“FIFTY!” yelled the President. “FIFTY! That’s ridiculous.”
“Sir, I have told you already. The U.S. Navy is invincible.”
At which point the President of France lost all semblance of control. “YOU ALSO TOLD ME THAT DESTROYER WOULD PROTECT THE TANKER…YOU…YOU GUARANTEED IT…YOU SAID IT WAS A SPECIALIST ANTISUBMARINE WARSHIP…AND IT TOOK THE UNITED STATES ABOUT ONE MINUTE TO BLOW IT IN HALF! FUCK YOU, PIERRE. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR? F-U-U-U-U-CK YOU!”
“I was only repeating naval advice.”
“GAZING AT YOUR NAVEL…THAT’S THE NEAREST YOU GET TO KNOWLEDGE!” he bellowed. “I am surrounded by lunatics. My friends and my enemies. Imbeciles and killers. And I am sick to death of it.”
At which point, the butler entered the room to announce the arrival of Gen. Michel Jobert’s staff car at the main door downstairs.
“Bring him straight up,” said the President, not even looking at the man.
And three minutes later, the Commander in Chief of France’s joint service Commandment des Opérations Spéciales walked into the room. General Jobert had presented himself with the task of trying to prove what had happened in the Strait of Hormuz and in the Red Sea. He instantly announced that he was the bearer of important information, which was just as well, given the general atmosphere in that room—the President fit to be tied, his Foreign Minister cowering before the onslaught.
“Sir, as you know,” said the General, “we were unable to discover anything about the Voltaire or the Moselle. However, today’s atrocity is very different. Most of the De Grasse’s ship’s company survived, that’s 20 officers and 294 men.
“Their sonar room caught an incoming torpedo three hundred meters out. They even had its bearing. They have the recording and the software, with someone calling out ‘Torpedo! Torpedo! Torpedo!’
“It’s the first time we have had incontrovertible evidence that our ships were hit by a malevolent enemy. And, sir, it gets better: Four of the crew of the Victor Hugo were watching the destroyer burn when two guided missiles came in and smashed into the tanker’s hull. They saw them in the air, aimed straight at the ship, sir. They were right there on the high portside rail.
“Mr. President, we are in a position to go to the United Nations with irrefutable evidence that the United States has committed at least two most terrible crimes on the high seas.”
The President smiled for the first time that morning. “Paul Bedford may have thought he had enough to accuse us publicly, but we really have enough to nail the Americans.”
“Except for one thing,” said St. Martin. “The Americans will deny it flatly. They’ll just say it was the Japanese or someone.”
“Not quite,” interjected General Jobert. “When a sonar search system acquires an incoming missile or a torpedo, it instantly bangs it into a software program that identifies the type of sonar the enemy is using.”
He saw the President’s slightly puzzled face, and simplified the matter. “Sir,” he said, “if I walked out of that door and shouted something from the other side, you would know it was me. You’d recognize my voice. Same with a sonar system. When it receives a radar or sonar beam, its computer can identify the source of that beam. In this case, according to the De Grasse’s ops room, a Gould Mark 48 ADCAP transmitting active. That’s American. And, sir, the Omanis are just helping us to airlift the entire contents of the destroyer’s operational computer system, before she sinks.”
Again, the President smiled. “Then we have them, General?”
“Yessir.”
“Then we shall humiliate the mighty U.S.A. publicly. I shall broadcast to the entire world, tonight, condemning their actions. I’ll describe them as cold-blooded killers, cowboys, bandits. Irresponsible. Reckless. I’ll say the United Nations should not even be in New York. It should be in Paris. Center of the world…where people are…well, civilized, not madmen.”
“Steady, sir,” cautioned St. Martin. “The Americans would be glad to be rid of the UN. What do they call it…? Yes, the Chat-terbox on the East River.”
“Hmm,” said the President. “We shall see, Pierre. We shall see.”
