by John Ringo
* * *
“Hey, Steve,” Mike said, walking over to the ABC van. “Your country needs you.”
“What?” the man said, standing up from where he’d been tapping on his laptop.
“I’ve got a situation I need help with,” Mike replied, closing the laptop and pulling on his arm. “Quick. CBS has managed to really piss off the French. Something about camera angles. I don’t know for camera angles so I need a third party to interpret.”
“I’ve got to watch the van,” Steve said desperately, his accent slipping.
“Look, this won’t take more than five minutes,” Mike replied, stuffing the laptop into the man’s case and hanging it over his shoulder. “It’s locked, right?”
“Yeah,” “Steve” said, allowing himself to be led away.
Mike led him out of the press area and over to an area that was near the command post and out of sight.
“So,” Mike said as they rounded a corner and “Steve” found himself confronted by three sub-gun wielding police and Colonel Chateauneuf, “care to tell me who you really are?”
“Steve” let out a grunt of surprise and plucked his cell phone off his hip.
“Not happenin’,” Mike said, grabbing his hand and twisting it so hard he heard a crack.
The man let out a cry and dropped the cell phone, cradling the wrist as one of the police officers stepped forward. The officer slid plastic cuffs on him, broken wrist and all, then a hood over his head. The man was hustled into a police car, which drove sedately away.
“I think you may be right,” Chateauneuf said, blowing out and picking up the cell phone gingerly.
“May I?” Mike asked. When the colonel handed it to him, he scrolled through the speed dial list. Most of them were names, all European sounding and almost certainly false. But one was listed as “Fire” and one as “Ice.”
Mike noted down those two numbers and handed the phone back.
“And now,” Mike said, “I think you’d better call your very best EOD people.”
* * *
“We cannot afford to move it,” the senior EOD tech said.
The hurried meeting was taking place in one of the police vans. It included Madame LaSalle-Guerinot, who was looking pissed as all get out, the colonel, a couple of senior police officers and Mike, who had forced his way in through sheer chutzpah.
“There could be tremblor switches,” the tech continued. “There could be a locator system. They could be watching, for all we know. It could be detonated at any time.”
As he said that, the terrorist’s cell phone, which was in the middle of the table, began to buzz.
Most of the people around the table looked at it like it was a snake. Mike just leaned forward and picked it up.
“Yep?” he said in his very best Southern drawl.
“How is it going, Steve?” a man said. He had a faint British accent underlaid with something else. Mike recalled that the “engineer” had been trained in British boarding schools. He was talking loudly since there was music in the background. Mike recognized the tune as being a current dance hit. He mainly recognized it because it was the sort of thing you heard in strip joints a lot.
“Turr’ble,” Mike answered, half shouting. “Jist turr’ble. Generator’s still broke. D’ju call that technician?”
“Yes, I did,” the man said in a puzzled tone.
“Talkin’ to a guy from the embassy ‘bout it now,” Mike drawled, rolling his eyes. “Hope he gits har befur the pope.”
“Ah,” the man shouted understandingly. “He will, I’m sure. Or about the time the pope arrives. When he gets there, you can go, of course.”
“Weel thankee,” Mike yelled, his eyes cold. “Thankee kindly. Gotta go now. Later.”
“Later,” the man said.
Mike hit the disconnect and counted.
“One, two, three…” He closed his eyes and waited and then sighed. “I think he bought it. One Southern accent sounds about the same as another to a foreigner. They can’t tell the difference between Alabama and North Florida.”
“Are you INSANE?” Madame LaSalle-Guerinot shouted. “He could have decided that the operation was blown and blown us all sky!”
“Oh, higher,” Mike said. “Which was exactly what he would have done if the phone wasn’t answered. With, more or less, the correct voice. I know this bastard. He loves to see things go boom. He set the timer on the nuke in Andros, for example, rather than have it fall into our hands. If he gets a sniff that there’s anything wrong, he’ll set it off just to see the pretty lights on TV.
