Inside the small aft lavatory of the Boeing 707, Thomas H. Pruett felt another convulsion and couldn’t hold it any longer. On his knees, Pruett placed his face over the toilet and let it all out. In the past he’d only felt nauseated during the few occasions when a crisis forced him to travel by Air Force fighter to “hot spots,” but as his digestive condition worsened, Pruett found himself unable to tolerate even jetliner flights.
“Let’s go, Tom. Limo’s waiting.”
Chief Europe Roland Higgins banged impatiently on the lavatory door. To Pruett, Higgins seemed all too eager to get back to the office after returning from a South American tour designed to let Higgins get acquainted with most of the Western Hemisphere field houses. Since the early retirement of the previous Chief Western Hemisphere, Pruett had been filling in while searching for a permanent replacement, but after several months without being able to find the right individual, Pruett had decided to give his younger, ambitious, and very confident Chief Europe a shot at managing both divisions.
“Give me a second.”
Their last stop had been French Guiana. Not a very high place on Pruett’s list, but Higgins had insisted on visiting all the field houses. Not because he’d expected any real surprises—after all, Pruett always kept extremely close contact with his people—but because Higgins had argued that a face-to-face meeting was the best way to keep a good working relationship with faraway field offices.
Pruett turned on the faucet over the diminutive sink and splashed cold water on his face. He inhaled deeply and stared at his own image in the mirror. Not a pretty sight, he decided with a frown. The circles under his bloodshot eyes and tousled hair were not in character with a man in his position. Two weeks of nonstop traveling had definitely taken a toll on his fifty-year-old body. Not a young gun anymore, he thought. Ten years ago he would have already been in that limousine headed for the CIA headquarters.
Pruett dried his face with a paper towel, pulled a comb from his pocket, and brushed his thinning brown hair back, making a receding hairline much more obvious and a square wall of forehead a bit more rectangular, but also giving him a somewhat distinguished look. At least that was what his secretary, Tammy, had told him. At his age he was beyond flattering remarks from young members of the opposite sex. He admitted he had kept some of the attractive characteristics of his youth, especially his large frame, which had given him the right to date just about any girl he wished as captain of his school’s wrestling team, and his full lips, which blended into a square jaw—his father’s jaw—gave him a kind of rugged geniality.
He rinsed his mouth several times, straightened up his tie, and rolled down the sleeves of his still-white shirt. He smiled. After a decade of stomach problems, Pruett had gotten good at getting sick without messing up his shirt or tie. Just a few minutes in a private rest room and he would emerge looking like new.
He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and spotted his subordinate closing his briefcase. Higgins was about six feet tall, a couple of inches shorter than Pruett. He looked impeccable, dressed in a double-breasted suit, which went well with his pale complexion and carefully clipped mustache.
“You should see a doctor,” Higgins said as he walked up the aisle toward the forward section of the cabin.
Pruett frowned, snagged his briefcase and coat, and followed him. “Doctors don’t know shit.”
Higgins shook his head as they walked down the stairs toward the limousine waiting to take them to Langley.
CHAPTER FIVE
PERSONAL SACRIFICES
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Pruett set his briefcase down on his large desk and walked toward his mini-bar. His secretary always made it a point to keep his small refrigerator stocked with one of Pruett’s favorite items: milk. He drank it by the gallon to help his ailing ulcer. He opened the refrigerator and smiled when he saw two fresh cartons, one of whole milk, one of skim. He snatched the whole milk and eyed the expiration date, just in case. Satisfied, he opened the carton and took two large swigs.
Loosening his tie, he walked back to his desk, and eased himself into his leather swivel chair. The chair had belonged to his previous boss, the former Head of Clandestine Services, killed on the job several years back. Pruett, Chief Western Hemisphere at the time, had been asked by the CIA Director to fill the position until the Agency could find a replacement, but after several successful months, the Director had made Pruett’s temporary assignment permanent.
He noticed a small gift-wrapped box on the right corner of his desk. Pruett eyed the calendar and smiled. He had missed his own birthday. He shrugged and picked up the box. Like a curious youngster, he shook it twice but could not make out its contents. He removed the red wrapping paper and opened the box.
Pruett smiled as his eyes filled. He lifted out a clear paperweight with a three-by-five color photograph inside it, a photo of his brother’s family, Pruett’s only family besides his two kids. All his older relatives were long gone, and his job had never really given him the chance to start another relationship after his wife had left him nearly two decades before. His two kids never got to see much of him anymore. As they’d been raised by their mother and stepfather, Pruett had been pretty much kept out of it. That’s just as well, he reflected as his fingers fumbled with the square piece of Plexiglass. He’d always been on some assignment, and wouldn’t have been able to spend time with them anyway. You’re better off this way, Tom…or are you? It was certainly the price he had paid to get to his current position. He took another sip of milk and wondered if his large personal sacrifice had really made a difference. Did his contributions to the Agency compensate for the fact that his own kids—his flesh and blood—were practically strangers living across the country on the West Coast? Go easy on yourself, Tom. That was a decision made long ago. It’s too late to go back.
