Conviction (2009)

by Tom Clancy

  HANSEN would want to talk to the still-recuperating Doucet and company, but it was after midnight, well past visiting hours at the Centre Hospitalier Universitaire, so the visit would have to wait until morning—assuming they’d gotten into Reims late. If so, that left Hansen two options: settle in for the night or visit Doucet’s warehouse and see what they could see. Fisher guessed the latter; Ben Hansen was proactive, to put it mildly. A “bulldog” was perhaps a better term. Though the police wouldn’t have found anything of use at the warehouse, Team Hansen would be looking for altogether different evidence.

  Fisher let five minutes pass, then walked back to Boutin’s block. It was time for another field exam. From the trees beside the kebab restaurant, he watched Boutin’s courtyard for fifteen minutes. Nothing moved. He moved in.

  In the glow of his red-hooded penlight, he lifted the doormat. The tremble sensor had been moved, ever so slightly. Fisher checked the cell phone. It, too, showed signs of having been touched. Fail, he thought. Someone—probably Hansen—had either spotted or looked for the sensor. Having found it, he and his team should have doubled back and set up on Boutin’s courtyard to see if anyone came to collect the device. So far, it was a mixed report card: some good tradecraft but some dumb mistakes and a missed golden opportunity.

  FISHER drove to Doucet’s warehouse and drove around the industrial park until he spotted the team’s cars; this time they’d parked a quarter mile apart. Hansen was learning.

  He found a scrap yard, parked beside the hurricane fence enclosing the lot, then shook the fence a few times until certain no guard dogs were present. He then climbed atop the car, scaled the fence, and dropped down to the other side. On the west side of the dirt lot was a car compactor, next to it a crane with a glassed-in control booth. He climbed the ladder and slipped inside. A quarter mile to the north, over the tops of the stacked cars, he could see Doucet’s warehouse. He lifted the Canon to his eye and zoomed in. For five minutes nothing moved, and then, from the skylight hatch on the roof, a darkened figure appeared. Then a second. They padded across the roof and down the same air-conditioning unit he’d used to gain entry two nights earlier.

  In the corner of the AstroScope he saw a glimmer of light. He panned that way but saw nothing, so he returned his focus to the warehouse. Another glimmer. He snapped around in time to catch it.

  In a parking lot across the street from Doucet’s warehouse, a lone black Range Rover sat under a tree. Fisher zoomed in and adjusted the NV contrast until two man-shaped silhouettes came into view. He couldn’t make out faces, but there was no mistaking the object the passenger was holding: a spotting scope. Aimed at Doucet’s warehouse.

  4

  HUSSIGNY-GODBRANGE, FRANCE

  FOLLOWING the extended arm of the lot attendant, Fisher pulled his rental car into the parking space and got out. He handed the rental agreement to the attendant, waited while she checked the car’s mileage and condition, then took the receipt, grabbed his blue duffel bag, and started walking. The bus station was two blocks away; twenty minutes later he was heading west toward Villerupt.

  He was exhausted. It was, in fact, hell getting old, Fisher decided. True enough, he was in far better shape than 90 percent of the people half his age, but the little aches and pains that at one time went unnoticed were harder to ignore now. The same went for sleep deprivation, but that wasn’t anything that couldn’t be cured by a tall cup of dark roast. And so far the aches were no match for a couple of tabs of ibuprofen. He checked his watch. Not quite eleven. Once he reached his destination he’d catch a couple of hours’ sleep, then prep for the border crossing.

  The night before, in Reims, he’d sat in the crane’s control booth and watched until the rest of Hansen’s team emerged from Doucet’s warehouse and rallied back at their cars, with the mysterious Range Rover following, headlights off, at a discreet distance. The watchers themselves were being watched. But by whom? It was a question that would have to remain unanswered for the time being. Fisher watched from his perch until one of the team’s cars and the Range Rover disappeared east down the D980, then headed back toward Reims, returned to his hotel, slept for four hours, and got up and headed north.

  He pulled into the Villerupt terminal just before noon and checked into a hostel using one of Emmanuel’s clean passports. No credit card was required. He paid cash for three days. Unless something went wrong, he would be staying only the afternoon.

