by Harold Coyle
When she turned away, he grasped her arm and spun her around. “I asked, what is it?”
“I feel terrible,” she replied.
“Yes, I can see that, Gabrielle.” He modulated his voice, allowing just enough flat tone to imply something pending. Something probably unpleasant.
“I did what you wanted,” she said, immediately regretting the defensive whine building at the end of the phrase. “I met the American woman again and we… talked.”
“You did more than talk. You drank. A lot.” It was a statement of fact; a certainty like magnetism or taxes.
She touched her forehead and flicked the light brown bangs. “Yes. All right. We drank. A lot. We learned about each other. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
He folded his arms — a sure sign of irritation — and leaned forward. “Don’t play games, Gabrielle! I set a hen to catch a hen, and now I am beginning to think that the American hen was a chicken hawk.” He stared her down; she never could meet his eyes for more than several seconds.
She plopped into the only comfortable chair and looked at him again. “I…” Her voice trailed off.
“What did you tell her?”
Her mouth opened. Nothing followed. Finally she swallowed and croaked, “I… I don’t know. Not everything.”
He sprang at her, raising a hand, and she flinched from long experience.
Hurtubise stopped in midstride. He realized that if he struck her again, this time she probably would leave. Personal considerations aside, she would also take any useful information with her.
He knelt before her, balanced on one knee. “Gabrielle. I’m sorry. I told you four years ago that I would never do that again. And I keep my word.”
She was crying now, tears tracking down both cheeks. “Marcel… I’m so sorry. I thought I could handle her. Honestly I did. But…”
The emotional dam burst and the sobs came. She leaned forward on her elbows, her slender torso visibly shaking with each painful exhalation.
He reached out, touched an arm, and squeezed. Harder than he intended, but a calming gesture nonetheless.
Inside, his mind was raging.
Marcel Hurtubise was nothing if not composed. He was aware of the American phrase “control freak.”Commandez le phénomène was as close as he could come. But however you said it, he had it. “Come here, my darling.” He wrapped his muscular arms around her and pulled her to him. Over her shoulder, he glanced at his watch and estimated that she would tell him what he needed to know in three minutes.
It was more like five.
When she had confessed all she could — everything she could remember or thought she could remember — she allowed herself to relax a bit. By now she was feeling more certain of herself. It had happened before — a long period of good to excellent behavior followed by an inevitable lapse leading to confession, contrition, and forgiveness. Sometimes Gabrielle wondered if Marcel had been a priest in a previous incarnation.
But there was always the penance. In this instance, it came on an icy wind.
“Good, Gabrielle. Very good. It is always best to tell the truth. I cannot make things better without knowing everything. You understand?”
She nodded briskly, not trusting her voice.
“Very well.” He stroked her hair, tracing the line of her cheek with the knuckles of one hand. “We must assume that she knows about the mine, so there is only one thing to do.”
“Yes?”
“Kill her.”
37
SSI COMPOUND
“Okay: here’s what we know,” Lee began. He pointed to a map of Chad propped on an easel. “The mine is here in the Aozou Strip up near the Libyan border. It’s been relatively inactive for a few years but apparently some of the equipment has been maintained, maybe with this time in mind. At any rate, our colleagues with Groupe FGN have been using their legitimate work through the French embassy to provide security for the clandestine operation that’s under way at the mine. We do not know the ultimate destination of the yellow cake, but it could be Iran.” He allowed that sentiment to linger in midair for a moment.
“Anyway, that really doesn’t matter. The important thing is, our people here and in D.C. do not want that product to leave the country. That’s why it’s such a hurry-up operation. We don’t know exactly when the yellow cake will be ready for export, but indications are that it’s imminent.”
Lee turned back to his audience and took three steps forward. “Gentlemen, I’ll repeat what I said before. This is strictly a volunteer basis. If you don’t want to go, you don’t have to. Personally, I’m convinced that it’s a low-risk operation, but there could be some shooting. Since you’ve all signed training contracts, you’re at liberty to stay here. But we need experienced leadership on the ground up there, and that’s why our team got the nod.” He looked at each man in turn. “Any questions?”
