“Strike, Blue Angel One, flight of six, departing,” the Boss said in his always casual voice.
“Roger that, Blue Angel One. Your vector is 084 for three hundred twenty miles. Stay button eight until transferred to Le Havre control.”
“Roger that. Switching button eight.”
“Have a good flight. Go Navy.”
“Roger. Switching.”
The Blue Angels turned east and waded into the crowd.
* * *
The two Frenchmen wore the clothes of truck drivers. One, Gerard, forty-five, had gray stubbly hair. The younger one, Alain, who looked more English than French, was small and thin. Both looked hard and unshaven. They concentrated on Hafiz in the dark corner of the dingy café. The night was pleasant, and most of the café’s clientele were sitting outside on the sidewalk, within easy sight of the Frenchmen and directly behind Hafiz. Gerard spoke first. “Several men have just come here from Algeria. Probably this week,” he said in French.
Hafiz looked like someone who might have insects crawling on him, like someone who had been living on the street for months. Over time he had established some credibility with French security, but they regarded him mostly with skepticism. The one thing he had going for him was that his information to them had always been perfect. Elizabeth had been leaning on them to develop some intelligence. She had nearly ripped them in half with their lack of any leads on the whereabouts of the Algerian everyone knew was in Paris. They didn’t like this Hafiz character, but they had to start taking some risks.
Hafiz waited for the rest of the information, but there wasn’t any. “That’s it? Men who got here within the last week?” he replied in his own perfect French. He feigned disgust. He had to work it just right to dribble out the information he wanted them to have. If it was too easy they would be suspicious of the information. If he sold it well, French security would rush off and do exactly the wrong thing. “Hundreds of men each week come here from Algeria. Some stay, some—”
“These are not just men,” Gerard spat. “If you do not know, then you know nothing, and we shouldn’t be paying you one centime!”
“I know everything of importance. If I don’t know about them, then your information of their importance is wrong,” Hafiz said. He looked over his shoulder, calculating the exact amount of time to look, then turned back. “There is something happening. I can’t really tell what it is. I just watch. I tell you what I see. And something is happening.”
“What have you seen?” Gerard asked, trying to control his excitement.
“A lot of activity.”
“What kind of activity? I need specifics.”
“I just tell you what I see—”
“So what have you seen, for God’s sake?” Alain asked.
“Several men that I do not recognize. I have not seen them before. Their clothes tell me that they are here directly from Algeria. Lots of activity and . . . security.”
“What you mean, ‘security’?”
“Many eyes,” Hafiz said.
“Eyes?”
“People watching. You know, the kind who are looking out for someone else. There is always some of that. But now? It’s everywhere. They have probably seen you.”
“Let me worry about that. Tell me what else you have seen.”
“I have seen them taking weapons—guns and other things—into one place.”
The officers’ eyes got big. “What kinds of weapons?”
“Hard to say. Sitting on the street, you can’t walk up to them and say, ‘What’s in that long skinny box that’s so heavy?’ “
“Long boxes?”
“And assault rifles. Some right out in the open, right from trucks into a hotel. Then I watch where the lights come on.”
“You think it’s where they’re storing their weapons?”
“Oh, I doubt it’s a storage place. Too small. Too public. But there are a lot of weapons in that place. What I don’t know is what they are going to do.” He hesitated and appeared to think about what he was saying. He groped in his clothes for a cigarette stub. He looked at the ashtrays on the other tables in the café and was about to get up to snag a promising cigarette butt two tables away when Gerard disgustedly gave him one of his own cigarettes. Hafiz lit it with a book of matches he produced from an unexpected pocket inside his clothing. “Maybe what they’re going to do is something I would approve of. Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you about them. Unless you’re going to make it worth my while.”
“We have been paying you. And we already agreed to pay you more if you provided useful information instead of some of the dung we get from you. So far your information is something you would read on a bathroom wall. It is worthless.”
“I have found probably the very thing you’re looking for. What I don’t have is the money you should pay me to find out where this all is.”
“How much money did you want?”
Hafiz nodded. “This is what you’re looking for, isn’t it? I can see it in your eyes,” the Algerian said as he leaned forward within a few inches of Gerard’s face.
“You smell like a pig.”
“If you want information from people who smell nice and go to the opera, you should be asking them your questions. I’m sure they would be—”
“How much?”
“One hundred thousand francs.”
The officer stood up to leave the coffee shop. “Never mind.”
“You did not have in mind to pay for this valuable information? This could get me killed!”
“I’ll give you ten thousand francs.”
“That’s not even close—”
“Ten thousand francs. That’s all you’re ever going to get. Tell us or don’t, but that’s what I’ve got.” Gerard took ten colorful French notes out of his pocket, each worth one thousand Francs, and slid them across the table. “And once I hear what you have to say, if I don’t like it, I’ll take my money back. If the information is good, and we get who we’re looking for, I’ll give you another twenty thousand francs.”