  AT three o’ clock Fisher left the hostel and walked a half mile west to the Sixt office on place Jeanne d’Arc and rented a sun yellow Chevrolet Aveo using Louis Royer’s driver’s license and one of Emmanuel’s sanitized Master-Cards, then drove to a Lacoste outlet store and paid cash for three outfits: a red polo shirt over green trousers, a yellow polo over sky blue trousers, and khaki trousers with a long-sleeved navy blue button-down shirt. He completed the ensembles with a similarly mixed-and-matched trio of designer baseball caps and sunglasses. He used the changing room to don the red and green outfit, then stuffed the rest of the clothes in his rucksack and left.

  Finally, he took the D16A northeast two miles to Russange, which straddled the border along with the Luxembourgian village of Esch-sur-Alzette, just two miles north up the D16/18. He found a local bike-rental shop, made the necessary arrangements, and then, following his guidebook, he found the Café Entrepôt on rue Napoléon 1er and parked. Out his passenger window, a quarter mile to the northeast, he could see the France-Luxembourg border crossing.

  He checked his watch. An hour had elapsed since he’d rented the Aveo, forty minutes since he’d made his purchases at the Lacoste store. If Hansen and his team were in close contact with home—which Fisher knew they would be—news of his purchases may have already reached them. Given his sudden appearance in Villerupt, not a stone’s throw from the Luxembourg border, they would have to assume he was running. Fisher doubted Hansen would want to waste the two-plus hours it would take to cover the 140 miles to Villerupt. And, with no TGV routes available, that left one option: charter plane. As the crow flies, it was an eighty-five-mile trip.

  Fisher started his mental clock. Ninety minutes. No more.

  ON an impulse that he would soon wish he’d ignored, Fisher drove to the nearest airport, which in this case was an airstrip four miles southwest of Villerupt and just outside the village of Errouville. The runway was little more than a dirt tract hemmed in by farmers’ green fields.

  Fisher parked beside one of the three outbuildings that seemed to serve as the strip’s terminal, hangar, and office. Four parking spaces down were a pair of SUVs, both Renault Koleoses: one in black, the other silver. He pushed through the door marked BUREAU. Sitting behind the counter was a paunchy woman with bright red hair.

  “Vous désirez?” she asked.

  In French, Fisher explained that he was expecting some friends later that afternoon, but he wasn’t sure what flight they were on. “Five of them,” he finished.

  The woman checked her log, frowning and clicking her tongue as her finger traced the columns. “Nothing later this afternoon. We do have five coming in . . .” She trailed off, walked over to the radio set on a nearby desk, and had a rapid-fire exchange over the hand mic. She came back. “Three minutes. A charter from Verdun.”

  Fisher’s heart lurched. Stupid, Sam. Of course Hansen would have gone to see Emmanuel. His old friend wouldn’t have given them anything, but when word of his car rental reached Hansen, he and his team were virtually halfway to Villerupt. By car it would’ve been a seventy-five-minute trip, by charter twenty minutes. That told him something: His pursuers were, in fact, keen to intercept him before he crossed the border.

  Fisher thanked the woman and walked out to his car. To the south he could hear the drone of an airplane engine. He turned and scanned the skies. Seconds later he could see it, a white sliver dropping altitude on its way into the airstrip. On a hunch, Fisher walked down to the parked Renault SUVs. In the back window of each was the familiar orange and silver Sixt logo. />
  He got into the Aveo, started the engine, and sped off.

  HE was back at the Café Entrepôt in Russange thirty minutes later. Another check of the watch: twenty minutes to go. The sun was already arcing toward the western horizon.

  He needed to keep Hansen and his team close, but not so close that they could impede his progress or, worse still, capture him—a task hard enough in its own right and made harder still by the nature of his pursuers: trained but largely untested. They were likely to make a lot of mistakes on which he could capitalize, but they were just as prone to mercuriality. An operator of his own caliber would react to situations, not predictably, but coolly, logically. Equanimity under fire was usually found only in seasoned operators. He would have to pay close attention to his own assumptions. Hansen and his team might zig when they should have zagged.

