Ghost pos-1

by John Ringo

  When they got to the suite, and got rid of the entirely unnecessary bellhop, Mike showed her the two rooms.

  “You can have either one you like,” he said.

  “Which one will you use?” she asked, confused.

  “The one you don’t,” Mike replied. “Look, I know I messed up in Bosnia. I’m sorry. I’m not carting you along to use you again. Maybe we’ll have time to get together. If we do, I’ll try to show you the more pleasant side of me. But for right now, I have to get moving. Stay in the room. Order room service if you want food. Don’t go out. You can run away if you’d like, but I don’t suggest it. And don’t call anyone. Just… watch TV or something. Okay? If we get a chance I’ll take you shopping. But I don’t think we’ll get a chance.”

  Mike put his dirty clothes in the bag provided, called down and asked the management to try to get them cleaned by tomorrow, and walked out.

  “Where to?” the driver said, leaning his seat upright as Mike walked to the car.

  “You know this stadium the colonel was talking about?” Mike asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the driver said, putting the car in gear. “There?”

  “There first,” Mike replied, looking at the map. The stadium was circled in red. He first checked the legend, then made some circles with his fingers. Unless he was much mistaken, a blast there would take out the stadium and some of the burgeoning suburbs around it. But that was about it. However, a blast near Notre Dame would completely gut Paris. And the bomb was a big one, one of the nasty “city busters” from the 1960s before the era of Multiple Independent Reentry Vehicles.

  “You’re American,” Mike said, putting the map away and leaning back.

  “Yes, sir,” the driver said. “I’m one of the diplomatic protection drivers. They figured you might have to have secure conversations.”

  “You know what we’re looking for?” Mike asked. “And what is your name, O genie? I’d hate to have to call you James.”

  “Bruce Gelinas,” the driver said with a chuckle. “And, yeah, I know what you’re looking for. The colonel briefed me on the way to pick you up. You really think it’s coming here?”

  “This is the target I’d pick if I was a terrorist,” Mike replied, frowning. “The French are big into appeasement of the rifs. But you’d think they’d have learned from 1939 how well that works. Yeah, it might be headed anywhere in Europe; the American option is pretty much out the way they rigged it. But the pope is the right target in the right place at the right time. They don’t have nearly as much of a hard-on for the Germans as they do the French. And waiting for Berlin just gives us more time to find it. So, yeah, I think it’s going here.”

  “Great,” the driver said. “And I suppose I have to be there while you look for it.”

  “Well,” Mike pointed out, “if it goes off at Notre Dame, it’s going to get the embassy, too. So sitting on your butt there won’t get you anything. You don’t have any family in town, do you?”

  “Nope,” Bruce said. “I’m single and fancy free, now that my last wife filed the papers. And she’s in Texas.”

  “I think I’d rather be in Texas,” Mike admitted, picking up his phone. He dialed the number for the pilot and was answered in a rather surly fashion.

  “What do you bloody want now?” Hardesty snapped. “Sorry, sir, I’d just laid my head down. Are we up again?”

  “No,” Mike said. “But in the morning, get the plane up and to a dispersal field away from Paris.”

  “Might I ask why?” the pilot said curiously.

  “No,” Mike replied. “But you can come to your own conclusions. At least sixty kilometers from Paris. To the south or east.”

  “Very well,” Hardesty said cautiously. “Given that information, perhaps I should move it now.”

  “Up to you,” Mike replied, hitting the disconnect. “I’d hate to have my wings shot off by this.”

  “That wasn’t exactly the most secure conversation I’ve ever heard,” Bruce said. “You could get your ass in a sling over that.”

  “You’d have to find someone with a big enough sling,” Mike said, leaning back in the seat and folding his arms.

  * * *

  The more Mike looked at the stadium, and the area surrounding it, the less enthusiastic he became about it being the likely target. Yes, if they hit it they would get international coverage; that was guaranteed with any nuke. But the only people they would kill would be sixty thousand or so attendees, the pope, and a few hundred thousand people in the surrounding area. And the closest dense population was high-rise “low-income housing” that was mostly populated by Muslims. They’d definitely kill more Muslims than Christians. And it wouldn’t gut the City of Light.

