The Crimson Code

by Rachel Lee

  Institutions Européennes, Strasbourg, France

  "I've got him," Lawton's voice said.

  Renate whipped her head around, almost dislodging the tiny earpiece through which the alert had come, as she began to scan the crowd. She keyed her mike. "Where?"

  "Second bus," Lawton said. "There's a clump of people who just got off. He's toward the back. Jeans, a brown sweater, brown hiking boots, dark green backpack over his right shoulder."

  Renate spotted him and felt a predatory surge flow through her. "Yes, I see him. Ahmed?"

  "I see him, as well," Ahmed said.

  "Lawton, you are the eagle," Renate said, referring to the standard surveillance techniques she and Lawton had both learned in their law enforcement training. "Ahmed and I are the foxes. We will exchange when he comes out."

  "Roger," Lawton said.

  Lawton, the "eagle," would follow Al-Khalil at a discreet distance, always keeping the target in sight. Renate and Ahmed, the "foxes," would trail Lawton, keeping him in sight while avoiding direct sight lines to the target himself. Thus, should Al-Khalil spot anyone, he would see only Lawton. After he emerged from the EU complex, Renate would become the eagle, and Lawton and Ahmed would be the foxes. Even if Al-Khalil saw her, he would have no reason to associate her with a man he had seen earlier, and no reason to believe he was being followed.

  Renate and Ahmed had another task, as well, for the foxes were also responsible for countersurveillance. Even as she watched Lawton, she scanned the crowd, looking for other people who might be following or observing Al-Khalil. Unless she was gravely mistaken, Al-Khalil's masters would have their own team observing him to ensure that he completed his mission. It fell upon the foxes to identify any other surveillance, warn the eagle if they moved on him or the target, and find a way to distract them when the time came for the takedown.

  The carefully choreographed dance had begun. When Lawton disappeared behind a crowd, Renate keyed her mike again. "Do you have eyes on eagle, Ahmed?"

  "Yes," Ahmed said. "Moving toward west past the tower, toward the river."

  "Roger," Renate said, maintaining her pace so as not to attract attention. As she rounded the crowd, she saw Lawton's back once again. "I have eyes on eagle."

  "Roger," Ahmed said.

  She was not surprised that Al-Khalil was not using the main entrance. Just as they could not pass through the metal detectors with their weapons, he could not pass with a bomb in his backpack. He would use another entrance, probably one he had scouted in advance, or one that had been scouted for him.

  Moments later, her suspicions were confirmed when Lawton spoke. "Target has entered through a fire door. Target is on-site."

  "Roger," Renate said. "He will plant the bomb in la Tour, so he will probably come out the main entrance. It would be the fastest exit. Ahmed and I will cover there."

  Then she would be the eagle, with direct surveillance on the man who murdered her family. And she would fight the urge to swoop in, talons exposed, and kill him.

  She hoped she had the strength not to do it.

  33

  Off the coast of Pakistan

  "Black Rock One, Big Eye, over."

  The voice in Commander Timothy Wilson's helmet grated on his raw nerves. He knew what the controller in the AWACS plane was going to say, and he didn't want to hear it. Still, his training took over, and he reported in.

  "Big Eye, Black Rock One. Go ahead."

  "Black Rock One, you are at Papa-November-Romeo."

  "Copy, Big Eye. Black Rock at Papa-November-Romeo."

  It sounded so sterile, as if this were an ordinary position check on an ordinary flight. It was anything but. Papa-November-Romeo, or PNR, stood for Point of No Return. His squadron was now circling just outside the airspace of Pakistan. Once they broke north, their ordinance would be armed and they would be committed to the mission—and the rules of engagement. Before that happened, Wilson had a final task to do: contact Command Six, the fleet admiral aboard the Kennedy, and secure the release codes for the nuclear weapons he and his XO were carrying.

  "Switching to one-one-four-point-nine," Lieutenant Keys said from the seat behind him, announcing that he was changing to the radio frequency for fleet command. "Ready to contact Command Six, sir."

