The Shadows of Power

by James W. Huston

  They crossed to the reception desk and addressed a young woman in a uniform.

  “Bonjour,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” Lew replied. “Do you speak English?”

  “Yes. A little. Do you have an appointment?”

  “Yes.” Lew pulled a small piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. “We are here to see Mr. François Gigard.”

  “He is expecting you?”

  “Yes.” Lew glanced around the lobby at the artwork on the walls and the overall sense of quiet. He appreciated what they had done with the building. He returned his attention to the receptionist, who was on the phone speaking French. She put the receiver down and spoke to Lew. “Please show me your identifications, sign this, and I will give you a visitor’s badge. You may go to the third floor, please.”

  They clipped their badges to the pockets of their jackets and rode the elevator to the third floor. A thin, handsome man wearing glasses greeted them as the elevator doors opened. “Good morning. My name is François Gigard.”

  “Good morning. Lew Savage. This is Patricia Branigan.”

  They shook hands. François pointed down the hall. “Would you please come this way? I have a couple of other people waiting to see you.” His English was nearly perfect. He had a trace of an accent, but it just made him sound more sophisticated. “We are anxious to hear what you have to say.”

  They followed him down the hallway, and Lew spoke to him from his right. “I’m sorry we didn’t give you more information. It’s a little sensitive.”

  “Here we are.” He opened a heavy door and they stepped into a lushly carpeted conference room. An old tapestry hung on the wall. A man and a woman who had been engaged in conversation on the far side of the room stood up as they entered. “May I present Elizabeth d’Agnon and Alain le Fort?”

  François introduced the Americans. A tray sat in the middle of the table with hot coffee and pastries. They sat around the table.

  “So, I hope you had a good flight. Are you rested?”

  “Yep. We’re fine. Can I get right to the point?”

  François nodded. “Please,” he said.

  Lew pulled out two thin files and put them on the table. “It is our belief that a terrorist attack is going to occur at the Paris Air Show.” The French officers raised their eyebrows and focused quickly on Lew. He continued. “You recall when the Algerians asserted rights to the Mediterranean two hundred miles out from their coast?”

  “Of course.”

  “You remember how they sent out airplanes to challenge one of our intelligence planes, near one of our battle groups, which had sailed within the two-hundred-mile zone?” They nodded. “One of the Algerian jets was shot down. The pilot was killed.”

  “Everyone knows thees,” Elizabeth said in a heavy accent as she knocked the ashes off her Gauloise cigarette into the heavy ashtray.

  François sat up with a deep frown on his face. “The shooting down of this Algerian jet was so unnecessary. We felt at the time that it should not have happened. It was too much.”

  Lew went right on. “The brother of that pilot is a student at George Washington University. He is studying electrical engineering. He has targeted the Navy pilot who shot his brother down. As luck would have it, he is no longer just an ordinary Navy pilot in a fighter squadron; he is now a member of the Navy’s elite Blue Angel flight demonstration squadron. The Blue Angels are scheduled to fly in the Paris Air Show. I’m sure you all know that.”

  “Yes, of course. They have never before flown in Paris. It has been regarded with great excitement and anticipation by our aviation community. The crowds are expected to be the largest ever. There has been much advertising about their decision to come to this air show.”

  “You see the problem.”

  “What do you expect this brother to do? You think he will try to disrupt the show? A bomb in the crowd?” Elizabeth asked.

  “I think he’s going to try to shoot down one of the Blue Angels.”

  The French officers looked at each other, trying to disguise their horror at the damage this would do to the Paris Air Show. “How do you know that they have this plan?”

  Lew shifted in his chair. “We don’t really know. It’s what I think, based on a few things.”

  “Have you placed him at any air show?”

  “Yes.”

  Patricia jumped in. “We think he wants to make a big statement. Now that this Lieutenant is a Blue Angel, he can do both—kill his adversary and show the world America is not invincible.”

  “But why here? Why Paris?”

  “He tried to get weapons in the United States—shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles. We think he was unsuccessful—”

  “You think he can get them here?”

  “No, but he can get them into France. He was observed in Algiers last week. It is our belief that he has linked up with some very bad actors in Algeria. You may know them.” He pushed two photographs across the table.

  Elizabeth studied them, then put them down carefully and slid them back across the table. “We know these men.”

  “You are the ones who told us about them, and we have been watching them ever since. They left the country with Ismael last week. It is our belief that they went to Khartoum to obtain Stinger missiles.”

  “Stingers?”

  “Yes.”

  François leaned back in his chair and thought, then spoke to the Americans. “Assume everything you say is true. What is it you believe should be done?”

  Patricia spoke. “We’ve got to find him before the air show begins. And anyone else here who is going to help him. You must have contacts within the Algerian community. If we can get to them before they have a chance to get started, we should be able to prevent the entire incident. We also believe it would be extremely advisable to review the security plan for the air show. If they have Stinger missiles, they can be a mile or more away. Since the Blue Angel airplanes are sometimes two or three miles from the center point of the air show, they could be even farther. We’ll need to survey the entire area around the airfield, overlay the Blue Angel footprint where their airplanes actually fly, extend that to the range of a Stinger, and look at all the possible locations from which missiles might be fired.”