And that night the roof fell in on international relations between France and the United States of America. The French President made his broadcast at 7 P.M. in Paris, in precisely the terms he had outlined in the Elysée Palace for St. Martin and General Jobert. It was theatrical, accusing, rude in the extreme, and political to the nth degree.
The French President threw at the U.S.A. every insult every French President has longed to utter since World War II. Not even De Gaulle, at his most insufferably imperious, had ever let fly at the world’s policemen with quite that much venom.
And he ended it with this jackhammer flourish: “As from this moment, the envoys of the United States are no longer welcome in this country,” he thundered. “I hereby expel them all. I hereby close down their embassy, which pollutes the beauty of the Avenue Gabriel, not three hundred yards from where I am standing.
“I know that under international law that building and that land is officially designated land of the United States of America. As from this week, it is restored to its proper title deeds. Gabriel Avenue, in its entirety, belongs to LA FRANCE!” And he raised both arms in the air and signed off with the joyous shout: “VIVE LA FRANCE!…VIVE LA FRANCE!”
When he marched off the wide upper landing of the Elysée Palace, stepping between the television arc lights, he entered once more his private drawing room and clasped the hand of General Jobert, who had sat and watched the performance onscreen with the Foreign Minister.
“Well, General, how was that?” he demanded. “Did your President do your country proud?”
“Oh, most definitely, sir,” replied the General. “That was a speech from the very…er…heartbeat of the French people. It needed to be said.”
St. Martin once more sounded a word of caution. “It was perfect, sir,” he murmured softly. “Just so long as the Americans don’t get to Col. Jacques Gamoudi before we do.”
And that night the stakes were raised yet again. At 10 P.M. President Paul Bedford formally expelled every French diplomat from their embassy on Reservoir Road in Washington, D.C. And while he was about it, he ordered the following French consulates to close down: New York, San Francisco, Atlanta, Boston, Chicago, Houston, Los Angeles, Miami, and New Orleans.
It was the lowest point of relations between fellow Permanent Members of the UN Security Council since the Russians shot down the United States Air Force U-2 spy plane almost a half century previously.
And with the East Coast of America operating six hours behind Paris, the U.S. newspapers and television stations had ample time to rearrange their front pages and the top story that they had been planning all morning. That was the one about the state of the world economy, the one that had dominated the world’s media ever since the fateful March night when the French Navy had flattened the Saudi oil industry.
Every night things were globally bad, but tonight was especially dismal. There had been a complete electricity blackout in Tokyo, lasting from 11 P.M. to 6 A.M. Not one flicker of a neon light penetrated the blackness, and the Japanese government stated that this might be happening every night until further notice. They warned the population of Tokyo to be patient. The lights had been off for three days in the cities of Osaka and Kobe, as the electric-power generators used the last of the fuel oil.
Hong Kong, another voracious user of oil-fired electric power, was into its emergency supplies, and Rome, the Eternal City, was headed for eternal darkness. The northwest of France was running out of gasoline, and the great seaport of Rotterdam was virtually closed down.
There was a complete blackout in Calcutta. Traffic was grinding to a halt in Germany, and there was no power in Hamburg, with brownouts in Berlin and Bremen. In England the refineries in the Thames Estuary were slowing right down, and the government had banned all neon lights in London. In the county of Kent, particularly southeast of Ashford,
there was absolutely no electricity—at all.
On the East Coast of the United States the situation was becoming critical, as the refineries along the New Jersey side of the Hudson River, opposite New York City, began to fail.
That ought to have been enough to keep the most insatiable news editor happy, but the standoff between France and the United States knocked every other story off the front pages, and from the leadoff spots on television news.
Back in the National Security Agency, Lt. Cdr. Jimmy Ramshawe was trying to hold together a great spider’s web of agents all over the Middle East, all of them trying to find Jacques Gamoudi.
And the situation was not greatly assisted by a phone call every two hours from Admiral Morgan, which always started with the words Found him yet? And always ended with Well, where the hell is he?