  Wilson nodded, though Keys would not see it through the high padded headrest behind Wilson's seat. Once he requested "weapons hot," the fleet admiral would contact the White House. Only the President of the United States could issue release codes for nuclear weapons. Wilson had no doubt that President Rice would issue those codes. The fleet admiral would forward them to Wilson, and he would type them into the keypad of his instrument console. And then, for the first time in sixty years, a U.S. warplane would be carrying a live nuclear bomb with the intent to drop it on foreign soil.

  "Sir?" Keys asked. "Command net is active."

  "Thank you, Lieutenant," Wilson said.

  If he went forward, he would be a hero to some and a monster to others. His name would be inscribed alongside those of the men who piloted the Enola Gay, the B-29 that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. If he refused and turned his squadron back toward the Kennedy, those who would otherwise have celebrated him a hero would brand him a traitor and a coward. He would undoubtedly be court-martialed. And those who would otherwise have reviled him as a monster would celebrate his "act of conscience."

  And that, he supposed, was what it came down to. Was this an act of conscience or cowardice? Was he morally opposed to deploying the weapon that hung beneath his sleek jet, or was he simply quailing at the thought of doing it himself?

  From his plebe year in the Academy, he had been schooled in the Uniform Code of Military Justice and the doctrine of lawful orders. Since the horrible events that had come to light at the Nuremberg trials after World War II, every American fighting man was taught that the final responsibility rested on his shoulders. "I was just following orders" was not a legal defense. If the lowliest private believed an order was unlawful, he had not only the right but the duty to refuse that order.

  So, Wilson asked himself, was the order to attack the terrorist stronghold in Pakistan with a nuclear weapon a lawful order? Wilson was not carrying an indiscriminate area weapon that would vaporize a city. This bomb would burrow down into a cave complex that intelligence sources had confirmed to be a headquarters for the Al Qaeda terrorist network. The surface release of radiation would be minimal, and those who would be vaporized in that cave had both the intent and the means to murder American citizens. Unlike Wilson, they would not agonize over that decision.

  But the consequences of his dropping the bomb might go far beyond simply eradicating an Al Qaeda planning cell. If Pakistan launched its own nuclear weapons in response—perhaps in the form of a missile strike on the Kennedy battle group—then India would certainly jump on the opportunity to resolve long-simmering hostilities by launching their weapons at Pakistan. And once someone had broken the unspoken agreement that nuclear weapons were too horrible to be used…That was the prospect that had cold trickles of sweat running down Wilson's back. Because he would have been the man who started that avalanche.

  "Skipper, command net is active," Lieutenant Keys said again, concern and impatience clear in his voice. "We have to make the call, sir."

  "Yes, Lieutenant," Wilson said. "I know. Thank you."

  Ultimately, Wilson concluded, Keys had been right. These decisions were above his pay grade. If this weapon were not used, hundreds of young U.S. Marines would die in the assault on that cave complex. The President did have the lawful authority to issue the release codes that would spare those men's lives. The President also had the diplomatic responsibility to handle the Pakistanis and the Indians and whoever else might want to jump on the nuclear bandwagon, and forestall that escalation.

  The order was lawful. It would save hundreds of American lives.

  Wilson spoke in clear, crisp tones. "Command Six, Black Rock One. Black Rock is at Papa-November-Romeo
and requesting weapons hot. I say again. Black Rock is at Papa-November-Romeo and requesting weapons hot. Over."

  "Black Rock One, Command Six. Copy you at Papa-November-Romeo and requesting weapons hot. Stand by for national command clearance."

  "Copy, Command Six," Wilson said. "Standing by."

  Institutions Européennes, Strasbourg, France

  There he was.

  Renate spotted Al-Khalil as he emerged from la Tour and for the first time looked upon the face of the man who had killed her parents. Even as she reached for the Glock 9 mm pistol in her purse, she knew this was not the time or the place to use it. Instead, she raised her wrist to her face, as if wiping away a stray lock of hair.

  "Eagle has eyes on target," she said.

  "Roger," Lawton replied.

