The Geneva Strategy

by Robert Ludlum

  “Asam said there was more than just him.”

  “There were. A CIA cell working London. They’d received a call for assistance from him and I intercepted the call and patched it through to Asam. What happened?”

  “Smith must have been aware that someone was tracking him, because he was surrounded by guards. More guards than just this Beckmann. Guards that Asam claims were professional fighters. You know of a group within the CIA that can field a team better than one of yours?”

  “No one is better than us. Not the CIA, not the FBI. None of them. If such a group exists I can assure you it’s not from an authorized governmental organization, because I have access to every one of the sanctioned teams.”

  “Then it’s another contract security agency. Like yours.”

  “No one is like Stanton Reese. No one.”

  “Then it’s a privately managed set of mercenaries.”

  “Not a chance. The truly good fighters are all taken by everyone that you just mentioned. Any mercenaries left are the dregs who weren’t good enough to make it anywhere and certainly not better than Asam and his team. I don’t like it. And what do we do now that Taylor’s dead? It’s three days to breakdown, and we don’t have the final product. We need someone to finish what she started. Who can do that? Think.”

  Darkanin accelerated onto the highway while he pondered the question.

  “How about Chang Ying Peng?” Darkanin said. “The microbiologist from China?”

  “We should be so lucky.”

  “Why not? We can have him picked up in DC,” Darkanin said.

  “No, we can’t. At least not now. The FBI has him under watch twenty-four hours a day.”

  Darkanin watched the road signs and kept a steady pace to avoid any speed camera flashes.

  “Then what about Smith?”

  Darkanin heard the other man snort in disbelief. “Forget it. He’ll never agree.”

  “Who said he has to agree? We’ll do to him what we did to Taylor.”

  “She started out thinking it was a sanctioned mission. He knows better.”

  “You put a gun to his head and he’ll do it,” Darkanin said.

  “What if we use the product now? In its current state? What will happen?”

  “How the hell would I know?” Darkanin said. “Probably fail. Won’t reverse a thing and we’ll have legions of dead bodies. And you forget the key here. Without the reversal there’s nothing to sell, and without a salable product there’s no money. Who do you have left to get Smith?”

  “Gore’s in Europe. He’s unstoppable. You should have used him first. Westcore and Denon are back in DC.”

  “Send Gore after Smith and the other two here. We capture Smith, force him to finish the research, and then kill him.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then we still have Plan B. We sell the weapon to the highest bidder. It’s not as good as having the antidote, which can be sold over and over again for a thousand times the profit, but at least we get a payday for all our efforts.”

  “Fine. I’ll send them. Just remember to warn me before you launch the weapon so that I can arrange to be back in the States when the people start dying.”

  “Of course,” Darkanin said. No need to tell him that the weapon would be used in the States, Darkanin thought.

  44

  Smith drove through the predawn hour while sipping a cup of a strong brew that Winter had pressed upon him. He’d left quietly while Arden slept on. The few hours of sleep had helped, but he would be happy when the sun rose. When it did he would stop and take a short walk in the sunshine to clear his head even further.

  Winter had given him a new prepaid cell phone from a stash that he had from the various transient guests who had made their way through the small cottage.

  “They’re all registered in false names,” Winter had said. “This one is Becky Rose.” Now Smith turned it on and dialed Russell. After several rings an automated message announced that the phone had been disconnected.

  That’s not good, Smith thought. He dialed Beckmann. Same result. He dialed Marty.

  “Hello?” Smith was relieved to hear Marty’s voice.

  “Marty, it’s Smith.”

  “Who’s Becky Rose?” Marty asked.

  “She’s a fake. Doesn’t exist. The other phone was hacked and I needed a new untraceable one.” He told Marty about the threatening call. “I have no idea how they got the number, because that phone was a prepaid burner. And now both Russell and Beckmann’s phones have been disconnected. Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

  “Sorry, I don’t. No one’s called me.”

  “I need to get across the channel without detection. Any idea how to do that?”

  “Not from the UK side. Too many cameras. Perhaps a disguise?”

  Smith had already considered a disguise, but to obtain the things he needed he would have to head into a store, purchase the items, and then find a confidential place to put them on. At the very least the store purchase would be recorded on a camera.

  “If you hear from Russell or Beckmann can you give them this number?”

  “Will do,” Marty said. Smith rang off and contemplated his next move. He could call Klein, and was fairly certain that Klein’s phone system was impenetrable to hacks, but he would also have said that about Russell’s and so was loath to take the risk. Besides, what he really needed was someone to assist him with a disguise. After a few moments, he dialed a number he hadn’t dialed in over a year.

  “Yeah, what do you want?” a rough voice said.

  “I’m looking for Ruby,” Smith replied.

  “At five in the morning?”

  “I know she’s awake. She works the morning rush hour near Bordeaux.”

  “She’s not in France anymore.”

  “Where is she, then?”

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend. Have her call this number and tell her Smith is looking for her.”

  “Smith? You a Traveler?”

  “No. Not a Roma, either.”

  “Gadjo, what do you want with Ruby?”

  “Just let her know I called. Thanks.”

