The Geneva Strategy

by Robert Ludlum

  Smith was rapidly texting as he paced. “I’m contacting Howell and Russell. Perhaps between MI6 and the CIA we can come up with something.”

  “That line secure?” Beckmann asked.

  Smith nodded. “All of our phones are secure, and we switch them up on a regular basis.”

  Smith’s phone rang almost instantly and the display told him that it was Howell.

  “Can you do it?” Smith asked without preamble.

  “Perhaps, but you’re forgetting something,” Howell said. “MI6 will want to know who will use the invitation and why it’s necessary. They’re not just going to allow anyone to waltz into an embassy on a last-minute basis without a thorough vetting, and I can’t exactly tell them that you’re an agent from a highly covert organization that even the CIA is not aware exists.” Smith’s phone began beeping and he could see that Russell was calling.

  “Russell’s on the other line, when can you get here?”

  “Twenty minutes,” Howell said. He hung up.

  “Tell me you can do this,” Smith said to Russell.

  “Three days ago I would have said absolutely, but that was before the attack in Turkey. Now every embassy is on high alert and no one gets in without a thorough check.”

  “Who’s in charge of the guest list? Do you have an operative scheduled to be there? Maybe I can swap identities.”

  “It just so happens that we do have an operative working the room, but she’s female. Your best bet is to go as a guest of an invitee. There are three who were allowed guests. Two have filled their spots, but one hasn’t and that’s Katherine Arden.”

  “Has she agreed to go?”

  “She hasn’t RSVP’d either way. Maybe you can talk her into it and go with her.”

  Smith was pacing again. “Under what pretense?”

  There was a long pause. “How about you say that Fort Detrick deals with the bacteria and viruses that create rampant disease in third-world countries and minimizing the disease risk is a human rights activity.”

  “Do you know where she’s staying?”

  “She’s at Brown’s Hotel. Walking distance from yours.”

  “All right, I’m headed there right now. In the meantime, Beckmann and Howell are here. If you’re anywhere close, join us. We could use your help.”

  “Be there in a bit.” She hung up.

  Smith shut down his phone and looked at Beckmann, who was gazing off into the distance with a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “I’m headed to Arden’s hotel to convince her to go to the function. In the meantime, can you and Howell start brainstorming some ideas on how to get me in there and back out in one piece?”

  Beckmann nodded.

  “You look grim,” Smith said.

  Beckmann rose and walked to the bar to splash some water into his scotch. “I don’t think you can go in there alone. You’ll need backup.”

  “We don’t have the time to get more of us into that reception,” Smith replied.

  “So let me amend my statement. I just don’t see how you can go in there alone and come out alive.”

  Smith had no reply to that. He shrugged on his suit coat and headed to the door.

  “Wish me luck,” Smith said.

  “Luck. And tell this Arden lawyer, ‘The price of inaction is far greater than the cost of making a mistake.’”

  Smith paused. “Is that a quote?”

  “Yes. Let me know if she recognizes it.”

  “Did the one who said it follow his own advice and choose action over inaction?”

  “He did.”

  “And is he alive?”

  Beckmann shook his head. “Dead as they come.”

  26

  Darkanin sat in a hookah bar in London and inhaled the sweet-scented tobacco. Next to him Brian Gore smoked from his own pipe, and next to Gore sat two Arab computer hackers. Darkanin placed two photographs on the table.

  “These men are here in London now and I want every step they take to be recorded.”

  The first hacker, named Asam, shifted the photos to face him. “Who are they?”

  “This”—Darkanin pointed to the first—“is a man named Jon Smith. He’s a lieutenant colonel in the U.S. military and a microbiologist. And this one”—he pointed to the next photo—“is named Andreas Beckmann. We’re almost certain he’s a CIA officer. At the very least he’s an independent contractor taking jobs from the CIA. Whatever he is, we need to neutralize him.”

  “How do you know they’re here in London?”

  “An informant told us that they flew out of a small airstrip near Berlin after they delivered some precious cargo there.”

  The Arab took a long pull on the pipe. “You trust your informant?”

  Darkanin nodded. “He’s a bureaucrat with the U.S. Department of Defense and was there at the airfield when the cargo was delivered. I believe him.”

  “And when we locate them? Do you want us to take care of the problem?” the second hacker asked.

  Darkanin shook his head. “I can’t afford questions on this one, so it has to be a perfect operation. Nothing slapdash. You just tell me where they are and I’ll decide on the next step.”

  Asam looked disappointed, until Darkanin slid an envelope across the table.

  “To start you off,” Darkanin said. “How long will it take to get a handle on them?”

  Asam pocketed the envelope. “Twelve, maybe fourteen hours. We’ll feed the photo into a face recognition program that will match it against recorded images from the twenty main intersections in London.”

  “That long?” Darkanin said. “I had hoped for something quicker.”

  Asam shook his head. “Too many cameras and images for us to access before we can even run the program. And when we do we have to be sure that our hacking isn’t noticed, so we’ll accomplish it during routine system backups. Those are in the early hours. You’ll need to be patient.”