  Ahmed acknowledged a moment later, and the dance of eagle and foxes began again. She followed Al-Khalil south along the Quay Chanoine Winterer to a bridge that crossed the canal to the Boulevard Paul Déroulède and on to the Alleé de la Robertsau, reporting at each location. Lawton and Ahmed acknowledged her reports, letting her know they had her in sight.

  "Any sign of other surveillance?" Renate asked.

  "I need to confirm that," Lawton replied. "I think so, but you're on a popular pedestrian route. I want to know who's who first."

  "Well, find out fast," Renate said. "If they're Brotherhood, they may recognize me."

  "Doing my best," he replied.

  "Do better," she snapped.

  Even as she said the words, she knew she was foolish to have done so. The simple fact was that it was difficult to pick up skilled surveillance operatives when moving with a crowd. Any of the people in that crowd—or none of them—might be following her, waiting for an opportunity to move in for the kill.

  But there was no alternative. Margarite was needed to man the police scanners, for only she could follow the rapid-fire French transmissions. Niko was commanding the operations team and had to be there with them. Lawton had already been the eagle, and if he moved in again Al-Khalil might spot him and bolt. Ahmed, patently Arab, would be more likely to attract Al-Khalil's attention.

  Renate had to be the eagle, however exposed she might feel. She would simply have to rely on Lawton and Ahmed to alert her if anyone began to move on her. She would have to trust, and that alone was the most disquieting part of the operation.

  Al-Khalil boarded a bus outside the Parc de l'Orangerie, and Renate boarded behind him. Once the bus was in motion and passenger conversation resumed, she leaned her chin on the heel of her hand, as if resting, and reported the bus number.

  "That bus is going to the Place de Bordeaux," Margarite said. "There he will switch to the tram and ride back to his hotel."

  "Margarite, have you reported the bomb threat yet?"

  "Oui," she replied. "I just did."

  "Copy his route," Niko said. "We'll take him at the transfer."

  "It is a large plaza," Margarite said. "There may be civilians everywhere."

  "We have no choice," Renate whispered insistently. "Once he boards the tram, he will be back at his hotel before we get another chance. And the crowds in La Petite France will be even worse. It has to be at the transfer."

  "We're on the move," Niko said.

  "Copy," Margarite said. "Niko, deploy your snipers atop the Holiday Inn on the east side of the plaza. That will offer the best sight lines in the area."

  "Copy," Niko said.

  "Foxes, did you see anything?" Renate asked.

  "Three men," Lawton said. "Early middle-aged, fit, all wearing jeans, one with a black leather jacket, another with an old army coat and the third with a green sweater. The one in the green sweater looks to be the leader. And he looks like one tough son of a bitch."

  Renate quickly identified the three men, who had disbursed throughout the bus. There was no way Al-Khalil could get off the bus without passing one of them. She knew that Niko's team would make it across town before the bus did. But then again, so would whatever backup these three men had. They were after Al-Khalil, she was sure. Or tried to be sure. And very likely these three men had known what route Al-Khalil would take days in advance. They, too, would realize that the Place de Bordeaux was their best choice for the takedown.

  It was going to get bloody.

  Washington, D.C.

  "This is preposterous!" Bentley shouted. "These are the ravings of a woman with a grudge."

  "Perhaps," Miriam said. She had carefully laid out the case she had built based on the interviews and documents that Katherine Dixon had provided. "But it raises grave concerns about your role in the shooting of Grant Lawrence and the ascendancy of President Rice."

  "Absurd!" Bentley said again.

  "Mr. President?" Grant asked. "I won't even ask if you had any role in this. I know you better than that."

  "I did not," Rice said. "I didn't know about it until after the election."

  "Shut up," Bentley said, wheeling on Rice. "Don't say another word."

  "Despite what you believe," Rice said, his voice rising as he stood, "I am still your boss, Bentley. You don't give me orders. And your dirty secret is out."

  "It's your dirty secret, too," Bentley said. "You think you can survive this? I don't tolerate betrayal. Especially not from the likes of you."

  "If I go down, so be it," Rice said, pounding a fist on his desk. "At least I can go down fighting."

