by J C Ryan
Zhang finally indicated he believed Goudy and agreed these people should be apprehended, examined vigorously, and then kept in custody or executed as the circumstances warranted. He also agreed to issue orders that his taskforce had to wait for Zero Hour.
Goudy was relieved. So far so good. Just one more bridge to cross.
Zhang stayed quiet but stared at Goudy in anticipation.
He knew the President was waiting for the name; he hesitated. What he was about to say could undo everything he had gained so far. He couldn’t help but think about ancient times when messengers were often killed for bringing appalling news.
But there was no way around it. Finally, he looked Zhang in the eyes and said, “One of them is Vice-Chairman Lin Zhou Li, Mr. President.”
And indeed, Zhang exploded in wrath. From the impassive and outwardly gracious host he’d been, he turned into the tyrant Goudy knew him to be.
It quickly became much worse than Goudy had expected when Zhang summoned his security detail and ordered them to take Goudy into custody!
To Goudy, in an ice-cold voice he hissed, no longer speaking English, “I will consider what you have told me and let you know what I have decided. Meanwhile, you will remain as a ‘guest’ of the People’s Republic of China.”
Goudy understood enough Chinese to appreciate his position—a feeling of despair descended on him. When he’d agreed to come out of retirement, he hadn’t thought he may spend the rest of his days in a Chinese prison, or worse.
***
Constance Pierce arrived in Lima with Sean and six of his Executive Advantage operatives.
As the representative of the US government, Connie was afforded a befitting greeting, the Prime Minister welcoming her to his country. His hospitality grew even warmer when she conveyed Carter’s greetings.
Between her charm, her fluent Spanish, and dropping Carter’s name often, the Prime Minister was won over in short order.
The message Connie conveyed about the Nabateans caused him a great deal of distress, but frequent mention of Carter’s role in discovering them convinced the Prime Minister without much persuasion needed.
Not only did he agree to the raid on Graziella’s Machu Picchu compound, he suggested Sean lead it, and ordered the head of his military to provide a squad of six Fuerza Delta—the best he had.
***
In Moscow, at times, the negotiations were threatening to take the same course as Goudy’s in Beijing.
It took all the Vice President’s tact and flair to finally get the Russian President to eventually agree to the operation to capture Mathieu Nabati.
In a major coup, he also persuaded the Russian President to allow Dylan and his men to go along as observers.
Even so, the Russian was not prepared to talk about the prisoner swap now. As far as he was concerned, it was a separate matter. “Besides,” he said, “those Spetsnaz troops were on an unsanctioned mission, and even if they were not, then they were idiots to get themselves captured by the Americans and Canadians. I don’t need idiots in my military. You can keep them.”
Therefore, the Vice President made no mention of the information he had been holding back about the late, former head of the FSB, Peter Nikolaev, or the President’s confidant, Igor Ustinov. Those would be topics for another day—after Nabati was captured.
This outcome was not entirely what the Vice President hoped for, as he would have liked to take Mathieu Nabati back to the US with him.
Nevertheless, what he got in the end was a very good second prize. In fact, it was one of the possible scenarios which they’d foreseen and prepared for. Dylan would get a chance to put the Blackjack gadget to good use.
“So, given the circumstances, being able to go with the Russians on the operation is a major win,” he said to Dylan when he met with him after the meeting with the Russian president.
Dylan agreed.
***
Bill and his nine men were scattered in seats throughout the commercial flight to Paris. On arrival at Charles de Gaulle Airport, they gave no indication any of them knew the others as they deplaned and made their way to separate lodgings, all within a few miles’ radius from Simone’s apartment, where they’d wait for Bill’s instructions.
As he cleared customs, Bill was more than a little concerned. A visit by the Director of the American CIA to France was a rare event and usually would not happen without prior official arrangements. On the other hand, there was no travel ban on Americans wanting to visit France for business or holiday purposes. That the French border control systems and facial recognition would have identified him the moment he walked through customs he didn’t doubt for one second. Therefore, he’d deliberately not try to disguise himself; that would have undoubtedly raised the alarm bells immediately.
As he left the arrivals terminal, he subtly studied his surroundings to see if there was anyone following but found none. However, he fully expected by now the message would have gone up the chain and his unannounced arrival in France would have raised some eyebrows. He shrugged. There was not much he could do about it other than to act as a tourist. Though he fully expected a French official to make contact with him at some stage during his stay in their City of Lights.
Bill hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of Simone’s apartment. It was 2:20 a.m. in Paris when he called her from a phonebooth opposite her apartment.
“Simone,” he breathed when she answered with a sleepy voice. “It’s Bill.”
“Mon Dieu, Bill! What is going on? It’s… it’s two in the morning.”
“I know Simone, I’m very sorry. Are you well?”
“Oui. What is wrong, Bill?”
“Simone, I’m here, in Paris, and I need to meet with you urgently.”
“You are here! Why did you not let me know you were coming?”
“That’s what I need to explain to you.”
“Where shall I meet you?”
