by Rachel Lee
Soult fought his way upstream through the surge of panicked dignitaries, finally emerging into la Tour. Two flak-jacketed policemen were beginning to search the area. More would be arriving in minutes, with search dogs trained to sniff out explosives. Soult could not let that happen. He had to find the bombs himself for today to have any meaning at all. He had to work quickly.
The first bomb was easy to find. It was, as Soult had directed, near the back of la Tour, beside the corridor that led to the Louis Weiss Building behind. This would be the bomb that would mark his holy anointing. This was a simple pipe bomb, without any backup detonation circuitry, and Soult quickly but gingerly tucked it into a thigh pocket of his fatigues. But the cesium bomb was not where Soult had instructed Al-Khalil to plant it.
Perhaps Al-Khalil had felt too exposed placing the bomb so near the podium from which the Commission President was to address the members of parliament. Or perhaps he had simply chosen another location on his own, believing that his engineering background had led him to a better solution than the one with which he had been provided. Regardless, Soult had to work quickly. If he did not find the cesium bomb, the entire operation would be a failure.
He tried to project himself into Al-Khalil's mind, estimating where the engineer would have placed the bomb, but found himself drawing a blank. He was a soldier, not an engineer. Desperation grew as he saw the Strasbourg Police bomb squad assembling outside. Acting on impulse, he pulled the ruby pyramid from his pocket and held it in his palm, then slowly turned in a circle, hoping against hope that it might act as a divining rod, guiding him toward his destiny.
The faintest glow within the ruby seemed to call to him as he faced one of the concrete-and-steel pillars on the southern face of the building. The nearer he got to the pillar, the brighter the glow, though never did it seem to leave the stone itself. It was as if the stone were merely illuminating itself, allowing only him to see it. Perhaps it was the power of the stone reacting with the radioactive emissions from the bomb.
Or perhaps it was destiny guiding his footsteps.
As he neared the pillar, the stone began to give off heat. The heat quickly became intolerable, and Soult had to put the stone back in his pocket.
It was then that he saw the bomb.
Al-Khalil had been instructed to booby-trap this device, and Soult studied the bomb without moving, without touching it. It consisted of a black metal cube perhaps twenty centimeters on a side, connected to a sphere only slightly larger. The timing and triggering mechanisms were in the cube; the sphere would be the bomb itself. On the back side, steel conduit led between them. Al-Khalil had been thorough. This would not permit the absurd "red wire or blue wire" scenes so common in American movies. Inside the box, Soult was certain, lay a mercury switch that would trigger the detonation if anyone tried to move the bomb.
"Over here," Soult called out as the bomb squad technicians entered the building. "I have found it."
As they approached, he pointed to the device. "It appears to be very sophisticated. As you can see, the detonating cables are sealed within steel conduit. I would be very surprised if it were not also booby-trapped."
"I have worse news than that," the technician said, sweeping a multiband scanner over the device. He flipped a switch, and Soult could hear the ragged, telltale ticking of a Geiger counter. "It contains radioactive material, General. You should leave now, sir. We will attempt to disarm it."
"No," Soult said firmly. "I am the senior EU security official on-site. An officer cannot lead from the back of the column. I will stay with you."
"Sir, please. I do not wish to be responsible for the death of a Général d'Armée."
Soult finally nodded. He took the pipe bomb from his pocket. "I found another device. This one appears to be much cruder. I have disarmed it."
"You are a brave man, General," the bomb technician said, quickly looking at the dummy wires Soult had pulled from the pipe bomb. "We have a disposal mortar beside the river. Give it to the men there."
"I will," Soult said.
"And I will work on this one, General. Trust me. We are good at what we do."
Soult nodded and walked away slowly, holding the pipe bomb as if it were a baby. Everything was perfect. Noting with satisfaction that he had the full attention of the television news cameramen who had swarmed to the scene, he walked toward the river. He slipped a hand into his pocket and gripped the ruby tightly, murmuring a prayer that had been passed down for nearly two thousand years through the Order of the Rose.