If they had but known it, the U.S. operation was way behind the eight ball in the battle with France to find the missing assault commander, because France had inserted five top agents into Riyadh as assistants to Colonel Gamoudi in the runup to the attack on the palaces. Throughout his preparations, they had kept him informed of developments, and all five of them had enjoyed free and easy access to the ex–French Special Forces Commander. Three of them were still in Riyadh, just observing on behalf of the French Secret Service, and all three of them were regular visitors to the splendid white-painted house that King Nasir had made available for the Colonel as long as he needed it.
And suddenly, as both the U.S.A. and France stepped up the pace to locate the Colonel, the game changed. Gaston Savary, the only man with access to these three French spies, called the senior officer, former Special Forces Major Raul Foy, and instructed him, in the fewest possible words, to report to the French Ambassador in the Diplomatic Quarter.
Somewhat mystified, the Major drove over to the embassy, where the Ambassador’s secretary told him it would be necessary to wait for new orders, direct from Paris, which would be given to him by the Ambassador in person. His Excellency would be free in ten minutes.
In fact he was free in five, and Major Foy was ushered into the office. The two men shook hands, but the Ambassador did not invite his guest to sit down. He just said simply, “Major, I do not wish you to remain here for one second longer than necessary. I have just been speaking for the second time this morning to Gaston Savary. I am instructed to tell you, in the most clandestine terms, that you and your men are to assassinate Col. Jacques Gamoudi this day, on the direct orders of the President of France.”
If the Major had been given the courtesy of a cup of coffee, he would have choked on it. “B-but…” he stammered.
“No buts, Major. My own instructions are to call the Elysée Palace the moment you leave, to confirm I have passed on the orders. I don’t need to tell you how serious this is. But I am asked to inform you that there will be an excellent financial reward for you upon your return to Paris. We’re talking six figures.”
Major Foy, a man who had faced death more than once in the service of his country, just stood and gawped.
“I’m sorry, Raul,” said the Ambassador in a kindly tone. “I know that you are certainly a very good colleague of the Colonel’s, if not a friend. But I think I mentioned, this is supremely important. The blackest of black ops, you might say. Good-bye.”
The forty-one-year-old Major turned away without a word, and walked out of the building to his car, parked outside the main door. He climbed into the driver’s seat and just sat there, stunned. He was not, of course, the first soldier to bridle at an order, and perhaps not the first to tell himself, I did not join either the Army or the Secret Service to kill my fellow French officers.
But he may have been the first to be told he must assassinate his own boss. And all he could think of was Colonel Gamoudi’s decency, professionalism, and understanding of his own problems working undercover in the city. When he first arrived from France, he had dined with Jacques Gamoudi on two or three occasions. The two men had spoken every day, always with immense dignity and respect.
Major Foy, who like the Colonel had served with distinction in Brazzaville at the height of the Congo revolution, was not at all sure about this—six figures or no six figures. But then, he thought of all it would mean for him, and for his wife and children.
He started the car and drove away, back toward his own apartment in the center of the city. He resolved for the moment to tell no one of his five minutes with the Ambassador. He just needed some coffee, and some time to think. He glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven o’clock on that hot Thursday morning, which gave him a lot of time to contemplate, since there was no way he was going to shoot Colonel Gamoudi in cold blood in broad daylight.
THURSDAY, APRIL 15, 10:00 P.M.
DIPLOMATIC QUARTER
RIYADH
Major Foy parked his car approximately two hundred yards from the “grace and favor” home awarded by King Nasir to Jacques Gamoudi. He had made up his mind now. He locked the car door and walked quietly up the deserted street, beneath the trees and the fading pink and white spring blossoms still hanging over the high walls of these impressive houses.
When he reached the wrought-iron gateway to the Colonel’s Riyadh home, he tapped on the window of the guardhouse outside and was pleased to see that the men inside both knew him. They waved him through, opening the electronic gates.
At the front door, he faced two more Saudi armed guards whom he knew even better, and they too directed him inside. And there the duty officer greeted him. “Bonsoir, Major. I am afraid the Colonel has retired to bed for the night. I don’t think he wants to be disturbed.”
