by Ted Dekker
Henri Gaetan was a tall, thin man with deep-set eyes and a jaw line as sharp as Fortier’s mind. “What are you saying, Armand? That you work for Valborg Svensson?”
“No.”
Fortier had first recruited Svensson fifteen years ago to conduct a much simpler operation: untraceable arms deals with several interested nations, which involved biological weapons research in exchange for lucrative contracts. The deals had earned him billions. The money had fueled Svensson’s pharmaceutical empire, with strings attached, naturally.
Fortier hadn’t grasped the true potential of the right biological weapon until he watched one of those nations discreetly use an agent of Svensson’s against the Americans. The incident had forever altered the course of Fortier’s life.
“Then how is this possible?” the president demanded. “You’re suggesting that we give in to his demands—”
“No. I’m suggesting that you give in to my demands.”
“So he works for you,” said Chombarde.
“Gentlemen, perhaps you don’t truly understand what has happened. Let me clarify. Half of our citizens are going to work and feeding their children and attending school and doing whatever else they do in this wonderful republic of ours today without the slightest notion that they have been infected with a virus that will overtake every last soul on this planet within two weeks. It is called the Raison Strain, and it will sit quietly for the next eighteen days before it begins its killing. Then it will kill very quickly. There is no cure. There is no way to find a cure. There is no way to stop the virus. There is only one antivirus, and I control it. Is there any part of this explanation that escapes any of you?”
“But what you’re suggesting is morally reprehensible!” the premier said.
Only the minister of defense, Georges Du Braeck, hadn’t spoken. He seemed ambivalent. This was good. Fortier would need Du Braeck’s cooperation more than any of the others.
“No sir. Embracing death is morally reprehensible. I’m offering your only escape from that most certain death. Very few men in this world will be given the kind of opportunity I’m giving you tonight.”
For a few moments no one spoke.
The president pushed himself to standing and faced Fortier at ten feet. “You’re underestimating the world’s nuclear powers. You expect them to just load up their aircraft carriers and their merchant fleets and float their entire nuclear arsenals to France because we demand it? They will launch them first!”
It was the same objection other heads of much smaller states had voiced when he’d first suggested the plan a decade ago. Fortier smiled at the pompous pole of a man.
“Do you take me for a fool, Henri? You think I have spent less time making calculations in the last ten years than you have after only a few minutes? Please sit down.”
There was a tremble in Henri Gaetan’s hands. He reached back for a grip on the chair and sat slowly.
“Good. They will object, naturally, but you underestimate the human drive for self-preservation. In the end, when faced with a choice between the bloody death of twenty million innocent children and their military, they will choose their children. We will make sure that the choice is understood in those terms. The British, the Russians, the Germans . . . All will choose to live and fight another day. As I hope you will.”
The nature of his threat against each of them personally was starting to sink in, he thought.
“Let me phrase it this way: In fewer than eighteen days, the balance of power on this planet will have shifted dramatically. The course is set; the outcome is inevitable. We have chosen France to host the world’s new superpower. As the leaders of France, you have two choices. You can facilitate this shift in global power and live as a part of the leadership you’ve all secretly wanted for so many years, or you can deny me and die with the rest.”
Now they surely understood.
The minister of defense sat with legs crossed, glowing like any good Stalinist faced with such an ultimatum. He finally spoke. “May I ask a few questions?”
“Please.”
“There is no physical way for the United States, let alone the rest of the world, to ship all of its nuclear weapons in fourteen days. They have to be evacuated from launching points and armament caches, shipped to the East Coast, loaded on ships, and sailed across the Atlantic.”
“Naturally. The list we have given them includes all of their ICBMs, all long-range missiles, most of their navy, including their submarines, and most of their air force, much of which can be flown. The United States will have to take extraordinary measures, but we’re demanding nothing of them or anyone else that can’t be done. As for the British, India, Pakistan, and Israel, we are demanding their entire nuclear arsenals.”
“China and Russia?”
“China. Let’s just say that China will not be a problem. They have no love for the United States. China has agreed already and will begin shipments tomorrow in exchange for certain favors. They will be an example for others to follow. Russia is a different story, but we have several critical elements in alignment. Although they will sound off their objections, they will comply.”
“Then we have allies.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
The revelation delivered a long moment of silence. “The Americans are still the greatest threat,” said Gaetan. “Assuming the Americans do agree, how can France accommodate all of this”—the president drew his hand through the air—“this massive amount of hardware? We don’t have the people or the space.”
“Destroy it,” the defense minister said.
“Very good, Du Braeck. Superiority is measured in ratios, not sums, yes? Ten to one is better than a thousand to five hundred. We will sink more than half of the military hardware we receive. Think of this as forced disarmament. History may even smile on us.”
“Which is why you’ve chosen the deep water near the Brest naval base.”
“Among other reasons.”
“And how can we protect ourselves against an assault during this transition of power?” the defense minister asked.
