The Geneva Strategy

by Robert Ludlum

Beckmann nodded. “Agreed. You have a gun?” Smith reached once again into the duffel and removed a Sig Sauer.

  “I have one magazine. That’s it. You?”

  “The same.”

  Corenger had been standing in front of the car watching his phone and after a moment he walked over to the car again.

  “I just saw the confirm. Two thousand isn’t enough.”

  Smith leaned toward the window. “It’s all for now. I’ve seen nothing to indicate what you tell me is true. I don’t even know if this guy is the one I need. Once I have the hostage you’ll get the rest.”

  Corenger leaned into the car. “You bet I will. Let’s go.”

  “We need ammunition and some weapons. You have any?” Beckmann said.

  “It’ll cost you another five hundred.”

  Beckmann looked at Smith. “Pay the man.”

  “You’re pretty free with my money,” Smith said.

  “It’s either that or we stand around like target dummies while the bullets fly.”

  Smith hit the tablet again and within seconds the ping came.

  “It’s done. Show us what our options are.”

  Smith tossed the computer back into the duffel and got out of the car. Corenger waved both him and Beckmann toward a motorcycle with a sidecar storage box attached. He took out a key and opened it.

  “Take anything except the G36 combat diver.”

  “Why the hell do you have a combat diver?” Smith asked.

  “We’re close to the North Sea. Russian spies dive off the boats and come in underwater all the time. I got that sweet machine off one of them. I know a Swede who wants it.”

  Beckmann peered inside. “All Heckler and Koch. I should have guessed.”

  “Only the best and all untraceable,” Corenger said. “The assault weapons are HK416s. I’ve got an order in for some 417s but don’t have them yet.”

  “You have a G28?” Beckmann asked.

  Corenger nodded. “You a marksman? Take this one.”

  “I am,” Beckmann said. He took the gun Corenger offered, while Smith removed an assault weapon. Corenger walked to another cycle, opened a soft-sided saddlebag, and removed two canisters. He gave one to Smith, the other to Beckmann.

  “Tear gas. Time released. You twist the top and have two minutes to leave the area.”

  Corenger reached inside and began assembling another assault rifle. He finished two and gave one to a nearby man the size of a mountain.

  “This is Karl. He’ll stay with you both. When we get the hostage out he’ll ride with you until the money is transferred. You understand?” Karl lumbered toward Smith. “Move out,” Corenger said.

  They began marching across the field toward a stand of trees that Smith estimated were three hundred yards away. Beckmann walked on Smith’s left, while Karl stayed on the right. The rest fanned out on either side. The only sound was the crunching of their shoes on the earth and the occasional soft brush of wind through the leaves. From the far right Smith heard the hoot of an owl. They entered the trees and Smith darted from trunk to trunk in a zigzag pattern. Karl marched placidly forward.

  “Is he going to just walk on in?” Beckmann whispered to Smith.

  “Looks that way. But the tree trunks are too small to hide him anyway. He must weigh almost three hundred.”

  Smith ran to the next tree with Beckmann right behind him. They both took up a stance behind two side-by-side trunks. They had reached the end of any available cover. In front of them was an open field composed mainly of scrub grass and patchy weeds. A ramshackle farmhouse sat an additional two hundred yards away. They had come in from the rear. A single floodlight on a pole illuminated the yard where a German shepherd was chained to a post in the ground. It stared in their direction, head up and ears pricked.

  “The dog knows we’re here,” Beckmann said.

  “Glad he’s chained.”

  “He starts barking and we’re done,” Beckmann said.

  At that exact moment the dog started barking.

  20

  Smith waited for the barking dog to summon someone from inside. One dim bulb glowed from a window, but otherwise the house was dark. It remained silent. No one came to investigate.

  “That’s odd. You’re hiding a hostage in a house, have a dog outside to warn you when someone approaches, and when the dog barks you don’t check it out?” Smith whispered to Beckmann, who nodded.

  “Maybe no one’s home.”

  “Maybe Corenger set us up and there is no hostage.”