Then he pressed the button on the side of the bomb.
He did not hear the explosion. There was only a blinding flash, and then blackness.
Place de Bordeaux, Strasbourg, France
"Snipers in position," Niko said as the bus carrying Al-Khalil and Renate pulled into the vast grass expanse of the plaza.
Renate glanced up and saw that the man in the green sweater was now standing beside her seat, as if he were preparing to get off the bus. Unable to respond verbally, she simply pressed the microphone key…one quick tap, one long tap, one quick tap. It was the letter R in International Morse Code, the signal for a message received. She hoped Niko and the rest of the team would understand it.
Al-Khalil rose and headed for the front of the bus. Renate sat for a moment, allowing the three men to close on him, one in front and two behind, with three other passengers behind them. She rose and headed for the rear exit of the bus. As she neared it and leaned against a vertical rail for support, she brought her face to her wrist.
"Target will exit front. Bandit surveillance team is with him, leather jacket in front, army coat and green sweater behind. Have snipers put sights on bandits."
"Copy," Niko said from atop the roof. "Snipers, put sights on bandits and give me shot-or-no."
Renate stepped off the bus and immediately scanned the area for Ahmed's men. They were there, thirty meters away, the four of them casually kicking a soccer ball as if they were students on a break from classes. The three men from the bus ignored them, following their quarry. As she followed Al-Khalil across the grass toward the tram stop, she glanced back over her shoulder at the roofline of the Holiday Inn hotel behind her. Four heads edged above the parapet, almost invisible unless one knew where to look. Niko and his sniper team.
"Shot-or-no?" Renate asked, still walking toward the tram.
"Sniper one has shot," she heard one of the men say.
"Sniper two has shot," another added.
"Sniper three has no shot," O'Connor said.
Renate glanced around. Although the plaza was mostly open, it was dotted with trees. O'Connor's shot might be obstructed by one of them. Or perhaps O'Connor himself was the obstruction.
Seventy meters to the south, a minivan pulled into a parking place alongside the plaza. Renate recognized Lawton behind the wheel. There was no way for him to bring the car closer, and no chance of herding Al-Khalil into the van before the three men could react. She needed all three of them taken out, and at the same instant. That was the task of Niko's snipers, and two were ready to act. But O'Connor was not.
Renate could use her own weapon to take out the third target, but not without drawing attention from the dozens of people who were wandering the plaza on this warm spring evening. Three momentary muzzle flashes and inaudible spits from silenced sniper rifles on the roof would likely go unnoticed. Perhaps the strollers would see the three men topple to the ground, perhaps not. Regardless, Niko's men were well trained, and they would leave no trace of themselves or their weapons on that roof. But if she were forced to fire, the report of her 9 mm pistol would not go unnoticed.
"O'Connor, shot-or-no?" she asked impatiently.
"Fifteen more meters," O'Connor said. "Then he will clear the trees."
"And twenty meters after that, he will be at the tram stop," Renate said.
"I can't guarantee a clean hit," O'Connor said. "I can't make the bloody tree move."
"Sniper one and two, shot-or-
no?" Niko asked.
"Sniper one has shot."
"Sniper two has shot."
"Sniper three stand down," Renate said. "If we let him get closer to the tram stop, we endanger civilians. I will take green sweater."
"Sniper three standing down," O'Connor said.
Renate could not tell whether she heard relief, disgust, disappointment or anger in O'Connor's voice. They would sort that out later. Right now, she had to act, and act quickly.
"On my mark," she said, drawing the Glock from her purse and squeezing the grip to release the safety.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Ahmed's men abandon the soccer ball, preparing to move. She raised the pistol and centered it on the back of the green sweater.
"Three. Two. Mark."
The two snipers fired a split second too soon. As she was squeezing the trigger, Renate heard the buzz of their rounds passing, the quiet thuds as their bullets struck the targets, and the men's almost silent grunts as they slumped to the ground.
But so did the man in the green sweater.