  Smith hung up and contemplated his next move. He wasn’t prepared to attempt a tunnel crossing until he knew he could make it through undetected. Once in the tunnel he’d be trapped for the entire duration. His phone rang and the words “Private Caller” showed on the display.

  “Hello,” Smith said, being careful not to identify himself.

  “I knew you would call me one day.” Ruby’s voice held the same low timbre and dark tones that he remembered.

  He smiled into the darkness. “Your crystal ball tell you that?” Smith asked.

  “The cards did.”

  “What did they say?”

  “That Jon Smith would return, marry me, and take me away from all of this.” She laughed her soft laugh. Smith’s smile broadened. Ruby hadn’t changed.

  “You’re already married.” Like many Roma, Ruby had been married at fourteen. When Smith met her last year she was twenty-seven and the mother of four. He’d volunteered in the Roma camp near Bordeaux, France, treating the children for various childhood ailments, encouraging the parents to get them immunized, and trying to convince them that the children needed to go to school. The immunizations and treatment were successful, the push for education was not. The literacy rate for the Roma in France was dismal and infant mortality high. “I need your help.”

  “Anything for you,” Ruby said.

  “I need you to find out from your friends there how they move between England and France.”

  “Ah, well, things have changed. You’ve heard about the purge? Last year we were rounded up like cattle and many forced out of France. Most were sent back to Romania or Bulgaria. The rest of us scattered.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “England. They opened their borders last year.”

  “That’s right. The waiting period for Romanians to trave
l throughout the EU has ended, hasn’t it? Life is better in the UK?”

  “A bit. I’ve filed for the dole. Me and my fourteen children.”

  Smith snorted. “You only have four.”

  “Four that eat as if they were fourteen.”

  Yes, Ruby hadn’t changed.

  “It just so happens that I’m in England. Where are you?”

  “Margate. On the sea. So you want to go to France, not toward England?”

  “Yes. Is Margate near the tunnel?”

  “It’s close. A bit north is all. Why don’t you come here and we can talk.” She gave Smith directions to Margate and he rang off and hit the gas.

  An hour later he pulled into a parking lot next to a boardwalk by the sea. Tents and caravans filled every inch of space and the rest of the population slept rough under the lightening sky. Smith had visited Gypsy and Traveler camps before and was familiar with the poverty and homelessness that often accompanied the population. Gypsies were a maligned and ostracized people that faced discrimination every day. He picked his way around the small barbecue grills and propane-driven stoves already in use by the few who were awake. As he walked an older man stepped up to him.

  “Look. I found a gold ring! Is it yours?” The man tried to shove a heavy gold ring into Smith’s palm. Smith waved it off. The man persisted and jostled his way closer.

  “Back off, I know the drill,” Smith said. The man paused, then grinned, shrugged, and walked away. Smith checked his pocket to ensure that his wallet was still there, walked a few steps farther, and Ruby stepped out of a small camper.

  She was thinner than he remembered, which made her angular features even more pronounced, and her dark hair was longer and messy from sleep. She wore tight-fitting black yoga pants and a sweatshirt with a wide neckline that had slid down to reveal one shoulder. She gave the impression that she had just slipped out of bed, in what may or may not have been a carefully staged presentation. She stepped down, walked to him, and stopped only when her body was pressed full against him. She twined her arms around his neck and rose up on tiptoe to be able to kiss him. He moved his head back a bit and wrapped his fingers around her forearms to hold her in place while he smiled down at her.

  “Where’s your husband?” he asked.

  She shrugged and the sweatshirt slid lower. “Romania, I think. When the French offered free flights back and three hundred euros apiece he took it and ran. You look very handsome in that suit.” She tried again to kiss him. He forestalled her by giving her a quick peck on the cheek and gently put her from him. She released her arms and stepped back, putting her hands on her hips. “Still the gadjo gentleman, I see.”

  “Actually, I’m concerned that someone will think you’re running the Sexy Young Woman scam on me. I already dodged a gold ring.”

  This time she smiled. “Whoever tried that one on you doesn’t know you, eh? And I’m truly hurt that you think I would ever run a scam on you. Especially that one. You’re barely older than I am.”

  Smith knew that the scam was a favorite of Ruby’s, used on aging men who were eager to win her favors. It never involved sex—the Gypsy women that he knew never prostituted themselves—but instead just companionship. The men paid some bills and in return obtained the fawning interest of a pretty young woman for a while. Once they realized that no sex would be forthcoming the men often lost interest and the Gypsy woman would move on.

  He waved at the caravan. “Can we go in? Or are the children sleeping?”

  She nodded and stepped aside to let him enter. “They sleep in the tents. It’s just me in here.”

  Smith had to bend his head a bit to avoid hitting it on the low-hanging doorway. Inside the tiny caravan was spotlessly clean and decorated with gaily colored curtains and bright pillows and blankets. Her bed had been lowered from its location in the far wall and was still strewn with sheets and a crocheted blanket. She quickly collected them to raise it.

  “Let me help,” Smith said. He locked the piece in place and she folded the linens, placed them in a storage unit below. When that was closed she lowered a panel that locked into place to create a small table for eating. Within a minute the room was transformed from a sleeping area to a kitchen.

