Robert Ludlum's (TM) the Geneva Strategy

by Jamie Freveletti

  “Shouldn’t you be at Djibouti managing this crisis? Why are you calling me from Fort Meade?”

  “Because I’m in the brig.”

  Howell exchanged a look with the RAF pilot.

  “Who do you recommend I talk to in Djibouti? If this is being piloted out of that base then I want the best there is tracking down the hacker and I want to talk to him now.”

  “As we speak the technicians in Djibouti are in communication with the Swiss authorities. But I wouldn’t recommend you speak to them anyway. There isn’t anyone left in Djibouti senior enough or with the experience that you need. They all walked off a cliff when the chemical that I think these drones are releasing was sprayed on the troop.”

  “Ah, now I understand. You’re Katherine Arden’s client.”

  “I am.”

  “All right, Commander, tell me what I’m dealing with here. It’s circling the area and clearly capable of delivering some sort of chemical payload as it does. We’re afraid to shoot it down and risk having its canister rupture. How long can this thing fly?”

  “That depends on its size and fuel. From what Scariano told me it sounds as though it will remain aloft for at least another forty-five minutes to an hour. Maybe longer.”

  “Can you tell me where the man is who’s operating this thing? How can I reach him and put my hands around his throat?”

  “You can’t. They’re usually run out of a command center, but if this one has been hacked you’ll have to follow the signature back to the base. I’ve already asked the technicians in Djibouti to do that and they found no signature to follow.”

  “Okay, what does that mean?”

  “That means it’s very likely that it’s preprogrammed and flying driverless. Completely autonomous and pilotless UAVs are experimental, but the ones that I have seen use a basic laser-light-beam technology to map the environment. It will also have multiple mounted sensors that will detect obstacles. You’ll be able to determine that quite easily. I understand you’re in a helicopter within line-of-sight distance of the UAV?”

  “I am.”

  “Then have the pilot fly an intercept route. If the drone automatically adjusts its flight pattern downward you can assume that it’s self-correcting.”

  “Why?”

  “Because a technician-piloted UAV in that situation would take greater evasive action, perhaps even line up to fire. It’s the contrast between a vindictive pilot who wants to play with you, perhaps fire upon you and kill you, and an indifferent robotic device that simply wants to get out of your way.”

  Howell looked at his own pilot, who raised an eyebrow and then nodded.

  “Officer Canelo, you’ve got an excellent grasp of human psychology,” Howell said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Hold tight.” Howell nodded at the pilot.

  “I’m going to get ahead of it and then turn hard into its path. Be prepared,” the pilot said.

  Howell braced himself as the helicopter sped up. When it had opened a gap between it and the drone the pilot yanked on the collective and the copter swung around, cutting across the drone’s path. A light on top of the drone flashed once and the drone dropped lower. It passed under the helicopter and continued on at the new level, neither speeding up nor slowing down.

  “I believe it’s driverless,” Howell said to Canelo.

  “That’s very good news.”

  “Is there a way to reprogram it?”

  “Probably not. But it operates off a GPS signal. If you can spoof or block the signal, or alter it in such a way that it begins to receive improper input, then there is a chance you can move it off its current path.”

  “Is it difficult to spoof a GPS signal?”

  “Not at all. The local military can likely do it and fairly quickly. Then my suggestion would be to have jets surround the drone. Cluster them so that it senses all of the obstacles, but leave the direction that you want it to fly free of obstruction. In this way it will continue to find the open flight pattern. You can use the spoofed signal to guide it out to sea and it will land there.”

  “We’re on it. Please stand by in case we need you again.”

  “Of course.”

  Howell nodded at the pilot. “Okay, this time when the Swiss demand you leave the area ask to speak to the one in charge of the fighter jets,” he said. “We have a plan.”

  Within ten minutes Howell and the RAF pilot were surrounded by Swiss military helicopters. The drone kept its circular flight path, trailing fighters in its wake.

  Howell’s RAF pilot turned to him. “They’re concerned that it’s programmed to release its payload if it deviates too much. Any chance of figuring that out before they get into formation?”

  “Get Canelo back,” Howell said. When Canelo answered, he asked the question.

  “We’ve programmed drones to self-destruct their dashboard software if they deviate, so it’s definitely possible that a release code on deviation was programmed,” Canelo said. “But here’s the better news, our programming didn’t work.”

  The RAF pilot groaned.

  “What do you mean?” Howell asked.

  “Just that. The drone that the Iranians captured a few years ago was programmed that way, but as far as we could tell when it began to deviate it didn’t activate any of the self-destruct programs in place. Once they head off on their own it’s impossible to predict what they’ll do. I still think the cluster and redirect plan is the best.”

  “And let it drop its payload as it flies? Not a good idea and I don’t know how we’re going to sell that plan to the Swiss,” Howell said.

  “It’s the only play you’ve got, because eventually that bird’s going to run out of gas and crash and it will definitely release its payload then. Tell them to roll the dice. It’s what I would do.”

  Spoken like a man sitting in the brig, Howell thought. Still, he had to agree with Canelo. Their options were few. Five minutes later the Swiss began to close in on the drone.