“Look,” he continued to the EOD tech. “Go in looking like repair technicians. That is what everyone in the area is expecting. Enter the forward part of the van; I’ve seen him use the door, so it can’t be rigged. You have his keys. Set up in there, out of sight. Do your magic. Get cracking, though. It’s going to be a tough nut.”
“That will work,” one of the senior police said, to nods. “We can give you cover clothing. You’ll have to pack your gear so it is out of sight.”
“Don’t bother with carrying pads,” Mike said, chuckling. “If it goes up, you won’t need them.”
“You need to leave,” Madame LaSalle-Guerinot snapped, turning to the senior inspector. “I want him out of this area in fifteen minutes,” she continued, standing up. “I am going to go brief the president.”
“Well, I wonder what got her titties in a twist,” Mike said, sighing. “And who, exactly, is going to answer the phone if I leave?”
“You are,” Colonel Chateauneuf said, standing up. “She said you have to leave, not that you couldn’t take the phone with you. Does anyone have a specific use for it?”
“We’d like to check the directory,” one of the civilians at the table said. He had a faintly military bearing and Mike had pegged him as DGSE. “Run down some of the phone numbers.”
“We have a list of all of them already,” the senior inspector said.
“Does that mean you don’t want me to keep it?” Mike asked, waving it in the air.
“Oh, no,” the DGSE agent said, smiling. “By all means. And… try to be as convincing as you just were.”
“Will do,” Mike replied in a Southern accent. “Gentlemen, much as I respect the capabilities of the French security establishment, you wouldn’t mind if I watch the goings-on from, say… twenty klicks away or so, would you?”
“Not at all,” Colonel Chateauneuf said somberly. “I will escort you to your car.”
“I take it you’re not leaving,” Mike said as they walked to the sedan.
“No,” Chateauneuf said, shrugging. “My place is here.”
“Been there, done that, got the T-shirt,” Mike said. “I’ve got to introduce you to a song called ‘Winter Born.’ ”
“Crüxshadows,” Chateauneuf said, grinning. “A very good band. You will not tell people that I Goth, I hope? It is so hard to retain respect when people know you Goth.”
“Of course not,” Mike replied as he got in the car. “When it comes down to popish time, give me a holler and give me a play by play, okay?”
“I shall,” Chateauneuf said, holding out his hand. “Adieu.”
“Even I know that much French,” Mike said, shaking his hand. Adieu meant Go with God; it was a permanent farewell. “Let’s go for au revoir.”
* * *
“So what did you find out?” Bruce asked as they drove away.
Mike didn’t bother to answer, just picked up his cell phone and dialed OSOL.
“Pierson.”
“Go scramble.”
“Scrambled.”
“It’s here, Bob,” Mike said, breathing out. “Notre Dame. The embassy driver and I are getting the fuck out of Dodge.”
“We heard,” Pierson replied. “Along with a very sharp message about your encounter with Madame Two-names.”
“Gabby LaSalle-Guerinot?” Mike said. “What a nice gal. We got along so well.”
“So I heard,” Pierson said
dryly. “I believe the term ‘insufferably arrogant’ was used.”
“What? About the French?” Mike said.
“No, about you,” Pierson observed. “But, yes, arrogant is a good word. Not to mention lacking in leadership skills. The entire government is quietly evacuating. The president and Madame Two-names are already gone, taking their families. The president was supposed to be attending the pope’s high mass, but he sent his regrets. Some minor stooge, clearly not in the loop, is going instead.”
“Ah, French heroism at its finest.” Mike sighed. “All joking aside, we’ve got ourselves one fucked-up situation here. I don’t know for beans about EOD, not at this level, so I’m leaving it up to the experts. And, as I said, getting the fuck out of Dodge; I don’t see how they can prevent it from detonating.”
“Your phone call was intercepted by NSA,” Pierson said. “They were aware of the number before we were and traced the call to Amsterdam.”
