The Geneva Strategy

by Robert Ludlum

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’ve got that covered,” Smith said. “Follow me. And put Detmar in my car. I have more questions to ask her.”

  They made it to the vehicles without incident, but Smith was jumpy and nervous, straining his ears to hear the dreaded sound. He tossed the bloody towel into the trunk for disposal later. They pulled onto a main road and within twenty minutes merged onto the highway. He set the cruise control and shifted into a more comfortable position.

  “I need to ask you some more questions,” Smith said.

  Detmar had her head on the head rest and her eyes closed. She opened them and nodded. “Okay.”

  “You said Croughton was the location for covert surveillance by the Special Collection Services. Did the base run any other covert operations?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like wiretapping lawyers and their clients. Companies and their private research projects.”

  Detmar frowned. “I’m pretty sure that lawyers’ communications have been inadvertently swept up in the net.” Smith thought of Arden and his warning to her to keep his communication privileged.

  “Aren’t those communications supposed to be private?”

  “The NSA decided that if a lawyer was communicating with an overseas client, those communications were subject to tapping. And so we did. We retained them, though, at the base. We weren’t supposed to use them in any way if they revealed things that weren’t relevant to a valid security interest.”

  “So if the lawyer and the overseas client were discussing, oh I don’t know, say payment of fees, the NSA would listen but not use them?”

  Detmar nodded. “Well, that was the theory.”

  Smith glanced at her. “Was? What actually happened?”

  She shifted in her seat and had the grace to look ashamed. “I don’t work that area, as you know, but I’ve heard that the communications are reviewed right along with everything else and there have been instances when information beneficial to a U.S. corporation has been leaked to that corporation.”

  Smith drove ahead, digesting this information.

  “And Arden? How often has she been wiretapped?”

  “Hers is continuous,” Detmar said. “She represents all sorts of fringe elements and she’s under a microscope. The NSA wants to take her down.”

  “Seems like a petty smear campaign for such a large organization.”

  “I agree it’s odd. The directives about Arden seemed very personal. But I guess to lots of people at the NSA she’s considered the devil. Where are we going?”

  “To someone who I know will help us.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Katherine Arden.”

  47

  Smith drove up to an overlook at the edge of a winding road that followed the coastline near Margate. Fifty feet below them a small dinghy located in a craggy, rock-filled area bobbed on the water. The waves rolled against the platform’s weathered boards. Seabirds circled and called overhead and the air was sharp and cool. A rickety, slick-looking set of wooden stairs led from the overlook to the boat.

  Detmar had slept most of the way there and Smith suggested she stay in the warm car until he reconnoitered the area. Beckmann and Russell pulled alongside and cut their engine. They joined Smith to look down onto the boat below.

  “There is no way that dinghy will make it to Calais,” Russell said.

  “He must have a boat elsewhere,” Smith said.

  “How far was his cottage from here?”

  “Not far. But when I called him he suggested that we meet him here.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Smith turned to leave and stopped when he saw a motorcycle carrying two people headed their way. As it drew closer Smith could see that it was Winter’s. He parked between the two cars, kicked the stand down, and both he and Arden dismounted. Arden pulled off her helmet and he was glad to see that she looked rested. She had changed into dark-blue skinny pants in a sweatshirt material, a gray T-shirt, and a jean jacket with the sleeves rolled. She still wore the oversized watch on her wrist. She acknowledged Smith with a small nod.

  “I assume that’s you, Smith, under all that hair?” Her glance at Russell and Beckmann was wary.

  “I thought you were long gone,” Winter said.

  “I could say the same for you. What happened?”

  “I overslept and Winter let me,” Arden said.

  “A lucky break for us. These are my friends Russell and Beckmann.”

  “It’s good to see you, Ms. Arden,” Russell said.

  Arden raised an eyebrow. “I recognize your voice. You’re the CIA publicity liaison.”

  Winter took a step back. “CIA? You’ve got to be joking.”

