Lou Coburn watched the footmen attending to Hugh’s luggage and to his own. By the time he stepped to the desk, the clerk was waiting with his key.
“Nothing to sign?” Coburn asked.
“No sir. Nothing to sign. I hope everything is to your liking. Your party has the entire south wing reserved for your exclusive use.” The clerk made an elegant motion in that direction. “Your meals will be served in the private dining room on the ground floor of that wing.”
Of course everything was to Coburn’s liking. How could it not be? Until a few days ago, he had been on the CIA’s Osama bin Laden desk, and now he was on special assignment with former secretary of state Hugh Bowes staying at the Grand Hôtel de Bretagne. Had there ever been a greater or more unexpected stroke of pure, blessed luck?
Being assigned to the Osama desk had once been a career-making appointment, but not anymore. The trouble was, no one in the Administration wanted to hear the bad tidings the desk continually offered. It was nothing new, really: American friends and allies, like the Saudis and the Pakistanis, were still funneling money to bin Laden; bin Laden still had strong ties in England, France, Russia, Mexico; and still nobody knew where he was. Ever since the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, the Osama bin Laden desk—which had long predicted something of that sort—had been the purveyor of only bad news, the messenger everyone wanted to shoot, and had thus gone from being a plum appointment to being known among the Agency’s rank and file as “Siberia.”
After being transferred there, Coburn had weighed his alternatives. There were private security jobs to be had in Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia, and Iraq, where he could make good money and remain in the trade, and he had been about to submit his resignation when Hugh Bowes had called. Hugh inquired after Coburn’s health and well-being and expressed surprise that Coburn was thinking of a career change. “Are you dissatisfied with the course of your career?” he asked without apparent irony.
“Let’s just say,” Coburn said, “that I am considering my options.”
Hugh paused for a moment. “Come see me this evening,” he said. “Would you? I may have an interesting assignment for you.”
Coburn was thinner than Hugh remembered. His eyes were narrow; his mouth was set. He appeared to have mostly recovered from his physical injuries, and he moved easily across the room, but something in him seemed changed. He winced slightly as he took a seat. “Broken ribs take a long time to heal,” he said with a tight smile.
Hugh offered Coburn a drink. “Help yourself,” said Hugh, gesturing toward the bottles standing on the bar. While Coburn was pouring himself a glass of whiskey, Hugh said that he would soon be meeting with the terrorist Louis Morgon.
Coburn took a sip from his drink. “So you know where he is?” Coburn asked lazily, as though the answer did not matter to him.
“We do,” said Hugh, sipping from a frosty glass of water. “He’s in France, in Brittany. The purpose of the meeting, which Morgon himself initiated, by the way, is to interrogate him about al Qaeda. He’s almost certainly got useful intelligence, and he might well know something of their leadership structure. He might even be able to give us something useful on bin Laden himself.
“Admittedly, that is probably more than we should hope for. Nevertheless, we—meaning the Administration at the highest level—consider Morgon a sufficiently valuable resource to take a calculated risk. If we can persuade Morgon to give up what he’s got, it might help turn the corner in the war on terror.”
“And in the election,” said Coburn.
Hugh shrugged and smiled. “That’s not my concern, Coburn. Or yours.” He paused. “Coburn,” he said, looking the younger man in the eye, “I would like you with me on this … mission. There will be other security personnel, of course. But I would like you by my side.”
“And why is that?” Coburn asked. How could he not wonder?
“You’re right to ask,” said Hugh. “It’s because you have proved yourself competent at … what you do.”
Coburn raised his eyebrows. Hugh waved his hand, as though he could chase Coburn’s suspicions away like so many gnats. “Overconfidence was your principal shortcoming, Coburn. Wouldn’t you agree? I believe your … recent experience has helped you rein in your overconfidence. Am I not correct in that belief?”
Coburn did not respond.
“More importantly,” Hugh continued, “your experience with Morgon, knowing how he thinks, seeing how he works, will be very important. Invaluable, I should say. You know how easy it is to underestimate him. None of the others accompanying me will understand that as well as you.”