  “That feels wrong too. Because unless he produces, there’s no way he gets your money.”

  “He could lure us into that house and hold me hostage until he gets me to transfer the funds.”

  “If that was the plan why not take us in the clearing? We were outnumbered and there was no neutral bartender as a witness.”

  Smith had to agree. The only possible explanation for the inactivity was that no one was present to hear the dog.

  “So the house is empty,” Smith said. “Maybe.”

  Corenger and his crew stepped into the yard. His men remained with him. They were still spread at ten-foot intervals, but didn’t bother to hide or scurry from one safe location to another. While Corenger was close, he was still well beyond the range of a rifle unless it was in the hands of an excellent shot. Most of the men stayed well outside of the danger zone as well.

  “Hey! It’s Corenger. I’m here to warn you. Trouble’s on its way. American trouble,” Corenger yelled at the house in English, which gave Smith his first cue that whoever had kidnapped Warner, they weren’t German.

  “That would be you,” Beckmann said to Smith.

  There was no response. Corenger stayed in view and then walked ahead toward the shack with his usual saunter. Smith and Beckmann started toward the house as well, but at a much slower pace. Corenger and his men were twenty feet from the back door when the sharp crack of a rifle split the air.

  The man farthest to the right went down. Corenger and the rest of his men opened fire, scattering as they did. Smith dropped onto the grass and started crawling backward. Beckmann stayed with him, also doing a military crawl. One of Corenger’s men sprinted toward them and was a few feet away when another crack rang out and he spun and grabbed at his arm.

  “That’s one hell of a shooter. A hit at two hundred yards in the dark,” Beckmann said.

  “Can you wait for the next muzzle flash and pinpoint him?” Smith asked. Beckmann rolled to his stomach and aimed at the house.

  “His next shot I will, but he’ll do the same so be ready to move.”

  “Good. Keep him busy. I’m going around,” Smith said.

  The next shot landed somewhere to their right. Beckmann fired back and Smith catapulted to his feet and ran. He heard Beckmann behind him and more shots. The remaining men in Corenger’s group had made it back to the trees and fired round after round at the house. Their complete lack of strategy had Smith worried that he and Beckmann would be hit by friendly fire.

  Smith swerved into the trees and began tacking around in a wide circle. He found Karl walking in their direction in the same placid manner. When he saw Smith he speeded up and fell in step on Smith’s right. Beckmann joined on Smith’s left. They made it to the edge of the property and Smith saw the taillights of a vehicle flash to life. From the vague glow he could make out the shape of a dark-gray panel van.

  “They’re taking the hostage,” he said, and he went down on one knee and aimed at the tires. He fired off a volley and was rewarded with the sound of a puncture. Beckmann fired two rounds and managed to place a bullet through the driver’s-side window as the van made a turn to the left. He swung the rifle strap over his shoulder and switched to the pistol.

  The driver’s-side door was flung open and a man emerged, holding a small automatic weapon. He dropped to a crouch and returned fire. Beckmann, Smith, and Karl all fired back, hammering the van’s engine area and the surrounding grass. The noise made Smith wince as hi
s ears took a battering and Beckmann’s cartridges flew in front of him. For a moment Smith was blinded as the headlights of a second car swung into view. He heard it screech to a halt, and the man from the van kept firing at them as he ran to it.

  From the corner of his eye Smith saw Beckmann swing his rifle back into position, aim, and fire. He hit the fleeing man dead center in his back and he went down. The car reversed in a squeal of tires and as it swung to drive away the headlights swept over another man who was racing to the car. That man disappeared into the passenger side as Beckmann fired another shot. Smith thought he saw a hole rip open in the car door’s interior. The car drove forward, with its passenger-side door swinging wide with the velocity. The car sped away and Beckmann swore in German when he saw the passenger’s hand reach out and close the door.

  “I missed him,” Beckmann said.

  A silence fell over the area. Smith saw no motion near the house, and the van’s driver’s door remained open. From behind them came the sound of shoes crunching on dirt and Corenger came up to them.