Fortier had expected these questions and possessed answers so detailed that he could never begin to explain everything at this meeting. Inventories of hardware, possible troop movement, preemptive strikes, political will—every possibility had been considered at great length. Tonight his only task was to win the trust of these four men.
“Fourteen days is enough time to ship arms, not deploy troops. Any immediate long-range attack would come by air. Thanks to the Russians, we will have the threat of retaliation to deter any such attack. The only other immediate threat would come from our neighbors, primarily England. We will be at our weakest for the next three days, until we can reposition our forces to repel a ground attack and take on reinforcements from the Chinese. But the world will be in a political tailspin—confusion will buy us the time we need.”
“Unless they learn who is responsible now.”
“They will have to assume that the French government is being forced. Besides that, they have no guarantee that an attack would secure the antivirus. The antivirus won’t be held up in a vial in our parliament for all the world to see. Only I will know where it is.”
“Why France?”
“Please, Georges. Wasn’t it Hitler who said that he who controls France controls Europe, and he who controls Europe controls the world? He was right. If there were a more strategic country, I would take my leave and go now. France is and always will be the center of the world.”
The president had crossed his legs; the head of the Sûreté had stopped blinking; the minister of defense was virtually glowing. They were softening.
Only Prime Minister Boisverte still glared.
“Let me give you an example of how this is going to play out, gentlemen. Jean, would you come here?”
The defiant prime minister just stared at him.
He motioned him. “Please. Stand over here. I insist.”
The man still hesita
ted. He was hard to the bones.
“Then where you are will do.” Fortier reached into his jacket and pulled out a silenced 9 mm pistol. He pointed the gun at the prime minister and pulled the trigger. The slug punched through the chair just above his shoulder.
The prime minister’s eyes bulged.
“You see, this is what we have done. We’ve fired a warning shot across their bow. Right now they aren’t certain of our will to carry through. But soon enough”—he shifted the pistol and shot the man through his fore-head—“they will be.”
The prime minister slumped in his chair.
“Don’t think of this as a threat, Henri. Jean would have died in eighteen days anyway. We all will unless we do exactly what I have said. Does anyone doubt that?”
The remaining three men looked at him with a calm that pleasantly surprised Fortier.
Fortier slipped the gun back into his pocket and straightened his jacket. “If I die, the antivirus would be lost. The world would die. But I have no intention of dying. I invite you to join me with similar intentions.”
“Naturally,” Georges said.
Fortier glanced at the president. “Henri?”
“Yes.”
“Chombarde?”
The head of the Sûreté dipped his head. “Of course.”
“And how do we proceed?” the president asked.
Fortier walked around his chair and sat.
“As for the members of the military, the National Assembly, and the Senate, who must know, our explanation is simple: A new demand has come from Svensson. He has chosen our naval base in Brest to accommodate his demands. France will agree with the understanding that we are luring Svensson into our own web. A bluff. Voices of opposition will begin to disappear within the week. I anticipate we will have to call for martial law to protect against any insurgence or riots at week’s end. By then we will have most of the world in a vise, and the French people will know that their only hope for survival lies in our hands.”
“My dear, my dear,” the president muttered. “We are really doing this.”
“Yes. We are.”
Fortier reached for a stack of folders on the table at his elbow. “We don’t have the time to work through all of our individual challenges, so I’ve taken the liberty of doing it for you. We will need to adjust as we go, of course.” He handed each a folder. “Think of this as a game of high-stakes poker. I expect you will each hold your cards close to the chest.”
They took the folders and flipped them open. A sense of purpose had settled on the room. Henri Gaetan glanced at the slumped body of the prime minister.
“He’s taken an emergency trip to the south, Henri.”
The president nodded.
“Thomas Hunter,” Chombarde said, lifting the top page from his folder. “The man who kidnapped Monique de Raison.”
“Yes. He is . . . a unique man who’s stumbled into our way. He may know more than we need him to know. Use whatever force is necessary to bring him, alive if possible. You will coordinate your efforts with Carlos Missirian. Consider Hunter your highest priority.”
“Securing a man in the United States could be a challenge at a time like this.”
“You won’t have to. I am certain that he will come to us, if not to France, then to where we have the woman.”
A beat.
“There are 577 members in the Assembly,” the president said. “You have listed 97 who could be a problem. I think there may be more.”
They reviewed and on occasion adjusted the plans deep into the night. Objections were overcome, new arguments cast and dismissed, strategies fortified. A sense of purpose and perhaps a little destiny slowly overtook all of them with growing certainty.
After all, they had little choice.
The die had been cast.
France had always been destined to save the world, and in the end that’s exactly what they were doing. They were saving the world from its own demise.
They left the room six hours later.
Prime Minister Jean Boisverte left in a body bag.
12
THOMAS JERKED awake. He tumbled out of bed and searched the room. It was still dark outside. Rachelle slept on their bed. Two thoughts drummed through his mind, drowning out the simple reality of this room, this bed, these sheets, this bark floor under his bare feet.