Coburn looked to see whether Hugh was mocking him. “And what does Morgon get out of this?” he asked. “Why did he come forward all of a sudden?”
Hugh waved his hand again. “Witness protection or something of the sort.”
“Something of the sort?” Coburn said.
“Think about it, Coburn. Though we didn’t know exactly where he was, we had shut down his operation in Saint Leon. We killed some of his fellow terrorists. He was completely compromised for al Qaeda. He has become a liability for them, and they’ll have no choice but to get rid of him. We offered him the chance to stop running. We’re his best hope.
“Of course, whatever he has been ‘offered,’ … well, as you know, we simply don’t make deals with terrorists. Ever. And, quite frankly, between you and me, if, in the course of our meeting with him, something were to go awry—say, he were to take some threatening action—and you were to have to kill him … well, I am quite certain that no one would be all that concerned about another dead terrorist. Would they? Especially one as cunning and lethal as Louis Morgon. Frankly, everyone would think whoever terminated him was a hero.
“Not that he would pull a gun.” Hugh smiled. “Did you know that Morgon never carries a gun? Never. It’s true. He absolutely refused to carry one when he was an agent in the field. And he certainly never would now. I mean, he marched right in on you without a gun, for goodness’ sake. He used to say carrying a gun made it more likely that something would go wrong.”
Hugh did not mention to Coburn his principal reason for inviting him to be part of the mission, which was Coburn’s thirst for revenge. Coburn had been outsmarted and nearly killed by Louis Morgon. Hugh knew how that felt. He knew that Coburn’s rage would transform him from a bodyguard into an assassin. “Maybe Louis will elect to meet in the Grand Hotel itself,” said Hugh with a smile. “It would seem suicidal for him to do so. But wouldn’t that be just like him, to walk straight into the lion’s den?”
Hugh would demand the names of terrorists from Louis, and the dates of events, and Louis would deny knowing any names, or dates, or anything. Louis would deny being a terrorist at all. He would probably bring up old accusations against Hugh, or try to engage in philosophical discussions about right and wrong. Louis liked doing that sort of thing.
Or he might simply sit there being his maddening, inscrutable self. It did not matter what he did. It would be all too evident that he had nothing to trade, that he was a bad actor who had come forward in bad faith, that he was merely a malignant and deranged criminal who hated his country.
Whatever Louis chose to do would serve Hugh’s purpose perfectly. Coburn would watch it all, hear it all, and feel his aching ribs with every breath he took. He would think of his ruined career and how Morgon, that pathetic son of a bitch standing right in front of him, was responsible. This traitor, this terrorist. “By the way, Coburn,” said Hugh, “Jennifer is in France too. Did I mention that?” He took a sip of water. “And Michael, the son.”
XXI
Hugh’s breakfast arrived on a silver tray. The soft-boiled eggs were perfectly cooked, the croissant was buttery, the coffee was strong. He was not supposed to drink coffee, but this morning he allowed himself two cups. He shaved and dressed.
Jack Harney knocked on the door and let himself in. Harney, the Secret Service agent overseeing the operation, was a tall, be
efy man, with round eyes and protruding ears, which gave him the look of an innocent farm boy. In fact, he had grown up in Elizabeth, New Jersey, the son of a policeman. At sixteen he had lied about his age and joined the Marines. After fifteen years he had left the Marines to join the Secret Service. He was a disciplined and competent agent and had risen through the ranks by dint of his hard work and devotion to the job. Hugh felt satisfied that he had in Harney a competent protector.
Harney’s satellite phone rang. “It’s the Oval Office, sir,” he said, and passed the receiver to Hugh.
“Yes?” said Hugh. He listened. “That’s right: tomorrow morning,” he said. “Yes, November second, at eleven.”
“Tomorrow then,” said Phil in Washington. Hugh could hear the president’s voice in the background. “And where is it to be?” said Phil. “Do you know where?”
