Ghost-ARC

by John Ringo

  Notre Dame was a magnificent Gothic cathedral completed in 1345 after nearly two hundred years of construction. It was built on the Ile de la Cite, an island in the Seine River near the center of Paris which joined the Right and Left Banks through a series of four bridges. But it was only the last of several religious structures on the island. In turn there had been a Druidical grove, a Roman temple to Jupiter and a Romanesque church occupying the same island over the millennia.

  Notre Dame, including its nave and secondary buildings, occupied only about half of the large island, with the rest taken up by two hotels of nearly the same antiquity. The island, thus, had little in the way of parking; the multitudes of attendees were anticipated to be brought in by bus while the press were relegated to an adjoining island, Ile Saint Louis, which had a far too small parking lot for the purpose.

  Security was tight, with French police wandering all over the area, most of them carrying submachine guns on friction straps. Mike regarded the press area balefully. There were, if anything, more press vans here than at the stadium.

  "This is the command post over here," Bruce said, pointing to a set of police vans as they got out of the Peugeot. "You'd probably better get a security badge if you're going to be wandering around the area."

  He led him over to command post, Mike's diplomatic passport getting them through another layer of security and up to the rear of one of the vans.

  "I take it you are the American who thought we would let a nuclear device slip into Paris," a woman said as they reached the rear of the van. She was a narrow-faced brunette holding a cup of coffee and wearing a very pissed-off expression.

  "That would be me," Mike said, smiling. "And you are . . . ?"

  "This is Madame Gabrielle LaSalle-Guerinot," Bruce said hastily. "She is the French minister of security."

  "Madame," Mike said, bowing slightly. "A pleasure. I'm not sure I can get the whole last name. Can I call you Gabby?"

  "No you may not," Madame LaSalle-Guerinot responded angrily. "And if it wasn't for the Cliff government making a stink of things, I would have you thrown out right now."

  "Pity," Mike replied. "I thought we were getting on splendidly. But unless you are the clerk that hands out badges, I think we're looking for someone else."

  Madame LaSalle-Guerinot started to reply, thought better of it and stomped off.

  "You did not make a friend there, I think," a French colonel sitting at the rear of the van said dryly.

  "Well, I don't think getting laid was in the cards, anyway," Mike replied. "And I don't think you are the clerk I need to see, either, Colonel . . . ?"

  "Henri Chateauneuf," the colonel said, languidly sliding out of the van and handing Mike a badge. "Call me Henri. And I am—I am the clerk. So Madame LaSalle-Guerinot informed me but minutes ago."

  "I suspect you don't have a friend in the good madame either," Mike said, taking the badge and hanging it around his neck on a lanyard.

  "C'est la vie," the colonel said, shrugging, then taking Mike's arm and leading him towards the cathedral. "I doubt that I shall, as you say, get laid, either. It is a terrible world. The madame was appointed after the last election. She was an academic with copious papers to her name, explaining how the French security apparatus, including its military, oppressed the poor Muslims of our fine country. Since the Muslims are an increasing voting block, we inherited Madame LaSalle-Guerinot, a woman who has not once seen the inside of a refractary building except on carefully guided tours."

  "Refractary," Mike said, frowning. "The low-income Muslims?"

  "Indeed," the colonel said, sighing. "She is very much against being 'high-handed,' as she puts it, with the refractary. Even when they riot, as they often do. May all the saints forbid that we, for example, make random sweeps for any who are holding guns or drugs. That we enforce French laws against battering women. She is a feminist, yes? But this is simply their 'culture.' Something that we have to learn to live with, as a multicultural society."

  "Has that interfered with this investigation?" Mike asked.

  "Many of the drivers of press vans in Europe are of Middle Eastern or North African origin," the colonel replied tightly. "Make your own conclusion."

  "Is she mad?" Mike snarled. "We're talking about a nuke, here."

