by John Ringo
"Been there, done that, got the T-shirt," Mike said. "I've got to introduce you to a song called 'Winter Born.'"
"Crüxshadows," Chateauneuf said, grinning. "A very good band. You will not tell people that I Goth, I hope? It is so hard to retain respect when people know you Goth."
"Of course not," Mike replied as he got in the car. "When it comes down to popish time, give me a holler and give me a play by play, okay?"
"I shall," Chateauneuf said, holding out his hand. "Adieu."
"Even I know that much French," Mike said, shaking his hand. Adieu meant Go with God; it was a permanent farewell. "Let's go for au revoir."
* * *
"So what did you find out?" Bruce asked as they drove away.
Mike didn't bother to answer, just picked up his cell phone and dialed OSOL.
"Pierson."
"Go scramble."
"Scrambled."
"It's here, Bob," Mike said, breathing out. "Notre Dame. The embassy driver and I are getting the fuck out of Dodge."
"We heard," Pierson replied. "Along with a very sharp message about your encounter with Madame Two-names."
"Gabby LaSalle-Guerinot?" Mike said. "What a nice gal. We got along so well."
"So I heard," Pierson said dryly. "I believe the term 'insufferably arrogant' was used."
"What? About the French?" Mike said.
"No, about you," Pierson observed. "But, yes, arrogant is a good word. Not to mention lacking in leadership skills. The entire government is quietly evacuating. The president and Madame Two-names are already gone, taking their families. The president was supposed to be attending the pope's high mass, but he sent his regrets. Some minor stooge, clearly not in the loop, is going instead."
"Ah, French heroism at its finest." Mike sighed. "All joking aside, we've got ourselves one fucked-up situation here. I don't know for beans about EOD, not at this level, so I'm leaving it up to the experts. And, as I said, getting the fuck out of Dodge; I don't see how they can prevent it from detonating."
"Your phone call was intercepted by NSA," Pierson said. "They were aware of the number before we were and traced the call to Amsterdam."
"That's nice," Mike said. "The bomb's scheduled to go off in about six hours . . ." He paused. "You want me to go to Amsterdam?" he added incredulously.
"Up to you," Pierson replied. "The voice match was Assadolah."
"Yeah," Mike said thoughtfully. "I was pretty sure it was him. That English/Pakistani accent. But I've got to sit on the phone."
"NSA has it covered," Pierson said. "Calls to that phone will be transferred to your sat phone. And they can feed in artificial background noise from the event at Notre Dame. When a call comes in from the same phone, it will read 'Assadolah.'"
"Gotta love modern technology," Mike said sourly. "Bruce," he continued, "about face. Charles DeGaulle. Step on it."
* * *
On one level Mike loved Amsterdam's red-light district. He'd stopped through on his European tour and sampled the wares, and lovely wares they were. But it was, in a way, just too "in your face." As he walked down one of the narrow alleyways of the district, the curtain behind a plate-glass window moved and a very attractive young woman, a redhead wearing a green teddy and high heels, stepped out and reclined on the pillows in the window. She smiled at him as he passed and he smiled back distractedly. Pretty as she was, she wasn't who he was looking for.
The street was lined with brothels, like the one he'd just passed, their "wares" casually presenting themselves in the windows, topless bars that doubled as brothels, brothels that doubled as bars, and "sex clubs" that were some of each.
"The call came from somewhere around cell tower 4793," Colonel Fagan said. The colonel was another military attaché, in civilian clothes, but much less stuck on himself than Forester had been. With Mike's haircut and build they just looked like two soldiers out for a good time. "That services the red-light district and some of the areas around it."
"Assadolah's into women," Mike replied. "And the sounds that were behind him were from a bar, probably a topless joint from the music." He paused at the first one they came to and shrugged. "What a horrible job we've got." He paid for both their covers with a fifty-euro note, getting back forty euros in five- and ten-euro notes and a handful of one-euro coins.