“That’s nice,” Mike said. “The bomb’s scheduled to go off in about six hours…” He paused. “You want me to go to Amsterdam?” he added incredulously.
“Up to you,” Pierson replied. “The voice match was Assadolah.”
“Yeah,” Mike said thoughtfully. “I was pretty sure it was him. That English/Pakistani accent. But I’ve got to sit on the phone.”
“NSA has it covered,” Pierson said. “Calls to that phone will be transferred to your sat phone. And they can feed in artificial background noise from the event at Notre Dame. When a call comes in from the same phone, it will read ‘Assadolah.’ ”
“Gotta love modern technology,” Mike said sourly. “Bruce,” he continued, “about face. Charles DeGaulle. Step on it.”
* * *
On one level Mike loved Amsterdam’s red-light district. He’d stopped through on his European tour and sampled the wares, and lovely wares they were. But it was, in a way, just too “in your face.” As he walked down one of the narrow alleyways of the district, the curtain behind a plate-glass window moved and a very attractive young woman, a redhead wearing a green teddy and high heels, stepped out and reclined on the pillows in the window. She smiled at him as he passed and he smiled back distractedly. Pretty as she was, she wasn’t who he was looking for.
The street was lined with brothels, like the one he’d just passed, their “wares” casually presenting themselves in the windows, topless bars that doubled as brothels, brothels that doubled as bars, and “sex clubs” that were some of each.
“The call came from somewhere around cell tower 4793,” Colonel Fagan said. The colonel was another military attaché, in civilian clothes, but much less stuck on himself than Forester had been. With Mike’s haircut and build they just looked like two soldiers out for a good time. “That services the red-light district and some of the areas around it.”
“Assadolah’s into women,” Mike replied. “And the sounds that were behind him were from a bar, probably a topless joint from the music.” He paused at the first one they came to and shrugged. “What a horrible job we’ve got.” He paid for both their covers with a fifty-euro note, getting back forty euros in five- and ten-euro notes and a handful of one-euro coins.
The strip joint ran to form, dark with the only light coming from the three stages. In the middle of the room was the main stage, a long walkway with a pole at both ends and a swing in the middle. A blonde was dancing on it, down to nothing but her platforms and money-filled garter, doing a pole dance that Mike had to admit was spectacular. The women wandering around the room were equally spectacular, mostly blonde, long-legged with large breasts. You could tell the fakes from the real ones, even the very good fakes, and it was apparent that mostly they were real.
The two of them split up on either side of the stage, wandering casually to the back, then retracing their steps on opposite sides. There were two side rooms, one a “champagne” room where for probably a ton of money you could sit and talk to one of the girls while sipping champagne, and the other a “dance” room where for less the girls would perform “lap dances” for their “gentlemen friends.” When they got back to the front, Mike sat down in one of the chairs along the wall and shrugged.
“I don’t see him,” Mike noted. “But he could be getting a lap dance. Or a blow for that matter; it’s Amsterdam.”
“I’ll take the champagne room,” Fagan said, grinning. “But the U.S. government is going to have a hard time keeping up with my tab.”
“Uncle Sam can afford it,” Mike replied, handing over a wad of hundred-euro notes. “Keep an itemized tab and we’ll submit an expense report.”
He grabbed a passing blonde and smiled at her.
“Care to dance?”
The lap dance room turned out to have several curtained cubicles in it. Mike rather obviously twitched several aside, getting angry looks from the men in the cubicles, one of whom, sure enough, was getting a blowjob, and causing the girl with him to pull him along to an empty one.
“Sorry,” Mike said, sitting down in the chair. “I like to watch.”
“It is very much against house rules,” the girl said, sitting down next to him. The previous song hadn’t finished, so they had to wait for the next one. “I am Hanne.”
“Pleased to meet you, Hanne,” Mike said. “I’m Mike.” It made just as much sense to use his “real” name as a cover. The girl didn’t give a shit who he was.