  "Calmly, calmly," the colonel said, stopping and turning to regard him with lidded eyes. "The item has not come here, of course. The Muslims of the world are angry at the Cliff Administration, not France. It was not we who invaded Iraq. It was not we who staged a raid on Syria, who detonated a nuke over their territory. We did not set forces in Saudi Arabia and Qatar. This was all America, so naturally the Muslims are angry at America, only. France has done so much for them they would not think to attack us. We are good friends to the Muslims here in France. And the way that we will continue to be friends is to treat them gently, as we would fellow Frenchman. Better, in fact. So we have not, for example, conducted a van-to-van search for a generator that does not run. Such would be intrusive, both to our Muslim brethren and to the news media. In the latter, I agree, she has a point. If we start searching vans, one by one, if the nuke is here, they would simply detonate it."

  "So that's the way it is," Mike said, breathing out. "In that case, I'm glad I came here."

  "As am I," the colonel replied, turning to walk again. "With your diplomatic passport, Mr. 'Duncan,' the most that can be done to you is expulsion and making you persona non grata. And with the pressure the Cliff Administration exerted on your behalf, you have access to the full area. But I repeat; letting them know the van has been spotted, if it is here, will likely cause them to detonate the item."

  "It would have been nice if it had been stopped before it arrived in the middle of Paris," Mike pointed out.

  "Perhaps it will be," the colonel said, shrugging. "Perhaps it is not here. Perhaps it will be found on some road somewhere else, and it will be their headache. And, then again, perhaps it is."

  "You have a suspicion?" Mike asked.

  "No, simply the same deductive reasoning I assume you used," the colonel said, stopping at the edge of the press area. "And here we must part, alas. I have many things to attend to, as do you. Feel free to stop by the van again; we have a superior coffee I would have you try."

  "Now you tell me," Mike said, chuckling. "But onward and upward." With that he passed through the security cordon around the press area.

  The area set aside for parking the press vans was packed. Everyone in the news industry appeared to be there. There were vans for CNN and Skynews, all the major American networks, BBC and all the rest of the European networks. Most of them seemed to have more than one van. Mike quickly zoomed in on the larger ones, which were, he determined, mostly satellite uplink vans. All of them had dishes on top and he recognized that, if their van was there, they'd had to have been retrofitted somewhere. Most of the dishes were up and pointed at satellites, but not all.

  He wandered around the area for about an hour, looking for anomalies and finding none. Part of that was the controlled chaos of the environment. People were moving around doing things about which he knew nothing. There were people arguing by the vans, people sitting around tapping at laptops, people eating breakfast.

  He checked a couple of vans that were from networks he'd never heard of, and looked closely at the Al Jazeera van. That one had the usual collection of Middle Eastern types, including a woman, probably a reporter, who was a real looker. But he could hear the generator as he passed. He'd already determined that the generators were for providing power to the satellite links and all the rest of the equipment in the vans. But if they were running, they couldn't contain a bomb.

  After a while he got frustrated and headed back to the command center, cadging a cup of very good coffee and a couple of stale croissants. He hung around the command center for a bit, thinking, until he'd finished off the croissants, then headed back to the press area, sipping his coffee.

  He was walking down the line of vans when he sa
w a lone person sitting outside of one from ABC. The guy looked like an American, blond hair cut short on the sides, American clothes, so Mike wandered over.

  "How's it going?" Mike asked, sitting down on a spool of cable.

  "Purty good," the guy replied in a thick Southern accent. "Gonna be a nice day."

  It was, too. There had apparently been a cold front through so the air was crisp and felt washed clean. The sky was clear and deep blue and the sun shone on Notre Dame perfectly.

  "What's your name?" Mike asked, continuing to look around. He saw a cluster of Middle Eastern types, probably drivers, and honed in on them for a second.

  "Steve Edmonson," the ABC guy said. "I'm from Tuscaloosa, Alabama. You?"

  "Michael Duncan," Mike replied. "Florida."

  "You don't have a press badge," the guy said.

  "Nope," Mike replied, turning back to look at him. He was eating a piece of pressed meat with a side of rice. In the Dari areas of Afghanistan, Mike had eaten the same thing. They called it chelo kebab, but it was what people in the U.S. put in gyros. Mike blinked for a second as something bothered him, but he mentally shoved it away. "I'm with the U.S. embassy. Just keeping an eye on things, you know. Making sure everyone has all the credentials they need and whatnot. You been over here long?"

