LACKING VIRTUES

by Thomas Kirkwood

  Michelet ground out his cigar. “It is true that such an improvement in the fortunes of Airbus would be a strong stimulus for the entire economy. But, Paul, in order to garner our present share of the market, we’ve practically had to give away airplanes. The confidential government estimates I’ve seen put the final sale prices ten million dollars below production costs. The Americans are already at our throats for subsidies that violate GATT, and that’s going to get worse. I’ve seen confidential airline evaluations on Boeing’s new plane, the Triple Seven. It’s a better long-term investment for the airlines than our A-330s and A-340s. If you want to know my opinion, Paul, we’ll be lucky to hold our present market share.”

  “Such pessimism, Georges,” Delors said. He poured himself a cognac. “I’m going to tell you about Operation Litvyak. When I am finished, you will understand why all of your doom and gloom predictions are incorrect. You will understand why France is at the threshold of a new era of pride and independence; and why you are about to become the most significant European politician of the postwar era. May I?”

  “Go on, but make it brief. I haven’t packed for my trip yet.”

  “I shall try, George. After Russia’s collapse in the Cuban Missile Crisis, General Volkov felt the sting of failure. The experience made him doubly determined to avoid another defeat and humiliation by the United States. It also changed his view of the way in which the superpowers were likely to react in the event of another showdown. Their reluctance to use nuclear weapons in Cuba convinced him that a conventional war in Europe was a possibility. This belief was the catalyst for what followed.”

  “Yes?”

  “Operation Litvyak was designed to sabotage American civil aviation in the event of a land war with the Soviet Union. You saw in Vietnam and again in Desert Storm how Americans use their commercial airline fleet to ferry soldiers to and from the front.”

  “I’m familiar with the practice. However, Paul, it would not be a realistic goal to think you could cripple an entire American war effort with civil aviation sabotage.”

  “You don’t think so, George? I’m sure the Americans didn’t either, because they left themselves wide open. If hostilities had broken out, they would have lost ten thousand soldiers in the first week of war. Who knows how they would have reacted.”

  “With nuclear weapons, I would think.”

  “And risk self-destruction? I’m not sure. They might have preferred to grant the Soviets some concessions in Europe – at our expense, of course.”

  “After having been sabotaged? I doubt it.”

  “They would not have been able to demonstrate that there had, in fact, been sabotage. One of the primary elements of Operation Litvyak was to make the crashes look like the result of shoddy or rushed American workmanship. In any case, George, whether or not Volkov assessed his adversary correctly is of no importance to us. What I can tell you with certainty is that part of the venture has outlived the Cold War. The capacity exists to bring down Boeing jetliners in the time frame of the operation in dramatic fashion.”

  “How do you know all of this, Paul? It seems rather farfetched.”

  Delors smiled inwardly. Proof was a lovely thing. “I know because last May’s disaster in Atlanta was staged on our behalf to demonstrate precisely this capability. If you have any doubts, Georges, wait for the investigation results. A pin in the left aft engine mount failed. I was given the place of the crash, the type of aircraft and the cause two months before it happened.”

  “You mean to tell me,” Michelet growled, “you mean to say, Paul, that you are proposing air crashes as the way to improve the fortunes of Airbus.”

  “Yes. One, the action could not be traced to us – or anyone else. Two, we must have the courage to fight for what we believe in. This is war, Georges. Just because the weapons are economic rather than military does not mean the stakes are smaller. If we let the Americans roll over us here, where will we stop them? It’s time we quit talking and took our destiny in our own hands. May I fill you in on the details?”

  Michelet did not say no, so Delors continued. When he wrapped up his presentation many hours later, a streak of dawn shone above the wet forests to the east and lights burned again in the servant cottage across the way. Michelet, he thought, was coming around. Slowly, yes, but that was to be expected. Delors himself had been a difficult convert.

  Isabelle brought them coffee and croissants. She did not seem to notice that the two men had been up all night.