There were none so Lee nodded to Foyte. “Gunny will conduct the briefing since he’s been working on the op order.”
Foyte walked to the head of the room. “Thank you, Major.” He flipped his notebook open and ran through the standard headings.
“Mission: well, you know that. Secure the mine and prevent any yellow cake from getting out. After we’re done, a joint U.S., Chad, and IAEA team will move in.”
Bosco raised a hand. “Uh, what’s IAEA?”
“International Atomic Energy Agency. It’s a multinational inspection organization.”
“U.N.?” asked Bosco.
“It’s based in Vienna but is chartered by the U.N. Why?”
“Ah, I never trust anybody who wears baby blue berets,” Bosco replied. Some chuckles skittered through the room. Foyte ignored them.
“Enemy forces: probably twelve to twenty French or European mercs from Groupe FGN. That does not include the mine workers. Expect small arms and automatic weapons, and watch for imbedded explosives.
“Friendly forces: well, that’s us, of course. We’re taking two platoons: one to assault and one to secure the perimeter and provide backup.
“Execution: fly to the op area in C-130s and take pre-positioned transport to the mine. We’ll have two choppers in support for contingencies and med-evac. We plan to hit the place at dawn. You’ll get specific assignments the night before.
“Command and control: this is gonna be the kicker. Almost none of our clients speak English so there’s a premium on French and Arabic speakers. We’ll have a couple of translators from the embassy as backup.” He looked at Chris Nissen and J. J. Johnson. Nissen was in — he could use the combat bonus for his daughter’s college fund. Johnson still had not committed.
“We’ll have at least two common frequencies on radios. I’m told that our rotor heads also are getting UHF sets from the blue suits so the helos can talk to us on the ground.
“Security. Well, that’s the reason we’re doing this job. The locals would gladly sell any information to anybody, which is why SSI and our Co-In team has been tasked. We’re administratively and physically separate from the rest of the Chadian armed forces, and nobody’s left the training area for two days. Additionally we’re using our own transportation and USAF 130s. Now, I’m not saying there couldn’t be some word to the frogs, but it looks pretty tight.
“ROE: fire discipline is important here, more for our platoons than ourselves. Yeah, I know — a lot of the Chadians we’re training have been shot at before, but if somebody caps off a round by accident, you know damn well what’ll happen. Firing contagion. With all the civilians in the area, that could be really bad news. So we’re gonna stress that our troops don’t shoot at anybody who isn’t pointing a weapon at them.
“POWs, if that’s the term. We will have to disarm the Frenchies and put them under detention. Major Lee and I hope that a superior show of force will convince them to stand down. In that case, we’ll treat them well and hold them until the suits arrive. If not — well, it’s their funeral. So to speak.”
Foyte looked up. “Questi
ons?”
Breezy stirred in his seat. “Gunny, wouldn’t it be better to go in before dawn? Take ‘em more by surprise?”
The Marine nodded. “Of course. But do you want to take the boys we’re training and have them running around in the dark with loaded weapons?” He did not await a response. “Next.”
Josh Wallender gave the high sign. “What’s the risk of radiation?”
Lee stood up again. “Very slight. You’re going to hear from an expert that the big problem with uranium ore is underground, where there’s poor ventilation. This mine is a big pit in the open. You’ll have respirators for the time you’re actually in the pit but avoid cuts and you’ll be okay. We’re not going to be there very long, anyway.”
Lee asked, “Anything else?” When no one responded, he gestured to a man in the back of the room.
“Gentlemen, this is Mr. Langevin. He’s with the IAEA and has been briefed on our mission. Now, before anybody gets excited, I can say that he’s on our side. He’s a former Air Force nuke who works in the arms control field. He will fill us in on uranium ore.”