Pruett managed to shake the thought as he looked at the photo, and made a mental note to check on his nephew’s progress over at Data Collection the following day. He was a good kid, he decided, picking up where his father had left off at such a young age. Pruett felt a little guilty for having seen George only a few times since his arrival at the Agency, but his job…hell, it’s always the job.
The burning pain in his stomach lessened as he continued to drink directly from the milk carton. The soothing effect was better than what he got from the antacid tablets he carried with him at all times. It’s also healthier, he thought, staring at the Plexiglas paperweight.
PARIS, FRANCE
It took Cameron Stone one hour to walk the stretch of the beautifully landscaped gardens between the Place de la Concorde, across from the American Embassy, and the Louvre. He’d decided to spend his day off discovering Paris all over again, especially after the turmoil of the past couple of days. As the noontime sun warmed up the air, tourists gathered in front of the huge glass-and-steel pyramids in the center of the Louvre. The controversial pyramids had been built several years back to modernize access to the museum’s different wings.
Cameron got in line to follow the tourists down the escalator that would take him to the underground reception and ticket area, the place from which all museum tours started.
He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he spun around.
“Marie!”
She was dressed casually, just a plain pair of Levi’s and a long-sleeve white T-shirt. Her long hair was tied in a ponytail and she wore large gold earrings.
“Hello, Cameron.”
Once more, Cameron felt strongly attracted to her, and a bit guilty because of it. “You…are you all right? How’s the head wound?”
“What head wound?”
Cameron smiled, but the smile quickly vanished. “Did you follow me here?”
“Cameron, there’s something you must know. It’s about the rumor at Athena I told you about the other night.”
“C’mon, you know I can’t get—�
�
“Please listen to what I have to say. The information they have is very disturbing.”
“‘They?’ Who are you talking about?”
Marie shifted her gaze to the left. Cameron turned his head and spotted the man with the gray beard. The man from the rue de Cujas.
Instinctively, he reached under his coat. Marie put her hand over his. “Relax. He’s on our side.”
Marie waved at the man. He approached them.
“Hello, Monsieur Stone. My name is Jean-Francois. I was Monsieur Claude Guilloux’s bodyguard.”
Cameron blinked twice. Bodyguard? “Is that what you were doing back at the hotel? Protecting Marie?”
“Trying to, monsieur. Simply trying to conform to one of Monsieur Guilloux’s final requests. Come now, please.”
“Where? I’m not going anywh—”
“This won’t take long,” Marie said. “You’ll hear for yourself why Athena killed my husband.”
Cameron hesitated. The operative in him told him to stick to the rules. Contact Potter and get approval. But his instincts told him otherwise. Marie had talked of possible corruption in Athena’s ranks. If Athena had indeed destroyed the Russian spacecraft, then in Cameron’s logical mind, the problem demanded CIA intervention. Although Cameron seldom deviated from the book—he’d known too many who had and had died—his experience told him this was an exception. Going through proper channels to obtain approval might take too long. Potter might not even sanction further intervention. Cameron made his decision, and followed Marie and Jean-Francois to a parked car next to the Louvre’s west entrance.
Five minutes later, with Jean-Francois at the wheel, a worn-out Renault sped down the rue de Rivoli toward the Place de la Bastille, where Jean-Francois turned south and continued on Avenue Daumesnil.
Cameron sat in the back with Marie. He simply stared out the window wondering if he’d made the right choice by coming along. He knew that in doing so he had disobeyed a direct order from Potter.
The car came to a full stop in the middle of a long block on the right-hand side of a deserted street. Large warehouses on their side of the street bordered the Seine. Between the warehouse Cameron could see the river’s peaceful waters. The warehouses across the street blocked the view of the city’s skyline. Jean-Francois turned his head.
“Here we are. Please wait for my signal.”
“Where are we?” asked Cameron.
“Please, monsieur.”
Jean-Francois got out and walked across the cobblestone street to a warehouse on the left. The warehouse had a huge metal sliding door. It was closed but Cameron spotted a smaller door next to it. Jean-Francois checked both sides of the street, pushed the smaller door open, and disappeared.
Cameron turned to Marie. “I don’t like being inside this parked car. We’re too exposed.”
“Want to get out and wait next to the warehouses?”
“That sounds like a great—”
“There. He’s giving us the signal. We can go in now.”
Cameron glanced back toward the warehouse. Jean-Francois was waving his right hand at them.
Cameron quickly got out and helped Marie. “Let’s go.” He warily scanned both sides of the block. All clear. They crossed the street and followed Jean-Francois inside.
The stench of urine and mildew struck him like a moist breeze. Cameron saw no one as Jean-Francois led him and Marie across the warehouse. He spotted a door at the other end. Jean-Francois took out a key, unlocked the door, and pulling it open, motioned Cameron and Marie to go through. He followed, locking the door behind them.
Cameron stopped. The room was pitch black.
“Where are we?”
Before Jean-Francois could answer, bright lights came on, almost blinding Cameron. He found himself under the scrutiny of three well-dressed older men sitting behind a long wooden table.
“Who are you?” he asked, perplexed.
“Our names are not important, Monsieur Stone,” replied the one in the center. “All you need to know is that we were Monsieur Guilloux’s colleagues.”