  “Public liaison only,” Russell said.

  “You don’t really expect me to believe that,” Winter said.

  Russell sighed. “I guess not. But whatever you believe is irrelevant, because right now we’re all in danger.”

  “Why? Because you’re here? Maybe you should leave then,” Winter said.

  “What’s going on?” Arden directed her question to Smith.

  “We think there’s a mole in the CIA sending drones after us to kill us.”

  Beckmann’s eyebrows flew up in surprise and Russell shot Smith a concerned look.

  “I’m not sure you should…” Beckmann began, but Russell waved him to silence. Smith took heart at her show of confidence and plowed on. He pointed to his vehicle.

  “In that car is a CIA officer who’s been working on a covert surveillance operation at the Royal Air Force’s Croughton base. She’s also the woman from the embassy party.”

  Arden glanced at the car. “The point of intersection between us.”

  “Exactly,” Smith said. “And there’s more.”

  “Stop. Don’t tell me in front of witnesses. You know it voids the attorney-client privilege.”

  Smith shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Every conversation that you’ve had with any client overseas, and probably stateside as well, has been recorded.”

  Arden paled.

  “And I suspect that your client Canelo is somehow involved. He’s an army officer at the Djibouti base that the joint CIA-NSA program run out of Croughton uses to implement their drone strikes. Whatever happened there is linked. I can’t figure out how or why, but the points of intersection are just too numerous to ignore.”

  “What else?” Arden asked.

  “Dr. Taylor is an outlier in this scenario, as is the Bancor CEO. But whatever their connection is I think that we’re into something deep, dirty, and very, very illegal. A violation of civil rights at the most basic level. And you’re right in the center of it all.”

  Arden stared at him in open amazement. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I need you to think about all the angles and all the clients that you’re currently working on. The answer is somewhere in there. And because I need you, once again, to help me.”

  “Why not ask your CIA buddies here to help you?” Winter asked. His voice held an aggressive edge. Smith kept his eyes on Arden while he answered.

  “We can’t access CIA resources until we identify the mole.” He turned to Winter. “I’m asking you to take us as far as Calais on your boat. From there we’ll be gone and I hope not to have to impose upon you again.”

  “What if she’s the mole?” Arden said with a glance at the car.

  Smith nodded. “I’ve considered that angle as well. We’re watching her and keeping her away from cell phones or any other devices that she might use to broadcast her position.”

  “What about Taylor? Is she on her way to the States?”

  “Taylor didn’t make it,” Russell said. “She died while the doctor was trying to save her.”

  Arden put a hand to her head and began pacing. The wind ruffled her short hair and a flock of birds swooped overhead. She stopped and turned to Winter.

  “Where do you stand on this?”


  “Your CIA buddies here are asking me to use my boat to get them to Calais while a drone tracks us down to blow us out of the water. Where do you think I stand?”

  She nodded. “It’s probably how I’d feel as well. But may we use the boat? Before we go I’ll transfer enough money to your account for it as a precaution.”

  Winter’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t seriously be considering helping these guys. They’re CIA agents. They’ll lie, cheat, steal, and set you up for a fall, all before breakfast.” Winter stabbed a finger in Smith’s direction as he ranted.

  Smith’s anger surged and he took a couple of steps toward Winter as he struggled to control it through his stress and exhaustion. “I’m not a CIA officer and I don’t intend to cheat Arden. Nor do I intend to set her up.”

  Beckmann moved between them, holding his palms out to keep them separated. Smith gave a curt nod and took a step back, but Winter held his ground. Beckmann eyed the other man for a moment and then removed a cigarette from a pack, put it to his lips, fished a lighter out of his pocket, flicked it on, and cupped his hand over the flame while he lit it. He inhaled deeply, blew a long stream of smoke into the air, and offered Winter the pack.

  “Have a smoke. It’ll calm you down.”