  Just then there was a knock at the door, and a young Marine captain stepped into the room. The captain carried a small black briefcase. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr. President, but we have Admiral Rickings aboard the U.S.S. Kennedy on the phone. It's time to issue the release codes, sir."

  "Release codes?" Grant asked. "My God, you're not going to…"

  "He is going to protect the United States from its sworn enemies," Bentley said. "Come in, Captain. Have them patch the call through to here."

  The captain nodded, and moments later the red phone on the president's desk began to blink. The captain picked up the receiver. "National command is standing by."

  "You can't do this, Harrison," Grant said. "You know what will happen. The Pakistanis will launch on us, and the Indians on them. It will be Armageddon."

  "It's a tactical weapon," Bentley said. "We can control the situation, Mr. President. You have to give those pilots the release codes. Think about the hundreds of marines who will die if they have to assault those caves on foot."

  "There are other options," Grant said. "Conventional bunker-busting bombs. You're being set up, Harrison. They want you to escalate this war."

  "Enough!" Rice shouted. "I can't hear myself think!"

  "National command is standing by," the captain repeated into the phone, his voice muted.

  After a long moment, Rice shook his head. "There has to be another way. National command denies release."

  "No!" Bentley shouted. "You have to order release!"

  "National command denies release," Rice said again, his eyes fixed on the captain.

  "You'll be killing marines if you relay that command," Bentley said, now turning his rage on the captain. "Young men just like you will crawl into booby-trapped caves. You will attend their funerals, Captain, and you will know you put them in their graves."

  "I have the President's orders," the captain said. "National command—"

  Before he could finish the sentence, Bentley was charging, hands reaching for the briefcase. Known as "the football," it contained the release codes for the nation's nuclear arsenal. Miriam instinctively reached for her weapon, only then remembering that she had checked it at the White House security desk. She tried to cut Bentley off, but a wingback chair was directly between them. She caught only his sleeve as he passed, but she tightened her fingernails into flesh and muscle, shoving the chair out of the way with her free hand, stepping behind him and trying to twist his arm behind his back.

  The captain still carried his sidearm, and the moment that Bentley spent wrenching his arm loose from Miriam's hold ga
ve the captain time to draw and level the pistol. Bentley shoved Miriam to the floor and turned just as the captain fired.

  Only her fall saved Miriam. The bullet shattered Bentley's sternum, exploded his heart and burst out through his back to lodge in the wall. His body crumpled atop Miriam's, and within seconds the Oval Office was flooded with Secret Service agents. Amidst the chaos, Rice shouted to the captain.

  "Give the order!"

  The captain dropped his weapon in the face of six agents whose weapons were trained on him, then reached for the receiver, dangling from the cord where he had dropped it. Never taking his eyes off the Secret Service agents, he groped for a moment before finding the handset and bringing it to his face.

  "National command denies release," he said, firmly. "I say again, national command denies release."

  Miriam pushed Bentley's body from atop her as she heard the words and looked at Rice. "Thank you, Mr. President. Thank you."

  Rice simply shook his head as he helped Grant pull her to her feet. "Please, Special Agent, don't call me that. I'm not worthy of the office."

  "Oh yes," Grant said. "Yes, you are."

  34

  Institutions Européennes, Strasbourg, France

  Soult heard the report on the police band. Bomb spotted in Tour Européenne. Someone must have seen Al-Khalil plant the bomb. While the report was premature, it changed nothing about Soult's plan.

  As he scrambled out of the command van, a French police officer was running to meet him. "I heard," Soult said. "I will lead the search team personally."

  "Oui, Général," the police officer said.

  The officer had to hurry to catch up as Soult ran past him and across the Rue du Levant. Soult had an advantage over the others who would be searching the magnificent glass tower. He knew where the bombs were to be planted.

  Already, members of parliament were streaming out of the building and scattering across the surrounding grass. Soult yelled to the officer to push them farther back. If by some chance either of the bombs detonated before Soult could disarm them, flying glass would cut to ribbons anyone standing within fifty meters of the building.