  When she left the room, Michelet stretched and stood. “Well, Paul, before we go any further, I suppose I should inquire after Monsieur Claussen’s fee.”

  “Fifty million dollars per accident – in the currencies of his choosing, and in cash.”

  Michelet looked almost as stunned as he had been by the original proposal. “That’s ludicrous. That solves my dilemma. Our war chest is big, but not that big.”

  “Georges, you’re leaving someone out of your calculations. I’ve researched Albert’s holdings. He would earn his investment back, and then some. He would do it for you. He would do it for France. May I bring him here when you return from the South?”

  Michelet was moving toward the library door, a dark restless mass of energy. Before he went out, he stopped and stared harshly at his guest. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. Good day, Paul.”

  Chapter Eight

  Steven headed south the week after Bastille Day. The traffic was horrendous, and the heat brought back unpleasant memories of the summer he’d worked in the oil fields of Oklahoma. It was that humid heat you couldn’t keep out of your socks and shorts, and it didn’t help to have the Harley burning like a furnace between his legs.

  Both lanes had slowed to a crawl. He was sick and tired of having to fight the cars, trucks and campers. No way back roads could be any worse than this, he thought. On impulse he took the Beaune exit and left the autoroute.

  He had only stopped for gas since leaving Paris nearly seven hours ago. When he drove past a sidewalk cafe in the center of a provincial town where a few old men were drinking beer, he decided it would be wise to refuel his body. He ordered a Croque Monsieur, the closest thing to a sandwich he’d found in France, and a cold mug of Kronenbourg. While he was unwinding, he became fascinated with the cathedral directly across the square. The entire facade was painted with frescoes. Though their colors had been dulled by centuries of weather and pollution, the intricate figures were still beautiful. What painstaking work! Most impressive of all, someone had actually finished the goddamned thing.

  Perseverance. That had been Item Number One on “LeConte’s List of Lacking Virtues,” a page of fake parchment on which Sophie had listed in a fine calligraphic hand the traits he would do well to acquire.

  He couldn’t remember what the other items on the list were. Promptness, maybe. He was a big procrastinator, which was why the parchment still lay unframed and unstudied on his desk. But one thing was certain: Sophie was right about his lack of perseverance. Unlike his brothers, parents, and the fresco painter across the square, he never seemed to finish anything.

  He ordered another beer and ate his sandwich and wondered what kind of mistakes his parents had made raising him. “Where did we go wrong with this young man, Ashley? Where in the name of God did we go wrong?” That was his father’s familiar refrain each time he dropped out of school or quit a promising job.

  Christ, he didn’t know where they had gone wrong either, but they must have screwed up pretty bad. The mere thought of becoming an eye surgeon in Greenwich or a tax attorney in New Haven or a nervous little stock market weasel on Wall Street made him existentially ill.

  He felt a sudden unanticipated joy welling up from deep inside, displacing the fatigue of too many hours on the road. What he really wanted to be was a guy on his way south to seduce some big shot politician’s daughter. Yes, it was hard to believe, but he wanted to be the guy sitting right here in this café, in a town whose name he didn’t know, drinking a b
eer and looking at a cathedral with a facade of beautiful frescoes some dogged bastard had worked for half a century to finish. He hadn’t felt good about being Steven for years. This was a welcome change.

  Beyond the outskirts of town, he accelerated the powerful bike into a curve. When the road straightened out, he could see the snow-capped peaks of the Alps far off to the east, rising above the summer haze.

  The fields stretched to either side of the tree-lined road, soft green fields with streaks of lilac. Patches of bright red poppies grew here and there. He watched old stone farmhouses with tile roofs fly by. He took in the roll and geometry of the patchwork farming country, all chopped up by ancient stone walls and skewed hedges.

  He was high on life. For this fine experience he had Sophie Marx to thank. Maybe her feeling toward him wasn’t only maternal, he thought; maybe she really needed him, really thought he could help her with her work. Who was he to say? Maybe he could.