  TV vans were already setting up, with Klieg lights running and the works. He regarded them balefully as the sedan drove past. There were dozens of the damned things, any one of which could hold the nuke. With the lead wrapped around it, there was no way that there’d be a radiation trace. There was a small particle given off by nukes, a nucleotide or somesuch. That would get through the radiation shielding. But the detectors for it were huge, giant tanks of cleaning solvent of all things. He wasn’t sure there were any that were mobile. He’d have to ask NEST. On the other hand, if there were any, he was sure they were in use.

  “This isn’t it,” Mike said, shaking his head as they passed through the security cordon. “Or if it is, I’ll take the hit. Head to Notre Dame.”

  By the time they got there the sun was rising and they had to fight traffic. French drivers weren’t the worst in the world — Italians had them in Europe, and the entire third world had Europeans for bad driving — but they were pretty damned bad. Bruce negotiated the traffic expertly, however, with only an occasional curse, and got him to the security cordon alive.

  Security was tighter here than at the stadium, but their plates, and especially Mike’s passport, got them into the area and he had Bruce park. He looked around at the buildings and nodded. This was a much superior target.

  Notre Dame was a magnificent Gothic cathedral completed in 1345 after nearly two hundred years of construction. It was built on the Ile de la Cite, an island in the Seine River near the center of Paris which joined the Right and Left Banks through a series of four bridges. But it was only the last of several religious structures on the island. In turn there had been a Druidical grove, a Roman temple to Jupiter and a Romanesque church occupying the same island over the millennia.

  Notre Dame, including its nave and secondary buildings, occupied only about half of the large island, with the rest taken up by two hotels of nearly the same antiquity. The island, thus, had little in the way of parking; the multitudes of attendees were anticipated to be brought in by bus while the press were relegated to an adjoining island, Ile Saint Louis, which had a far too small parking lot for the purpose.

  Security was tight, with French police wandering all over the area, most of them carrying submachine guns on friction straps. Mike regarded the press area balefully. There were, if anything, more press vans here than at the stadium.

  “This is the command post over here,” Bruce said, pointing to a set of police vans as they got out of the Peugeot. “You’d probably better get a security badge if you’re going to be wandering around the area.”

  He led him over to command post, Mike’s diplomatic passport getting them through another layer of security and up to the rear of one of the vans.

  “I take it you are the American who thought we would let a nuclear device slip into Paris,” a woman said as they reached the rear of the van. She was a narrow-faced brunette holding a cup of coffee and wearing a very pissed-off expression.

  “That would be me,” Mike said, smiling. “And you are… ?”

  “This is Madame Gabrielle LaSalle-Guerinot,” Bruce said hastily. “She is the French minister of security.”

  “Madame,” Mike said, bowing slightly. “A pleasure. I’m not sure I can get the whole last name. Can I call you Gabby?”r />
  “No you may not,” Madame LaSalle-Guerinot responded angrily. “And if it wasn’t for the Cliff government making a stink of things, I would have you thrown out right now.”

  “Pity,” Mike replied. “I thought we were getting on splendidly. But unless you are the clerk that hands out badges, I think we’re looking for someone else.”

  Madame LaSalle-Guerinot started to reply, thought better of it and stomped off.

  “You did not make a friend there, I think,” a French colonel sitting at the rear of the van said dryly.

  “Well, I don’t think getting laid was in the cards, anyway,” Mike replied. “And I don’t think you are the clerk I need to see, either, Colonel… ?”

  “Henri Chateauneuf,” the colonel said, languidly sliding out of the van and handing Mike a badge. “Call me Henri. And I am — I am the clerk. So Madame LaSalle-Guerinot informed me but minutes ago.”

  “I suspect you don’t have a friend in the good madame either,” Mike said, taking the badge and hanging it around his neck on a lanyard.