The strip joint ran to form, dark with the only light coming from the three stages. In the middle of the room was the main stage, a long walkway with a pole at both ends and a swing in the middle. A blonde was dancing on it, down to nothing but her platforms and money-filled garter, doing a pole dance that Mike had to admit was spectacular. The women wandering around the room were equally spectacular, mostly blonde, long-legged with large breasts. You could tell the fakes from the real ones, even the very good fakes, and it was apparent that mostly they were real.
The two of them split up on either side of the stage, wandering casually to the back, then retracing their steps on opposite sides. There were two side rooms, one a "champagne" room where for probably a ton of money you could sit and talk to one of the girls while sipping champagne, and the other a "dance" room where for less the girls would perform "lap dances" for their "gentlemen friends." When they got back to the front, Mike sat down in one of the chairs along the wall and shrugged.
"I don't see him," Mike noted. "But he could be getting a lap dance. Or a blow for that matter; it's Amsterdam."
"I'll take the champagne room," Fagan said, grinning. "But the U.S. government is going to have a hard time keeping up with my tab."
"Uncle Sam can afford it," Mike replied, handing over a wad of hundred-euro notes. "Keep an itemized tab and we'll submit an expense report."
He grabbed a passing blonde and smiled at her.
"Care to dance?"
The lap dance room turned out to have several curtained cubicles in it. Mike rather obviously twitched several aside, getting angry looks from the men in the cubicles, one of whom, sure enough, was getting a blowjob, and causing the girl with him to pull him along to an empty one.
"Sorry," Mike said, sitting down in the chair. "I like to watch."
"It is very much against house rules," the girl said, sitting down next to him. The previous song hadn't finished, so they had to wait for the next one. "I am Hanne."
"Pleased to meet you, Hanne," Mike said. "I'm Mike." It made just as much sense to use his "real" name as a cover. The girl didn't give a shit who he was.
"Is twenty euros for a lap dance," Hanne said, taking off her halter top. "Is fifty euros for blow. That is two songs. If you don't come by end of second song, well, I do my best."
"I'll just take a dance," Mike replied. "Do I get to touch?"
"You can touch," Hanne said gravely. "If you touch too hard, though, I will tell you to stop. If you don't stop, you get sent out."
"I can live with that," Mike said as the previous dance ended and the next began.
The girl slid to her knees in front of him, spreading his legs and dragging her hair over his crotch, then slowly slid up his body, humming as she did so.
Mike slid his hands down her back and along her sides, then up her stomach to her high, firm breasts. She clearly hadn't been dancing long, since they were natural and had hardly a hint of sag. He continued to run his hands over her body, gently, teasingly, as she teased him in turn.
"You are very good with hands," Hanne said huskily.
"Maybe you should be paying me," he replied, smiling into her eyes.
"Is very nice," she whispered in his ear. "I like."
"I'm glad," Mike said, licking her ear lightly. "But all you get is one dance. I have to save my strength for all the other girls in the district."
She giggled at that and slid her head back down, rubbing her face in his crotch. Then she slid back up and licked at his ear.
"I think maybe you wish you'd paid for blow, yes?"
"You're very nice," Mike said, nipping at her earlobe. "But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep."
The song finished and Hanne backed away slowly.
"Wooo," she said, holding out her hand for the money. "That was more than usual fun."
"I'm glad you liked it," Mike said, handing her thirty euros. "You take care."
He walked back out to the main area and looked around for Fagan, but the colonel was nowhere in sight.
"Come on, man," Mike muttered. "One dance is enough."
When two more dances, six minutes more or less, had passed, Mike walked over to the champagne room door, a curtain rather, and tipped the bouncer to let him in without a girl.
"Fagan," Mike said loudly.
"Coming," the colonel replied in a strained voice.
He exited one of the cubicles a moment later, zipping his trousers.
"I don't care what that comedian said," Fagan noted. "If he thinks there's no sex in the champagne room, he's never been to Amsterdam."
* * *
They had hit two more strip joints, where Mike very pointedly had the colonel go for a single lap dance while he took the champagne room, and were headed to another when Mike's phone rang.
He stepped into an alley to cloak the street noise and hit the connect.
"Ay-yup?" he said.
"The technician is on his way," Assadolah said. "All is well?"