  "Nope," Steve said, finishing off the last of the meat and rice. "Born and raised in Alabama. Went to UA. Roll Tide and all that. Got a degree in video tech and a job with ABC. Been all over the U.S., but this is my first overseas assignment. Sitting in Paris, nursemaiding a broken van."

  Mike watched as Steve set down his fork, and it hit him. Americans, almost invariably, will cut a piece of meat with the fork in their left hand and then change back to holding it in their right. Steve had been eating with the fork held, almost the whole time, in his left. It was the "Continental" style of eating. And he'd done it smoothly and flawlessly. It wasn't just that he was trying to pick up local manners, it was his normal mode of doing things.

  "What's wrong with the van?" Mike asked disinterestedly.

  "Generator's broke," "Steve" said. "We've got a call in to a tech, but I can't get it running."

  "You got any other problems?" Mike asked, taking a sip of coffee.

  "Other than the generator, nope," Steve said.

  "Well, if you do have any, call the embassy," Mike said, standing up. "They'll know how to get in touch with me."

  "Will do," Steve said, smiling. "Good to hear American again."

  "Same here," Mike replied, grinning back. "It's gonna be a good day."

  He wandered back out of the press area, stopping from time to time to chat with the American crews, then over to the command post.

  "Colonel Chateauneuf?" he asked one of the sergeants at the main van.

  "He is around," the sergeant said, shrugging.

  "Call him," Mike said in a command tone. "Now."

  Chapter Seven

  "You, as they say, rang?" Colonel Chateauneuf said, strolling up.

  "I hope like hell I didn't hit pay dirt," Mike said, pulling him over to where they could talk quietly. "But I think I did. There are three ABC vans. One of them has a 'broken' generator. The guy nursemaiding it says he's American, and he's got a good accent, but he's not."

  "And you know this, how?" the colonel asked, carefully.

  "The way he eats?" Mike said. "Word choice? He's not."

  "Does he know that you suspect?" the colonel asked.

  "I'm pretty sure not," Mike replied.

  "So . . . and so . . ." the colonel said, blowing out and grimacing. "How to do this?"

  "I have an idea," Mike said.

  * * *

  "Hey, Steve," Mike said, walking over to the ABC van. "Your country needs you."

  "What?" the man said, standing up from where he'd been tapping on his laptop.

  "I've got a situation I need help with," Mike replied, closing the laptop and pulling on his arm. "Quick. CBS has managed to really piss off the French. Something about camera angles. I don't know for camera angles so I need a third party to interpret."

  "I've got to watch the van," Steve said desperately, his accent slipping.

  "Look, this won't take more than five minutes," Mike replied, stuffing the laptop into the man's case and hanging it over his shoulder. "It's locked, right?"

  "Yeah," "Steve" said, allowing himself to be led away.

  Mike led him out of the press area and over to an area that was near the command post and out of sight.

  "So," Mike said as they rounded a corner and "Steve" found himself confronted by three sub-gun wielding police and Colonel Chateauneuf, "care to tell me who you really are?"

  "Steve" let out a grunt of surprise and plucked his cell phone off his hip.

  "Not happenin'," Mike said, grabbing his hand and twisting it so hard he heard a crack.

  The man let out a cry and dropped the cell phone, cradling the wrist as one of the police officers stepped forward. The officer slid plastic cuffs on him, broken wrist and all, then a hood over his head. The man was hustled into a police car, which drove sedately away.

  "I think you may be right," Chateauneuf said, blowing out and picking up the cell phone gingerly.

  "May I?" Mike asked. When the colonel handed it to him, he scrolled through the speed dial list. Most of them were names, all European sounding and almost certainly false. But one was listed as "Fire" and one as "Ice."

  Mike noted down those two numbers and handed the phone back.

  "And now," Mike said, "I think you'd better call your very best EOD people."