  “C’est la vie,” the colonel said, shrugging, then taking Mike’s arm and leading him towards the cathedral. “I doubt that I shall, as you say, get laid, either. It is a terrible world. The madame was appointed after the last election. She was an academic with copious papers to her name, explaining how the French security apparatus, including its military, oppressed the poor Muslims of our fine country. Since the Muslims are an increasing voting block, we inherited Madame LaSalle-Guerinot, a woman who has not once seen the inside of a refractary building except on carefully guided tours.”

  “Refractary,” Mike said, frowning. “The low-income Muslims?”

  “Indeed,” the colonel said, sighing. “She is very much against being ‘high-handed,’ as she puts it, with the refractary. Even when they riot, as they often do. May all the saints forbid that we, for example, make random sweeps for any who are holding guns or drugs. That we enforce French laws against battering women. She is a feminist, yes? But this is simply their ‘culture.’ Something that we have to learn to live with, as a multicultural society.”

  “Has that interfered with this investigation?” Mike asked.

  “Many of the drivers of press vans in Europe are of Middle Eastern or North African origin,” the colonel replied tightly. “Make your own conclusion.”

  “Is she mad?” Mike snarled. “We’re talking about a nuke, here.”

  “Calmly, calmly,” the colonel said, stopping and turning to regard him with lidded eyes. “The item has not come here, of course. The Muslims of the world are angry at the Cliff Administration, not France. It was not we who invaded Iraq. It was not we who staged a raid on Syria, who detonated a nuke over their territory. We did not set forces in Saudi Arabia and Qatar. This was all America, so naturally the Muslims are angry at America, only. France has done so much for them they would not think to attack us. We are good friends to the Muslims here in France. And the way that we will continue to be friends is to treat them gently, as we would fellow Frenchman. Better, in fact. So we have not, for example, conducted a van-to-van search for a generator that does not run. Such would be intrusive, both to our Muslim brethren and to the news media. In the latter, I agree, she has a point. If we start searching vans, one by one, if the nuke is here, they would simply detonate it.”

  “So that’s the way it is,” Mike said, breathing out. “In that case, I’m glad I came here.”

  “As am I,” the colonel replied, turning to walk again. “With your diplomatic passport, Mr. ‘Duncan,’ the most that can be done to you is expulsion and making you persona non grata. And with the pressure the Cliff Administration exerted on your behalf, you have access to the full area. But I repeat; letting them know the van has been spotted, if it is here, will likely cause them to detonate the item.”

  “It would have been nice if it had been stopped before it arrived in the middle of Paris,” Mike pointed out.

  “Perhaps it will be,” the colonel said, shrugging. “Perhaps it is not here. Perhaps it will be found on some road somewhere else, and it will be their headache. And, then again, perhaps it is.”

  “You have a suspicion?” Mike asked.

  “No, simply the same deductive reasoning I assume you used,” the colonel said, stopping at the edge of the press area. “And here we must part, alas. I have many things to attend to, as do you. Feel free to stop by the van again; we have a superior coffee I would have you try.”

  “Now you tell me,” Mike said, chuckling. “But onward and upward.” With that he passed through the security cordon around the press area.

  The area set aside for parking the press vans was packed. Everyone in the news industry appeared to be there. There were vans for CNN and Skynews, all the major American networks, BBC and all the rest of the European networks. Most of them seemed to have more than one van. Mike quickly zoomed in on the larger ones, which were, he determined, mostly satellite uplink vans. All of them had dishes on top and he recognized that, if their van was there, they’d had to have been retrofitted somewhere. Most of the dishes were up and pointed at satellites, but not all.

  He wandered around the area for about an hour, looking for anomalies and finding none. Part of that was the controlled chaos of the environment. People were moving around doing things about which he knew nothing. There were people arguing by the vans, people sitting around tapping at laptops, people eating breakfast.