"Turr'ble," Mike replied. "Jist turr'ble. Been sittin' here watchin' the cops go by for the last few ahrs. Jist a wond'rin' when that techie'd show."
"He will be there soon," Assadolah said. "You can go, now. How is traffic?"
"Baid," Mike said. "But Ah figur Ah kin git back in plenty of tahm fer the evenin' shows."
"That is well," Assadolah said. "Have a safe trip."
"Bet on it," Mike replied, hitting the disconnect. He immediately dialed OSOL and went through the scramble routine.
"Got a call," Mike said.
"We were listening in real time," Pierson replied. "One hour until the pope's mass."
"He cut it kind of close," Mike said. "That tech, whoever he is, isn't going to have much time to get out of town."
"The tech turned out to be a former IRA member," Pierson said. "The bomb is not only encased in lead, it's filled with booby traps. The French had never seen anything like it but the British had; it was a full IRA rig. IRA bombs are . . ."
"The toughest in the world," Mike finished. "Fuck, I hate those Provo bastards. Now they're selling their expertise to the mujahideen."
"We talked to the Dutch police," Pierson said. "They're willing to not flood the place to find Assadolah, for obvious reasons. But there are a couple of undercover cops moving around as well. And there's a tac team on standby if you need backup."
"Nice to know," Mike said, walking back to the street. "I have to keep looking."
"Terrible job, I know," Pierson said, chuckling blackly. "Nero only fiddled while Rome burned."
"You wouldn't believe the tab that Fagan is running up," Mike agreed, looking over at the colonel. "I'm surprised he can still stand with all the blowjobs he's been getting."
"Oh, thanks very much," Fagan said, shaking his head. "You realize all those calls are recorded."
"So is most of what goes on in the lap dance rooms," Mike replied. "I wish we could get access to the tapes; it would make this a lot quicker."
Chapter Eight
They crossed the street, dodging traffic, and headed to the next strip joint. This one was rather seedy: the cover was only three euros and the girls were pretty worn out. The crowd was also different, running a lot more to Middle Eastern males. Mike spotted on that looked a bit like Assadolah and did a double take. But he was pretty sure it wasn't him. And there was no evidence of a phone on the guy. He looked like a day-laborer and was staring at the girl on stage like she was the Holy Grail.
He passed around the stage and back to the front, meeting up with Fagan, who had also noticed the guy and dismissed him, then headed to the champagne room with one of the halfway decent-looking women.
This champagne room had larger cubicles, with couches that were wide enough to be beds, and Mike caught more than one guy going at it when he looked behind the curtains. Most of them didn't notice, but the girls under them did. In the third cubicle he saw the target. He was sitting on the couch, lying back with his eyes closed, being fellated by a naked redhead. Her hair was obviously out of a bottle since her exposed pubic tuft was dark brown and flecked with gray.
Mike dropped the curtain disinterestedly then took one step forward, drawing his sidearm, and stepped back to the cubicle. He stepped through the curtain, took a double-handed grip and carefully shot Assadolah Shaath in the right shoulder, covering the whore in front of him in blood-splatter.
The whore backed away, screaming, as Mike crossed the room and grabbed the terrorist by his shot arm, dragging him to the floor, face-down, as he screamed in pain.
"Which one is the disconnect code?" Mike growled, stepping on the terrorist's wounded shoulder to hold him down and socketing the .45 into his ear. "Which one?"
"Fuck you!" Assadolah shouted, then switched to Arabic for a long, solid, curse.
Mike plucked the phone off the terrorist's belt and pitched it across the room as the first bouncer came into the cubicle in reaction to the shot and screams.
"Back off," Mike said, pulling out his diplomatic passport and holding it up. "This is a terrorist we've been looking for. Call the police, they know all about it."
"Put the gun down and I will," the man said, drawing his own sidearm.
"This is a diplomatic passport," Mike said, waving it at him and then tossing it across the room. "You shoot me, for any reason, and you're going to jail for the rest of your life. Put your own gun down, call the police, and in the meantime I'm going to talk to this gentleman." He leaned his weight into his foot as the terrorist screamed, and then shifted his pistol to the other shoulder. "I can go for two. Which one is the disarm code?"