“I’m to wait in my suite,” said Hugh. “I’m supposed to get a call around ten. He’ll let ten pass, of course. Just to try to shake things up a bit.”
The president came on the line briefly to wish Hugh well, then he gave the phone back to Phil. “Sir, would you put Harney back on the line, please?”
“Yes, sir?” said Harney and listened. “No, sir. The French aren’t giving anything away. I couldn’t find out what they know, much less what they’re planning. But I’m guessing they’ll be nearby.”
The negotiations had been long, but fruitless. The French had forbidden any American operation on French soil. They had insisted that law enforcement actions in France—and they saw the capture of a terrorist as a law enforcement issue—must be carried out by French forces. “We are fully equipped to deal with eventualities of this sort,” an official from the justice ministry had said. “We have done so many times before. Terrorism is not something new to us in France. The ‘war on terror’ may be a sufficient excuse to make exceptions to the law in the United States, but it is not an excuse here. We have the safety of French citizens and the sovereign autonomy of France to consider.”
“The president wants to proceed with or without the French,” said Phil.
“Yes sir,” said Harney.
“Check in with us in the morning when the call comes,” said Phil.
“Yes, sir,” said Harney. “And I’ll call you when it’s gone down.” He hung up the phone. Not having the French on board was a minor inconvenience, but that was something for the diplomats to sort out.
“Since we don’t know where or precisely when this will all be happening, Mr. Secretary, this will be more like a combat operation than a conventional Secret Service deployment.” Hugh sat in a wingback chair in his sitting room and listened attentively. The heavy brocade window curtains were drawn. Military maps of the entire Finistère were spread out on the writing table and on the floor around it. “We are trained and experienced at improvisation, sir. You have nothing to worry about. As soon as the meet is called and the place is named, the advantage shifts from him to us, and we are in complete control.”
Hugh smiled. “Thank you, Harney, for your assurances.”
Harney had decided that he would accompany Hugh Bowes and Coburn to the meeting with Louis, acting as Hugh’s second bodyguard. He would be in constant contact with his snipers by means of an earphone and a small microphone wired into the lapel of his jacket. He had already briefed Coburn on procedures and rules of engagement, and Coburn seemed prepared and competent, as far as Harney could tell.
Harney preferred working with Secret Service agents, and particularly those he had trained and oriented himself. He knew how they thought and what they were likely to do. Coburn seemed all right as far as he could tell; he had a clean record. But you never knew the whole story with these CIA types. Secretary Bowes had picked this guy; Harney did not know why. Still, the secretary trusted Coburn, and Harney would just have to be satisfied with that.
That night Hugh Bowes was awakened repeatedly by bad dreams. Finally, as it was beginning to get light, he fell into a deep sleep. When he awoke two hours later, the brocade curtains had been pulled aside. It was a sunny day, but the wind was rocking the trees back and forth and causing shadows to dance on the gauze inner curtains, making crazy and disquieting shapes.
Hugh ordered breakfast, which arrived on a silver tray. There were two silver egg cups and a silver basket for the bread. The butter had been pressed into a small silver cup, the jam was in a silver pot, the tea—he had tea this morning—was in a glass sitting in a silver frame. He had not noticed all the silver yesterday. It made breakfast seem like a peculiar religious ritual, which made him uneasy.
There was a knock on the door, and Harney came into the room wearing a dark suit and tie. He was carrying a Kevlar vest for Hugh to put on under his jacket. “Everyone’s ready and assembled, sir. When the call comes. The cars are out front.”
The policemen keeping watch on the tall yellow building where they supposed Jennifer to be living saw the front door open and Jennifer and the boy emerge. They were followed by an older man. The policemen compared the man with the photo taped to the dashboard. “That’s him,” said the driver.
“But where did he come from?” said the other policeman.