  “They got the green light,” Howell’s pilot said.

  As the helicopters flanked the drone they began tightening the flight pattern. Howell and the RAF pilot joined and Howell watched as the drone made an adjustment. It turned away and instead of flying in a circular pattern adopted a straight-line path.

  “The first aspect is done. Let’s hope it doesn’t release the payload,” the RAF pilot said.

  They flew on, keeping the drone between them as they steered it over land toward the sea. Every minute that the drone didn’t release its payload Howell counted as a win. They continued on and sixty-five minutes later Howell watched the drone as it flew over Genoa, Italy, and began a slow descent over the Ligurian Sea. He smiled when it plunged into the water.

  66

  Smith waited as the Swiss police guided the remaining attendees out of the conference center. Each person had been given an oxygen mask. Wyler left last, and he nodded at Smith as he stepped outside.

  After it was clear that the grenade had scattered the troops, the Swiss sniper team, clothed in containment suits, had caught the rest as they fled the center. Wyler had received the all-clear notice in a call from the authorities.

  “We don’t need to be here when they arrive,” Russell had said.

  She, Smith, and Wyler had helped Beckmann get to his feet, and Smith had helped Beckmann make his way to a far exit while Wyler had returned to the roof to manage the evacuation. Once Beckmann and Russell had made their way to the property border Smith returned to assist Wyler and Arden on the roof.

  Now Smith watched as Wyler was surrounded by several envoys from the American embassy the moment he was free of the contained area and hustled into a consular car. Smith and Arden walked with the remaining crowd, which was being corralled into a separate containment area where two military transports stood by to take them to a secure military hospital outside Switzerland. Smith could have told them that anyone still standing and sentient was not in need of a hospital, but it was clear that the
area had been earmarked for containment with those within it subject to quarantine for a number of days until any chance of infection was passed.

  An official waved Smith forward. “Please keep moving to the transports,” he said.

  Smith hung back and Arden stayed at his side. Smith had retrieved his suit jacket, which had survived unscathed and was still hanging from the back of his chair in the conference room, and he hoped the formal clothing would go a long way toward cloaking him with an air of authority.

  “I’m not going,” Arden said to him in a quiet voice. “And you shouldn’t either. Once they find out that there’s a red notice for your arrest they’ll take you straight from the hospital to jail.”

  “Stay with me. I’ve texted Russell and I expect her to appear any minute and ferry us out of here.”

  True to his word, Smith watched as another consular car worked its way toward the staging area. Russell stepped out and approached the crowd. A Swiss official stepped in front of her and after a short conversation, in which Russell held a name badge on a lanyard around her neck aloft for him to see and twice pointed out the consular plates on the car, he nodded and she continued toward Smith.

  “Let’s go before the next official tries to stop us,” Russell said.

  Smith and Arden stepped to the car. Before they could get in a Swiss officer approached, nodded at the two officers with him, and they surrounded Smith.

  “Monsieur Jon Smith?” the first man asked.

  “I am,” Smith replied.

  “You are under arrest. Please place your hands on the vehicle.”

  “There must be some mistake,” Russell said.

  The officer shook his head. “There is no mistake. Mr. Smith is the subject of an arrest warrant issued through Interpol.”

  “That is a mistake. Mr. Smith is a lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Army as well as a microbiologist, and is here on official business,” Russell said.

  The two assisting officers patted Smith down. One reached inside Smith’s jacket and removed Smith’s gun. He held it up for the other officer to see.

  “As I mentioned, Mr. Smith is a lieutenant colonel in the military and authorized to carry a gun,” Russell said.

  “One can only hope so, for Mr. Smith’s sake,” the arresting officer said. The man who had found the gun pulled first one, then the other of Smith’s wrists off the car to handcuff him behind his back.

  “I really wish you’d call your superior and check this out before you take Mr. Smith away. It will save all of the parties a lot of time,” Arden said.

  “I’m sorry. Mr. Smith can address this matter with the judge at the appropriate tribunal. I am obligated to execute the warrant. The rest”—he gave a classic Gallic shrug—“is up to the judge.”

  Smith blew out a breath and looked at Arden. “Represent me?”

  She nodded. “We’ll follow you to the jail. I’ll make a few calls from the car.”

  Arden got into the back of the sedan as Russell put it in gear. Smith watched from the backseat of the police car as they navigated out of the crowd, down the long drive, and through the hastily erected fencing that created a thirty-foot-buffer zone between the actual gatehouse and the incoming drivers. They waited there and pulled out behind the patrol car when it passed.

  An hour later Smith was sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair in an interrogation room. He had once again removed his jacket while he waited for whatever would happen next. The door buzzed and his nerves jumped at the sound. He looked up to see Arden step into the room, and he smiled at her in relief.

  “You bailed me out,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I didn’t have to. The red notice was strangely, miraculously, withdrawn less than an hour ago.”

  “Good news for me.”

  “In fact,” she continued, “not only was it withdrawn, but I received an email from the head of Interpol begging my forgiveness and asking me to convey his deepest apologies to you.”