  Darkanin nodded. “Fine. Do it.”

  Smith walked into the bar at Brown’s Hotel and saw Arden sitting at a banquette in front of a wall of large black-and-white photo images. She had a drink in front of her and her head was lowered over a book. He waved off the host and paused in front of the table. After a moment, Arden looked up and, after another short pause, one eyebrow quirked.

  “When I said we should meet to discuss your findings, I didn’t assume you’d fly thousands of miles to present them,” she said.

  Smith smiled and pointed at the empty chair across from her. “May I?”

  She nodded and closed the book in front of her.

  “What are you reading?”

  She held it up for him to see.

  “The Conquest of Happiness, Bertrand Russell,” he read. “That’s a classic.” He pulled out the chair and sat down. Almost immediately a waiter was at his shoulder.

  “May I offer you something? We have a complete list of drinks.”

  “Whiskey, neat,” Smith said. The waiter looked disappointed and went off toward the bar. Smith watched him go and slanted a look back at Arden. “Is whiskey neat not on the list?”

  Arden leaned forward. “They specialize in concoctions that take at least fifteen minutes to prepare. Whiskey neat is not one of them.” She spoke in a low voice.

  “Hmm. I’m not a fan of unnecessary complication. Especially when it comes to my alcohol.”

  Arden smiled. “I’m surprised to see you here. No, shocked. I mean, what are the odds?”

  “I saw your picture in the paper.”

  A look of comprehension spread across her face.

  The waiter brought the whiskey and a glass of water on a silver tray. He took time to place them in front of Smith, nodded, and left. Smith held his glass up to Arden before taking a sip.

  She watched him, a speculative look in her eye. “The paper said nothing about where I was staying.”

  Smith put the drink down and decided to go straight to the truth. “I asked my friend to find you for me.”


  “The CIA friend?”

  Smith smiled. “So you remember.”

  “Isn’t that a violation of my right to privacy?”

  Smith shrugged. “Not in any meaningful way. You’re a human rights watch attorney in a foreign country headed to an embassy party. The recent bombing in Turkey ensured that everyone attending the reception tomorrow will be vetted. It’s a precaution that I would think you’d welcome.”

  “There’s not much that the CIA does that I welcome.”

  “You really should rethink that position. The CIA can be a very helpful organization.”

  “Really? To whom?”

  Smith decided to let that go. He gazed around the room at the myriad framed photographs, many of nudes.

  “Interesting work. Whose is it?”

  “Terence Donovan.”

  “Dead?” Smith asked.

  Arden nodded.

  “How? The photos look as though they’re from the sixties or seventies. Old age?”

  Arden shook her head. “Suicide. Possibly induced by a drug.” She waved her hand at the photographs. “He’s been described as the photographer of the sixties. A time of upheaval, for sure.”

  “And decadence,” Smith said.

  Arden smiled. “Do I detect a hint of disapproval?”

  Smith rocked his hand back and forth. “I’ve never had much use for decadent people. They indulge themselves and sap those around them.”

  “Perhaps they understand something that the rest of us don’t.”

  “And that would be?”

  “That we’re going to die anyway, so all this striving and angst is just a waste of time.”

  Smith rolled his eyes. “That’s a teenager’s argument and I assume you don’t agree with it, because you work very hard to change things. When I hear that rationalization from an adult I think of my friend from high school who became a Montessori teacher. She always said that sometimes people get stuck and don’t ‘move into the next plane of development.’”

  Arden started laughing and her face lit with real amusement. She had a surprisingly joyful sound to her humor and Smith smiled along with her.

  “Now, that’s a very nice way of calling them immature idiots,” Arden said.

  Smith nodded. “She always was a nice person.”

  Arden tilted her head to one side. “What is it you want from me? I presume that it must be important for you to take the trouble to track me down.”

  “I want you to help me change the world.”

  Smith watched her face carefully. He’d hoped that he had read her right and his direct approach would work better than any carefully constructed lie, but he had no way of telling if it would overcome her disdain for organized government. He was worried that she would laugh at his sweeping statement, but she instead stared at him with a thoughtful expression. It was all he could do not to babble on, but rather to match her silence. So much was at stake, most of which he couldn’t reveal to her, and he wanted her to help him despite her wariness.

  “And how can I do that?” she asked.

  “I’d like to go with you to the reception tomorrow night.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not going.”

  “Why not?”

  She frowned. “I don’t trust them.”

  “I can relate to that, believe me, but what concerns you? Despite what happened in Turkey, or actually because of it, I think security will be extremely tight and I doubt that you’ll be in any danger.”

  She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and Smith got the sense that she was holding something back.

  “Why do you want to go?” she said. He thought her question was a nice deflection from her real concerns.

  “I spend a lot of time working on pandemic viruses and devastating bacteria. Sometimes samples go missing, as you know, and I would like to discuss a missing batch with them.” Smith delivered his own deflection with equal aplomb.

  “Does this have anything to do with my case and the drugged soldiers?”

