by Tom Clancy
“No.” The man from DPG shook his head. “It’s bad enough that the public functions have to be exposed this early. It’s still not official that they’re going, you know. The element of surprise is our best defense.”
Owens looked at his colleague, but didn’t react. The head of the DPG was on his suspects list, and his orders were not to allow anyone to know the details of his investigation. Owens thought him to be in the clear, but his detectives had discovered a few irregularities in the man’s personal life that had somehow gotten past all the previous security screenings. Until it was certain that he was not a possible blackmail risk, he would not be allowed to know that some possible suspects had already seen the itinerary. The Commander of C-13 gave Murray an ironic look.
“I think you’re overdoing this, gentlemen, but that’s your business,” the FBI man said as he stood. “Your people are flying over tomorrow?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, Chuck Avery of the Secret Service will meet your people at Dulles. Tell them not to be bashful about asking for things. You will have our total cooperation.” He watched them leave. Five minutes later Owens was back.
“What gives, Jimmy?” Murray wasn’t surprised.
“What further progress have you made on the chaps who attacked Ryan?”
“Not a thing for the past two weeks,” Murray admitted. “You?”
“We have a possible link—let me be precise, we suspect that there might be a possible link.”
The FBI man grinned. “Yeah, I know what that’s like. Who is it?”
“Geoffrey Watkins.” That got a reaction.
“The foreign-service guy? Damn! Anybody else on the list that I know?”
“The chap you were just talking to. Ashley’s people discovered that he’s not entirely faithful to his wife.”
“Boys or girls?” Murray took a cue from the way Owens had said that. “You mean that he doesn’t know, Jimmy?”
“He doesn’t know that the itinerary has been leaked, possibly to the wrong people. Watkins is among them, but so is our DPG friend. ”
“Oh, that’s real good! The plans may be leaked, and you can’t tell the head of the security detail because he may be the one—”
“It’s most unlikely, but we must allow for the possibility.”
“Call the trip off, Jimmy. If you have to break his leg, call it the hell off.”
“We can’t. He won’t. I spoke with His Highness day before yesterday and told him the problem. He refuses to allow his life to be managed that way.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Murray rolled his eyes.
“I must tell someone, Dan. If I can’t tell my chaps, then ...” Owens waved his hands.
“You want us to call the trip off for you, is that it?” Murray demanded. He knew that Owens couldn’t answer that one. “Let’s spell this one out nice and clear. You want our people to be alert to the chance that an attack is a serious possibility, and that one of the good guys might be a bad guy.”
“Correct.”
“This isn’t going to make our folks real happy.”
“I’m not terribly keen on it myself, Dan,” Owens replied.
“Well, it gives Bill Shaw something else to think about.” Another thought struck him. “Jimmy, that’s one expensive piece of live bait you have dangling on the hook.”
“He knows that. It’s our job to keep the sharks away, isn’t it?”
Murray shook his head. The ideal solution would be to find a way to cancel the trip, thereby handing the problem back to Owens and Ashley. That meant involving the State Department. The boys at Foggy Bottom would spike that idea, Murray knew. You couldn’t un-invite a future chief of state because the FBI and Secret Service didn’t think they could guarantee his safety—the reputation of American law-enforcement would be laid open to ridicule, they’d say, knowing that his protection wasn’t the responsibility of the people at State.
“What do you have on Watkins?” he asked after a moment. Owens outlined his “evidence.”
“That’s all?”
“We’re still digging, but so far there is nothing more substantive. It could all be coincidence, of course ...”
“No, it sounds to me like you’re right.” Murray didn’t believe in coincidences either. “But there’s nothing that I could take to a grand jury at home. Have you thought about flushing the game?”