“Is twenty euros for a lap dance,” Hanne said, taking off her halter top. “Is fifty euros for blow. That is two songs. If you don’t come by end of second song, well, I do my best.”
“I’ll just take a dance,” Mike replied. “Do I get to touch?”
“You can touch,” Hanne said gravely. “If you touch too hard, though, I will tell you to stop. If you don’t stop, you get sent out.”
“I can live with that,” Mike said as the previous dance ended and the next began.
The girl slid to her knees in front of him, spreading his legs and dragging her hair over his crotch, then slowly slid up his body, humming as she did so.
Mike slid his hands down her back and along her sides, then up her stomach to her high, firm breasts. She clearly hadn’t been dancing long, since they were natural and had hardly a hint of sag. He continued to run his hands over her body, gently, teasingly, as she teased him in turn.
“You are very good with hands,” Hanne said huskily.
“Maybe you should be paying me,” he replied, smiling into her eyes.
“Is very nice,” she whispered in his ear. “I like.”
“I’m glad,” Mike said, licking her ear lightly. “But all you get is one dance. I have to save my strength for all the other girls in the district.”
She giggled at that and slid her head back down, rubbing her face in his crotch. Then she slid back up and licked at his ear.
“I think maybe you wish you’d paid for blow, yes?”
“You’re very nice,” Mike said, nipping at her earlobe. “But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.”
The song finished and Hanne backed away slowly.
“Wooo,” she said, holding out her hand for the money. “That was more than usual fun.”
“I’m glad you liked it,” Mike said, handing her thirty euros. “You take care.”
He walked back out to the main area and looked around for Fagan, but the colonel was nowhere in sight.
“Come on, man,” Mike muttered. “One dance is enough.”
When two more dances, six minutes more or less, had passed, Mike walked over to the champagne room door, a curtain rather, and tipped the bouncer to let him in without a girl.
“Fagan,” Mike said loudly.
“Coming,” the colonel replied in a strained voice.
He exited one of the cubicles a moment later, zipping his trousers.
“I don’t care what that comedian said,” Fagan noted. “If he thinks there’s no sex in the champagne room, he’s never been to Amsterdam.”
* * *
; They had hit two more strip joints, where Mike very pointedly had the colonel go for a single lap dance while he took the champagne room, and were headed to another when Mike’s phone rang.
He stepped into an alley to cloak the street noise and hit the connect.
“Ay-yup?” he said.
“The technician is on his way,” Assadolah said. “All is well?”
“Turr’ble,” Mike replied. “Jist turr’ble. Been sittin’ here watchin’ the cops go by for the last few ahrs. Jist a wond’rin’ when that techie’d show.”
“He will be there soon,” Assadolah said. “You can go, now. How is traffic?”
“Baid,” Mike said. “But Ah figur Ah kin git back in plenty of tahm fer the evenin’ shows.”
“That is well,” Assadolah said. “Have a safe trip.”
“Bet on it,” Mike replied, hitting the disconnect. He immediately dialed OSOL and went through the scramble routine.
“Got a call,” Mike said.
“We were listening in real time,” Pierson replied. “One hour until the pope’s mass.”
“He cut it kind of close,” Mike said. “That tech, whoever he is, isn’t going to have much time to get out of town.”
“The tech turned out to be a former IRA member,” Pierson said. “The bomb is not only encased in lead, it’s filled with booby traps. The French had never seen anything like it but the British had; it was a full IRA rig. IRA bombs are…”
“The toughest in the world,” Mike finished. “Fuck, I hate those Provo bastards. Now they’re selling their expertise to the mujahideen.”
“We talked to the Dutch police,” Pierson said. “They’re willing to not flood the place to find Assadolah, for obvious reasons. But there are a couple of undercover cops moving around as well. And there’s a tac team on standby if you need backup.”
“Nice to know,” Mike said, walking back to the street. “I have to keep looking.”
“Terrible job, I know,” Pierson said, chuckling blackly. “Nero only fiddled while Rome burned.”