Langevin had not reached the front of the room before Breezy leaned to Bosco and said in a loud whisper, “Funny. He doesn’t look like an Air Force puke.”
Boscombe took the hint. He swatted his partner, exclaiming, “You dummy. That’s nuke, not puke!”
Langevin, a short, slightly built man with receding dark hair, turned to the Army men. “What’s the atomic number of uranium?”
Bosco and Breezy exchanged glances. “Uh, 235,” essayed Breezy.
“Beeeep! Wrong!” Langevin imitated a quiz-show buzzer. “It’s ninety-two, because the uranium atom has ninety-two protons and electrons. Now, I don’t expect you snake eaters to understand about earth elements, let alone lanthanide or actinide series. So there’s no way you’re going to understand 92, let alone 235!”
While the grunts in the room tried to absorb the fact that a skinny techno-nerd could take their guff and toss it back, Langevin launched into his briefing.
“A bit of background, gentlemen. Uranium is a naturally occurring element found at low levels in nearly all rocks, soils, and water. It is considered more common than gold, silver, or tungsten, and nearly as much as arsenic or molybdenum. It is found in many minerals such as lignite, and monazite sands in uranium-rich ores. It is mined from those sources.
“Now, as you heard from Major Lee, uranium ore produces radon gas that needs ventilation unless it’s mined in an open pit. Fortunately, that’s the case where we’re concerned…”
Breezy interrupted. “Ah, we? As in, you’re going with us? Sir?”
“You got it, son. And I’m packing. If I have to double-tap somebody, I’ll do it, too.”
The former paratrooper raised an eyebrow and regarded the dweeb with new respect. “Ah, yessir.”
“Good.” Langevin shot a glance at Lee and winked. Then he continued.
“Now, it doesn’t really bear on our mission but you might benefit from some background. The U.S. hasn’t had to import uranium for many years, at least not for military purposes. Most people don’t realize that Australia has nearly thirty percent of the world’s known supply, but only exports it for nonmilitary use. However, Canada probably exports more total product though the worldwide demand has dropped. Uranium hit an all-time low of seven dollars a pound in 2001 but has bounced back to about thirty.”
Wallender interjected. “Sir, I don’t understand something. If uranium is widely available, why the concern about deposits in a remote place like Chad? I mean, it’s got to be harder and more expensive to get there than almost anywhere.”
“That’s a good question,” Langevin responded. “The reason is, Chad and much of Africa have ample supplies, but the mines and transportation systems are not monitored very well. Remember, Chad has been named one of the two most corrupt governments on earth. With enough money and minimal resources, almost anyone could obtain enough ore to produce yellow cake and ship it anywhere. Say, like North Korea. Or Iran.”
“Gulp.”
“You said it.”
Langevin began pacing, turning to keep his audience in view. “What we’re concerned with isn’t the ore, it’s uranic oxide, better known as yellow cake, that’s used for processing. It’s roughly seventy-five percent uranate, produced by milling uranium ore. It’s a radioactive powder with a high melting temperature — nearly three thousand degrees Centigrade. It’s insoluble in water.”
“How’s it produced?” asked Foyte.
“Well, the ore is crushed to produce what’s called pulp. That’s dipped in sulfuric acid to leach out the product. What’s left after drying and filtering is the yellow cake.”
“So we’re looking for, like, a yellow powder, right?”
“Well, no. The stuff is actually dark brown or even black. The yellow name is left over from early processes that weren’t as efficient as today.”
Johnson, still uncertain whether he would participate, was intrigued. “Sir, how much yellow cake is needed for a bomb?”
“Actually, none,” the scientist replied. “Yellow cake is unenriched uranium so it’s no use in a weapon. It’s mostly used to obtain purified uranium oxide in fuel rods. That in turn can be part of weapons grade production, especially plutonium.”
“Then, if I understand it right, producing yellow cake really isn’t very hard,” the former Legionnaire said.