Hafiz knew that was as good as it was going to get. He took the money greedily and slid his soiled hand holding the money deep into the folds of his clothing. He relished the idea of the chubby, middle-aged Frenchman trying to take the money back from him. He loved being in disguise—looking stupid, unkempt, dirty, and desperate. He was none of those things. His eyes darted around to the mirrors in the café to look at as many people as he could, to evaluate the risks. “You can’t tell anyone where you got this information,” he said soberly. “If they find out, they will kill me.”
“Why would I care about that?”
“Because there are more of them than just what I’m going to tell you now. You may get some of them, but if you want all of them, you’ll still need me.”
“Tell us what you have.”
Hafiz glanced around and began speaking in a whisper. “I followed one of them to a hotel. I even went upstairs as if I was drunk and lost, looking for a corner to sleep in, and watched what room they went into. I’ll tell you the hotel and the room. But first, I must caution you, they have been very clever. They are using a cover. An American—”
“An American?”
“I think. I have not heard him speak. He is American looking, trying to pose as a tourist. I have it from other sources that certain weapons have already been delivered to him, and he is some sort of weapons specialist for them, maybe a specialist in Stinger missiles? Aren’t they American?”
The Frenchmen looked at each other. Very possible, but they were still skeptical. “Where?”
“The Hotel d’Afrique du Nord.”
“Yes.”
“Fourth floor.”
“What room?”
“The one facing the street.”
Gerard studied his face. He said softly, “If you’re lying to us, I will personally track you down and rip off your balls with pliers.”
“You think I’m stupid? You think I would take money from the DST an
d lie to you? My life would be worth nothing.”
Gerard stood. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. I’ll be in touch.”
Stovic sat in his hotel with his feet up on the beautiful antique French settee. Bean was studying the bidet in the bathroom. He came back to the seating area of the large, high-ceilinged room and looked around. “This is just awesome. I can’t believe we’re in Paris.”
“Wish we could do this every year,” Stovic replied.
“Have you forgotten this is the last year?”
Stovic shook his head. “When the Admirals see us they’ll want to keep the Blues going. They’ll be begging us to come back again next year.”
“Right, I’m sure. That is so not happening. If someone wants to live in that fantasy world they can, but not me. I’m just here to enjoy Paris, fly the air show, and at the end of the year try to get some more shore duty before I go back to the big gray boat,” Bean replied. “What are you thinking about doing tonight?”
Stovic thought of Rat. “Dunno. I thought I’d try Karen again.”
“Call her? I didn’t think you could.”
“I can’t. But I have a Hotmail account she can reach from anywhere. She can do e-mails, but they censor them to make sure she doesn’t tell me where she is. It’s weird.” Stovic opened his laptop and leaned over to examine the wall outlets. He compared the outlets to the various power adapters spread out on his bed, picked up the one with two widely set thick prongs, plugged his computer in, then selected another oddly shaped adapter for the phone line connection. He quickly inserted the international number for his Internet service provider and dialed in to check his e-mail. He was surprised to find an e-mail from Rat. The return address was entirely numerical, an address Rat had told him to watch for. Nine numbers. He knew the e-mail would not be signed, nor would it be addressed to him individually. It would just convey information. Rat said that such precautions were not really necessary for their communication, but it had become a habit. He said he had hundreds of e-mail addresses that used different servers in different countries. He used one for only a short time before switching to another. Stovic opened the e-mail from Rat, but only after checking his inbox to see if his last few e-mails to Karen had been answered. They hadn’t. No response at all. Even the e-mails he had sent his children had gone unanswered.
He scanned down the rest of the e-mails, deleted the news bulletins from various sources, and by the end he had three from Rat. The third was important. Stovic read it carefully. “Have arrived. Am at the hotel. Will call when have more information.”
He quickly hit reply and confirmed that he was at his destination and awaited a call. He wasn’t going anywhere until he received that call. It was time to go on the offensive. “I think I’ll just stay here, Bean. I need to get some rest.”
“Okay,” Bean said, heading for the door. “You sure you’re okay? I mean you’ve got a lot of things on your mind.”
“I’m fine. We all have things on our minds, don’t we?”
“Not like you.”
“I’m fine.”
“See all the security around this hotel? I feel like the President must feel. He goes nowhere without a couple of hundred of his closest friends around him carrying weapons of mass destruction. I feel like getting a machine gun somewhere just so I fit in.”
“Get me one too. May as well have a machine gun to sleep with. Did they say whether we can go out? Are we like under house arrest?”
“No. They said as long as we don’t wear our uniforms, and check with them on whether where we’re going is safe, they think it’s okay. They know we came here in part to enjoy Paris.”
“Who are we supposed to tell?”
“I don’t know. Ask Andrea. She was taking notes.”
* * *
Lew and Patricia waited in the operations building for the airplane to land. It had been flying all night. Getting a hundred FBI agents on such short notice had been much harder than Lew had thought it would be. But it was Paris. And even the most hardened agent could be talked into a weekend in Paris without too much difficulty.
The Air Force transport taxied toward them. Lew and Patricia stepped into the cool morning air. It was still dark. The airplane shut down, the ramp was lowered, and a hundred sleepy, grumpy FBI special agents walked out of the back.