“You mean running through a change in the schedule? Yes, we have. But then what? We could do that, see if Watkins goes to the shop, and arrest both men there—if we can confirm that what is happening is what we think it to be. Unfortunately, that means throwing away the only link we’ve ever had with the ULA, Dan. At the moment, we’re watching Cooley as closely as we dare. He is still traveling. If we can find out whom he is contacting, then perhaps we can wrap up the entire operation. What you suggest is an option, but not the best one. We do have time, you know. We have several months before we need to do something so drastic as that. ”
Murray nodded, not so much in agreement as in understanding. The possibility of finding and destroying O’Donnell’s bunch had to be tantalizing to Scotland Yard. Bagging Cooley now would quash that. It wasn’t something that they’d simply toss off. He knew that the Bureau would think much the same way.
“Jack, I want you to come along with me,” Marty Cantor said. “No questions.”
“What?” Ryan asked, and got an accusing look. “All right, all right.” He took the files he was working on and locked them in his file cabinet, then grabbed his jacket. Cantor led him around the comer to the elevator. After arriving on the first floor, he walked rapidly west into the annex behind the headquarters building. Once in the new structure, they passed through five security checkpoints. This was an all-time record for Ryan, and he wondered if Cantor had had to reprogram the pass-control computer to get him into this building. After ten minutes he was on the fourth floor in a room identified only by its number.
“Jack, this is Jean-Claude. He’s one of our French colleagues.”
Ryan shook hands with a man twenty years older than himself, whose face was the embodiment of civilized irony. “What gives, Marty?”
“Professor Ryan,” Jean-Claude said. “I am informed that you are the man we must thank.”
“What for—” Ryan stopped. Uh-oh. The Frenchman led him to a TV monitor.
“Jack, you never saw this,” Cantor said as a picture formed on the screen. It had to be satellite photography. Ryan knew it at once from the viewing angle, which changed very slowly.
“When?” he asked.
“Last night, our time, about three A.M. local.”
“Correct.” Jean-Claude nodded, his eyes locked on the screen.
It was Camp -20, Ryan thought. The one that belonged to Action-Directe. The spacing of the huts was familiar. The infrared picture showed that three of the huts had their heaters on. The brightness of the heat signals told him that ground temperature must have been about freezing. South of the camp, behind a dune, two vehicles were parked. Jack couldn’t tell if they were jeeps or small trucks. On closer inspection, faint figures were moving on the cold background: men. From the way they moved: soldiers. He counted eight of them split into two equal groups. Near one of the huts was a brighter light. There appeared to be a man standing there. Three in the morning, when one’s body functions are at the lowest ebb. One of the camp guards was smoking on duty, doubtlessly trying to stay awake. That was a mistake, Ryan knew. The flare of the match would have destroyed his night vision. Oh, well....
“Now,” Jean-Claude said.
There was a brief flash from one of the eight intruders; it was strange to see but not hear it. Ryan couldn’t tell if the guard moved as a result, but his cigarette did, flying perhaps two yards, after which both images remained stationary. That’s a kill, he told himself. Dear God, what am I watching? The eight pale shapes closed on the camp. First they entered the guard hut—it was always the same one. A moment later they were bac
k outside. Next, they redeployed into the two groups of four, each group heading toward one of the “lighted” huts.
“Who are the troops?” Jack asked.
“Paras,” Jean-Claude answered simply.
Some of the men reappeared thirty seconds later. After another minute, the rest emerged—more than had gone in, Ryan saw. Two seemed to be carrying something. Then something else entered the picture. It was a bright glow that washed out other parts of the picture, but the new addition was a helicopter, its engines blazing in the infrared picture. The picture quality deteriorated and the camera zoomed back. Two more helicopters were in the area. One landed near the vehicles, and the jeeps were driven into it. After that helicopter lifted off, the other skimmed the ground, following the vehicle tracks for several miles and erasing them with its downdraft. By the time the satellite lost visual lock with the scene, everyone was gone. The entire exercise had taken less than ten minutes.
“Quick and clean,” Marty breathed.
“You got her?” Jack had to ask.