As Renate's pistol fired, he was already dropping to the ground and rolling. She tried to sight on him, but he was moving quickly, eyes up and alert, seeking the threat, seeking her. He raised his pistol as their eyes met, and Renate knew in an instant that this was not a battle she could win. He was prone, a more stable firing position and a smaller target. She saw the muzzle flash and ducked to the left, hearing the bullet buzz past her right ear. He would not miss again.
But neither would he fire again.
As Renate sighted on him, she saw his face explode in a pink mist.
"Sniper three has him," O'Connor said a moment later.
Al-Khalil was left standing alone, frozen in place as Ahmed's men moved in on him. As they grabbed his arms and began to steer him away toward the van, Renate walked over to the dead man and looked back up at the hotel roofline. Through the thin outer springtime growth of a tree, she saw O'Connor's head for just an instant, before he disappeared beneath the parapet.
"Good shot, sniper three," she said.
"Bloody good for you that he rolled to his right," O'Connor replied. "And thanks, gov."
Renate joined Ahmed's men. They were talking to Al-Khalil in Arabic, but she knew he spoke flawless English. As he tried to twist away, Renate stepped in front of him and jammed her pistol into his belly.
"Give me an excuse," she said.
Al-Khalil looked resigned but defiant. "Allah be praised."
"Allah didn't kill my parents in Baden-Baden," she snapped. "You did, you filthy dog. And my six-year-old niece. And three hundred other people who wanted nothing more than to worship their God on Christmas morning."
From the corner of her eye, she saw Lawton approaching. He had left the van. She stared into Al-Khalil's eyes, searching for any sign of remorse, any hint of humanity. She saw only emptiness, an emptiness that seemed to mirror her own soul. Anger surged within her, and she brought the pistol up beneath his chin. She would end this here and now.
"Renate, no," Lawton said. "Not here. We're too exposed as it is."
"He doesn't deserve to live," Renate said quietly.
"Perhaps not," Lawton said, stepping closer. "But if you do this now, we lose our last lead. He's a puppet, Renate. We want the puppet masters."
"I'll settle for the puppet," she said.
He lifted his hand and placed it over hers.
"You're not him, Renate. You're not."
Something in his voice, in the touch of his hand, found the last shred of the person she had once been. She looked into Al-Khalil's eyes again. He deserved to die. But it was not her place to kill him.
She lowered her pistol.
"Take this shit away," she said quietly. "I never want to see him again."
As Ahmed's men pushed Al-Khalil toward the van, Lawton looked at her. "You're not coming?"
"I'll take the tram," she said.
"But…"
She met his eyes. "Leave it be, Lawton. Please. Just leave it be."
He nodded. As he turned and headed toward the van, Renate put the Glock back in her purse. She walked across the plaza, not looking over at the three dead bodies sprawled on the grass, not looking up at the hotel roofline for any sign of Niko's men departing, not looking back as the van pulled away, not looking at the startled people around her.
Instead, she looked forward, at the new spring growth on the trees.
35
Rome, Italy
Renate glanced around the café as the news came on a television behind the counter. The bustle of conversations quickly quieted to murmurs.
Once again, the news networks showed the by now familiar footage of General Jules Soult coming out of the EU parliament building, gingerly holding the bomb in his hands, seemingly oblivious to the cameras that had recorded his every move as he walked around the building to the bomb disposal squad waiting on the riverbank. Every time, it almost seemed as if he would make it to the detonation mortar, a thick steel container in which the explosion would have been contained and vented harmlessly. Every time, just as he drew near the mortar, the crowd gasped as the bomb went off. Every time, the cameraman's breathless "Merde!" was audible before the camera whipped around to show the dignitaries crouched with their hands over their heads or lying facedown on the ground.
Next came the interviews with the bomb disposal men, who had defused the cesium-laced bomb inside the building with only seconds to spare. They could not have neutralized the bomb in time, they assured the cameras, had Soult not entered the building and found the devices. An attack intended to kill hundreds and poison thousands more had instead wounded only one man…Soult himself.
