The Paris Protection

by Bryan Devore

  Rounding another right turn, his light sparkled off an eerie scene: the sculpted towers over a miniature seaport, carved long ago. This was indeed a place lost in time.

  He loped along through some more turns and past a half-dozen more gates, installed to prevent tourists from straying off the path. The gates looked as if they held back a deeper darkness.

  He ran on with Kazim and the two guides, and the crunching footsteps of his men behind them. He had to remind himself, as he ran through this vast subterranean boneyard, that he was on the righteous path. These were only tunnels in rock, dug by men, for the stone used to build Paris.

  The path sloped downward and ran straight before rising again, and the ceiling rose higher, supported by archways of white limestone brick—the remnants of an ancient aqueduct.

  Forced left at the top of the slope, he found an open room with two square pillars guarding a dark entrance blocked by a sheet-metal door. Engraved in the stone lintel above the opening were the words “ARRÈTE! C’EST L’EMPIRE DE LA MORT.”

  Kazim stopped behind him. “What does it say?”

  They could hear the line of men running on the gravel surface stretching through the many turns behind them.

  “It says, ‘Halt! This is the empire of death.’”

  “Then we’re getting close.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Come on. The best is still ahead.” And he kicked the door hard near the lock. The thin metal flopped away from the door frame and hung on one hinge.

  Jogging through the entrance, he felt like a grave robber breaking into an ancient tomb. Square pillars of white stone brick were at first clustered on both sides of the low passageway. Again he had to be mindful not to bump his head on the low rock ceiling. A few more tour information boards glimmered in his light. Then he passed bones, stacked like cordwood on both sides of the path. A row of broken, toothless skulls stared at him from empty eye sockets. In some places, the bone piles didn’t reach the ceiling, so that he could see how deeply they were packed into the tunnel recesses.

  Another gate barred an off-limits tunnel, forcing him to continue on the tour path. His light flashed on a white stone cross surrounded by a hedge of stacked leg bones. Beyond it, another narrow passageway opened onto what had once been a fountain, in the center of the room. He popped a flare and dropped it in front of the fountain so his men would see its low barrier and move around it. It was only a few feet deep, but he didn’t want men tripping over it, especially those carrying the cases.

  Rounding a wide left turn, he found himself getting used to the way his jouncing headlamp splashed light against the moving shadows of the dead. The rough ceiling cast waving, illuminated reflections that looked like a stormy sea raging above him.

  With more room now, he could run a little faster. Another long walkway was crowded with uneven piles of skulls and bones amid the bricked columns, cold chains, and barred gates.

  He dropped another orange flare in front of a low bench along the left wall. Cutting around a large, square pillar in the center of the path, he saw a tomb the size of a casket, elevated and to the left of the corridor, with French inscriptions surrounding a white cross.

  Somewhere behind him, he heard a man gasp, followed by the sound of bones clattering to the limestone floor. Someone cursed. Others laughed. But the train of soldiers kept moving forward at a good clip, and for now that was all that mattered.

  He passed more square central pillars and more side gates. Then the walls became smooth, like the catwalk in a subway tunnel. He ran for a few more minutes, passing more monuments, erected like tombstones along the sides of the winding path. He was getting used to this hell. He threw down another flare where a monument’s low concrete base protruded a few feet into the path.

  Three strata of skulls stretched along both walls, with long bones filling in the spaces between them. Even though cracked and staved, the skulls held the weight above them.

  Then he hit his longest stretch yet without a sharp turn, and he knew they were getting close. Skulls and bones were strewn everywhere. Even the curving scallops in the ceiling looked like skulls in his moving light.

  The path sloped downward, sliding deeper into the earth.

  He stopped and turned to Kazim. “Tell the men to wait here. We’ll need the guides and the demolition team.”

  Within a minute, the line of men had stopped as far back as he could see, and Kazim had summoned the guides and demolition engineers forward. Maximilian led them around the turn. The ceiling got lower again, forcing him to hunker down.

  Then he stopped when he saw the monument that he had been thinking of since entering the catacombs. The size of a large tombstone, the white slab was engraved with French verse of Delille’s “The Visit to the Underworld.”

  “This is it,” he said to Kazim and the two guides. “We are here, correct?”

  “Yes,” replied Mehmet, staring at a page in his binder as if it were a treasure map.

  Maximilian put his hand on the brick-reinforced wall across the path from the monument. “Then this is where we go through?”

  “Yes,” Mehmet replied again. He looked at the younger guide, who nodded in return.

  “Exactly here? You’re both certain?”

  They were.

  He looked at the two demolition engineers. “This is just brick reinforcement wall. It shouldn’t take long to get through. There’s a short tunnel on the other side of this. Then there’s ten feet of concrete seal. Drill and blast a new tunnel section around it, like before. How long to do everything?”

  “Twenty minutes,” Mozgovoy said.

  “Do it.”

  Twenty minutes later, the final blast rumbled through the catacombs, sending a cloud of dust drifting slowly over staring skulls. Some men were assigned to clear the rubble, piling it up in the direction of the tour exit.