“Yes,” Jean-Claude replied. “And five others, four of them alive. We removed all of them, and the camp guards who, I regret to say, did not survive the evening.” The Frenchman’s regrets were tossed in for good manners only. His face showed what he really felt.
“Any of your people hurt?” Cantor asked.
An amused shake of his head: “No. They were all asleep, you see. One slept with a pistol next to his cot, and made the mistake of reaching for it.”
“You pulled everybody out, even the camp guards?”
“Of course. All are now in Chad. The living are being questioned.”
“How did you arrange the satellite coverage?” Jack asked.
This answer came with a Gallic shrug. “A fortunate coincidence.”
Right, Jack thought. Some coincidence. I just watched the instant-replay of the death of three or four people. Terrorists, he corrected himself. Except for the camp guards, who only helped terrorists. The timing could not have been an accident. The French wanted us to know that they were in counterterrorist operations for-real.
“Why am I here?”
“But you made this possible,” Jean-Claude said. “It is my pleasure to give you the thanks of my country.”
“What’s going to happen to the people you captured?” Jack wanted to know.
“Do you know how many people they have assassinated? For those crimes they will answer. Justice, that will happen to them.”
“You wanted to see a success, Jack,” Cantor said. “You just did. ”
Ryan thought that one over. Removing the bodies of the camp guards told him how the operation would end. No one was supposed to know what had happened. Sure, some bullet holes were left behind, and a couple of bloodstains, but no bodies. The raiders had quite literally covered their tracks. The whole operation was “deniable.” There was nothing left behind that would point to the French. In that sense it had been a perfect covert operation. And if that much effort had gone into making it so, then there was little reason to suspect that the Action-Directe people would ever face a jury. You wouldn’t go to that much trouble and then go through the publicity of a trial, Ryan told himself. Goodbye, Françoise Theroux....
I condemned these people to death, he realized finally. Just the one of them was enough to trouble his conscience. He remembered the police-style photograph he’d seen of her face and the fuzzy satellite image of a girl in a bikini.
“She’s murdered at least three people,” Cantor said, reading Jack’s face.
“Professor Ryan, she has no heart, that one. No feelings. You must not be misled by her face,” Jean-Claude advised. “They cannot all look like Hitler.”
But that was only part of it, Ryan knew. Her looks merely brought into focus that hers was a human life whose term was now unnaturally limited. As she has limited those of others, Jack told himself. He admitted to himself that he would have no qualms at all if her name had been Sean Miller.
“Forgive me,” he said. “It must be my romantic nature.”
“But of course,” the Frenchman said generously. “It is something to be regretted, but those people made their choice, Professor, not you. You have helped to avenge the lives of many innocent people, and you have saved those of people you will never know. There will be a formal note of thanks—a secret one, of course—for your assistance.”
“Glad to help, Colonel,” Cantor said. Hands were shaken all around, and Marty led Jack back to the headquarters building.
“I don’t know that I want to see anything like that again,” Ryan said in the corridor. “I mean, I don’t want to know their faces. I mean—hell, I don’t know what I mean. Maybe—it’s just ... different when you’re detached from it, you know? It was too much like watching a ball game on TV, but it wasn’t a ball game. Who was that guy, anyway?”
“Jean-Claude’s the head of the DGSE’s Washington Station, and he was the liaison man. We got the first new picture of her a day and a half ago. They had the operation all ready to roll, and he got things going inside of six hours. Impressive performance.”
“I imagine they wanted us to be impressed. They’re not bringing ’em in, are they?”
“No. I seriously doubt those people are going back to France to stand trial. Remember the problem they had the last time they tried a public trial of Action-Directe members? The jurors started getting midnight phone calls, and the case got blown away. Maybe they don’t want to put up with the hassle again.” Cantor frowned. “Well, it’s not our call to make. Their system isn’t the same as ours. All we did was forward information to an ally.”
“An American court could call that accessory to murder.”
“Possibly,” Cantor admitted. “Personally, I prefer what Jean-Claude called it.”
“Then why are you leaving in August?” Ryan asked.