  He checked a couple of vans that were from networks he’d never heard of, and looked closely at the Al Jazeera van. That one had the usual collection of Middle Eastern types, including a woman, probably a reporter, who was a real looker. But he could hear the generator as he passed. He’d already determined that the generators were for providing power to the satellite links and all the rest of the equipment in the vans. But if they were running, they couldn’t contain a bomb.

  After a while he got frustrated and headed back to the command center, cadging a cup of very good coffee and a couple of stale croissants. He hung around the command center for a bit, thinking, until he’d finished off the croissants, then headed back to the press area, sipping his coffee.

  He was walking down the line of vans when he saw a lone person sitting outside of one from ABC. The guy looked like an American, blond hair cut short on the sides, American clothes, so Mike wandered over.

  “How’s it going?” Mike asked, sitting down on a spool of cable.

  “Purty good,” the guy replied in a thick Southern accent. “Gonna be a nice day.”

  It was, too. There had apparently been a cold front through so the air was crisp and felt washed clean. The sky was clear and deep blue and the sun shone on Notre Dame perfectly.

  “What’s your name?” Mike asked, continuing to look around. He saw a cluster of Middle Eastern types, probably drivers, and honed in on them for a second.

  “Steve Edmonson,” the ABC guy said. “I’m from Tuscaloosa, Alabama. You?”

  “Michael Duncan,” Mike replied. “Florida.”

  “You don’t have a press badge,” the guy said.

  “Nope,” Mike replied, turning back to look at him. He was eating a piece of pressed meat with a side of rice. In the Dari areas of Afghanistan, Mike had eaten the same thing. They called it chelo kebab, but it was what people in the U.S. put in gyros. Mike blinked for a second as something bothered him, but he mentally shoved it away. “I’m with the U.S. embassy. Just keeping an eye on things, you know. Making sure everyone has all the credentials they need and whatnot. You been over here long?”

  “Nope,” Steve said, finishing off the last of the meat and rice. “Born and raised in Alabama. Went to UA. Roll Tide and all that. Got a degree in video tech and a job with ABC. Been all over the U.S., but this is my first overseas assignment. Sitting in Paris, nursemaiding a broken van.”

  Mike watched as Steve set down his fork, and it hit him. Americans, almost invariably, will cut a piece of meat with the fork in their left hand and then change back to
holding it in their right. Steve had been eating with the fork held, almost the whole time, in his left. It was the “Continental” style of eating. And he’d done it smoothly and flawlessly. It wasn’t just that he was trying to pick up local manners, it was his normal mode of doing things.

  “What’s wrong with the van?” Mike asked disinterestedly.

  “Generator’s broke,” “Steve” said. “We’ve got a call in to a tech, but I can’t get it running.”

  “You got any other problems?” Mike asked, taking a sip of coffee.

  “Other than the generator, nope,” Steve said.

  “Well, if you do have any, call the embassy,” Mike said, standing up. “They’ll know how to get in touch with me.”

  “Will do,” Steve said, smiling. “Good to hear American again.”

  “Same here,” Mike replied, grinning back. “It’s gonna be a good day.”

  He wandered back out of the press area, stopping from time to time to chat with the American crews, then over to the command post.

  “Colonel Chateauneuf?” he asked one of the sergeants at the main van.

  “He is around,” the sergeant said, shrugging.

  “Call him,” Mike said in a command tone. “Now.”

  Chapter Seven

  “You, as they say, rang?” Colonel Chateauneuf said, strolling up.

  “I hope like hell I didn’t hit pay dirt,” Mike said, pulling him over to where they could talk quietly. “But I think I did. There are three ABC vans. One of them has a ‘broken’ generator. The guy nursemaiding it says he’s American, and he’s got a good accent, but he’s not.”

  “And you know this, how?” the colonel asked, carefully.

  “The way he eats?” Mike said. “Word choice? He’s not.”

  “Does he know that you suspect?” the colonel asked.

  “I’m pretty sure not,” Mike replied.

  “So… and so…” the colonel said, blowing out and grimacing. “How to do this?”

  “I have an idea,” Mike said.