"ICE!" Assadolah screamed. "Ice. Fire for the explosion, ice for the disarm. Ice."
"Thank you," Mike said, lifting up his weight. "Don't try to move or I'll gladly shoot you some more."
* * *
"He said 'Ice' was the disconnect." Mike was back in the airplane, his chair reclined, a drink in his hand and the headset of the sat phone plugged in his ear. The Dutch police had been less than happy about the shooting, not to mention the torture of the suspect. But it was amazing how well diplomatic passports worked. He was, however, persona very non grata at the moment. Which was why he was sitting in an airfield in France, well away from Paris.
"So we heard," Pierson said. "Along with how you got the information. You're a regular one-man coalition breaker, you know that?"
"Hell, the Dutch couldn't even hold Sbrenica," Mike said. "What do we need them for?"
"What's the chance the information was good?" Pierson asked.
"Zero," Mike admitted. "I just wanted to see what he would say. Look something up for me on the Internet, will you? Google: 'Some say the world will end in fire.'"
"Robert Frost," Pierson replied. "I know the poem: 'Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice.' That one?"
"That's it," Mike said musingly. "Both of them could be a disconnect, but I don't think so. If the pope got held up, if something happened to slow down the crowds, they'd want to wait. There's probably a timer, with the cell phones as backup controls. The output isn't going to him, is it?"
"Nope," Pierson said. "It goes to a phone in Germany which is connected to a webserver. Then it posts a text message to the webserver. Anybody can view it. NSA cracked the server and took a look at who was visiting. All the links have been coming out of Iran. But we know some of the Al Qaeda leadership are still there. The circuit on the phone is set to detonate if the phone doesn't connect to the right number. The French are talking about spoofing the server and the phone output system, but it's a bit tricky. Frankly, they don't want to fuck with it if they don't have to."
"I looked at his cell phone before it got taken a
way by the Dutch," Mike said. "He'd only called the sentry on the bomb and he hadn't received any calls in two days. So I don't think the take-down is going to cause a problem. Sunni bombers. Shia supporters and fighters. Who says the Sunni and Shia can't get together to fight the jihad?"
"Democrats," Pierson said. "Academics. The Council on American–Islamic Relations."
"Wise people, all," Mike said. "We're down to less than a half an hour. I'm calling Chateauneuf." He hit the disconnect and dialed the colonel.
"Mon cher," Chateauneuf said after they were on scrambler. "I understand you had an interesting time in Amsterdam."
"I'd like to say it was enlightening," Mike replied. "But it wasn't. How goes it?"
"Oh, it goes so very, very well," Chateauneuf said lightly. "The bomb is clustered with antitampering devices. There were movement detectors, X-ray detectors, ultrasound detectors and even a motion detector inside the casing. They managed to find a part that wasn't covered with some sort of detector and have now managed, finally, to get a drill into the inner casing of the bomb. This is as far as they have gotten. We have less than thirty minutes until the pope arrives. And he has refused to forego his arrival, stating that if all of his children must die, than he shall go with them."
"Nobody ever said the pope was a coward," Mike replied, picking up the sentry's phone and regarding it with interest. "Where are you?"
"Oh, I've moved to the press van," the colonel said. "It won't matter if I am here or at the command center. So I thought I would watch the proceedings. The men are very cool. They know how perilous is what they do. But they proceed. Ah, the senior technician tells me they have gotten to the stainless steel. Now they must change drill bits, yes?"
"Yes," Mike said.
"They begin to enter the bomb casing," Chateauneuf said calmly. "They can only drill slowly. It will take some time. Perhaps as long as ten minutes."
Mike looked at the time readout on his cell phone and shook his head. It was seventeen minutes until four.
"So, you got any family?" Mike asked.
"A wife, Josee, and three children: Claude, Colette and Danielle," Chateauneuf replied as if discussing the weather. "They, fortunately, live well outside Paris. Josee was going to come into town to go shopping, but I managed to dissuade her. Danielle is just starting school. They study English in the primary, yes?"
