The Paris Protection

by Bryan Devore

  “Your team?”

  “I will need two hundred men for a special mission. I have many of them already, but I am in the process of obtaining more. I will need you to lead some of them. Hannibal was a brilliant general, but he had great generals below him who helped with his plans. Hasdrubal was his brother and his top general. I don’t have a brother I can trust to be my top general. I am hoping you will be my Hasdrubal.”

  “You speak very dangerously,” Kazim said, looking down the car to the barman, who was absorbed in a game of computer mahjongg.

  “Only when I’m with dangerous people,” Maximilian replied.

  “I’m not the leader type.”

  “Of these men, you will be. On this operation, you will lead them with your fury.”

  “What kind of operation?”

  Maximilian lost all the intensity he had allowed Kazim to witness up until that moment. “It is a decapitation strike on a major world power. There are five potential cities where it might happen in the next year or two. Maybe as long as five years. It will take immense planning and resources and caution, and the risks of early detection will be high—and the likelihood of surviving the operation is minimal even if it succeeds. And the unlikely event of survival will be followed by a lifetime of hiding and being hunted like a war criminal.”

  “What’s the target?”

  “I’m recruiting you because I know your past. I know what happened to you in Baghdad. Don’t say it out loud, but think in your mind of the one person in the world you would most like to kill.”

  Kazim stared at him hard and silently.

  “Do you have that person fixed in your mind?”

  Kazim nodded.

  “You’re sure?”

  He nodded again.

  “That is the person we are going to kill.”

  “You can’t possibly kill the person I’m thinking of,” Kazim said. “It’s not even a person, really. It’s a position, a title . . . a symbol.”

  “Precisely.”

  “You can’t kill that person.”

  “Yes. We can,” Maximilian replied. “And we will. If our operation goes as planned, we will be able to kill them in five years or less. And you will have revenge for your brothers.”

  Kazim smiled. “Where would it happen?”

  “There are events already planned that they will attend. World forums, et cetera. One is set for Tokyo, one for Rome, one for Dubai, one for Berlin, and one for Paris. We will plan for all five and will be in all five cities, ready to strike when they are there. We won’t know the details of their trip until they are there, and we will never have any inside access to their plans or security measures other than what is public knowledge. But we will wait and we will be ready. And when we have the opportunity, we will strike.”

  Kazim’s smile widened. And in that moment, Maximilian knew that after weeks of tracking this man, he had him. In the middle of a desolate winter landscape at what felt like the edge of the world, he had found the brother he never had before.

  And together, they would change the course of history.

  35

  JOHN ALEXANDER OPENED THE SMALL square door to the service elevator shaft while the other agents stood behind him, protecting the president and Colonel Marks. Stepping through the low opening, he felt his stomach sink when he looked down into the dark abyss. They were on the fourteenth floor—a long way up from the basement’s third sublevel. The elevator car was down there at the bottom, nearly two hundred feet below.

  “All right,” he said. “There’s a ladder running down the shaft, without a shell. So it’s open, meaning that if anyone slips or lets go, they’re dead—along with anyone they knock loose on the way down. Madam President, we’re going to figure out a way to tie you to the ladder so you can’t fall.”

  “We don’t have time,” she said. “I can make the climb down just fine.”

  John shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t take that chance. You’ll be secured.”

  He sent Stone to look for a rope or cable to secure her to the ladder as they climbed down. Even under these desperate circumstances, he still must look ahead for the unseen threat, doing everything he could to minimize the probability of something going wrong enough to become that single mistake that cost them the president. He gave instructions for the two-minute protective formation in the hallway and prayed that Agent Stone find something that would work. If not, then they would have to risk the climb without securing POTUS. The thought made him queasy.

  * * *

  Rebecca was with the president in a small alcove of the hallway. John had sent David looking for a cable or rope, and he had also split the other six agents, sending three to each end of the hallway to establish a temporary perimeter. The military aide was helping John establish the best way to move everyone quickly and safely down the elevator shaft.

  “You have family back home?” the president asked Rebecca.

  “My parents are retired in Boulder, and I’ve got three brothers—detectives in the Denver Police Department.”

  “All three are older?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  President Clarke nodded. “We women need to keep the men in line. Growing up with three older brothers, it sounds like you have some experience with that.”

  “Yes ma’am, quite a bit.”

  Rebecca knew that in situations stressful for the protectee, it was sometimes helpful to engage in small talk—especially when waiting for others on the team to put the next transport plan in place. But she had never imagined having a few quiet words with the president amid such a terrifying situation.

  She saw David come running down the hallway, empty handed. When he got close, she asked, “No rope yet?”

  “No.”

  “Well, hurry,” she snapped as he ran past.

  “Right,” he snapped back.

  She watched as he kept running to look in the other rooms down the hallway.

  “Are you two okay?” President Clarke asked her.

  “How do you mean, ma’am?”

  “I’ve suspected since the Chicago trip last month that you and David are in a relationship,” she said. “In the walkway on Air Force One, during the flight back, I caught a glimpse of him being sweet to you, and you blushing back at him. I probably should have mentioned something to John, but I thought he would have to reassign one of you to another detail because of the relationship. I like both of you, and that wouldn’t have felt right.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Rebecca said, feeling her face grow warm.