  Winter glanced at the pack in disdain and then back up at Beckmann. “I would never take a smoke from a CIA agent.”

  Beckmann took another puff. “At six fifty a pack U.S. I would think you’d take a free one whenever you could get it. And we’re not called agents, we’re called officers, and no one here is looking to get Arden in trouble, she’s already there. What we are here to do is find out what seriously skewed son of a bitch has infiltrated the organization. If you don’t give us your boat we’ll find another, but if you walk away right now don’t leave here thinking you’ve scored one for freedom. What you will actually have done is turned your back on a friend.”

  Smith thought it was one of the best speeches he’d ever heard Beckmann deliver. He also thought it nailed the situation exactly. He watched as a series of emotions crossed Winter’s face. He was relieved to see Winter walk toward the steps. Beckmann and Russell exchanged glances and he saw Arden exhale in relief.

  “That boat doesn’t look big enough to hold us and it sure won’t get us to Calais,” Russell said.

  Winter looked back at her. “The boat we’ll use is docked at Margate. It’s too shallow here to dock anything bigger than a dinghy. That’s not mine, anyway.”

  “I’ll get Detmar,” Smith said. “We should dump the Audi.”

  When he reached the car it was clear that Detmar had been trying to overhear the conversation, because she was upright in her seat and her window had been lowered. The breeze whipped around him and the seagulls screeched and that, coupled with the distance the car was from their gathering, made it doubtful that the conversation had carried far.

  “What’s going on? For a minute there it looked as if you were going to punch that other guy,” she said.

  Smith opened the door and offered his hand to help her out. When she was standing he raised the window and beeped the car closed.

  “He’s not a fan of the CIA,” Smith said.

  “You told him you were CIA? Isn’t that a breach of protocol?”

  “Well, if I was CIA and undercover I would presume that it would be a breach.”

  Detmar raised an eyebrow. “Wait a minute. All this time I thought that you were CIA.”

  Smith shook his head. “I’m a microbiologist for USAMRIID at Fort Detrick. Dr. Taylor was my colleague. We have a boat that will get us to Calais.”

  Detmar shook her head. “I’m not going to Calais, I’m going home.”

  “And if that drone returns to take you out?”

  “I think that drone is after you and the rest, not me.”

  Smith considered his options. He could force her to go with them at gunpoint, but he wasn’t sure he wanted her on the boat at all. What he wanted was enough time for them to get away before she had a chance to notify anyone of their position.

  “Wait here,” he said. He went back to the cliff’s edge where Beckmann was waiting.

  “Do you know how to disable a car?” he asked.

  Beckmann nodded. “I do.”

  “Detmar wants to take her chances here. She thinks she’s not the intended target.”

  “All right. Guess that’s her choice.”

  “Exactly. But I still think we can’t risk her notifying anyone about our location. So I’m going to suggest we disable the car.”

  “Got it.”

  The others had already boarded when Beckmann and Smith returned to the Audi. Detmar stood outside the car by the hood.

  “Can I have the keys?” she said. Beckmann went down on his belly and looked underneath the car. After a moment he emerged with a small, black disk in his hand. He held it up for Smith and her to see.

  “It’s a GPS tracker,” Beckmann said. “Looks like the CIA already knows our position.”

  Detmar groaned. “Oh, no,” she said.

  “You told me it was clean. That all it needed was for the tires to be burned,” Smith said.

  She nodded. “I know, I’m sorry. Between getting shot and being chased I forgot all about it.”

  “It’s a little late now,” Beckmann said.

  Smith opened the passenger door and popped the hood. Beckmann shoved his cigarette between his lips while he opened it. He disappeared under the hood a second and then stepped back, slapping his hands together.

  “Hey, wait,” Detmar said. “What are you doing? And I need the keys.”

  “You should be able to fix it easily,” Beckmann said.

  Smith waited until Beckmann reached his car and Russell, Winter, and Arden had also climbed inside. When he heard the engine start, he turned and threw the keys across the road and up a way on the opposite hill. He jogged to the car and climbed in.