“I’m outside your apartment on the street.”
“Go to the foyer, type in my apartment number, and I will let you in. You still remember the number?”
“Yes, Simone, how could I ever forget it?” Bill felt his heart re-start. He was grateful she didn’t tell him to get lost and was prepared to see him despite the ungodly hour.
Walking across the street, he got a text message from the head of MI6—6@XA03 in 4.
Bill sighed in relief. Six MI6 operatives would be ready at the safe house, codenamed XA03 in four hours. He replied, THX!
When Simone opened the door for Bill and he saw her, as elegant and breathtaking as ever, even in her nightgown and with no makeup, his heart started racing.
She threw her arms around his neck, kissed him, and then pulled him inside. It took more than a few minutes for Bill’s heartbeat to return to normal.
She was still in his arms when she looked up at him and said, “What’s wrong? You looked tired, and you are tensed.”
Bill looked down and said, “We need to sit down. It’s going to take time to explain it all to you.”
She nodded and said, “Let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll make us coffee and something to eat.” She took his hand and steered him to the kitchen.
Most people who’d learned of the Nabateans required days of explanations and proof. He had eleven and a half hours left before Zero Hour.
Four hours later, after many cups of coffee and croissants, he had given her as much information as she could assimilate. When he told her of the criminal acts the Nabateans had performed and the Machiavellian tactics they had employed over the centuries, especially lately, her eyes had narrowed.
Bill was relieved at how quickly she came to grips with it all and agreed to help him save the people, stop the bombs, and recover the priceless information hidden beneath Graziella Nabati’s Paris mansion.
By dawn, when they got to the end of the information session and discussed the first high-level plan, an uneasy silence erupted.
She was staring at him. “And then,
” Simone concluded sadly, “I suppose I will not see you again?”
It was time for a personal moment.
“No, Simone, that’s part of the reason I’m here. I wanted to tell you, I never stopped loving you. Even when I married Beth, and I did love my wife, she was a wonderful woman… ah… it’s difficult to explain… but now… now that she is gone, I love only you.”
Simone’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “This is true?”
“It’s true,” he said as he stood, held out his hand for her, and collected her in his arms. At last, Bill felt he could draw a full breath.
For what felt to them as only a fleeting moment, the kiss they shared transported both to their lost youth.
There was not enough time for more; they had a lot to do before Zero Hour.
Simone, always the chirpy one, had an idea. “Let’s leave a marker here so we know from where to continue when this is all over?”
“Chéri d'amour, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Bill whispered in her ear.
It was seven and a half hours before Zero Hour.
Chapter 95 - Thanks to his new American friends
Precisely twenty-five hours after the first plane took off carrying the delegation to India, Dylan and his men accompanied Russian Spetsnaz troops as they were in the air on their way to Mathieu Nabati’s location to reconnoiter and plan the takedown. They had four hours to Zero Hour.
Dylan and his men suspected the Russians spoke better English than they let on, but antagonizing the Russians was not part of their assignment. One of Dylan’s men understood enough to quietly translate some of the muttering.
“They’re talking about their comrades who were killed in Canada and the ones still in US custody.”
“Do they know if they play nice with us they’re getting the ones we have back?” Dylan asked.
“Not sure. But it’s obvious the spin on the story was a lot different here. They think those guys were on holiday and were attacked by US and Canadian special forces. Heavily out-numbered, blah, blah, blah. They think those guys were big heroes and wonder if we have any knowledge of it.”
“Better not tell them what we do know,” Dylan said, his mouth tight and a grim expression around his eyes.
Dylan accepted the fact that it was a Russian operation and that he and his men were given observer status—as a favor. But when the arrogant SOB started pestering him about the purported attack on the Spetsnaz troops in Canada and making a few snotty remarks, he had a hard time not setting the guy straight there and then—with a right cross. That would have been a serious mistake and would have been the misstep that brought down the entire mission, so he bit his tongue, denied knowledge of the raid, and managed to avoid escalating the conflict.
Once on site and after some reconnaissance, half an hour before the attack, Dylan was shaking his head in disbelief. He supposed he should have been grateful the Russian shared his plan of attack with them, but he couldn’t agree with it. He and his crew were to stay back, like a camera crew in a warzone, which was frustrating enough.
The worst part was the plan was foolish and dangerous. For this, he couldn’t keep quiet. The PeriD’ice told him there were lots of invisible, electronic surveillance obstacles between them and the house. He couldn’t let the Russian know how he knew, but he could try to persuade him to change his stupid plan.
“You’re going to get your men killed. It won’t work.” He wanted to point out the weaknesses in the plan, but the Russian overrode him.
“You Americans are pansies. You will stay behind and watch how real men do it.” He walked off with a swagger, making Dylan really wish he could take the guy on and wipe the floor with him. His orders were clear—follow and observe. Do not engage without permission from the leader. And it was obvious the leader didn’t pay attention during the briefing, not heeding the warnings about the technical capability of the enemy—making the rookie mistake of underestimating his opponent.
