Free Hunter Killer by Patrick Robinson Page A

Monsieur Hooks and his new bride, taken in 1993, was hanging on the wall beside the kitchen. General Jobert noted instantly that Monsieur Hooks had been married in the dress uniform of the First Marine Parachute Infantry regiment.
    Madame Hooks took the boys into the kitchen. When she emerged, she was carrying a tray of four mugs, three of them full, plus a coffeepot. She asked the two men to call her Giselle. “Jacques will not be long,” she said. “That school bus he’s on is supposed to be back in Gedre by four o’clock.”
    She was correct in that. Four minutes later, the door opened and Monsieur Jacques Hooks, a medium-size, bearded man, not one ounce overweight, walked inside. He was wearing leather work boots, suede shorts, and a T-shirt, with a green rucksack over his shoulder. Jammed into his wide studded belt was a large sheathed knife.
    Monsieur Hooks was surprised, but mannered. “Oh,” he said. “I was not expecting visitors. Bonjour, I’m Jacques Hooks.”
    General Jobert was the first to his feet. “ Bonjour, ” he said, “I’m Michel Jobert, and this is my colleague Gaston Savary. We have come a very long way to see you.”
    Monsieur Hooks seemed to freeze. His face was expressionless. “I don’t suppose there would be much point in hiding my true identity from you,” he said. “I’m assuming you are both from some branch of the military, but I should warn you right away, I am retired. I have a wife and family, as you already know. And I have no intention of leaving my little mountain paradise.”
    Gaston Savary held out his hand. “Colonel Gamoudi, I’m honored to meet you,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I’m head of the French Secret Service. And General Jobert here is Commander in Chief of the First Marine Parachute Infantry…your old regiment.”
    “I’m afraid I knew precisely who General Jobert was the moment I walked in,” said Jacques Gamoudi. “I do stay in touch with a few old friends. And I most certainly would recognize my commanding officer.” He smiled gently, poured himself some coffee, and shook his head. “It’s been a while now,” he said. “But we’re very happy here in the mountains. It’s a good place to bring up a family. Clean, lovely, no crime, friendly people.”
    “How about that very large dagger you carry with you?” said Savary, chuckling. “You expecting trouble?”
    Gamoudi laughed. “No, but I work in some pretty desolate places with some pretty helpless people. These mountains are just about the last refuge of the Pyrenean brown bear. And he’s big and dangerous. This hunting knife is my last line of defense.”
    “I’m not sure even a knife that size would fend off a Pyrenean bear,” said Savary.
    “That depends on how well you know how to use it,” replied Gamoudi. “Most of God’s creatures lose heart for a fight with a knife this big rammed into their left eye.”
    Savary thus ascertained that the Colonel was right handed. He stared at the heavy forearms, the bull neck, and the wide, swarthy face. He noted the jagged scar below Gamoudi’s right ear, the tight military-cut hair, the straight back of his natural stance, the hard brown eyes. Ex–Foreign Legion, ex–Special Forces, ex-mercenary in North Africa. Parachutist. Combat fighter. What the hell did I expect him to look like? Yves St. Laurent?
    “Before we start to talk,” Gamoudi said, “I should perhaps explain that I am not hiding in any way. But in my line of business one is apt to make a few enemies, and so I changed my name. I thought it wiser not to return to Morocco, since I was in North Africa on behalf of the French Republic for so long. But I always wanted to live in France, and the mountains suit me well. I can make a good living up here, so I changed our name, and we just vanished into the mists. Giselle’s parents live in Pau.”
    “Did you meet her during parachute training with the Legion?” asked the General.
    “Very perceptive, sir. Matter