  “Hit it,” he said to Beckmann.

  As they roared away Smith looked behind him and saw Detmar hobbling toward the keys.

  “Do you think she’s in on it?” Beckmann asked.

  “Hard to say,” Smith said.

  Twenty minutes later they were on a small cabin cruiser headed out to sea. Smith braced himself by grabbing at the back of the bench seats while he made his way to Winter and tapped him on the shoulder. “There’s been a change in plans. Can you land us farther from Calais?”

  Winter raised an eyebrow. “We never were going to Calais, that’s just what I wanted you to believe.”

  “Okay, so where are we going?” Russell asked.

  “A free dock near Dieppe.”

  “Do you have any binoculars on this boat?” Smith asked.

  Winter nodded. “In the cabinet above the sink.”

  “I’ll take first drone watch,” Smith said. He retrieved the binoculars and sat down near the transom to watch for attackers and brood.

  48

  President Castilla eased into his morning with a cup of coffee and a meeting with a friend. He shook Rick Meccean’s hand.

  “Good to see that you’re fully recovered from the attack. Take a seat. I have about five minutes before the director of national intelligence arrives to deliver the daily briefing. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Meccean sat opposite the president’s desk and crossed one leg over the other. Castilla thought he looked thinner and perhaps a bit drawn since his kidnapping ordeal, but he did not appear to have any lingering injuries. At least not physical ones.

  “I’m sorry to say that I still don’t remember a thing about the kidnapping. Various doctors have been poking and prodding me, and that includes a whole team of psychologists, but I keep coming up empty.”

  “Any diagnosis at all?”

  “Just that it could be a form of selective amnesia. That my brain has closed off access to that particular piece of memory. It doesn’t seem to have affected other aspects of my processing, I’m pleased to say, which is important because I’m he
aded out to Geneva for a meeting on international standards for approval of new drugs.”

  “Anything there that I need to know about?”

  Meccean shrugged. “Nothing you need to do. We’re closing in on a penalty against Bancor Pharmaceuticals for their inappropriate marketing of a cognitive enhancement drug and they’ll attend the meeting to try to talk us out of it. The rest of the items on the agenda involve the marketing of supplements and alternative medicine. Both are bigger issues in Europe than in the U.S., so we’re going to let the EU take the lead on that one.”

  Castilla stood and Meccean rose with him. “I’m glad to see you’re okay. If there’s anything you need give Belinda Carrington a call and she’ll get a message to me.”

  Meccean opened the door to leave and Castilla saw John Perdue waiting in the outer office. Meccean looked back at Castilla and smiled. “The director of national intelligence is waiting for you. Looks like your morning is starting with a bang. Have a great day.”

  Perdue nodded a greeting to Meccean as he entered Castilla’s inner sanctum. When the door closed Castilla waved him to the seat that Meccean had just vacated.

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I have some troubling news from the UK.”

  Castilla nodded. “Ah, yes, the Saudi embassy incident. I spoke with the prime minister yesterday. I thought we had reached an understanding and he seemed somewhat mollified. Did I misread him?”

  Perdue shook his head. “I don’t mean that. There’s some new trouble. About three hours ago a drone from the RAF Croughton air base in Northamptonshire targeted a CIA safe house. Multiple shots were fired into the house from the drone’s nine-millimeter gun mount before it reversed and tracked back to the base. I know that you wanted to hear about any unusual behavior from the drone program and this one was very unusual.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “A CIA officer had just requested and received permission to access the house. A fairly high-level operative named Randi Russell.”

  Castilla did his best to retain his neutral demeanor at the mention of Russell’s name. “What does Russell say happened?”

  “By the time our crew came to investigate she was gone. We didn’t find any blood or signs of a struggle, but we’ve been unable to establish contact with her either, so we’re not exactly sure what’s going on.”