Cantor delivered his answer without facing him. “Maybe you’ll find out someday, Jack.”
Back alone in his office, Ryan couldn’t get his mind off what he’d seen. Five thousand miles away, agents of the DGSE’s “action” directorate were now questioning that girl. If this had been a movie, their techniques would be brutal. What they used in real life, Ryan didn’t want to know. He told himself that the members of Action-Directe had brought it on themselves. First, they had made a conscious choice to be what they were. Second, in subverting the French legal system the previous year, they’d given their enemies an excuse to bypass whatever constitutional guarantees ... but was that truly an excuse?
“What would Dad think?” he murmured to himself. Then the next question hit him. Ryan lifted his phone and punched in the right number.
“Cantor.”
“Why, Marty?”
“Why what, Jack?”
“Why did you let me see that?”
“Jean-Claude wanted to meet you, and he also wanted you to see what your data accomplished.”
“That’s bull, Marty! You let me into a real-time satellite display—okay, taped, but essentially the same thing. There can’t be many people cleared for that. I don’t need-to-know how good the real-time capability is. You could have told him I wasn’t cleared for it and that would have been that.”
“Okay, you’ve had some time to think it over. Tell me what you think.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Why?” Cantor asked.
“It broke the law.”
“Not ours. Like I told you twenty minutes ago, all we did was provide intelligence information to a friendly foreign nation.”
“But they used it to kill people.”
“What do you think intel is for, Jack? What should they have done? No, answer this first: what if they were foreign nationals who had murdered French nationals in—in Liechtenstein, say, and then boogied back to their base?”
“That’s not the same thing. That’s more ... more like an act of war—like doing the guards at the camp. The people they were after were their own citizens who committed crimes in
their own country, and—and are subject to French law.”
“And what if it had been a different camp? What if those paratroopers had done a job for us, or the Brits, and taken out your ULA friends?”
“That’s different!” Ryan snapped back. But why? he asked himself a moment later. “It’s personal. You can’t expect me to feel the same way about that.”
“Can’t I?” Cantor hung up the phone.
Ryan stared at the telephone receiver for several seconds before replacing it in the cradle. What was Marty trying to tell him? Jack reviewed the events in his own mind, trying to come to a conclusion that made sense.
Did any of it make sense? Did it make sense for political dissidents to express themselves with bombs and machine guns? Did it make sense for small nations to use terrorism as a short-of-war weapon to change the policies of larger ones? Ryan grunted. That depended on which side of the issue you were on—or at least there were people who thought that way. Was this something completely new?
It was, and it wasn’t. State-sponsored terrorism, in the form of the Barbary pirates, had been America’s first test as a nation. The enemy objective then had been simple greed. The Barbary states demanded tribute before they would give right of passage to American-flag trading ships, but it had finally been decided that enough was enough. Preble took the infant U.S. Navy to the Mediterranean Sea to put an end to it—no, to put an end to America’s victimization by it, Jack corrected himself.
God, it was even the same place, Ryan thought. “To the shores of Tripoli,” the Marine Hymn said, where First Lieutenant Presley O’Bannon, USMC, had attacked the fort at Derna. Jack wondered if the place still existed. Certainly the problem did.
The violence hadn’t changed. What had changed were the rules under which the large nations acted, and the objectives of their enemies. Two hundred years earlier, when a small nation offended a larger one, ships and troops would settle matters. No longer was this simple wog-bashing, though. The smaller countries now had arsenals of modern weapons that could make such punitive expeditions too expensive for societies that had learned to husband the lives of their young men. A regiment of troops could no longer settle matters, and moving a whole army was no longer such a simple thing. Knowing this, the small country could inflict wounds itself, or even more safely, sponsor others to do so—“deniably”—in order to move its larger opponent in the desired direction. There wasn’t even much of a hurry. Such low-level conflict could last years, so small were the expenditures of resources and so different the perceived value of the human lives taken and lost.