  François said, “Such a missile can be fired from the back of a van. It can be fired by a man standing by himself in a field. From a window. From a car, for that matter. They could be driving around in a Mercedes Vito, open the side door, and fire. We will never find them if they are that mobile. But there is a very simple solution.”

  Lew waited.

  “Cancel the Blue Angels performance.”

  Lew shook his head. “I don’t think that’s going to happen. I’ve tried to convince them of that, but they weren’t having any part of it. They don’t want to be intimidated.”

  “A smart man knows when to be intimidated,” Elizabeth said.

  “Their commanding officer is pretty savvy. And he doesn’t scare easily. He said if terrorists succeed in making us change what we do, then they have succeeded in fact. He told us it was our job to stop this man on the ground. Not his job to abandon his mission.”

  François was about to speak, but his thought was cut off by Elizabeth. She stood up and crossed her arms as she leaned against the wall. She took a deep drag from her cigarette and exhaled while she spoke through her uneven teeth. “Why can this not be abandoned or postponed? They have never flown in the Paris Air Show before, but suddenly they have to perform this year? Why? Where does thees pressure come from?”

  Lew’s face grew red. “I’m not sure. All I know is that we have to stop any attack. We’re here to ask for your help. This is your territory. But we can offer you help, including manpower, if you accept it.”

  François drank his coffee slowly as he thought. He made eye contact with the other French officers, who waited for his decision. He placed his cup down carefully on the saucer and spoke to the Americans. “This will require a lot of work. But
I must caution you, it is not only the Americans who can cancel this show. If we are unable to find these men, we will recommend to our government that they cancel the show. Until then, though, we must think about how to attack this problem. I believe we will need to create an Emergency Committee—”

  “Would the DST run it?” Lew said, hoping so. He had great respect for the DST, which functioned much like a combination of the CIA and FBI within France.

  “No. It would be jointly run by the Ministries of the Interior and Defense. It is very complex. Rest assured, though, we know how to do this. We will need to talk to others. We will take the appropriate steps.”

  “We would like to participate. Actively. I believe you should have already received a communication from the Director of the FBI. It is an official request.”

  “Yes. We knew you were offering your help. Your manpower. But we didn’t know why. Now we do. You are welcome to help. How many people do you have available?”

  “One hundred special agents from the FBI.”

  François raised his eyebrows. “Well. That is a lot of people. Any of them speak French?”

  “I kind of doubt it.”

  “We will put them to good use.”

  “They would like permission to be armed while they are here.”

  “Of course. That is not a problem. But you could help us by asking the U.S. Navy, officially, to cancel this flight. It seems not to be necessary to me. Too much risk.”

  “I have, and I will again.”

  François nodded. Elizabeth pushed away from the wall. He said, “We will need to act quickly and decisively. We have many contacts in the Algerian community. Elizabeth knows all of them.” He stood. “This could end very badly. We must find them.”

  * * *

  Stovic arrived at the Oceana O’ Club exactly on time. Rat was waiting inside at a small elevated table on the far side of several pool tables where aviators played and joked together. Anyone looking at Rat would assume he was a pilot from another squadron. Nothing distinguished him from the other clientele. Rat extended his hand across the small table. “How you doin’?”

  Stovic forced a strained smile. “Okay,” he said as he sat down on a stool. “We got a visit from the FBI guy with the neck in Pensacola.”

  “What did he want? You want a beer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What kind?”

  “Anything.”

  Rat disappeared and returned with two draft beers. “So what about the guy with the neck?”

  “They stole my wife and kids.”

  “Huh?” Rat asked.

  “They took them into protective custody of some kind.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday. Took them to some safe house somewhere. Wouldn’t even tell me where.”

  “So much for a romantic trip to Paris.” Rat agreed with what the FBI had done, but it didn’t make it easy on his friend. He tried to change the subject. “How’s your bouncing going?” The Blues were getting ready to go aboard the Truman for their transatlantic journey to Paris. They had to operate under the same rules as everyone else. Navy pilots had to stay in qualification to fly off a carrier. If it had been too long, they had to accumulate a number of landings ashore, on a runway painted and lit to resemble a carrier deck, before they could go back out and land on a carrier. It was the same rule for a new ensign in the squadron or the Air Wing Commander. The practice landings were called bouncing.

  “Good. These guys are all pros. It’s not a problem, just something we have to do. Unfortunately, the only time we could get at Fentress to bounce was this morning at 3:00 a.m. I’m beat.”

  “Better get some sleep tonight.”

  Stovic thought of sleep. “I haven’t been getting much sleep lately.”

  “Don’t let this thing get to you, Animal.”

  “Easy to say.”

