Countdown, p.11
Countdown, page 11
Disconnected once again.
Damn it all to hell…
A soft rap on the door, and Jeremy comes in.
He sees the look on my face and says, “What’s wrong?”
I can’t believe the words I’m uttering.
“I’ve been smoked,” I say slowly. “The Agency…I’m no longer employed, I’ve never been employed, I don’t exist in their records. Do you understand? Not only have I been fired, I’ve been cut loose. Anything I’ve done in the past, anything I’ll do in the future…the CIA will deny any connection with me. When I get to London, I’m on my own. I’ve got no money, no credit cards, nothing. I could be arrested at any moment, even sent to a black site like Gitmo—disappeared forever.”
“I wouldn’t worry about anything bad happening to you in London,” Jeremy says.
I keep my voice low, level, and threatening. “Why? You know something I don’t?”
He says, “We’re not going to London. We’re going to Paris. Rashad Hussain is there.”
Chapter 32
ON THIS beautiful and bright morning in May, Rashad Hussain is in the Village Saint Paul section of Paris, a block in the area of Rue de Rivoli and Quai des Célestins. Here are the best antique stores and magasins de curiosité in the city, and as Rashad moves along the narrow streets of this district, filled with four-story-high buildings with wrought-iron balconies on the upper floors and plenty of shops and stores, he smiles and nods at the pedestrians passing by, including two women wearing chadors.
Rashad stops at one particular store that has suited him over the years. As he enters, there’s the familiar jingle-jangle of the overhead bell being triggered by the old wooden door. Inside is the smell of dust, of old things, and the crowded remains of the recent past. There are racks of clothes, glass-enclosed display cases, shelves of knickknacks—everything from old leather cases to ceramic bowls to little figurines. In the corners are poles and staffs bearing tattered French flags and Army banners, and from the rear an old, short man bustles his way out through a beaded curtain, rubbing his hands.
“Ah, Monsieur, it’s been a long time, has it not?” asks Hugo Fournier, the shop owner, in smooth, slightly accented English.
“Too long, my friend, much too long.” Rashad extends his hand and Hugo gives it a two-handed shake. Hugo has on dark cotton trousers, a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and a black vest. His trimmed beard and hair are marble white.
“Ah, but I have two objects for you,” Hugo says, “but knowing your preferences, your pleasure, I have not put them on display. May I bring them out?”
“I would be honored,” Rashad says, and the old man disappears into the rear of the tiny shop. He browses for a few seconds, seeing the familiar offerings and displays of centuries of French history, and tries to imagine a Frenchman his own age coming in here. Not so long ago, France ruled lands in Africa and Southeast Asia, controlled resources and millions of people, and was considered a major power in the world.
And now? France is known for its wines, cheeses, and run-down immigrant banlieux where young men riot and burn cars in desperation against their Gallic masters.
He reaches over a counter and gently pulls out a long wooden cavalry lance with a sharp metal point, a faded triangular blue-white-red cloth pennant dangling near the top.
Empires. They rise, they rule, they fall.
Always.
He replaces the old French Army lance and Hugo returns with two old pieces of parchment, protected between plastic sheets. He lays them atop the nearest glass counter and says, “See? Something for your collection, am I correct?”
Rashad picks up the larger of the two sheets and Hugo excitedly says, “See? From 1903…a stock certificate for the Baghdad Railway. It is a beautiful thing, is it not? Back then…certificates like this, they were works of art.”
Rashad whispers, “They certainly were.”
The certificate is split into two sections, one in German, the other in Arabic. There are intricately designed Roman columns on each side, two large star-and-crescents, and references to old currencies: francs, reichsmarks, pounds sterling. A banner across the top—in French, no less—reads SOCIÉTÉ IMPÉRIALE OTTOMAN DU CHEMIN DE FER DE BAGDAD. He translates the words in his mind: Ottoman Imperial Company of the Baghdad Railway.