  “The one you shot was Curry.”

  “And the others?”

  Corenger shrugged. “Don’t know. But I think we drove them off, don’t you?”

  “Tell your men to stand down. We’re going to check out that van and I don’t want to get shot by mistake,” Smith said. Corenger nodded and spoke into his phone.

  “I’ll cover you,” Beckmann said.

  Smith started forward, and Karl came with him.

  “Still not leaving me alone?” Smith asked him.

  Karl didn’t respond, just kept walking in that placid manner that Smith now thought of as his trademark.

  Smith was sweating in the cool air as he made his way to the disabled car. When he reached the van without incident he breathed a sigh of relief. Curry’s body lay ten feet to the left and he went that way first. He kept his gun out and trained on Curry. Though he thought the man was dead and no longer a threat, Smith was taking no chances. He reached out, rolled the body over, and checked the pulse. There was none. Smith removed the assault weapon from his hand.

  “Is this Curry?” he asked Karl.

  Karl just shrugged.

  Smith moved to the van’s back doors and opened them. The van’s interior light was on and gave Smith a clear view of the man lying on the metal floor. The man turned his head a bit and looked at Smith through glazed eyes. It was Carter Warner.

  “Mr. Warner, are you injured?”

  Warner’s dazed look turned to one of confusion. “Water,” he said.

  “I’ll look for some in a minute. First I need to know if you’re injured,” Smith asked.

  Warner shook his head. “My feet feel like they’re on fire. Why?”

  Karl tapped on Smith’s shoulder and pointed to Warner’s feet. Even in the half-light Smith could see the blood oozing out of the bandages that were wrapped around the insoles in a messy, halfhearted field dressing. Smith nodded his understanding. He stepped into the van and checked for any other signs of injury, but could find nothing.

  “Mr. Warner, do you know if any other people are being held in the house?”

  Warner shook his head. “What house?”

  “Never mind. I’ll be right back.” He turned to Karl. “I’m going to check out the house. I’d prefer it if you’d stay here and guard him until I get back.”

  Karl didn’t respond.

  Smith jumped back out of the van and strode to the side of the house. Karl stayed with him. The dog, still chained in the center of the yard, was huddled as far from the direction where the kidnapper had been shooting as the chain would allow. Smith skirted across the yard, crouching low and keeping to the back wall of the house with Karl walking upright behind him. As they passed the dog Karl veered out and went to the animal. He ran a hand over the dog’s back and then unhooked the chain from his collar before standing and catching up to Smith. The dog followed Karl.

  Smith opened his phone and got a line to Beckmann.

  “I’m going in. Keep an eye out for me.”

  “Will do. Can you put your phone on speaker and put it in that top zippered pocket? I’ll be able to hear you.”

  Smith did as he asked and entered the house, springing from side to side in the narrow entrance hallway. A few feet ahead and to the left, a door was open. Smith could see a set of wooden stairs leading downward. He moved to the entrance and then began a careful descent, taking care to tread lightly on the wooden steps. He reached the bottom stair and took in the long table set in the middle of the room and the torture instruments strewn on the ground next to another, smaller card table.

  A bomb sat on the card table. Smith could clearly see the blinking lights and jumbled wires of an improvised IED. A cell phone detonator was flashing in a second-by-second sequence.

  Smith catapulted back up the stairs, taking two at a time and nearly barreling into Karl, who was at the top.

  “There’s a bomb,” he yelled as he pushed past Karl and sprinted back down the hallway. He heard Karl behind him. His heavy footfalls shook the floor and for the first time he was moving at a pace far faster than a walk.

  Smith hit the outside and ran toward the trees. The German shepherd streaked past him on the left and he heard Karl’s heavy breathing on his right.

  Five seconds later the house blew up.