  Smith smiled even wider.

  “You, sir, have backers with some amazing mojo behind you. Care to divulge who they are?”

  “Nope,” Smith said.

  “And there’s more good news. Your colleague called. Before she was kidnapped a second time, Dr. Taylor left a note on a remote server at USAMRIID. She must have seen this coming, because she deliberately engineered the drug she was forced to make with a diminishing half-life. All existing batches will be rendered inert after a few days. They seem to think that whatever is left out there will be useless.”

  “That is good news. Is this over? Can we just walk out of here?”

  Arden nodded. “You sure you don’t want to tell me who moved heaven and earth to get this red notice quashed? A contact like that would be infinitely useful in my line of business.”

  He shook his head. “Can’t.” He gave her a sidelong look as he put his jacket back on.

  “I don’t know how you maintain a relationship with a woman when you insist on such secrecy,” she said.

  He cocked his head to one side. “I don’t have many relationships, but if I did I can think of nothing better than having one with an attorney who is required to keep every word I say confidential. Would such a woman be interested in me, do you think?”

  Arden smiled a broad smile. “I think she would. Where to?”

  “I know a private house on the outskirts of Geneva that boasts an excellent wine bar, a fully stocked kitchen, and a well-appointed gun case. Care to join me there for some dinner?”

  She nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Russell sat in a hotel restaurant and stared at her drink. Beckmann walked up and sat down in the seat across from her.

  “You’ve been quiet since the whole thing went down. You okay?”

  Russell smiled and tried to shake off the melancholy that had enveloped her after the mission was completed.

  “Just coming down from the stress, I suppose. How’s the shoulder?”

  “Not broken, just badly bruised. It looks like I was kicked by a mule. I got some good news from Howell. He says that Rendel fled Switzerland but was picked up outside a strip club in Berlin. The Swiss found him. They’re hoping to add their own charges to the long list that the United States will slap him with.”

  “Nice. He deserves everything he gets.”

  “And Arden wanted you to know that the charges were dropped against Canelo. Scariano said he’s being reinstated and possibly promoted.”

  She nodded again. “Also nice.”

  “And I want to thank you for getting me a waiver on the smoking thing.”

  “I still would like you to try to shake it.”

  He nodded. “I know. But at least now I can do it in my own time.” He rose. “I’m headed back to Paris. Where are you going?”

  She gave a vague wave. “I checked in here. I’ll need some rest before I return to Washington and this hotel is as quiet as they come.”

  He snorted. “At these prices it should be. But you deserve every bit of it.”

  “Thanks. For everything,” she said. He smiled at her and strolled away.

  She returned to staring at her drink. The waiter walked over with a bottle on a silver tray.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Russell. A gentleman at the bar sent this to you. We wanted to bring you a fresh bottle, but the gentleman insisted that it be only half full.”

  The waiter placed a bottle of Armagnac on the table in front of her.

  Russell’s melancholy fled. Her boring days off had just taken a turn for the better.

  She picked up the bottle and headed to the bar to find him.

  Acknowledgments

  I was thrilled when the estate of Robert Ludlum asked me to write another in his Covert-One series. I love the characters and relish the opportunity to write about covert operatives functioning in a world that is increasingly complex and technological. While this is a book of fiction, some matters mentioned in the novel are taken from documents released by Edward Snowden detailing the National
Security Agency’s surveillance activities. The Stateroom embassy surveillance project is mentioned there, as is the use of the United Kingdom’s Croughton facility in conjunction with the drone program out of Djibouti. A few facts regarding the drone program are real as well. They do crash with some frequency, have been captured and possibly reverse engineered by Iran, and come in an array of shapes and sizes.

  I’d like to thank Ting Ting Branit for her assistance with the Chinese names in the book and the entire Branit family for trooping through the London tube with me and pointing out every CCTV camera that they could find.

  Thank you to my editors, the excellent Mitch Hoffman and Lindsey Rose for their insightful changes, production editors Kallie Shimek and Jeff Holt, copyeditor Laura Jorstad, and everyone at Grand Central Publishing for their assistance. Thank you also to Henry Morrison, to the estate of Robert Ludlum, and to my agent, Barbara Poelle, to whom this book is dedicated. And of course, thanks always to Klaus, Alex, and Claudia for their love and support.

  Jamie Freveletti

  September 3, 2014

  The Covert-One Novels

  The Hades Factor (by Gayle Lynds)

  The Cassandra Compact

  (by Philip Shelby)

  The Paris Option (by Gayle Lynds)

  The Altman Code (by Gayle Lynds)

  The Lazarus Vendetta (by Patrick Larkin)

  The Moscow Vector (by Patrick Larkin)

  The Arctic Event (by James Cobb)

  The Ares Decision (by Kyle Mills)

  The Janus Reprisal (by Jamie Freveletti)

  The Utopia Experiment (by Kyle Mills)

  The Jason Bourne Novels

  The Bourne Identity

  The Bourne Supremacy

  The Bourne Ultimatum

  The Bourne Legacy