  “You shouldn’t thank me. Maybe you wouldn’t be here tonight if you had been the one reassigned. You could be with the vice president at Martha’s Vineyard right now.”

  “I’m glad I’m here with you, ma’am. It’s an honor.”

  “You’re sure you two are okay? We really need everyone in the right state of mind if we’re all going to get through this.”

  “We’re fine,” Rebecca said. “Thank you.” After a short pause, she added, “It’s only a small argument we had earlier. He gave me a present that actually offended me.”

  “What was it?”

  “A gun, ma’am. A little two-shot Derringer thirty-eight Special, made in Italy.”

  “And that offended you?”

  “A little bit.”

  “Why?”

  “Forgive me, ma’am, but you don’t seem like much of a gun person. Are you?”

  “Never really fired one in my life,” the president said. “My husband goes pheasant hunting, but I’ve never had any interest in personal firearms.”

  “Well, this is a small pistol the size of your palm. It looks like a lady’s gun, even though it fires thirty-eight-caliber bullets—at close range, a decent concealed weapon. Designed for personal protection for a woman—that sort of thing.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” the president said.

  “Well, when I say for ‘protecti
on for women,’ I mean it’s a little like a floozy’s gun, worn on the leg under a dress, in the old days. The only real difference is that the more modern pistols have a little more firepower.”

  “Oh, so a prostitute’s gun.”

  “It sure looks the part.”

  “I’m guessing that’s not what he meant to imply,” President Clarke said.

  “He gave it to me with one of those holsters designed to strap it to the inside of my thigh, just like hookers used to do.”

  “Oh, my. You’re not wearing it now, are you?”

  “No, ma’am,” Rebecca said quickly. Then, after a brief hesitation, she repeated, “No ma’am. I returned the gun to him.” She could hardly believe she was telling the president this. Then, for good measure, she added, “He knows he screwed up.”

  “Good for you,” the president said. “Us girls gotta keep the men in line.”

  Rebecca smiled for a half second, then became dead serious. “Right now, ma’am, we just need to keep you safe.”

  Down the hallway, she saw David running toward the elevator shaft, waving his empty hands. Alexander motioned for everyone to come back toward the middle of the hallway.

  “Okay, ma’am,” Rebecca said. “Looks like we’re going.”

  They rushed back toward the elevator shaft while the six perimeter agents continued to guard both ends of the corridor.

  * * *

  John and Colonel Marks examined the ladder bolted to the side of the shaft. It was wide and appeared properly welded. Agent Stone hadn’t found anything that would work as a tether for the president, so John changed his strategy for the climb. He decided that the military aide should go down the ladder first, followed by Rebecca, then John, then the president, with David above them. The other six agents should be split: three remaining by the shaft entrance and three climbing above David. Once they safely reached the bottom, the three still on the fourteenth floor could quickly climb down to rejoin them. Marks seemed confident that he could climb down the ladder with the football.

  John had the three agents stand post at the corner of the small alcove between the elevator and the hallway. An overwhelming force of the US military and Secret Service would eventually be able to overrun the hostiles and retake control of the hotel, but that could take twenty minutes, maybe longer. It was too risky to try to secure the president in a stationary location for that long when the enemy was already deep inside the middle protection perimeter. And the fire was quickly becoming as great a threat as the terrorists. They had to keep moving.

  It was time to start their climb down.

  Marks struggled from the beginning because he was forced to hold the football in his left hand while moving down the ladder. Rebecca moved nimbly down the ladder a few feet above the military aide. Seeing her in action, John realized she might actually be the best climber in the group. Her personnel file noted that she had gone to college on a swimming scholarship. That sort of full-body movement probably translated better for this work than all the miles he had run around the Washington Mall over the years.

  Then it was his turn. After checking that his gun and other equipment were secure, he grabbed the cool steel sides of the ladder and stepped out onto the rung.

  But before he started climbing down, he looked into the president’s eyes. “Ma’am, move slowly. Look straight ahead as you move, so you can see exactly where your hands are grabbing. Don’t look down. Feel with your foot where the next step is, but don’t put any weight on it till you’re solidly on it. And remember, three points of contact at all times. This is key. Only one hand or foot in motion at any one time. The other three stay on the ladder until you’ve completed that one move. All right?”

  “Yes,” President Clarke said.

  “I’ll be only a few feet below you the entire time. Wait for me to get set before you make each move. I’ll call it out each time.”

  “Okay,” she said. “But this is going to take forever.”

  “That’s okay, ma’am. This is not a place we want to rush things.”

  “All right.”

  He could tell by her breathing that she was nervous about the climb. Some smoke was now coming from far below, and it wasn’t unthinkable that the fire had moved close enough to the center of the hotel that the elevator shaft could quickly turn into a chimney.