  Fisher had chosen this section of the border because it was straddled by sister cities—Russange in France and Esch-sur-Alzette in Luxembourg. Except for lightly patrolled wilderness areas, urban confluences like this were usually the easiest to cross. Employees lived on one side, worked on the other; friends lived virtually within shouting distance, but were separated by a border; restaurants and taxi services shared customers; French doctors would refer patients to Luxembourgian dentists. Fluidity and proximity demanded indulgent border standards.

  As luck had it, the weekend’s unique festivities would further help Fisher’s plan. The old Audun-le-Tiche station and rail line that once connected Russange and its environs to Esch-sur-Alzette had, despite the protests of nostalgic French and Luxembourg citizens alike, been slated for decommissioning. Carnivals at stations on both sides of the border were to begin at sunset with the departure of a nineteenth-century locomotive and three carriage cars from Audun-le-Tiche. The one-mile journey would take ten minutes; revelers of both nationalities could travel back and forth to the celebrations free of charge throughout the weekend, once an hour, on the hour. Those who chose to forgo the train could walk, drive, or bicycle. Of the forty thousand or so residents in the area, some five thousand were expected to attend the celebrations.

  TEN minutes later, on schedule, the bike shop owner’s ten-year-old son pulled into the Café Entrepôt’s parking lot and braked to a stop beside Fisher’s open window. Fisher gave him a five-euro tip and told him where to leave the bike.

  “Merci,” the boy called and pedaled off. The sun was setting now, casting the village in shades of gold and red.

  The timing was mostly guesswork, more an art than a science: From touchdown at the Errouville airstrip to the Sixt office would be forty minutes. Hansen would immediately contact 3E with the make and model of Fisher’s rental, and the NSA’s potent electronic ears would begin scanning radio traffic for any mention of such a vehicle in the area. While hoping for a break, the team would begin scouring the area for the car, probably splitting up to first check Villerupt, and then Russange.

  Fisher let five minutes pass, then drove a few blocks south to the McDonald’s on rue du Luxembourg. He made one circuit of the parking lot, during which he found a man sitting alone in his car, eating a Big Mac. His expression, Fisher felt, was sufficiently dour to suit his purposes. Time to make sure Hansen and his team were moving in the right direction. He pulled to a stop ten diagonal feet from the man’s rear bumper, then stepped on the accelerator. The crunch of bumpers echoed through the parking lot. Fisher grabbed his duffel bag and got out. The other man did the same and immediately began screaming in French, gesticulating wildly at his car. Fisher shouted back, waved the duffel bag menacingly, then suggested the man frequently enjoyed carnal knowledge of his own mother. The man’s face turned red. He charged Fisher. Fisher turned and ran into the McDonald’s, shoving people out of the way and shouting and generally wreaking havoc before darting out the side exit. Behind him the man began yelling, “Police! Police!”

  Half stumbling, half sprinting, and casting dramatic looks over his shoulder, Fisher headed north toward the Audun-le-Tiche station. Farther up the tracks he could see rhythmic plumes of smoke over the treetops as the train returned from its run to Esch-sur-Alzette. Behind him came the distant warble of police sirens. He reached the station, pushed his way through the crowds at the west entrance, and out onto the platform. “Excusez-moi . . . pardonnez-moi. . . .” Followed by the words “mother,” “sick,” and “hurry.” The platform was festooned with balloons and colored flags. Portable stalls shaded by awnings of red, blue, and white stripes—the flag colors of both Luxembourg and France—sat along the perimeter of the station, selling souvenirs, drinks, and snacks. Yellow candle lanterns swayed from wires suspended between the streetlamps and the station’s eaves. Giggling children darted about with fizzling sparklers. Somewhere nearby a band played French folk music.

  With a chugging sigh of steam, the train stopped at the platform. The incoming passengers were disembarked by black-capped, bow-tied conductors, who then unclipped the velvet ropes and began ushering the departing passengers aboard. Once aboard, Fisher turned right, found an aisle seat in the last carriage before the caboose, and sat down. He unzipped his duffel, pulled out his rucksack, and shoved the bag under the seat.