Lew knew most of them. “Let’s go over to the operations building,” he told them. “There’s an auditorium set aside by the Emergency Committee.”
They grabbed the coffee that was lined up on a table, filed in to the auditorium, and waited for Lew to fill them in.
“Thank you for coming. Although this isn’t the best situation for organization and cooperation, we need all the help we can get. . . .”
* * *
Rat didn’t call, and Karen didn’t respond. Stovic went to bed. The next day dawned clear and warm. The Blues had been given one time slot to check landmarks and practice. It was in the middle of the air show but on an otherwise quiet day with no other flight demonstrations scheduled. They were hurried out to the airport by police escort in their usual caravan, blue lights flashing. The gendarmes were well aware of the danger and had been told to keep an eye out for anyone who might try to attack the caravan. It was appreciated that a few well-placed RPGs—Rocket-Propelled Grenades—could wreak as much destruction on the Blue Angels’ caravan as surface-to-air missiles could on their airplanes. Such an attack was thought to be unlikely. Not dramatic enough. No crowd to watch. No fiery airplane crash. The Blue Angels took little solace from such assurances, but even they had to acknowledge that the French assessment was almost certainly right, and that it was a possibility, but remote.
They arrived at the airport without incident and went to the briefing room. Their standard briefing requirements had been met. The videotape machines were set up in the middle of a large table, and an array of food was there, far superior to what they were accustomed to. There were French pastries and high-quality espresso and other coffees. There were crackers, fruit, and cheese spread out as on a movie set.
They sat at the table in their usual places and began the brief. The photographs of the airport were placed before them, the weather brief, the air show schedule, and the French aviation administration cautions about certain objects nearby. It was comfortable, ordinary, and exciting. The pilots tried to go about the brief with their usual studied casualness, but each of them was thrilled to be flying in the Paris Air Show. The show was legendary. The biggest and most important air show of the world, and their one and only opportunity to impress the Admirals who had cut them out of the Navy.
The Boss began the brief, and when he was done, he went on, “As you know, we’re especially concerned with security. The two Americans you have met have been working with the French to make sure the security is as tight as it can possibly be. But these people might strike, or at least try, today. We must be alert. We’ve made the decision to go forward with the air show in spite of these threats, as I think we should. The United States Navy does not respond to threats.
“If, in fact, they get a missile off, if the security cannot spot them in time, we will have to break the air show open and take individual evasive action. We have gone over the escape routes for each airplane from each maneuver. Do each of you have them down?”
The pilots nodded confidently.
“We brought flares from VFA-37. They’ll be loaded on our jets today and on the day of the show as well. We don’t know what they’ll be firing, but they’ve got to be either Russian SA-7s or SA-14s; I suppose there’s an off chance they could have a Stinger too. The flares should be effective no matter which missile it is. We had to scramble to get them, but we’ve got the latest flares around.
“Animal, Oden, you guys are the ones with the best ability to eyeball the horizon. It may be up to you. If you see something, get on the radio right away. We’ll scatter like scalded cats. And if anybody hears a missile’s airborne, everyone pop flares, get on the deck, as low you
can, and get as far away as you can. We’ll regroup later. Fuel will not be an issue. We may have to land at De Gaulle, our alternate field. Everybody have the info on De Gaulle?”
They nodded.
He finished the brief, then jumped up. “Let’s go fly.”
* * *
The storefront was guarded by lookouts in every direction three blocks deep. Ismael and the others gathered for the last time.
The Algerians were comfortable except for Ismael, who was brooding. They stood around the model of the airport again, this time with their firing positions marked. Madani spoke to the others. “Tomorrow night we pick up the weapons at the warehouse, and the embarrassment of the United States is the following day. Is everyone clear? Is everyone ready?” Madani looked at the others. His eyes passed over Ismael, then returned. “What is the matter with you?”
Ismael looked up quickly. “No one here has seen one of their air shows except me. Why did you not allow us to observe the practice, make sure our firing positions give us good lines of sight to the airplanes?”
Madani was furious that Ismael would confront him in front of the others. “You have planned other missions?” he asked pointedly.
Ismael shook his head.
“You have participated then in other missions? You have done something, I hope, that makes you have such knowledge and skill to question me.”
Ismael had had enough. “I am the one who made this all happen. You are helping me.”
Madani looked at Ismael with a fury in his eyes that none of the others had seen before and threw the small stick he had been using as a pointer onto the three-dimensional map. “Did it occur to you that your stupidity is what has made this risky? That because you did not ask for help in America you now have the Americans looking all over the world for us? The security here is more than anywhere I have ever seen. They are waiting for us.” He moved around to the other side of the table, next to Ismael, so he could speak directly to his face. “We would have succeeded easily if not for you. Not only succeeded, but escaped to return to our homes. We will still succeed, but we have little chance of making it home. Now we will show them we are not afraid. We will go straight into their tightest security and succeed. They are not safe anywhere. We are capable and smarter than they think. But it is only because of you that the security is as tight as it is and we are likely to die in this mission. So do not question me!”
The Shadows of Power Page 27