Cameron didn’t like this game. As he scanned the room for possible avenues of escape, he chastised himself for allowing himself to be trapped. The room had no windows and no visible doors except for the one they had come in through. It looked about sixty feet deep and at least two hundred feet long. The ceiling was as high as the rest of the warehouse. Several fluorescent lights hung from it.
Cameron stood in the middle, Marie to his right. “All right. What is this all about?”
“I’m afraid it concerns the future of your space agency,” said a distinguished-looking gentleman seated at the table.
Cameron thought a moment. “You mean NASA?”
“Oui, monsieur. We were all dismissed from our positions at Athena Aerospace, where we worked with Monsieur Guilloux. We were lucky. None of us pressed the issue to the point he did. For that he was murdered. Still, we know what he discovered and cannot allow him to have died without purpose.
“The directors of Athena are planning to sabotage NASA, just as they sabotaged the Russians last month.”
Cameron stared at the hardened face of the man across the table. “Sabotage? Murder? Do you realize what you’re saying? The implications? The reaction from my government?”
“Oui.”
“All right. Go back to the beginning. Tell me everything you know. I want to know everything.” Cameron stared into the man’s sunken eyes. He saw fear.
The man started, slowly. Every once in a while he would stumble onto a word whose meaning he knew only in French. He would use the French equivalent, pause, and wait for a reaction from Cameron, who would simply nod and motion for him to continue. It took only a few minutes. When the man finished, Cameron closed his eyes and simply inhaled and exhaled deeply several times, trying to come to terms with what he had just learned, forcing his logical mind to assimilate the incredible revelation. He turned to Marie. Her eyes were on him, waiting for his reaction. He glanced back across the table.
“So, let me get this straight. Athena tested this…killer satellite on a Russian spacecraft to check its accuracy before trying it on an American orbiter?”
“Oui.”
“How long before Athena launches this satellite?”
“Three days.”
“How long before Lightning’s launch?”
“Tomorrow—”
A blast. An ear-piercing blast, instantly followed by a powerful shock wave that sent Cameron flying across the room. A shower of glass from shattered lights fell everywhere. Cameron braced himself as he crashed hard against the far left wall. He bounced and landed hard on his back on the wet concrete floor, rolling as trained reflexes took command.
He saw several dark figures enter the room through the large hole blasted in the opposite wall. Their silhouettes were sharp against the bright sun gleaming through the opening. Cameron couldn’t see much at first. He lost precious seconds trying to discern the long thin extensions at the ends of the figures’ hands.
Sound-suppressed pistols!
He reached for his Beretta as his eyes scanned the room. Marie had to be somewhere. But where? Where was she before the blast? Standing to my right. My right, my right. That means she has to be in front of me somewhere. Between me and the guns.
He heard one, two, three muffled shots. Detected the spitting sounds of a suppressed semiautomatic. He gazed around the room, found their origins. A figure lay still on the floor in the middle of the room.
Bastards!
He counted six intruders. The Beretta had fifteen rounds, and he didn’t have an extra magazine. It was his day off. No more than two rounds each. Cameron spotted the long table lying on its side ten feet away.
He heard three more spitting sounds followed by a low cry. Another two spits. Another cry.
“Fuck off, you assholes!” Cameron looked to his right. Marie!
His gun sights sought the dark form standing in front of Marie. Fired once. Twice. Both rounds aimed at the midsection. The target came up off his feet and fell to the left as both 9-mm Parabellum rounds transferred their energy. As he fired, Cameron quickly rolled away from his position. His weapon did not have a flash suppressor or silencer attachment. By firing he’d given his position away. The remaining five targets brought their weapons around and fired where he’d been merely seconds ago.
He had to get closer to Marie. Get to a new position and perhaps take out one or two more targets. His right shoulder crashed against the wall. Something gave; not the wall.
Damn.
He brought the Beretta around and trained it on a man still firing into the table, now twenty feet away. One shot. The target fell to his knees. Before he collapsed, Cameron already had another one lined up in his sights. He fired once more. Three down.
“Cameron…here…”
He heard her words, heard her pain. She was hurt. Cameron bolted up and raced the ten feet that separated them, sliding in beside her, next to the first target he’d killed. He looked to his left and spotted two targets leveling their weapons at him. Instinctively, Cameron grabbed the body of the dead target and pulled it up in front of him as he protected Marie with his own. He braced himself but death never came. Instead, he heard four loud blasts.
Confused, he focused on the right side of the room, where he’d seen the muzzle flashes. Jean-Francois! Relief fell victim to dread as three silenced shots foretold the end of Jean-Francois.
Cameron spotted the target. He trained the Beretta on him and fired twice. Both rounds hit. The man fell. Cameron scanned the room once more but saw no more targets. He turned to Marie.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, I think just bruised. Don’t feel anything brok—” Her words were cut short by the sound of blaring sirens in the distance. Help. But not for him. This was no longer a local matter. He needed his case officer, needed to report. He remembered what he’d been told. Remembered a Roman candle called Challenger. Remembered a young schoolteacher and a country grief-stricken.
Siege of Lightning Page 6
