by James Phelan
“They sold it to the US after the Civil War,” Fox said. “Kate?”
“It’s true, Al. 1867,” Kate said, checking her iPhone. “For just over seven million. You can even see the treaty, signed by Seward and this Eduard de Stoeckl guy, online. Look here.”
She passed the iPhone to Gammaldi, who squinted at its tiny screen.
“Why’d they sell it to the Americans?”
“To stop the British expanding further into North America.”
“For seven million?”
“About two cents an acre,” Kate clarified.
“Bargain.”
“Yeah, only it wasn’t seen as so wise back then,” Kate said. “It was pretty much just a fur colony, and a lot of the natural stocks had been depleted. They called it Seward’s Folly, and the House of Reps did their best to stop the purchase by holding out over a year on the payment.”
“And there’s some document hidden in a wall somewhere,” Gammaldi began, “that will—what?—that will renege that sale?”
“Not exactly sure what it says,” Fox said, “but the two diplomats signed something to cover their arses, and they had it kept safe. What it was exactly, and if it’s still there…”
“Could it be a copy of the treaty?” Gammaldi asked.
“It can’t simply be a copy of it,” Kate said. “That’s in the public domain, and it’s been long ratified; it’s law. If it’s an amendment though, a clause … But I just can’t imagine anything that could impact it this long after the fact.”
“Durand referred to it as a…” Fox turned to Zoe. “What did he call it?”
“Protocol,” Zoe answered.
“That sounds like the right terminology for an amendment,” Kate said.
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” Gammaldi said, watching Paris flash by his window. “I think Sarah Palin would have something to say about it. Seriously, she’d be pissed, and I wouldn’t want to annoy her—if you can kill a moose, you can kill a Russian.”
Fox almost laughed. “Well, Babich believes it’s enough to kill for, so I guess he’s gonna take his chances.”
“And now it’s hidden here in Paris?”
“That’s what Durand said,” Fox replied. “We gotta get the diary first, and I have to speak to Renard.”
“What if this protocol has already been found?” Gammaldi asked.
Fox didn’t have an answer for that.
53
WASHINGTON, DC
Several freeze-frames showing news footage of a car chase through Paris were magnified on the computer screens in front of Bowden, along with the CIA’s files on Lachlan Fox.
“That was your boy Lachlan Fox this morning,” Bowden said to McCorkell.
“Aren’t we looking for Babich?” McCorkell asked, standing next to the CIA man. Bowden seemed out of place in a suit; he would be more at ease in fatigues and turban with a rifle, hunting al-Qaeda in the mountains.
Images changed to shots from traffic cameras on a highway. Some grainy images of Fox climbing out of a wrecked SUV.
“Lachlan Fox, again.”
“He gets around,” McCorkell said.
“Well—if he’s after this—” Bowden checked the print-out of the NSA intercept transcript in his hands, “this document, can you make sure he gets it into our hands?”
McCorkell smiled. “Fox is a tough son of a bitch. He’s his own guy.”
Bowden tried to stare him down. McCorkell took a bite of the apple he’d been eating.
“What about doing it for the country?”
“No.”
“No? What, doesn’t he like America?”
“He loves America.”
“So what is it?”
“He’s not really someone to be ordered around,” McCorkell said. “Never quite stuck with him.”
“Yeah, I read his military jacket. I’m just saying, he’s over there, in France, doing something related to our case and destroying all sorts of shit in the process…” Bowden could see he wasn’t getting anywhere. “You know, I’m not Hutchinson.”
“I noticed.”
“I mean, I enforce policy, not the law. There are other ways we can do this—”
“Follow him with HUMINT, satellites, put him on a tight leash?”
“Drag him in, put him through the ringer.”
“You can’t pressure him,” McCorkell said, taking another bite. “He’s got morals that would make good men cower. He’s probably achieved more in the last few years than your entire AQ workforce combined.”
A few people nearby sniggered—until they realised McCorkell was serious.
“You’re not going to help us get him onside?”
“He’s onside.”
“You know what I mean.”
McCorkell finished off the apple.
“You going to get some assets into China?”
“I got plenty in China,” Bowden replied. “You talk to your boy or I’ll get someone who can.”
“I’ll talk to him, sure.” McCorkell binned his apple core in Bowden’s trash can with a three-pointer. “But there’s no betting on this guy doing what you want—he’ll do what’s right.”
“We’re what’s right.”
54
THE LOUVRE, PARIS
Zoe had pulled a hard left, double-parked and was already heading toward the Louvre’s forecourt.
“Okay, you two need—” Fox did a double-take. “Al, where’s Kate?”
Gammaldi gestured behind the car, where Kate was ending a call on her iPhone. The day was hot and bright as they waited on the kerb.
“I’m sorry,” she said, catching Fox’s gaze, “I’ve been trying to tell you—”
“Come on!” Zoe said, running back to Fox. She didn’t even look at Gammaldi or Kate as the breeze whipped in off the Seine.
“Let me guess,” Gammaldi said, “us kids have to wait in the car?”