“It’s beautiful indeed,” Rashad says, gently putting the old stock certificate back on the dusty counter. “And the other?”
This piece of protected paper is smaller, and Hugo slides it across. About a third of the page is taken up by a German imperial eagle, along with swirling letters and paragraphs. Rashad doesn’t know German, but he thinks he recognizes the scrawl at the bottom of the page.
“The Kaiser?” he asks.
Hugo nods with delight. “Yes. Indeed. The original order from the Kaiser to his ministry to begin the negotiations and process to start the Berlin-to-Baghdad railway project. A rarity…and it can be yours.”
“How much?”
Hugo quotes a number.
Rashad takes a slim wallet from inside his suit jacket, removes a number of 500-euro notes to match the quoted number, pauses, then adds four more. Hugo lifts an eyebrow.
“That’s quite generous,” he says.
“In the right circumstances, I can be quite generous. And I know I am assured, with the extra payment, that I still have your utmost discretion.”
A deeper nod. “But of course, Monsieur. And now, I shall wrap them up for you.” He picks up the plastic-protected bits of history and says, “Monsieur…if I may…I have many collectors like yourself who shop here. But only you collect memorabilia for a railway that was planned but never completed. May I ask why?”
Rashad replaces his wallet in his jacket pocket. “In some ways the telegraph and the railways, they were the internet of the time, were they not? They erased borders, they passed along information and commerce. And many believed they would usher in prosperity and world peace.”
“Ah,” says Hugo, shaking his head. “Back then, they were so wrong.”
“So very wrong,” Rashad agrees. “There are some who say that the diplomatic maneuvers, threats, and actions against this railway helped start the First World War by raising suspicions and fears. A railway causing so much war—so much terror.”
“A pity.”
Rashad smiles. “A pity indeed, to think a railway ended so many empires back then…and may yet do so again.”
The store owner looks confused, retreats to the rear of the store.
Rashad patiently waits.
Hugo comes back holding a plain brown paper bag with twine handles, and then Rashad says, “Until later.”
“Of course, Monsieur.”
Fifteen minutes after Hugo’s customer leaves, a slim, well-dressed but intense-looking young man in a simple gray suit, white shirt, and black necktie comes up to the counter and presents a photo.
“Did this man come into your shop earlier, Monsieur?”
Hugo isn’t about to say a word—his earlier client has odd tastes but is indeed wealthy and pays much more than required for Hugo’s discretion—but the man displays a leather wallet with a photo ID identifying him as an officer with the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Intérieure, and Hugo just nods.
“Yes, he did,” Hugo says. “Is something wrong?”
The man with the DGSI—France’s internal security and counterterrorism agency—slides the ID back into his coat pocket and gestures to the back room. “Is there someplace private we may talk, m’sieur?”
Hugo leads him into a rear area cluttered with cardboard boxes and overflowing file cabinets, and in the next three minutes explains exactly what his client purchased.
The man nods, seemingly just remembering everything Hugo says without taking notes, which Hugo finds impressive.
Then the agent says, “Is there anything else he said that struck you? Something odd? Unusual?”
Hugo pauses, then nods enthusiastically. “Yes, yes. He said something about railways.”
The man seems to come to attention. “What did he say about railways?”
Despite his earlier promise to his customer, Hugo feels pleased that he’s helping this brave young man and aiding his France. “Railways…he said something about railways once ending an empire, and how they will once again do the same.”
The agent carefully nods. “Are you sure that’s what he said? About empires ending because of railways?”
“Yes, yes, I’m positive,” Hugo says. “That’s what he said. Tell me…is that important information?”
The man nods. “Important, yes. But for you…most unfortunate.”
And Hugo stares in disbelief as a small black pistol appears in the man’s right hand and the cold muzzle is pressed against Hugo’s forehead.
