“I think so.”
“Then I will send some letters. From Oz.”
“Right.”
“Oz. Dookesland. And to ROI, too.”
Osborn listened. Oz? ROI?
“Then I’ll return to the capital city of Dookesland and go to Jackie.”
“OK,” said Loretta.
Oz. Dookesland. Phonetic. Probably a play on Deutschland. Germany. Capital Berlin. He wants to fly from Berlin to Montreal. Misdirection. Kopp will mail letters to friends in the United.States and the ROI—Republic of Ireland—from Germany. Need to put out an alert, thought Osborn. Kopp plans to move, and soon.
Chapter 19 ~ Sayonara
Jim hung up the phone after finishing his conversation with Loretta. It was about 3 p.m. Later, he walked through the center of Dinan. Thursday was market day, a festive atmosphere, the town square packed with kiosks, the smells of old cheese and fresh baguettes. Vendors sold meat, vegetables, fruit, clothing, and wine in old bottles with homemade labels. There was a carousel for the kids.
He walked into the post office. Behind the counter stood the clerk, whose white hair belied his youthful, animated face. The bearded man asked about a package left for a Francis Teller. The clerk checked. Jim prayed it would be there. The package was in. There were 300 francs inside.
“Merci. Bonsoir, good evening.” Jim Kopp left through the sliding doors of La Poste, down six steps to the street. It was now nearly 4 p.m. He saw a police officer, a common sight in that part of town, with the police station nearby.
“Bonsoir,” Jim said.
“Bonsoir,” replied the officer, who turned away. Jim walked on. How many times had he had brushes like that with police officers? There had been so many random encounters over the last several years, any one of which, he mused, might have put him on a slow boat to Siberia. He vanished into the crowd in the market. Past La Belle Epoque Pizzeria and the courtyard beside the market where the carousel turned around and around, carnival music swirling up into the air. Past the hotel de ville, along the Esplanade de la Résistance, and le Jardin du Val Cochere (“Garden of the Little Devils”) on his right, and between rows of 150-year-old Platane trees, which were bare and gray, with bulbous joints at the top. The historic ramparts of Dinan were to his left. He moved past the Tour de Beaufort, and the statue of Duclos, Mire de Dinan 1704-1772.
Oz. A coarse language, German, which is no doubt why the French hold it in contempt. French being the language of beauty— according to the French!—but German, the language from which English actually derives.
He walked the length of the promenade, about 100 meters. Then up the hill, along Rue du Fosse, up the stairs. His legs had to be tired, but when had Jim Kopp not been tired in the time he had been sleeping?
English, derivative of the German, dominates the world: the language of commerce, bad enough for the French, but more than that, worst of all, the language of diplomacy! Diplomacy, a French creation, although the great statesmen, at least in Kissinger’s book, were men like the Brit Castlereagh, or
Austrian Metternich, and Kissinger—good Nixon man, was German, although he officially renounced his citizenship. Kissinger. If H. Kissinger hadn’t done his thing in ’73, I’d have been on a one-way flight to Saigon. Me and Walt. Our draft numbers were high probability. Then Kissinger’s peace accord. Gord Liddy, the hotheaded egotist, screwed everybody with Watergate. Dad would have never touched Watergate, would not have soldiered along in the ranks if he had accepted the offer to go to D.C. Dr. Steinfeld, Nixon’s Surgeon General told me so, years ago. True story. Go ahead. Ask him. Ask him how his daughter is. She was gorgeous.
Along Rue d’Horloge. Past the Hôtel de la Tour d’Horloge, a creaky, heavy-beamed old building. There was a tiny Madonna perched above the doorway of the store next to the hotel like a guardian angel. A few more steps and he would be out of the narrow side street and into the crowded square.
Germany. Austria. Grandpa’s birthplace. Dad. The Marine, who was there, the crucible of death, Japan, and what would Dad have said now about my—success? Success by what measure, I suppose, but of course that’s the point, Jim, you idiot. Hmm: “Jim Kopp’s struggle is the struggle of modern post-Christian civilization.” Yes. And the central point of it all is, will we strive to protect the weak? Will we? Where are we going? Quo Vadis?
He felt a hard hand grab his shoulder. It exerted a forceful grip, an unfriendly one. How long had it been since he felt anyone grab him with force? It had once been such a staple of his life as an activist, used to be part of the game. There were two of them. Plainclothes. Large men. He struggled against the man squeezing his shoulder. It was no use. They twisted his arm behind his back, drove his body to the ground.
“La police! La police!” Jim Kopp yelled.
Perhaps he was trying to convince police that he was not James C. Kopp, the American fugitive. Or was it a last desperate attempt to sell someone, anyone, a bystander, on the idea that he was a victim, being attacked by thugs? An elderly woman approached the two men who were pinning down the thin, gaunt man, and hit them over the head with her umbrella. The man she thought to assist may have looked weak, but his appearance belied his strength. They had to fight to keep him in place, force his hands behind his back for cuffing, facedown,
cheek grinding into the cobblestone. A car pulled up and he was pushed into the backseat. A brief drive to the police station around the corner. Silence in the car, Jim Kopp saying not a word. Escorted inside the station and down the hall, right turn, into a small, square overnight holding cell that was located right next to the drunk tank.
What had gone wrong? His situation, prior to his arrest, had hardly been perfect, but he was ready to move, had enough money to get on a train, ultimately get to Germany, mail his letters, meet up with contacts, get to Canada, New York, and back to Loretta—and to the field. He did not know that the day before his arrest, local police had received a fax from the authorities in Paris, via the FBI. A man named James C. Kopp, who was on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted List, was in Dinan, and planning to run. He could be armed and is dangerous. He had been using the post office to retrieve money being wired from the United States. Circulate his photo to post office employees, see if anyone recognizes him.
The next day, the haggard-looking bearded man had stood in La Poste, feverishly rubbing rosary beads. The clerk named Christian Guillot studied him. When James C. Kopp left the post office, Guillot phoned the National Police. If the man returns, the clerk was told, phone us immediately. Later that day, he returned and retrieved an envelope. He left the office. Guillot phoned the police: he had come back. Guillot followed him out, saw a uniformed police officer standing on the corner. He motioned to the officer to follow Kopp. The officer started to move, but suddenly realized two plainclothes detectives had arrived. Their names were Christian Joncour and Henri Tardy, both 25-year veteran cops.
They followed the fugitive as he walked around town, up the hill, down the narrow side streets, waiting for the right moment to arrest him. Kopp did not turn around, but it appeared that he was quickening his pace. He was almost in the main square, where he could disappear into the crowd, when they made their move. At the station, Captain Pascal le Taillendier searched Kopp. His passport said he was John O’Brien, from Ireland. Then Le Taillendier found two more Irish passports—one for Sean O’Briain, and one for Daniel Joseph O’Sullivan. He also found instructions written in French on how to operate a semiautomatic pistol, a scrap of paper with a written reference to a Western Union transfer for 300 dollars in the name of Francis Teller, and the 300 dollars cash.