Zoe looked annoyed. “I told you both to stay with my colleague earlier,” she said.
“Look, we know Renard,” Kate said, getting frustrated. “It’s not like—”
“I want to ask him some questions,” Zoe said. “Better you are not there for the moment.”
“She’s right, guys,” Fox said. “We’ll be quick.”
Kate gave up, shook her head a little.
“It’s cool; Kate and I will go find an ice-cream,” Gammaldi said, putting his arm around her shoulders and leading her away. “They wouldn’t appreciate one anyway. Did you hear there’s a McDonald’s here, serves beer…”
Fox watched them go and then followed Zoe across the crowded courtyard.
“Your friends are annoying,” she said.
“They’ve been through a lot today.”
Zoe glanced at him hard. Yeah, so had she.
“We all have,” he said, trying to catch up. “How’d you get Renard to the meeting?”
“I can be persuasive,” she said, texting on her phone.
Something wasn’t right. She’d had men watching Renard all this time. Why not just take him in to a police station somewhere? Was she waiting for him to get this diary from the architect? Fine, but why hadn’t she taken him in earlier? Why wait until—
“You’re using him,” Fox said, as he caught up.
“Sorry?”
“Renard—I’ve been trying to figure out why, if this is all so vital, you didn’t just get him this morning,” he said. “Instead, you’ve let him do all the work while we’ve been picking up crumbs and chasing—”
“Lachlan,” she stopped near the glass pyramid that served as the entrance to the Louvre. “As fascinating as this diary sounds, this Alaska whatever; that is not my game. I am after a man, a murderer. Vincent was, too.”
“And you’re using Renard to flush him out!” Fox said. “Look, I’m sorry about Vincent, I really am, but maybe you don’t realise what’s at stake here. Umbra is far bigger than any
murderer!”
Zoe was scanning the crowd in the courtyard, thousands of faces, mostly tourists shielded behind cameras.
“You know this guy will kill for this diary, but you are willing to dangle Renard out there to catch your man.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t care what Roman Babich, a fugitive much bigger than any single murderer, is after?”
“I work for the National Police, Lachlan,” Zoe said, moving on. “And I have a job to do.”
Boris Malevich had watched as the four cops escorted Renard to the Musée du Louvre—and then left him there, alone, in the wide open terrain of the court. He saw a van pick the police up and take them away. It seemed Lavrov’s contact there had finally come through.
Malevich waited for the signal from his men that they were in place on the other side—he couldn’t risk Renard fleeing now. When they were ready he would leave his cover, walk straight across the court and take the diary. His job was nearly over.
Zoe walked briskly through the crowd towards a statue of Louis XIV.
“You’ve got some agents around here?” Fox asked.
“Officers,” she replied, scanning the crowd from behind her sunglasses. “Four of them.”
Fox couldn’t make them out, but then he hadn’t been able to this morning either. Maybe they were using the cover of English tourists, plenty of them about, even a group of Americans here wearing Crack the Code T-shirts.
They reached the equestrian statue of the Sun King. Renard appeared from behind its base, leather satchel slung over one shoulder.
“Lachlan?” he said, visibly taken aback, as if caught in the act. “What are you doing—?”
“He’s with me,” Zoe said, showing her ID. He looked back up to Fox, like a deer in headlights.
“Renard…” Fox said. “Why’d you lie to me?”
Fox could see Renard trying to work it all out.
“Katya. Durand. The diary…” Fox helped him out. “You drove me into town this morning and said nothing.”
“I’m sorry, Lachlan,” Renard said. “I—I should have been honest.”
Fox shook his head, looked around. Nothing but milling tourists and herding tour groups.
“Just tell me: what’s this about?” Fox asked, taking a step towards him. “Who are you working for?”
Now Renard looked confused. “You know who I work for.”
“Umbra?”
The Frenchman cracked a smile.
“Lachlan,” Renard laughed. “You think I am with them?”
Malevich strode out towards Renard, hand on the grip of the pistol concealed beneath his jacket—
A man and woman approached the journalist.
He stopped mid-stride and paused. Tourists shuffled around him. Watching, the two arrivals were talking to Renard—they knew each other. He saw the woman show an ID of some sort. More cops!
He searched the faces around him, signalled to each of his guys to hold off.
He headed quickly for cover behind one of the smaller glass pyramids. What the hell?
Change of plans. They would triangulate and go in hard, his point man a few paces ahead of him while his other guy stayed closer to the street, keeping them covered if any uniformed cops got involved.
“So, what—you leave me out because you’re chasing a scoop?” Fox asked after Renard had explained why he’d gone it alone—he wanted a headline? “Come on…”
“I didn’t know, I just thought this had fallen in my lap as something big—”
“Tell me who you have been in contact with,” Zoe cut in, scanning the crowd again.
“What do you mean?”
“How did you know to meet Durand?”
“Katya told me about him; should something happen to her, she asked me to get word to him,” Renard replied. He was looking down at his feet as he spoke. “I told him about her murder, he said that she’d sent him the diary.”
He looked up. “We arranged to meet.”