Jennifer, Zaharia, and Louis walked to a car parked around the corner. They got in and drove off at a leisurely pace. Louis was driving. The policemen tried to follow at a discreet distance while Louis headed out of town toward the coast, but it seemed to them as though Louis slowed down whenever they got too far behind. After a while he turned off onto a small farm road that meandered through fields and pastures, and there was no way for the police to remain out of sight. They threaded their way between stone walls and hedgerows along narrow and perfectly unpredictable country lanes. They would round a bend and there would be Louis’s car right in front of them, edging its way past a car coming in the opposite direction. For all intents and purposes, by choosing this route, Louis had made the French police into his personal security detail. The policeman who was not driving called Pénichon in Paris and gave him their GPS coordinates.
“He’s with his daughter and the boy. He’s taken a very odd route, but we’re probably heading for the coast.”
Penichon notified the special forces field commander in Quimper of Louis’s whereabouts and direction, at which point the special forces troops ran from their barracks and climbed aboard a waiting truck. They sat in back on wooden benches facing one another. Each man’s equipment was on the floor between his feet, and each held his automatic weapon at the ready between his knees. When they joined the chase, the special forces truck was no more than five minutes behind Louis and the French police, who now relayed their position and directions to the truck’s driver. The truck quickly caught up with Louis and the police car.
At ten forty-five the telephone rang in Hugh Bowes’s room. Hugh answered, and Harney picked up the extension.
“Hugh,” said Louis.
“Hello, Louis.” Hugh sounded friendly, as though a long lost friend had finally gotten in touch. “It’s been many years, hasn’t it?”
Louis paused. “Hugh,” he said, “I gather your people are listening?”
“They are,” said Hugh.
“Good. Then here are your instructions. From Quimper drive west on D 22 toward the village of Pen’noch just south of the Bay of Audierne.” Louis could hear a map rattling in the background. “At the village of Kerkerat, just before reaching Pen’noch, turn northeast on C 115 and follow it for about five kilometers until you reach the parking area above the beach. Turn into the parking area and wait. Now please repeat the instructions back to me.” Harney held out his notes so that Hugh could read from them.
“That is correct. Is your cell phone turned on?”
“It is,” said Hugh.
Louis hung up. He dialed the number of Hugh’s cell phone. “Keep this phone on,” said Louis. “I will call you on it when you are there, which should be about forty-five minutes from now.” Louis hung up.
Hugh’s two limousines followed Louis’s
directions. Coburn drove the first car. Harney sat beside him, and Hugh sat alone in the back. “He’s taking us to the beach, sir,” said Harney, “because he wants us in the open so that he can see who we are, how many, and so on. It’s likely he’s not even there. Someone else will be watching. We’ll probably be directed somewhere else from there. He wants to lead us around a little to unsettle us and throw us off.”
Hugh hardly heard what Harney was saying. He watched the stone walls glide past, the strange, windswept landscape of flat fields and villages. There were not many trees, but those there were were short and permanently twisted and bent by the wind.
As Louis had promised, after forty-five minutes they reached the sandy parking area above the beach. There were no other cars. The parking area was surrounded by a rippling sea of grass as far as they could see to the north and south and down the face of the dunes to the beach below. You could see a few houses far to the north of the parking area, but Harney estimated they were at least half a mile away.
The beach itself was enormous. It stretched into the far distance before disappearing into a silver haze. The great expanse of pale sand was interrupted only occasionally by the rounded shapes of ruined concrete bunkers which, from this vantage point, looked small and insubstantial. “The Germans built those,” said Hugh, more to himself than to anyone else. “Against the invasion. It didn’t make any difference. They were in the wrong place.”
Looking out onto the beach beyond the bunkers all they saw was sand. It seemed such a great distance to the water’s edge that you could not tell which was further, the ocean or the sky. On the horizon they could barely make out the tiny sails of pleasure boats, and the only sound to be heard was the wind blowing through the grass.
“Son of a bitch,” said Coburn. “What are they doing here?” He had waded into the grass and was looking at the beach below. Harney joined him and saw that French special forces had set up two machine gun emplacements halfway down the dunes. At the same time, a half dozen of their men were trotting out toward the German bunker in front of them.
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