls Royce M250-C20R/2 SP engine was waiting with its rich cargo and her favourite pigeon, Zag. Mari was to fly to St Agatha Monastery in the Auvergne. She’d leave Zag there for a few days until they needed to send the next message. She suspected it was an all-female commune, she had seen the young women wearing hoods. Her suspicion was they were coming from war-torn countries like Yugoslavia and Syria, she knew something about that, of course… but what happened at St Agatha was speculation… protection? Trafficking?

Take the money, don’t ask questions.

She had been lured to France to a property in the Dordogne with a helicopter and work included in the price. It was a far cry from her old life, having escaped war-torn Yugoslavia in the 1990s.

It was while taking clients from all over France mainly to and from the Vieux Logis at Tremolat that she had met Danielle. They were dining at Le Vieux Logis in 2012 just after Danielle had been appointed with her then-alive-husband as part of the famous five to run YMCA. She spoke to Danielle about her past and how she loved to fly. Danielle offered her the contact; which meant Mari could spend more time at Le Vieux Logis. She was a happy single bunny with a healthy bank balance.

By midday Mari had flown for two hours. She was surprised to see Zag flying back into the loft after such a short time at St Agatha. She carefully opened the message attached to the bird’s foot. Please collect two passengers this afternoon and take to Bergerac Airport for 6 pm.

Time for a long lunch and a siesta.

Arriving at 5 pm at St Agatha, Mari saw Sister Edith in her long blue habit, a small but formidable woman, though to the world she looked like an innocent nun. Her broad shoulders underneath her gown disguised her muscles that gave her the advantage over her flock. She was with the two girls waiting to board. One young lady looked Syrian, but seemed happy as the other girls and staff were taking it in turns to kiss her goodbye. She had a small piece of luggage and Edith had several small bags. Edith looked focussed on whatever her tasks were. The other Spanish-looking lady was also saying her goodbyes… for whatever fate awaited them. That was not for Mari to know.

Mari took off to Bergerac Airport keeping below the flight path and height that many airlines used to approach Bergerac, especially Ryanair. The two girls were blindfolded until they landed near the hangars out of sight of the main public buildings. This was her normal landing zone. Mari was asked to wait as she would need to return to St Agatha. Her regular local trips to the airport meant she avoided any customs checks. She waited in the small coffee shop as they went to the car park. They approached a large Mercedes and a van. Edith collected two bags as the young girls got into one vehicle each. A good half hour later she appeared with a big smile on her face and two more bags in her hand.

Business concluded, she said and gave Mari one bag. This one is for you.

Mari returned to her helicopter to the smiles and lurid looks from a few tourists and a custom’s official.

In two hours, she would be sipping wine back home and an extra 2000 euros in cash in her secret place in