  * * *

  "We cannot afford to move it," the senior EOD tech said.

  The hurried meeting was taking place in one of the police vans. It included Madame LaSalle-Guerinot, who was looking pissed as all get out, the colonel, a couple of senior police officers and Mike, who had forced his way in through sheer chutzpah.

  "There could be tremblor switches," the tech continued. "There could be a locator system. They could be watching, for all we know. It could be detonated at any time."

  As he said that, the terrorist's cell phone, which was in the middle of the table, began to buzz.

  Most of the people around the table looked at it like it was a snake. Mike just leaned forward and picked it up.

  "Yep?" he said in his very best Southern drawl.

  "How is it going, Steve?" a man said. He had a faint British accent underlaid with something else. Mike recalled that the "engineer" had been trained in British boarding schools. He was talking loudly since there was music in the background. Mike recognized the tune as being a current dance hit. He mainly recognized it because it was the sort of thing you heard in strip joints a lot.

  "Turr'ble," Mike answered, half shouting. "Jist turr'ble. Generator's still broke. D'ju call that technician?"

  "Yes, I did," the man said in a puzzled tone.

  "Talkin' to a guy from the embassy 'bout it now," Mike drawled, rolling his eyes. "Hope he gits har befur the pope."

  "Ah," the man shouted understandingly. "He will, I'm sure. Or about the time the pope arrives. When he gets there, you can go, of course."

  "Weel thankee," Mike yelled, his eyes cold. "Thankee kindly. Gotta go now. Later."

  "Later," the man said.

  Mike hit the disconnect and counted.

  "One, two, three . . ." He closed his eyes and waited and then sighed. "I think he bought it. One Southern accent sounds about the same as another to a foreigner. They can't tell the difference between Alabama and North Florida."

  "Are you INSANE?" Madame LaSalle-Guerinot shouted. "He could have decided that the operation was blown and blown us all sky!"

  "Oh, higher," Mike said. "Which was exactly what he would have done if the phone wasn't answered. With, more or less, the correct voice. I know this bastard. He loves to see things go boom. He set the timer on the nuke in Andros, for example, rather than have it fall into our hands. If he gets a sniff that there's anything wrong, he'll set it off just
to see the pretty lights on TV.

  "Look," he continued to the EOD tech. "Go in looking like repair technicians. That is what everyone in the area is expecting. Enter the forward part of the van; I've seen him use the door, so it can't be rigged. You have his keys. Set up in there, out of sight. Do your magic. Get cracking, though. It's going to be a tough nut."

  "That will work," one of the senior police said, to nods. "We can give you cover clothing. You'll have to pack your gear so it is out of sight."

  "Don't bother with carrying pads," Mike said, chuckling. "If it goes up, you won't need them."

  "You need to leave," Madame LaSalle-Guerinot snapped, turning to the senior inspector. "I want him out of this area in fifteen minutes," she continued, standing up. "I am going to go brief the president."

  "Well, I wonder what got her titties in a twist," Mike said, sighing. "And who, exactly, is going to answer the phone if I leave?"

  "You are," Colonel Chateauneuf said, standing up. "She said you have to leave, not that you couldn't take the phone with you. Does anyone have a specific use for it?"

  "We'd like to check the directory," one of the civilians at the table said. He had a faintly military bearing and Mike had pegged him as DGSE. "Run down some of the phone numbers."

  "We have a list of all of them already," the senior inspector said.

  "Does that mean you don't want me to keep it?" Mike asked, waving it in the air.

  "Oh, no," the DGSE agent said, smiling. "By all means. And . . . try to be as convincing as you just were."

  "Will do," Mike replied in a Southern accent. "Gentlemen, much as I respect the capabilities of the French security establishment, you wouldn't mind if I watch the goings-on from, say . . . twenty klicks away or so, would you?"

  "Not at all," Colonel Chateauneuf said somberly. "I will escort you to your car."

  "I take it you're not leaving," Mike said as they walked to the sedan.

  "No," Chateauneuf said, shrugging. "My place is here."