  Soon all his men had left the catacombs, entering the larger IGC tunnel system in the Paris underground. Maximilian estimated they would be at the American president’s hotel in fifteen minutes. He couldn’t wait to add more skulls to the millions scattered throughout this vision of hell.

  7

  IT HADN’T TAKEN LONG FOR Special Agent in Charge John Alexander to recognize David Stone’s potential as a special agent on his protection team. He had been monitoring the weekly training statistics from the academy instructors for months. It had been clear enough on paper which of the cadets consistently fell in the top 5 percent for aptitude, field strategic assessment, fitness, and marksmanship. But this had been only a starting point—an early filter in his evaluation process to find the right agents to assign to the protection and, from there, specifically to the Presidential Protection Detail. Agents would also be assigned to other branches of protection, such as the Vice Presidential Protection Detail or the Dignitary Protection Division, but ultimately, all agents working protection wanted to be placed on the PPD.

  John didn’t know Stone’s reasons for choosing a career in the Secret Service. The file showed that he came from a well-to-do family in San Diego. He had surfed his whole life, even during law school, and back then his long, sun-bleached hair was much blonder than now. Most agents came to the Secret Service with a background in law enforcement, with only the best officers passing the initial application process. Other applicants, especially agents interested in joining the CAT division, had a military background. Most agents went into the investigation section, with fewer than half working protection. David Stone had never been in the military or law enforcement. He was athletic, though, had a law degree from UCLA, and was a top marksman, scoring in the top 1 percent of his academy class on the pistol range. John had personally selected him to stand post near the president on PPD a few months ago, even though it was rare for a new agent to work so closely to POTUS.

  Closing the doors to the teleconference room as he left the president, John said to Stone and the other two agents in the antechamber, “The president has another two hour
s of conference calls. Then she’s planning to return to the penthouse to review briefings for another hour before turning in. She’ll be waking at five thirty tomorrow morning. That puts us at three hours green watch and four hours station watch before the next cycle shift.”

  “Yes sir,” the three men replied almost in unison.

  “Agent Reid has informed me that the Threat Assessment Center in Washington is tracking a hundred and fifty investigations in Paris related to potential threats. Twenty-seven are considered viable threats. Right now none are classified as eminent threats. She’ll give updates every half hour. Also, we’ve received notices from the CIA, NSA, and Mossad that there has been a spike in intelligence chatter on their second-tier channels, but a decrease on first-tier channels. This means more midlevel terrorism suspects are talking to each other, but fewer high-level suspects.”

  “Same pattern as before the attacks on Nine-eleven,” Stone replied.

  “That’s right, although the channels are different. Mostly European and Asian origins. Little cross talk in Africa or the Middle East. CIA’s still trying to conclude their analysis. Some of this is to be expected because of the summit. Regardless, we’ll continue to remain on high alert the entire time we’re in Paris.”

  The men nodded. Their tense, focused expressions continued to reassure him that he had surrounded the president with some of the smartest, most skilled protectors that could be recruited and trained from a country of over three hundred million.

  He paused, glancing down the hallway as he tried to think of any minute detail that hadn’t been covered. The red-and-white-checked wallpaper had pictures of Parisian cafés and city lights. He wondered if there was a better way to secure this antechamber from the hallway, but they had already locked down the floors above and below and posted agents everywhere.

  “All right,” John said, turning back to the men, “initiating phase two of Night-watch.” Bringing his wrist up, he gave the command to all two hundred agents in and around the hotel. His routine command would create a flurry of activity. Countersnipers on the hotel’s roof and surrounding rooftops would reposition themselves for the night traffic patterns the scout teams had mapped, patrol agents would move through the hotel floors where curfew had been imposed on other guests, and additional agents would move into the basement floors and any other potential entrance points, including all garage and sewer access points.

  Within thirty seconds, all agents in and around the hotel were at their Night-watch protection posts. The president was as locked down and as safe as the Secret Service could make her for the night.

  8

  MAXIMILIAN WATCHED THE BURLY TECHNICIAN connect the air hose to the hydraulic chainsaw. Starting the powerful motor, the man cut a small opening into the concrete wall, making a deep plunge cut before guiding the diamond teeth down the wall in a long, straight cut.

  The big man worked the heavy saw, cutting away sections of concrete until an open space revealed a row of black metal pipes, each six inches in diameter. Setting the chainsaw on the stone floor, he removed his goggles and looked at Maximilian.

  “The hard part is done, sir. All I need now is to cut through the pipes and she’ll burst. The computer at the water main will sense the pressure change and shut down the flow.”

  Maximilian looked at his watch. “Confirm time sync.”

  “Twenty-two forty thirty-seven . . . thirty-eight . . . thirty-nine . . .”

  “Good,” Maximilian replied. “Start cutting through at exactly twenty-two hundred fifty-eight. And whatever happens, make sure the water delivery system is destroyed in less than two minutes after when you begin. We are depending on you.”

  The man nodded, and Maximilian left him and a few other men by the exposed pipe. He jogged back through the tunnel system with one of the guides, feeling alive with the anticipation. He looked at his watch, then tapped Kazim’s shoulder. “We have less than eighteen minutes.”