His survival was nothing short of miraculous, the doctors said. Perhaps it was the position in which he had held the bomb, the police speculated. Or his fitness and stout constitution, the doctors wondered. Regardless, except for flash burns on his hands and face, he had been almost unscathed. The shards of twisted metal that should have riddled his body had somehow missed him. Although his uniform was shredded—photos of it had appeared in almost every newspaper in Europe in the days after the attack—he had only a few small cuts.
The clamor for the vote of no confidence against the President of the European Commission had been swift and loud, and with its outcome a foregone conclusion, the president had dissolved the commission and resigned. The search for a successor had been equally swift, for it had centered on the man who lay recovering in a Paris hospital, the hero of Europe, the savior of the European Parliament.
Now the coverage returned to the present and the image of Jules Soult, still bald and without eyebrows, still wearing the gauze gloves that protected the skin grafts on his hands, standing on the podium, ready to be sworn in as the new President of the European Commission. He had been, news anchors reminded the audience, the near-unanimous nominee of the European Council—the committee of elected heads of state from each of the member nations—and overwhelmingly approved by a grateful parliament.
He promised a new Europe, a stronger Europe, more united under the banner of the Union, fully committed to prosecuting the war on terrorism. This would require changes, he said. Sacrifices for the common good. But such was the price of liberty and safety. The parliament roared in approval.
No one, Renate realized, had paid the slightest attention to the apprehension and trial of the man who had planted the bombs. Al-Khalil's trial, conducted in Saudi Arabia, had been broadcast on the Al Jazeera network but had received only passing mention in the Western press. The chief witness for the prosecution, Prince Ahmed Ahsami, had detailed his investigation of Al-Khalil's role in the Black Christmas bombing in Baden-Baden, the ricin attack in Prague and the attempted bombing in Strasbourg. The verdict had been unanimous, and Kasmir Al-Khalil had been executed under Islamic law before jeering crowds chanting "Innocent blood is not justice."
By prior agreement, Ahmed had not mentioned Renate, Lawton or their companions. He could not have iden
tified Office 119 even had he been inclined to do so. After their interrogation of Al-Khalil, so far as Ahmed knew, Lawton and Niko had vanished into the ether.
But that interrogation had yielded fruit. Al-Khalil had identified a Swiss Arab banker as his recruiter, and already Niko and Assif were in Zurich, tapping into yet another bank's communications. The results would, Renate hoped, provide the evidence needed to roll up the Frankfurt Brotherhood once and for all.
That would be a victory, yes. But a hollow one. The Brotherhood had extracted from her a price that could never be repaid. Now she was truly alone in the world.
"You look pensive," Lawton said, leaning over to her.
"Pensive?" she asked. Despite years of training and study, she still sometimes had to ask the meanings of obscure English words.
Lawton nodded. "Sad. Melancholy. You're thinking about unhappy things."
"Yes," she said. "It is difficult not to. They are gone. I cannot even visit their graves."
"No," he said. "You can't. Not yet. But perhaps soon, when Niko and Assif have found more, we can bring their killers to justice. And that's the best tribute you can ever give them."
"Is it?" she asked. "What do we really accomplish, my friend? What can we really accomplish, when the hearts of men can conspire to such evil?"
"Consider this," Lawton said. "Today we are watching the inauguration of a new president. But what might we be watching instead? If you hadn't brought me to Idaho, if we hadn't built the case against Wes Dixon and Jonathan Morgan, if Miriam hadn't intervened with President Rice against Phillip Bentley, what would we be watching right now? We would be watching India and Pakistan in nuclear ashes, Renate."
She nodded. That was true. Few knew how close the world had come to nuclear war three weeks ago. Few knew that the bombers were already in the air, their pilots awaiting only the final release codes.
"We saved a lot of lives, Renate," Lawton said. "Lives in India and Pakistan. Lives in Strasbourg. At the end of the day, that's what we have to focus on. Or else you're right, it's just hopeless. And it's not hopeless. Jonathan Morgan has been indicted on conspiracy charges. We know he's one of the Brotherhood's inner circle, and right now he's sitting in an eight-by-ten cell. They're not untouchable. We can win."