  “Not directly, though I would change that opinion if you determine that they were, indeed, drugged. Many black-market biological weapons circulate through the Middle East. I would like their assistance in flagging and confiscating them when they’re found.”

  Smith’s statement was factually correct, but Arden seemed unconvinced and the wary expression was back on her face.

  “So why not ask your CIA friend to engineer an invite? They’ll have several people planted throughout the room, so I should think that inserting another wouldn’t be tough.”

  “There’s only one open invitation right now, and that’s for your guest.”

  She stared down at her drink and Smith could almost hear the thoughts ricocheting through her head. She flicked her gaze back to him.

  “If I take you will you produce the files of the four scientists at Fort Detrick who have been placed on medical leave?”

  Smith paused. He knew that Siboran would likely ask USAMRIID’s attorneys to attempt to appeal the court’s order before handing the documents over.

  “You’re asking me to violate their rights without their consent. I’m surprised.”

  She shook her head. “Not at all. I have a court order, if you recall. HIPAA laws allow files to be released in response to a valid subpoena request. The medical leave files are covered by that subpoena.”

  “Siboran hasn’t decided if USAMRIID will honor that order.”

  “It’s not his decision to make. The subpoena is valid, therefore he must comply.”

  “He could challenge it on appeal,” Smith said.

  She nodded. “He could, but I can tell you from long experience that he’ll lose. USAMRIID will be ordered to produce. What I’m asking now is for you to sidestep that fruitless waste of time and produce the files.”

  Smith had little doubt that she was right. She had far more experience in serving subpoenas than USAMRIID had in responding. Even though he knew that he would eventually have to hand over the files, he still wanted to preserve as much documentation as he could.

  “If I did such a thing—” She sat straighter, her eyes brightened, and he put a hand in the air. “Hold on. If I showed you those files, you would have to promise to keep them under seal as you’ve just described and to give USAMRIID notice before you introduce them at any trial.”

  She sat back again and some of the excitement left her face as she pondered. “I have to keep them protected anyway, and I only have to give the other side notice if I’m going to use them, not USAMRIID. You aren’t a party to the court-martial.”

  “I know that, but if you want them you have to give USAMRIID the heads-up.”

  “So you can block their use at trial?” Arden said.

  “So we can be prepared to show the affected parties the subpoena and explain why we needed to produce them.”

  “I promise to hold them under seal and to give USAMRIID advance warning before I use them, even though the subpoena allows their use. That’s a better offer than even the HIPAA law requires, so you should take it.” She watched him over the rim of her glass.

  Smith knew he’d take it, but he still paused and drew out the moment before he gave her the answer she wanted.

  He nodded. “You’re on. When and where do I meet you?” He rose to leave and she stood with him.

  “Here at six sharp. I have a car.”

  He put forty euros down on the table. “I was in Germany just before today and haven’t had enough time to change money. Is it enough?”

  She plucked them off the table and handed them to him. “I’ll buy. Your assistance tonight was priceless.”

  Her comment left Smith uneasy, but he nodded and walked out, headed back to his hotel. He’d worry about the consequences of his deal after he made it out of the embassy alive.

  If he made it out alive.

  27

  When Smith returned to his hotel room he found Howell, Russell, and Beckmann all staring at the embassy schematic laid out on the cockta
il table.

  “Did she agree?” Russell said.

  “Yes, but she drove a hard bargain.” Smith told them about Arden’s demand for the medical records. “USAMRIID usually fights subpoenas on the basis of overreaching. While they don’t always win, of course, they usually get some concessions. I’ve just given up the chance to argue against it.”

  Russell nodded. “For what it’s worth, I think that she’s right and the subpoena allows her to view those records. Do you trust her to keep them safe under seal?”

  Smith sighed. “I don’t really have a choice right now.” He pointed at the schematic. “How’s that going?”

  “Not well,” Howell said. “We’ve determined that there are at least ten obvious cameras and figure at least ten more that we can’t see. Marty’s been able to access seven. He says the others are operating on a separate feed and he can’t hack it.”

  “What about your source?”

  “Our source is a weekly cleaning person. She’s actually an MI5 agent and she’s held the housekeeping position for over a year. She said that there are three cameras that feed a video stream from the door to the lower level, the stairwell downward, and she suspects there is another at the base and in the actual room.”

  “Has she actually laid eyes on Rendel? Is she sure he’s in there?”

  Howell shook his head. “No. She only became aware of a possible prisoner after she saw a member of the household staff carrying a tray of food down the access stairs. She’s never been able to sneak down there to have a look.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that. It could be one of the Saudi prince’s wives and we’ll have gone through all of this for nothing.” Smith looked at Russell, “What about your CIA officer plant. Does she know anything?”

  Russell leaned against the bar counter and tapped on her phone. “I have an internal memo that analyzes the security they expect to have in place at the embassy. There will be a metal detector, of course, video surveillance, a crew of ten additional security personnel in addition to those on staff, and three tasters who will taste the Saudi embassy officials’ food.”

  Beckmann snorted. “No tasters for the guests?”