“How did you know about Katya’s murder?”
“A friend in the police,” he replied.
Zoe looked like she was going to ask about it, but she bit her lip then looked around the crowd in the forecourt.
“Renard, they tried to kill us,” Fox said.
“What?”
“This morning, when I got back to the farm. They attacked us at your house.”
“Who?” Renard looked confused and genuinely concerned. “Guys from Umbra?”
Fox nodded.
“Look, Lachlan, that’s your heat, not mine, I’ve never had anything to do—”
“Have you noticed someone following you?” Zoe asked. Fox felt her stance change, more alert.
“Not until your guys approached me,” Renard said. “And I didn’t notice them until they had me surrounded.”
Fox looked around instinctively, he still couldn’t pick Zoe’s agents out of the crowd.
“Has anyone else contacted you about this, anyone at all?” Zoe asked.
“No. Like who?”
“Durand was approached by a man offering money for the diary, a week ago.”
“He didn’t mention that to me,” Renard replied.
“Do you know what this is about?” Fox asked him. “These murders and attacks on the Russian Ambassador and his wife?”
“You made the Umbra connections out of Katya’s information,” Renard said. “She had something valuable to them—this diary. I mean, a diplomat’s diary from over a century ago … How is that worth murdering for?”
Fox answered, “That’s what I want to know.”
“Durand told me it has something to do with an amendment to a treaty—”
“Between the United States and Russia, we got that,” Fox said. Someone nearby laughed loudly and spooked him—just some young travellers clowning around. He turned to Zoe—surely she could see that Durand wasn’t implicated in this? Surely she could see it was far too risky to be in this crowd with unknown assailants after this diary. “Can we get out of here now?”
A tour group of about forty people was approaching.
“Come,” Zoe said to both men. “Keep walking; stay with the group around the pyramid and then go back towards the car.”
They walked at the edge of the group, the breeze picking up and cooling them with water vapour from the fountains.
Zoe made a call, eyes everywhere on the crowd as she walked close to Fox.
Fox asked Renard, “So where’s the diary?”
The Frenchman patted the leather satchel around his shoulder, a beaten-up lucky charm that had seen about as many conflict zones as Fox.
“It states the location of this document?”
“Apparently, yes.”
“Where?” Fox asked.
“Here, in Paris,” Renard replied. “It’s in Russian, but Katya translated it into French and inserted a loose page into the diary—for Durand, I assume.”
He tapped what appeared to be a notebook in the pocket of his linen jacket, a folded piece of paper overhanging.
“It was hidden in the Elysée Palace.”
They stopped walking. Zoe looked to Fox, back to Renard.
“Do you think it’s still there?” Fox asked.
“Well, the building hasn’t gone anywhere, and it is mostly unchanged,” Renard said. “In fact, its last renovation was 1867.”
“Same year as the Alaska Purchase treaty was signed,” Fox said.
“And,” Renard added, “they even used some of the same building contractors who worked on the Russian Ambassador’s residence—I Googled it earlier.”
Fox’s demeanour lifted. “It does sound promising…”
“More than promising, my friend,” Renard said with a twinkle in his eye. “It’s still there, at the palace, I know it.”
“I think Babich’s guys know it’s still around too—and are willing to kill for it,” Fox said.
“Th
is will be a massive scoop!” Renard looked starry-eyed. “This will make my career.”
“Keep moving,” Zoe said as they caught up behind the tour group. “Are you two serious? You want to go get this document?”
“Why not?” Fox replied. “Why not beat them to it?”
“The Elysée Palace is a big place,” Zoe said. “And it is not like we can tear down the walls looking for it.”
“Neither can Umbra,” Fox said.
“The room it is in has only ever undergone minor cosmetic renovations,” Renard said.
“Room?” Zoe questioned. “It—the diary gives a specific spot?”
“Of course,” Renard said. He pulled out the hand-written page. “It’s in the Presidential Study.”
55
WASHINGTON, DC
“You all know our man: Roman Babich. We need to bring him back at all costs.” Bowden turned to his left. “Special Agent Valerie Child is gonna bring us up to speed. It may rattle something loose that we can use, and I want to hear some dialogue as a result. Valerie?”
Valerie stood up front, a few pictures of Babich on the big screens behind her, along with images of several overseas section chiefs who were on a live feed on the video-con briefing.
McCorkell made himself another cup of tea, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and tuned in from his seat at the back.
“Roman Babich. Sixty years old. Best known for his role as a Russian oligarch, media tycoon and prominent leader of privatisation during the presidency of Boris Yeltsin in the nineties. He’s a close friend of the Yeltsin family and was seen as a member of their inner circle.
“Babich made his fortune by capturing state assets at knockdown prices during Russia’s rush towards privatisation. His personal fortune at the time of his arrest was 12.4 billion US dollars, and his Umbra Corp umbrella company has been valued at about twenty times that.
“His power base is the loyalty and connections of his senior staff—all ex-spooks.”
She clicked through some digital slides to show Babich as he’d been when he’d left his final government position.