First, the realities he was experiencing were unquestionably linked, perhaps in more ways than he ever could have guessed, and both of those realities were at risk.
Second, he knew what he must do now, immediately and at all costs. He must convince Rachelle to help him find Monique, and then he must find the Books of Histories.
But the image of his wife sleeping unexpectedly dampened his enthusiasm to solicit her help. So sweet and lost in sleep. Her hair fell across her face, and he was tempted to brush it free.
Her arm was smeared with blood. The sheet was red where her arm had rested.
His pulse surged. She was bleeding? Yes, a small cut on her upper arm—he hadn’t noticed it last evening in all the excitement of his return. She hadn’t mentioned it either. But was all this blood from such a small cut?
He glanced at his own forearm and remembered: He’d cut himself in the laboratory of Dr. Myles Bancroft. Yes, of course, he’d been sleeping here when that had happened, and he’d bled here, exactly as he feared he might.
His forearm had rubbed Rachelle’s arm. The blood was half his. Half hers.
The realization only fueled his urgency. If he couldn’t stop the virus, he would undoubtedly die. They might all die!
Then what? He hurried to the window and peered out. The air was quiet—an hour before sunrise. The thought of waking Rachelle to persuade her to forget everything she’d said about his dreams struck him as a futile task. She would be furious with him for dreaming again. And why would she think his cut was anything but an accident?
The wise man, on the other hand, might understand. Jeremiah.
Thomas pulled his tunic on quietly, strapped his boots to his feet, and slipped into the cool morning air.
Ciphus lived in the large house nearest the lake, a privilege he insisted on as keeper of the faith. He wasn’t pleased to be awakened so early, but as soon as he saw that it was Thomas, his mood improved.
“For a religious man, you drink far too much ale,” Thomas said.
The man grunted. “For a warrior, you don’t sleep enough.”
“And now you’re making no sense. Warriors aren’t meant to sleep their lives away. Where can I find Jeremiah of Southern?”
“The old man? In the guesthouse. It’s still night though.”
“Which guesthouse?”
“The one Anastasia oversees, I think.”
Thomas nodded. “Thank you, man. Get back to sleep.”
“Thomas—”
But he departed before the elder could voice any further objections.
It took him ten minutes to locate Jeremiah’s bedroom and wake him. The old man swung his legs to the floor and sat up in the waning moonlight.
“What is it? Who are you?”
“Shh, it’s me, old man. Thomas.”
“Thomas? Thomas of Hunter?”
“Yes. Keep your voice down; I don’t want to wake the others. These houses have thin walls.”
But the old man couldn’t hold back his enthusiasm. He stood and clasped Thomas’s arms. “Here, sit on my bed. I’ll get us a drink.”
“No, no. Sit back down, please. I have an urgent question.”
Thomas eased the old man down and sat next to him.
“How can I host such an honored guest without offering him a drink?”
“You have offered me a drink. But I didn’t come for your hospitality. And I am the one who should honor you.”
“Nonsense—”
“I came about the Books of Histories,” Thomas said.
Silence came over Jeremiah.
“I have heard that you may know some things about the Books of Histor
ies. Where they might be and if they can be read. Do you?”
The old man hesitated. “The Books of Histories?” His voice sounded thin and strained.
“You must tell me what you know.”
“Why do you want to know about the Books?”
“Why shouldn’t I want to know?” Thomas asked.
“I didn’t say you shouldn’t. I only asked why.”
“Because I want to know what happened in the histories.”
“This is a sudden desire? Why not ten years ago?”
“It’s never occurred to me that they could be useful.”
“And did it ever occur to you that they are missing for a reason?”
“Please, Jeremiah.”
The old man hesitated again. “Yes. Well, I’ve never seen them. And I fear they have a power that isn’t meant for any man.”
Thomas clasped Jeremiah’s arm. “Where are they?”
“It is possible they are with the Horde.”
Thomas stood. Of course! Jeremiah had been with the Horde before bathing in the lake.
“You know this with certainty?”
“No. As I said, I’ve never seen them. But I have heard it said that the Books of Histories follow Qurong into battle.”
“Qurong has them? Can . . . can he read them?”
“I don’t think so, no. I’m not sure you could read them.”
“But surely someone can read them. You.”
“Me?” Jeremiah chuckled. “I don’t know. They may not even exist, for all we know. It was all hearsay, you know.”
“But you believe they do,” Thomas said.
The first rays of dawn glinted in Jeremiah’s eyes. “Yes.”
So the old man had known all along that they existed with the Horde, and yet he had never offered this information. Thomas understood: The Books of Histories had long ago been taken from Elyon’s people and committed to an oral history for some reason. If it made good sense so long ago, then surely it made good sense now. Hadn’t Tanis, as Rachelle so aptly pointed out, been led down the wrong path by his fascination with their knowledge? Perhaps Jeremiah was right. The Books of Histories were not meant for man.