Chapter 33
AT LE CINQ restaurant in the Four Seasons Hotel George V at 31 Avenue George in Paris, Rashad is finishing a delightful lunch of grilled pigeon and giblets with his most trusted associate, Marcel Koussa. Young Marcel’s skin is so light he could pass for someone who traces his family back to the days when Paris was just a muddy village here, under siege by Vikings from Norway, but he’s actually from Libya, the offspring of a female British oil engineer and a Libyan tribal leader who had been schooled in the ways of the AK-47 and international contract negotiations among oil cartels.
Both of his parents died in the violence following the Western overthrow of Gaddafi, and those nations’ failure to take responsibility for the chaos they stirred up. His rage and sorrow over that event brought Marcel to Rashad’s inner circle.
Marcel has changed from before and is wearing a dark blue blazer and a pressed white shirt with an open collar, and his short brown hair is trimmed flawlessly. As he finishes his lamb semolina, he softly says, “I have heard from our contact in Astana. The flight departed yesterday, and all is on schedule for tonight.”
“Very good,” Rashad says.
“If I can say, sir, having you there tonight…it’s a risky move.”
“I know.”
“There are too many variables. I would think…hope…that you would remain behind.”
Rashad gently wipes his fingers on a perfectly folded white napkin. “All of our great warriors, from Saladin to Sultan Mehmed II, have led from the field. It’s only been in the last decades that the cowards have remained hiding in their caves or their cement homes, bravely sending out warriors in their name to do their business. No, I will not let that happen.”
“Sir, but earlier today…I…”
Rashad gently nods to his Marcel. He knows quite well that Marcel seethes inside, hating his life and world because of his nature and upbringing, being both North African and British, neither society quite willing to take him in and call him their own. There are tens of thousands of such young men in this part of the world, and Rashad is relying on many of them to help him in his mission.
This particular young man is brave and dedicated, and Rashad feels he owes him an explanation, even though Marcel has disappointed him on occasion.
“Yes,” he says. “I asked you to take care of my old friend, Hugo Fournier. And yes, Hugo disappointed me by revealing what he knew about me. I could not let that stand.”
“But sir…”
Rashad puts his napkin down. “But I know what you’re thinking. Why ask you? Why didn’t I do it myself?”
Marcel says, “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”
Rashad takes his wallet from his coat pocket, removes a sheaf of hundred-euro notes, deposits them on the pure white tablecloth.
“I could not do it personally,” he says. “Hugo was my friend.”
After a brief walk to enjoy the spring air of Paris, he takes a taxi to one of his favorite places in the City of Lights. Within half an hour of his wonderful lunch with Marcel, he is standing on the banks of the Seine, looking across the muddy water at the Île de la Cité and its most famous building, the 800-year-old Notre Dame Cathedral with its twin spires, flying buttresses, and intricate carvings and sculptures. The reconstruction work from the blaze years ago continues, with its completion date continuously being pushed back.
Still, it is a thing of beauty, of history—a monument to a Christian empire.
He shifts the paper bag holding his recently purchased items from one hand to the other, recalling his many visits to Istanbul and its most famous religious building, the Hagia Sophia, which once upon a time was a cathedral like this one, named the Shrine of the Holy Wisdom of God.
Once upon a time.
Then the blessed day of May 29 came, and the shrine was destroyed and converted into a mosque.
Like this beautiful building across the way.
It, too, will eventually be a mosque.
And that other cathedral in New York City, the one called St. Patrick’s—that too will be converted.
Once the bodies littering the streets have been removed.
Chapter 34
THE LUXURIOUS Total SA jet banks in its final approach, and I’m looking over the rear of the couch through its small windows. Below us is a French Air Force airfield, Orléans-Bricy Air Base, about eighty miles south of Paris. I see the familiar shapes of military jets and four-engine transport planes resting on paved runways, along with hangars and a control tower, and part of me thinks, Well, one more air base on the visited list. But I’m seething inside.
Plus a bit scared, which I hate to admit.
Smoked.
And for what reason?
I’ll probably never know.