  “You’ll be completely safe on the carrier, then we’ll be in Paris for a few days, and it will be over. I think Paris is where our boy will make his move. There’s a large Algerian community in Paris. The 18th Arrondisement.”

  “The what?”

  “Paris is divided into sections. Like small communities. The 18th is where there is a bunch of Algerians. Politically, French security has to pretend the Algerians are no problem, but if you ask them in private, they’ll tell you the Algerians are a big problem. It’ll be easy for Ismael to hide in Paris.”

  “How do you know all about Paris?”

  “I’ve worked with the French counterterrorism guys. They’re very good.”

  “Exactly. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “When we go to Paris, I don’t know, I want to get this guy, Rat. And I want your help. Cause I can’t keep flying all these air shows looking over my shoulder for a small white trail from a missile coming up at me. I’m going to run into Oden or fly into the ground or something. I feel helpless, Rat. He tried to ruin my family and is set on killing me. But I can’t fight him the way I’ve been trained—he’s not going to get into a jet and come up into the sky and say ‘Fight’s on.’ He’s going to do it where he feels he has the advantage. I want to take that advantage away from him.”

  Rat ran his hand through his hair quickly. “How would you see this happening exactly?”

  “I have no idea. You must have connections in the intelligence world. I figured you could locate this guy.”

  “And if I found him, what?”

  “Let me know. I’d take care of this guy with my bare hands. If you find him? Call me. I’ll come rip his head off.”

  Rat didn’t say anything. He watched the anguish fighting inside Stovic. Rat thought it was mostly guilt for the death of his brother. But it was aggravated by the elusiveness of his enemy. In spite of Stovic’s intent, Rat was sure he had no idea what it was like to kill someone up close while you watched his eyes.

  “I don’t believe in waiting around. I believe in taking the fight to them.”

  “Sounds real good in airplanes, Eddie. Works different on the ground. It’s not as clean. It can get messy.”

  “Do you still know people in France?”

  “A few.”

  “Weren’t you trained as a sniper?”

  “What does that have to do with it?”

  “You wouldn’t even have to get close to him. If you found him, you could set up a long way away. They’d never know what hit him.”

  “They’d know what hit him, all right. Sniper fire is fairly obvious, especially with the round that I shoot.” Rat tapped softly on the side of his glass with his fingers. “Let me give this some thought. Maybe we can work something out. We do know that he’s left the country.”

  Stovic stared at him, amazed. “Seriously? It’s safe here now?”

  “I don’t know about safe. He may have other people working for him. But after . . . your brother . . . he fled the country the next morning. Through Miami.”

  “So Paris isn’t just an idea. He’s going somewhere.”

  Rat nodded. “That’s how I see it. But he isn’t in Paris right now.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  “Where is he?”

  Rat glanced around. “He left Algeria on an airplane headed east.”

  Stovic frowned. “To where?”

  “Khartoum.”

  “For what?”

  “Stingers.”

  Ismael bent over, gasping for breath. He had always thought of himself as being in good shape, but nothing had prepared him for the burning sensation in his lungs and the waves of nausea that were flowing through his body. He had expected the training to consist of an explanation of how to use the weapon, how to pull the trigger, not running with an AK-47 across pits and climbing walls.

  There was no electricity and no running water, but no one complained. Ever since the War on Terrorism, training bases were mobile and inside—in buildings or warehouses—and almost always in cities, wh
ere the risk of getting bombed or being attacked by American Special Forces was much lower. The problem was it allowed many more people the opportunity to sell you out for the right amount of money.

  They had been in this camp for two days already. Ismael was sore and tired. They kept them up eighteen hours a day, and other than stopping for prayers, they trained all day. The classroom was a welcome respite from the rigors of the obstacle course and running that the instructors preferred.

  Ismael held the AK-47 down below him as he bent over. He glanced over at Madani and Khalida, who were in worse shape than he was. No one wanted to speak and use up precious air. Their instructor stood next to them. “Come to the classroom. It is time to learn about antiaircraft missiles.”

  Finally, Ismael thought. He stood up straight, gasping for breath, held his assault rifle in one hand, and put his other hand on his hip to give his lungs their full ability to fill with air. They walked to the “classroom,” a low open area in a corner of the cavernous hangar.

  They sat on benches and waited while the instructor went behind a curtain. He reemerged carrying two boxes. They were heavy but not so heavy he couldn’t handle them by himself. He opened one box, pulled out a device, and looked at the three of them. “This,” he said in his accented Arabic, “is a Stinger missile.”

  * * *

  The Boss handled all the radio communications of the tightly stacked six-plane formation approaching the Harry S. Truman. The other five Blue Angels were stepped closely behind him, down and to his left. They were more conscious of their formation when flying in front of other Navy pilots than they were flying for hundreds of thousands of civilians. The harshest and most valued critics were their fellow naval aviators.

  “Gulf Bravo, this is Blue Angel One, flight of six Foxtrot 18s five miles for the break. See you,” Boss transmitted.

  “Roger, Blue Angel One. Cleared for the break. You’re number one in the pattern.”