  21

  The blast’s force knocked Smith off his feet. He hit the ground and covered his head with his arms. Bits of wood and debris rained down on him and he grunted as a large beam landed on his back and pounded him farther into the dirt. He heard a car alarm begin its rhythmic howling and glanced over his arms to see that it was the van. Several pieces of the house had landed on the roof and the alarm blared while its lights flashed. The van itself, though, was intact, and Smith hoped that it had protected Warner. He heard a groan next to him and he saw Karl trying to rise. Smith shook off the debris and sat up.

  The bomb had blown a hole in the house’s roof and shattered the windows. Smith could see flames shooting upward; black smoke roiled from the structure. He heard footsteps and looked up to see Beckmann.

  “There goes the evidence,” Beckmann said. He held out a hand to help Smith up. Smith sighed, shook off some more ash that had settled on his shoulders and in his hair, and let Beckmann haul him to his feet. Karl stood as well and Smith watched him as he staggered a bit.

  “You okay?” he asked the large man. Karl, true to form, simply nodded. The German shepherd appeared and Karl patted it on the head before turning on his heel and heading back toward the trees.

  “You’re leaving?” Smith called to him.

  Karl didn’t look back. The dog trotted next to him and Karl patted it again.

  Smith turned to Beckmann. “Where are the others?”

  “Gone,” Beckmann said. “Remind me not to depend on that crew in the future.”

  “Let’s check on Warner.”

  They jogged to the van and found Warner safe inside, but unconscious. His heavy breathing was slow and even.

  “Drugged?” Beckmann asked.

  Smith shrugged. “Maybe.” He moved to the driver’s side and found a key in the ignition. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll drive you to the rental.”

  Beckmann slid into the passenger seat and placed his weapon along the seat at his right leg before closing the door. He lowered the window and maneuvered the weapon so that the muzzle stuck out the side window in a firing position. Once the gun was in place, Smith fired up the engine and drove down the darkened driveway. Behind them he could hear the fire roaring and occasional popping noises as various items created secondary explosions. After a few feet during which the van swayed and lurched down the road, it was clear that the vehicle had taken some damage from the blast.

  “Back right tire’s blown,” Smith said.

  Beckmann scanned the area. “Just as well. We should dump it and clean it when we do.”

  Smith nodded. “Likely it’s stolen.”

 
“Keep the lights off if you can. Or use the parking lights if you absolutely need to see. No need to telegraph our location.”

  They bumped and heaved down the road. The tire must have had some air left in it, because they weren’t yet down to the rim, but Smith figured they would lose that very soon. After another fifty feet they did, and Smith kept going on the rim until he saw the rental car come into view.

  “Who the hell is that?” Beckmann said.

  Smith peered through the windshield, but without the headlights he could only make out the mass of a person standing near the rental. A black shadow, much lower than the first person, came toward them and Smith switched on the lights to avoid hitting it. When he did he saw that it was Karl standing by the car and the dog trotting toward them.

  “He doesn’t give up, does he?” Smith said.

  Beckmann just grunted.

  Smith slowed to a halt, relieved to finally stop the grinding noise that was setting his teeth on edge. He swung out of the car and the dog came close to sniff his knee. Smith walked toward Karl and after a couple of steps he saw the mangled motorcycle on the side of the road.

  “That yours?” Smith asked.

  Karl nodded.

  “Need a ride?”

  Karl nodded.

  Smith waved at the van. “Then help me get Warner out of the back of the van and into the car.”

  Karl lumbered into motion. Beckmann leaned against the van’s front, smoking. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and waved it in Karl’s general direction in greeting before returning it to his lips. He took the rental’s key fob out of his pocket, pointed it at the car, and beeped open the trunk.

  When Smith opened the panel van doors the scent of dried blood, sweat, feces, and urine assailed him. Warner remained unconscious. His eyes were closed and he didn’t move. The regular rhythm of his chest indicated that he was still among the living.

  “They worked him over pretty good,” Smith said. Karl said nothing; Smith hadn’t expected him to anyway. Together they maneuvered Warner toward the end of the van’s cargo area and Karl lifted the man in his arms with surprisingly little effort. He disappeared around the panel doors and Smith scanned the interior. There was nothing in it that indicated who had owned it. It had been swept clean.