“No, it’s a relatively straightforward process. But in most parts of the world the procedure is closely guarded through international accords. That’s where I come in, with IAEA. But in Chad and other places, that’s not always so. Consequently the extra cost of mining relatively small quantities is not a real concern. The people who want uranium without anybody knowing it are well funded, and to a large extent they don’t care what it costs.” He shrugged. “When you sell billions of barrels of oil a year, several million dollars for yellow cake is no big deal.”
“Like Iran?” Breezy suggested.
“Certainly. Iran consistently ranks in the top five oil exporters, between three and four million barrels a day.”
Langevin saw Bosco and Breezy exchange whispered comments. “Ah, something you want to discuss, gentlemen?”
Breezy sat upright. “We were, uh, just saying that you seem really well informed. Sir.”
Bernard Langevin beamed. The former Air Force short colonel was unaccustomed to compliments from knuckle-dragging door-kickers. “Just doing my job, son. Just doing my job.”
38
N’DJAMENA
Whitney knocked on the apartment’s weathered door. It had “safe house” written all over it: not too fancy, a plain, white-washed exterior with a good view front and back and access to two streets. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder, knowing that Johnson and Wallender would be watching her from a rented panel truck.
Gabrielle answered the door and greeted her guest in English. “Martha! So good to see you. Please come in.” She stepped back to allow the American to enter.
Whitney took three steps inside, facing her host. As she did so, she took in the setting with the mindset of an alumna of the CIA Directorate of Operations. Curtains partly drawn to limit the view from outside. Too suspicious if they were closed. Large rug on the floor: good footing but she won’t try anything here in case there’s bloodstains.
Tixier smiled. “After last time I think we should have some tea!” She managed a credible giggle. So did Whitney. Female bonding, nice touch, honey. “I have a pot warming in the kitchen,” Tixier explained with a gesture toward the back of the house.
Whitney nodded politely. “Après vous.” She thought: No way am I letting you behind me, sweet cheeks.
Tixier accepted the fact that she had been outmaneuvered and led the way to the kitchen. Whitney recognized the signs of a setup: Venetian blinds mostly closed, tile floor for easy cleanup of messy fluids.
Gabrielle made a point of turning to the stove to retrieve the teapot while Martha
remained standing, holding her purse. The sound-activated mike inside was tuned to the frequency that J. J. Johnson was monitoring in case the conversation was conducted in French. He and Wallender could be inside in about thirty seconds, which was the best compromise. Any closer and they would surely be spotted.
While Tixier was adjusting the burner, Whitney did a complete scan. She was comfortable that nobody else was nearby. Not yet, anyway. She turned back to Tixier. Just you and me, babe.
The Frenchwoman carried the pot to the table where cups and saucers were set. She looked a little surprised. “Oh, please, sit down, Martha.” She patted a chair to the left of her own.
Whitney took the chair opposite Tixier rather than the one indicated, keeping the table between them. Apparently in frustration, Tixier dropped the smiling pretense. She took two quick steps to the side of the table, dropped the teapot’s lid, and flung the contents at Whitney’s face.
Martha reacted instinctively. She sidestepped most of the scalding brew, ignoring the liquid pain on her left arm and shoulder. As Tixier grabbed for a towel on the ledge, Whitney stepped in, connected with a swift overhand karate chop to the base of the neck, immediately following with a backhand blow to the larynx. Tixier gasped, slumped against the counter, and grabbed for the towel. As she fell to both knees, a 9 mm Makarov clattered to the floor.
Whitney kicked the pistol away and drew her Glock. “She’s down, J. J.!” Whitney wanted backup available soonest. “I’m unlocking the back door.”
Before turning away from an assailant, Whitney wanted some insurance. She set down her bag, brought up a can of pepper spray and gave Tixier a four-second dose to the face. The Frenchwoman reeled away, fell on her back, and rolled in pain, hands at her eyes.
Johnson and Wallender entered with pistols drawn. Without a word, they obeyed Whitney’s head gesture to clear the apartment. They disappeared through the door, “slicing the pie” to search progressively around each corner.