  “Sit. I’ll make us some tea.” She started a burner, filled a teapot, and set it in place. Smith was glad to see that she had running water and propane. Back in Bordeaux she’d had none.

  “How are the children? Are they enrolled in school here?”

  He saw her face harden a bit. “They are, but they’re being bullied. It’s the same everywhere for us. George will stop soon.”

  “George is only twelve. He should continue.” Smith kept his voice neutral. It was an old battle between him and Ruby and he knew that she struggled with the change that traditional schooling would make in her children’s lives. In the usual Gypsy tradition, she had stopped attending school at ten to help care for her younger siblings. Education beyond primary school was rare for her family. None went to high school and only 1 percent of the entire Gypsy population in France attended tertiary school, making a university education nearly unheard of among the families. She remained quiet until the teapot began to steam. She poured him a mug, added a tea bag, and placed it in front of him. She poured another for herself and slid into the booth.

  “You didn’t come here to talk about that, I think. Tell me what you need.” Ruby proceeded to dip her tea bag up and down in her cup as she watched him.

  “I need to get into France undetected.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I can’t believe that a man like you is in trouble with the law.” She put up her palm. “Not that it would stop me from helping you.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not, really. But I need some anonymity and I can’t get it in a country with six million cameras.”

  “I know a Traveler who regularly smuggles off the coast. He can take you by boat. He leaves once a week. More often if there’s a need and someone willing to pay. Right now, though, he’s in France.”

  “I had hoped for a quick tunnel ride.”

  “They’ll flag you when you present your passport at the border.”

  “I’ve got that covered.”

  She stared at her cup of tea in thought. Smith watched her bob the bag up and down.

  “I’d say you could go with a group of us, but when the police see us they watch even closer. You need a disguise.”

  “That’s what I thought. Can you help me?”

  She nodded. “I’ll get Maje. She works the carnivals; dresses as a clown, a woman from the eighteenth century for the medieval fairs, those kinds of things. She can give you a beard, some glasses, and even a wig.”

  “Can you wake her? Tell her I’ll make it worth her while.”

  Ruby stood. “Stay here. I’ll go get her.”

  Twenty minutes later Ruby returned, dragging a large woman in her late fifties whom Smith presumed was Maje. She had a jovial face and wore a long, peasant-style dress that Smith thought of as classic Gypsy attire. She placed a large, square brown luggage case on the table in front of him.

  “So you’re Ruby’s friend?” she asked.

  “I am.”

  Maje cocked her head to one side as she contemplated him. “You’re too handsome and that suit reeks of money. Women will notice your face and men will notice the suit. Both are not good.”

  “I might be able to find more casual clothes for him,” Ruby suggested. Maje shook her head.

  “We don’t really have the time. First train leaves soon. Do you have children?”

  Smith was surprised at the sudden change of subject. “No.”

  “Well, you do now.” Maje opened the luggage case and removed a piece of what looked like short hair and a jar of theater glue. She glanced at Ruby. “Can he take George? They won’t expect him to be traveling with a child.” She removed the glue’s lid and used the attached brush to coat a piece of beard.

  Smith was impressed with Maje’s insight. A child would be
the perfect foil. Anyone searching for him would have his description and would expect him to be traveling with Arden, not a child. Yet he shook his head.

  “I won’t take George. How will he get back from Calais? And he needs to be in school.”

  Maje stopped applying the glue. “You’ll buy him a round-trip ticket. He’s old enough to get himself home. School? We’re talking one day at the most. And you’ll pay George to go with you, won’t you?”

  “He has a thing about school.” Ruby’s voice was apologetic.

  Maje rolled her eyes. “Most gadje do. But George is old enough now to begin to apprentice. School isn’t our way.” She bent toward Smith to apply the beard.

  He put his hand on her wrist to stop her. “No pulling George out of school.”

  Maje searched his face, then sighed. “Okay. I have a granddaughter. She’s sixteen. Married. No school. She can go with you.”

  Smith shook his head again. “No children. It’s an excellent idea, but I’d prefer to go it alone.”

  “Hold still,” Maje said. She leaned into him and carefully placed the beard. The glue felt cold on his skin.

  “How about I go with him and carry Sylvie’s baby? We can be a family,” Ruby said. She looked at Smith. “And the baby’s not even a year old. Even you can’t argue that she should be in school.”

  “Sylvie’s baby screams bloody murder if anyone but Sylvie carries her. She’d only make a scene. You need an older child that understands the game,” Maje said.

  “No children,” Smith said.

  “Your friend here is stubborn,” Maje said to Ruby. She began placing adhesive on another strip of beard. She focused back on Smith. “Let me teach you how to run a game. The key to getting past people is to either blend or distract. Preferably both. You have a car?”

  “I do,” Smith said.

  “The first step would be to try to blend. I’m going to give you a briefcase, hat, and once you park the car you should stare at your phone all the time. Pretend to be texting and returning emails. Most people never raise their heads from their phone.” She prepped a tiny strip of hair and placed it from his eyebrow to the center of the bridge of his nose. She did the same with the other eyebrow.