Dylan had a bad feeling, and it was soon apparent to be well-justified.
The idiot led his men in a full-frontal assault on the house, which, as Dylan would have told him if he wanted to listen, was going to be suicidal.
The Russian troops set off surveillance alarms in the house while still more than one hundred yards away from it.
Nabati’s guards were waiting for them.
They were mowed down by landmines and small arms fire from the house as they rushed the front door. Their weapons had no effect on the bulletproof glass of the windows. More than half of them were killed or seriously wounded within seconds of the launch of the attack, the leader himself becoming a casualty when he took one bullet through the left shoulder and another through his right thigh.
From their concealed position, Dylan and his men could see this was going south fast, and the worst part was the occupants of the house would have time to communicate with their counterparts around the world. Dylan knew he had no option but to act immediately—his problem was he and his men were not armed—another stupid decision by the leader.
He split his men into three groups of two each. He ordered two of the groups to stay put while he and the remaining group of two rushed to aid the fallen Russians, move them to a safe spot, and get their weapons.
Fortunately, the gunfire from the house had become sporadic and wild because the guards couldn’t see them. He and the others dragged the Russians to safety and then commandeered their guns.
Dylan and his men, with the nonwounded Russians, moved the wounded to a safe location. The Russians were all truly shaken up. Dylan told the unharmed Russians to take care of their comrades while he and his men took care of business. He would call them in later if needed.
Thankfully, the Russians had destroyed the satellite dishes on the roof of the house when the firefight started.
He and his two men returned to their original position, handed out the Russians’ weapons, grenades, and body armor, and sent two of the groups to flank the house from the left and right.
Taking care to observe and avoid more landmines, tripwires, and other electronic perimeter security systems detected by the PeriD’ice devices as they approached, Dylan’s men, with their three-pronged approach, quickly worked their way toward the house.
This was like old times in the Sandpit. They knew how to fight house to house and how to clean out buildings with fanatic enemies inside. It was nerve-wracking, painstaking, and slow work, especially now that the occupants of the house knew they were there.
Dylan cursed the foolishness of the Russian leader, whose arrogance had put every man in more danger than they should have faced. Before long, gunfire from inside the house told him that some of his men had penetrated and were busy clearing from room to room.
With the occupants otherwise engaged, he and the men with him stormed the front door. One of them shot the lock to smithereens, kicked it open, stood to the side, and the second threw a hand grenade in to clear the area inside.
Dylan took in the layout of the house and made a guess about where Nabati would be. Most likely his bedroom, or if Dylan’s luck was bad, he’d be in a panic room. If the latter, all Dylan could hope was his men had by now managed to cut all other communications from the house as he’d ordered. In situations like these, there was no time to wonder and check. He assumed his men would have done it and proceeded.
The house was a maze. After a couple of wrong turns, Dylan finally found what he thought must be the master bedroom. It had grand double doors worthy of a ballroom. It was located in the southeast corner of the mansion from where the view of the mountains would be most spectacular in the mornings.
He tried the knob. Stranger things had happened than someone forgetting to lock a critical barrier, but no such luck this time. He tried to kick in the door, but it held. The bullet that came through it immediately afterward missed him and confirmed someone was inside. He guessed it was Nabati.
Dylan had no time to finesse it. Shooting the lock risked hitting and killi
ng Nabati, but there was no choice. He set the Russian weapon to automatic and demolished the lock mechanism.
His second kick opened the doors. He dove into the room and rolled away, shots flying over him in the space where his upper body would have been if he’d rushed in.
At first glance, the room was empty. His eyes darted across the room, looking for where the occupant was hiding. Then a bullet from underneath the bed took him in the left calf muscle, through and through. Without a second’s hesitation, he rolled to the left, spotted Nabati, and shot him in the shoulder. He would have preferred to kill the bastard, but his orders were to take Nabati alive if at all possible.
“Tell them to stand down, asshole,” he yelled as he dragged a moaning Nabati out from under the bed.
“No,” Nabati gasped. Dylan took out his rage in the kick to Nabati’s jaw, feeling it breaking under his boot. Nabati’s body went limp. He would only regain consciousness when the transport choppers arrived. Nabati was going to have his meals in liquid form, through a straw, for the next two to three months.
In the battle for the rest of the house, Nabati’s men refused to surrender. One of Dylan’s men was seriously wounded, and two others received minor wounds. Most of the guards were killed when they refused to surrender. They probably knew all too well what was in store for them from the Russian secret service if they were to be captured alive.
Dylan and his men zip-tied Mathieu Nabati and his few remaining men.
They attended then to the Russian leader and his wounded. The few Spetsnaz who’d been called in after Dylan and his men had entered the house and participated in the takedown were showing great respect and appreciation to the Americans, especially to Dylan, whose lead they were now happy to follow.
During the hour they had to wait for the evacuation choppers to arrive, Dylan and his four able-bodied men went through the house gathering Nabati’s electronic equipment, documents, and anything that looked as if it could be useful to learn about the Nabateans.