  Kazim’s face tensed. “The scouts are ready with the demolitions, and your men are set up behind them. My team is also ready.”

  “They may have the president out in four minutes. Maybe less. There won’t be much time.”

  “I swear to you, my team will make it!” Kazim said, his voice showing rare emotion.

  Maximilian returned his pledge with a solemn nod. Then, looking at his watch again, he said, “My friend, you have my faith more than any other man alive. In seventeen minutes, our threat will tingle up the spine of our enemy. We’ve been on this journey for nearly five years. Once it starts, we may never see each other face-to-face again. If we do not both survive this battle, if we don’t both escape on the other side, I want you to know, it has been an unexpected honor to know you.”

  They walked together through the group of armed men, who looked like soldiers readying for the battle of their lives. Maximilian couldn’t help but think that even Hannibal would have been impressed with the surprise attack he was about to unleash.

  9

  SPECIAL AGENT REBECCA REID STEPPED off the gilt-doored elevator into the large, elegantly appointed hotel lobby. A surprising number of other guests were moving through the lobby, but that was okay—security was airtight. The top three floors had been blocked off for the president and those who were part of her trip to France. And every guest in the hotel had gone through a thorough background screening a week ago, in addition to having their identities verified and their persons searched by Secret Service agents every time they entered the hotel.

  Looking toward the front entrance, she saw the two agents in white button-down short-sleeve shirts with the blue Secret Service patch sewn to one sleeve, individually guiding hotel guests through the magnetometer that had been set up the day before. In addition to screening visitors for metals, the mags also provided a visible deterrent. What patrons didn’t see, however, were the chemical receptors, covertly attached to the top of the mags, which could detect anthrax, countless toxins, explosive chemical residue, and even radiation.

  Four agents were hidden in a side room that Rebecca had helped set up during the advance team’s work. They were the command center for the Secret Service on site, responsible for monitoring the data feeds from the receptors, along with communications from the working shift of PPD agents around the hotel. If there were any problems, the thirty heavily armed CAT agents in another nearby room had the advanced training and weaponry to take on virtually any threat.

  Most of these agents were men, she thought, feeling a little surge of annoyance. Within the Service’s protection detail, it was still a man’s world. She had hoped that after the election of America’s first female president, the ratio of women agents around the president would improve. And it had, but not enough to satisfy her. Rebecca was one of the very few women assigned to the detail, but even so, her duties were not directly involved with the physical shield of agents moving around the president. Her skills and focus were directed elsewhere, removed from the president’s immediate orbit but still vital to the vast team effort. She was the assistant lead on the advance team and was now the head communications agent, responsible for connecting the ground protection team with intelligence from the Joint Operations Center at Headquarters in Washington.

  A voice in her earpiece said, “Firefly in Video Com. Night-watch Two. Thirty seconds.”

  She recognized the voice of the president’s top guy, Special Agent in Charge John Alexander. It was a broadcast message to all two hundred agents in the area. Using basic Secret Service code words over the encrypted radio, it informed them that the president had been moved safely from the motorcade into the hotel and that she was now in the video command center set up on the twenty-sixth floor. In recent months, tensions between Russia and China had been increasing as evidence of cyber espionage emerged from both sides. And now China had threatened to cut off trade in rare earth elements to Russia. In hopes of resolving the conflict, the international community had pressed the US president to serve as a neutral mode
rator.

  With the president back in the hotel, Rebecca needed an update from the Joint Operations Center, which she would then relay to the command center and the protection team on the ground. She walked across the beige marble floor and into the hotel’s grand ballroom. Inside, a dozen men were setting up banquet tables with velvet cloth covers, and the dais for tomorrow night’s speakers. The podium stood above everything, but it looked somehow naked with the empty space on its front where the seal of the president of the United States would be attached in the morning. Two white-uniformed men led bomb-sniffing Belgian shepherds through the room for the twentieth time this week, sniffing chair cushions and plant pots and anything else in the room that could possibly conceal an explosive device.

  She stood in the center of the room, under the largest of the nine chandeliers, and called Headquarters on her encrypted satellite phone using GSM mode for indoor reception.

  The JOC officer ran through the half-hourly update with her. At the moment, 8,463 open death threats against the president were being investigated. Of those, special agents had marked 92 as “highest priority,” although over time, all would be thoroughly investigated. Only a hundred and fifty threats were focused on Paris—strangely few considering how highly publicized the trip was. The Service currently had ninety agents from the Paris field office moving throughout the city, investigating various leads on the threats, and half of the JOC’s resources were concentrated on the many moving pieces involved in the president’s trip.

  The call lasted only two minutes, but in that time, Rebecca had learned everything critical for updating the special agent in charge of PPD.

  Leaving the ballroom, she passed a half-dozen agents wearing suit jackets tailored to conceal their weapons. This being one of the largest luxury hotels in Paris, it took her a few minutes to move past the elevators leading to the lower conference rooms, past the ground-floor piano bar, the vast open greeting area of the front lounge, the library, and the business center, until she was back at the central elevator bay.