All I do know is that I’ve been kicked out, abandoned, torn from the flock. In my previous career and missions, no matter how lost I was (like being in a Georgia swamp at night during my Ranger training) or how overwhelmed and frightened I was (like being in a dirt shelter in a remote FOB in Afghanistan while mortar shells thundered into the compound), there was always a deep faith and knowledge that I wasn’t alone. That friends and allies were merely a walk away, or a radio call away, or a text away.
Not now.
Having been sheep-dipped earlier, I have no official ID, no credit cards, no cash—not even a Lincoln penny. All I have are the clothes on my back, a 9mm SIG Sauer pistol with two spare magazines, and the photo of my Tom and Denise.
Which means for the foreseeable future, I’ll need to rely for my very existence—food, shelter, protection—on the compact man with the trimmed beard sitting across from me, calmly reading a day-old copy of the Daily Star newspaper from Beirut.
Me depending on a man for my life?
I won’t let that last.
I’m still in charge of this op.
We land and quickly taxi to a far end of the air base, at an apron that has two black sedans waiting for us, along with a set of mobile stairs. When the Total SA jet finally and softly comes to a halt, Jean-Paul bustles forward and expertly unfastens the side door.
He snaps off a quick and happy civilian salute to Jeremy and me, and I descend the stairway next to Jeremy. There’s a greeting committee of one man standing at the bottom of the stairs; four others in sunglasses and dark suits stand at a bit of a distance.
“Why here and not Vélizy-Villacoublay?” I ask. “You said you were going to Paris. That’s the closest military base to Paris.”
Jeremy smiles at the man waiting for us, gives him a quick wave. “Because Vélizy-Villacoublay is where the French Air Force keeps its government aircraft, including their version of Air Force One. We don’t need the extra eyes.”
We step onto the pavement and it seems to be in the eighties—warm for Paris in May. Once our feet hit the ground, we nearly get struck by the mobile stairway being backed away, and then the engines on the Total SA aircraft whine up in power as it starts to manuever toward the nearest runway.
We get closer to our apparent hosts, and Jeremy calls out, “Hey, Victor! Grand to see you!”
The sound of the jet engines drops off and a thick, heavyset man approaches us, all smiles. He has on a light gray two-piece suit, dark shoes, and a white shirt with some French regimental necktie flapping in the wind. He has a thick neck, a nose that looks like it’s been broken and rearranged a couple of times, and jet-black eyebrows. His hair has been shaved down to stubble and he smiles as he comes to Jeremy, then has a flash of concern in his eyes when he spots me.
“Jeremy!” he cries out. “So you’ve made it.” He gives Jeremy a two-handed pumping handshake—I half expect to see the traditional kiss on the cheeks, but maybe Jeremy is too Anglo-Saxon for that. Jeremy pulls away and says, “Amy, may I introduce Victor Martin, with the DGSE. Victor, Amy Cornwall, from our counterparts at Langley, and prior to that a captain in the American Army, in intelligence affairs.”
The DGSE is the General Directorate for External Security, or as they say in these parts, la Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure. Victor approaches me, I hold out my hand, and he gives it a quick shake.
“Amy,” he says. “Charmed.”
“I’m sure,” I say. “This is my first time in France.”
“I trust you’ll enjoy it.”
Victor then steps back, gestures to the two vehicles—Peugeot sedans—and says, “This way, s’il vous plaît. We have a briefing arranged that’s only ten minutes away.”
We start walking and the muscle up ahead splits into groups of two, each going to one of the Peugeots. As we move along, Victor and Jeremy hang back, and I overhear a brief conversation in French between the two.
“Who is she again?”
“American CIA paramilitary.”
“Why is she here?”
“She’s helping me hunt Rashad.”
“A woman? Jeremy, please—let me handle this.”
“No, she stays with me.”
“Why?”
“Because I promised. And because I need her.”
We get to the Peugeots and Victor gestures to the lead car and says, “Madame Amy, if you wish, you can enter the lead vehicle, and we will be right behind you.”