  The seconds turned into minutes as stragglers came aboard and found seats. With a cry of “All aboard!” in French, the locomotive whistled and the car lurched forward. In the corner of his eye Fisher saw sudden movement on the platform and turned in time to see Vin and the blond woman appear in the station doorway, their heads swiveling. Fisher leaned back in his seat, and the platform slid from view.

  He checked his watch. Damn, they were quick.

  5

  LIKE the Audun-le-Tiche station, the rail line was decorated: Old fashioned replica conductor’s lanterns, blinkered in blue and red, were mounted on posts every hundred yards or so. Moving at a mere eight miles per hour, the train covered one post every thirty seconds, so Fisher had no trouble keeping track of his position. At the twelfth post, just over the Luxembourg border, the train approached a curve. Fisher stood up, walked to the back of the car, and without looking back, opened the vestibule door and stepped out onto the coupling platform. It was fully dark now. Beneath his feet the levers and wheels rattled. To his right, on the other side of the embankment, lay a line of trees; to his left, across a ditch, the two lane road linking Russange and Esch-sur Alzette. Cars tooled along in both directions, honking and waving at fellow revelers.

  He waited until the train was halfway between two lighted posts, then tossed his rucksack and jumped after it. Just before hitting the ground, he dropped his shoulder, rolled into the impact, and let himself go flat. He watched the train disappear around the bend, then groped around, found his rucksack, and crawled up the embankment and into the trees. He stopped to get his bearings.

  These machinations—the fracas in the McDonald’s parking lot, his theatrical dash to the train station, the bicycle he paid to have deposited along the D16/18, the change of clothes—were admittedly overengineered, but his trail into Luxembourg needed to be not only cold, but convoluted. The more he could split the team, both physically and mentally, the better. Not only would it keep them at bay, but it would, hopefully, reveal weaknesses he might use later.

  He used the stone obelisk across the road and the lantern posts to fix his position. Unless the boy hadn’t followed through, the bike would be lying in the tall grass of the embankment, fifty yards up the road. Fisher stood up and began picking his way through the trees. Across from him, the cars continued in steady north and south streams. Horns honked. Laughter and friendly shouting echoed in the darkness. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of chrome in the moonlight: the bike. He stopped, crouched down. He looked up and down the road. All was clear. Hunched over, he ran down the slope and up the other side. He was ten feet from the bike when, fifty feet to the left, he noticed a pair of SUVs—one silver, one black. He dropped flat. Ten seconds passed. Nothing happened. He began wriggling backward down the slope.

  The blac
k SUV’s rear driver’s-side door opened, and out stepped Kimberly. A moment later Ames and Blondie came around from the other side. Each wore a long trench coat. Together they began walking toward the bike. Fisher kept going, reverse crawling to the bottom of the ditch, where he crabbed around and started up the opposite slope toward the trees.

  The trio started running. Fisher did the same. Within seconds he was in the trees and heading east. He recalled his mental map: a hundred feet to the reservoir, two hundred feet to the opposite shore, then a dirt road bordered by forest.

  Using what little light filtered through the canopy above, he ducked beneath branches and dodged trunks until he broke into the clear and found himself skidding down another embankment. He dropped into a baseball slide and dug his heels into the moist earth, coming to a halt with his legs dangling in space. Ten feet below was the surface of the reservoir. Damn. Here was a reminder: The map is not the territory. Having not anticipated needing to run this way, he’d relied solely on Google Earth, which, of course, didn’t show this miniature cliff along the shoreline.

  From the trees behind him came the crunch of footfalls.

  He spun himself on his butt, pushed off, and dove into the water. Instantly he felt a wave of relief, an old habit from his SEAL days: Water was cover, escape, safety. He scissored hard for thirty feet, broke the surface for a lungful of air, then dove again, this time kicking straight for the bottom, eight feet below. When his outstretched hand touched mud, he began kicking. After thirty seconds his lungs began to burn; he heard the pounding of blood in his head. He kicked off the bottom and broke into the air.