  John stepped out over the deep drop-off and briefly glanced down into the dark void. He knew that all people were born with three natural fears: loud noises, falling, and the dark. And as eerie loud pops and snaps came from somewhere in the distance within the hotel, he found himself looking into what should evoke instinctive fear: falling into the darkness. But whatever instinctive fears he once had were long ago trained out of him. He had only one great fear left in his life: losing the president.

  Grasping the smooth, cool metal of the ladder, he swung out over the darkness. Marks and Rebecca were already near the next level, so he started down the ladder much slower than he needed to, wanting to set a cautious pace for the president.

  He reached out his hand and took hers to help guide her onto the ladder. He held her by the wrist, allowing her the freedom to tighten her fingers around the first rung, while making sure he could tighten his own grip to catch her if she slipped. He would not let her fall.

  “I’ve got you, ma’am,” he said, guiding her as she stepped onto the ladder. “You’re doing great.”

  She pulled forward and set her other foot on the ladder.

  After making sure she had a stable stance and grip, he climbed down two rungs. Then, from that distance, he helped her climb slowly down as Stone moved out onto the rungs above her, and the three agents not standing post prepared to climb out onto the ladder above him.

  It was torturously slow going. Five flights took about five minutes. At the beginning of each new floor was a small concrete ledge, where Marks and Rebecca would stop and wait for the others to move down closer to them before they continued downward.

  Just as they got past the ninth floor the president’s foot had trouble finding the next rung. John reached up and gently guided it down.

  “Are you okay, ma’am?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “You ready to keep going?”

  “Yes.”

  They moved even more slowly than before. If they went too fast, there might be a mistake and someone could fall. But the longer it took to move down the shaft, the likelier the attackers were to discover them. And John didn’t even want to think of how difficult it would be to protect the president while boxed into the shaft and hanging on to an open ladder.

  36

  KAZIM’S EYES BURNED FROM THE smoke drifting around him. Small fires burned in scattered, isolated sections on the hotel rooftop. Debris from the downed helicopter, much of it in flames, lay strewn over the deck. It was now impossible to land even a small helicopter on the roof, and more of Maximilian’s men would soon arrive to make sure that none even tried to get close. But somehow, it still seemed that he had failed. He tried to remember, tried to recall what, exactly, had happened. Tried to understand why he felt as if he had failed.

  And then he remembered: the American president had escaped. Her guards had pulled her back and shielded her just as his men sprang their attack. And the speed and skill of the American security response was beyond anything he had ever seen. Maximilian had been right to compare America to the Roman Empire. Each, at its moment in history, had reached a military sophistication and dominance over all other countries in the world. But as with the Roman Empire, America would no longer be able to sustain its dominance and was primed for a rapid decline and fall.

  As he pushed himself up out of the ashes, Kazim tried desperately to fight against the pain he felt all over his body. Seeing the bodies of the other ten men he had led to the roof brought back memories of his many fellow fighters who had fallen in Iraq. And the bodies of the Secret Service agents reminded him of the dead American soldiers on his last
day in Baghdad.

  It was a time of death, sacrifice, and loss. And it was when he first learned to hate, when he first felt the need to seek revenge on America.

  * * *

  Kazim’s life as a fighter had started in Iraq, during the US invasion and occupation. He had joined the insurgents against his father’s wishes, and his mother and sister had begged him not to go. But Kazim knew his calling and what he had to do. He had to stand up for the people of Iraq. And he had to stand up to those imperialistic empires that would lie to the world and use their aggressive war machine to invade another people’s country and steal their valuable energy resources.

  He had fought with many comrades who died fighting courageously against a larger and better-equipped enemy. He and his fellow fighters had felt honored to be chosen to defend Iraq against this dangerous, domineering American enemy. But God had not given them the victory they deserved. Instead, the Americans had eventually won after years of fighting. Of course, those still fighting for his cause could still attack the Americans with small terrorist groups in Iraq, but that was losing popularity even with some of the most hardened insurgent leadership.

  And Kazim, feeling which way the wind was blowing, had left Iraq to continue the fight in other parts of the world.

  But his time in Iraq was burned into his memory. At times, he felt as if nothing else in his life would ever matter as much as those years had, fighting in the urban mazes of Baghdad at a time when the city’s soul felt as unsettled as a shaken hornets’ nest. But he wasn’t Iraqi—he had been raised in a small town in southeastern Turkey, near the borders of Iraq and Iran. He and his three older brothers had been recruited by al-Qaeda in Afghanistan, before the September 11 attacks on America.

  As expected, America had reacted to the attacks with panicked aggression, and al-Qaeda leadership had reacted to America’s actions with what, to Kazim, seemed unusually rapid maneuvers. His two oldest brothers had been sent away, one to Yemen and the other to Pakistan, on assignments that he couldn’t be told of. He had heard rumors that his oldest brother often traveled to Germany and other parts of Europe, but he never knew the details. All he did know was that less than six months after they left, both had been intercepted and captured by America’s CIA. After they disappeared, there was no more information about them, no contact from them, no updates—nothing. The consensus was that they both were still alive, illegally detained somewhere at different CIA black sites and almost certainly being tortured and humiliated by the Americans.