“Ahmed,” said the Major, to a young man with whom he had been on friendly terms for more than four months, “I have just come from the French Embassy. I have a message for the Colonel that is so secret they would not even commit it to paper. I have to tell him in person. I’d better go up. He’s probably reading.”
“Okay, Major. If it’s that important, I guess you better.”
Raul Foy walked up the wide staircase and along the left-hand corridor. At the double doors to the master bedroom, he hesitated and then knocked softly. Jacques Gamoudi heard the knock and slipped out of bed, positioning himself behind the door with his bear-slaying knife in his right hand.
But Gamoudi did not answer. The door opened quietly, and Major Foy came into the room and closed the door behind him. The Colonel heard him whisper, “Jacques, wake up,” in a somewhat hoarse voice.
The Colonel did not recognize that voice, and he leapt forward into the darkness, seizing the intruder by the hair and flattening the blade of his knife hard onto the man’s throat.
Raul Foy almost died of shock, for the second time that day. “Jacques, Jacques,” he cried. “Get off. It’s me, Raul. I’ve come to talk to you—urgent. And get that fucking knife out of my neck.”
Colonel Gamoudi released him and switched on the light. “Jesus, Raul, what the hell are you doing, creeping around in the middle of the night?”
“Jacques. Do not interrupt me. Just listen. This morning I was given personal instructions from the goddamn President of France to assassinate you, at all costs. I don’t know why but, Jacques, you are a marked man. They are determined to kill you. They even offered me a financial reward to do it. A big one too.”
“Christ, you haven’t come to shoot me, have you?” The Colonel grinned.
“Not while you’re holding that fucking knife,” Foy replied.
“No, Jacques. Seriously. I’m not even armed. I haven’t even told my team. I’m here to warn you. Honestly, you have to get out of here. Now. These guys are not joking. Run, Jacques. You’ve got to run.”
“And you, Raul. Now you have neglected to kill me, what will you tell them?”
“Jacques. You are going. Now. I’m going to tell them I got here to obey their orders, and you were gone. Do you want a lift to the airport or somewhere?”
“No,” replied Colonel Gamoudi. “The King will arrange my transportat
ion. I’ll just round up General Rashood, who’s in the billiards room, and we’ll be on our way. And thank you, Raul. I mean that. Because I just cost you a lot of money, in a way.”
The French Secret Service man smiled, and told him, “Earlier today, I made a decision, based on a few lines written by the distinguished English novelist, E. M. Forster.”
And with that, Raul headed toward the door. But when he reached it, he turned back and embraced his former boss, with genuine concern. “Good-bye, Jacques,” he said. “For Christ’s sake, be careful and…and God go with you.”
“Well,” said Jacques wryly, “before you go, you might tell me the lines which caused you to spare me.”
Raul Foy looked quizzical, as if nervous to utter the sentence that would confirm his loyalties. But then he said carefully, “Very well.” And he recited, to the best of his memory, Forster’s words: “If I was asked to choose whether to betray my country, or my friend, I hope I’d have the courage to choose my country.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THURSDAY, APRIL 15, 11:00 P.M.
ARABIAN DESERT
They prayed at sunset, out on the edge of the desert, southwest of Riyadh. King Nasir of Saudi Arabia and all of his most trusted council members turned east toward Mecca and prostrated themselves before God in accordance with the strict teachings of the Koran.
Tonight would see the ancient ritual of the mansaf, and the prayers were as much a part of the rite as the dinner itself: the rice served on the flat whole wheat crust of the shrak and the succulent boiled lamb poured upon it, with a sour-milk sauce.
Tonight the King would dine with his advisers, six of them gathered in a circle around the great circular feast, eating with their bare right hands, selecting pieces of lamb and rolling them expertly into rice balls with the dexterity of a group of cardsharps.
These nights, in the opening days of the new King’s reign, the prayers were particularly poignant, because Nasir demanded that Islam and its teachings pervade every aspect of Bedouin life.
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