  ***

  He had only intended to locate the Michelet villa that evening, but when he saw a navy-blue Mercedes with a young woman in the passenger seat driving out the front gate, he couldn’t resist following. The car climbed a steep winding road toward a hilltop village whose turreted silhouette was etched against the darkening sky. He stayed well back, merging with a few kids on mopeds sputtering along like mechanical fish.

  The medieval stone wall around the village seemed to grow out of the cliffs. The entrance was a vaulted passage so narrow the Mercedes had a tight squeeze getting through.

  Looking up at it as he approached, Steven found the place almost spooky. But once inside the wall, he saw that it was warm and hospitable, a quaint little town where people came to eat or stroll on a warm summer night.

  Antique gas streetlights burned along the cobblestone alleys and light shone in the windows of shops and restaurants. This evening the strollers were out in force, and groups of teenagers hung around the outdoor cafés.

  The Mercedes stopped at curbside near an elegant restaurant, dwarfing most of the other cars. Steven was glad he had showered and gotten into a fresh shirt and pair of jeans, but he doubted they’d let him in the restaurant if that’s where fate was trying to take him. He parked his bike, sat on the back of a bench and watched.

  The young woman got out of the Mercedes, not waiting for the driver to come around. Steven recognized her from the pictures Sophie had shown him. She was even more enticing in the flesh. She wore low heels, a tasteful smattering of gold jewelry, and a pale linen summer dress. She was slim, lithe and voluptuous, one of those young women who exude sexuality without trying. Her jet black hair shone brilliantly under the streetlights. Sophie was right: he liked what he saw.

  His spine stiffened when the door on the driver’s side swung open. A big man roughly his father’s age got out. Michelet looked a lot less friendly in person than he did on TV. He had the aura of a powerful man about him, made you know he was the kind of guy who could take care of himself – and of you if he felt like it. Sophie, he thought, had given him one hell of a challenge.

  When Michelet took his daughter’s arm, she didn’t look overjoyed. Steven felt like cheering. They started to walk toward the elegant restaurant.

  He was trying to decide if he should follow them and take his chances on a dress code when a clean-cut young man came out of the restaurant and motioned to Michelet. Steven noticed that two other men had materialized just behind the walking couple. They seemed very alert, eyes scouring pedestrians, parked cars, doorways and overhead windows. Plainclothes security agents, he realized. Not exactly his kind of people.

  In a little anteroom just inside the restaurant, he received a thorough going over. The maître d’ gave him another rigorous exam but finally, if not enthusiastically, decided to let him in. He shelled out a large tip and managed to get a table by the window, separated from the Minister and his daughter by nothing more than a party of three security agents.

  The view from the window was breathtaking. The ground on which the restaurant had been built was higher than the village wall, so you could see over it and down the mountainside. At the bottom of the precipice lights snaked gracefully along the jagged coastline. Out beyond the lights, the Mediterranean stretched to the horizon, vast and calm beneath a low crescent moon.

  Inside the restaurant Steven had less to look at, as the backs of the agents, and then the even broader back of Michelet, blocked his view of Nicole, who sat facing him. At least it wasn’t a total eclipse, he thought. He could see a tanned, slender arm when she reached for something on the table, a sheath of lustrous black hair when she tilted her head to the side, an occasional bare shoulder when she moved one way and her father the other.

  After many courses, consumed, from what he could tell, in near silence, Michelet excused himself. Two agents accompanied him, the third stood and stretched. Steven at last had an unobstructed view of the girl.

  Nicole stared out the window, toying with her necklace. Then, as if the view weren’t enough to hold her attention, she brought her eyes around to him.

  He was quick, decisive and confident. He spoke to her across the vacant table as if they were guests at the same party. He made innocuous small talk about the lovely village and the cuisine and how glad he was to have come to the south of France. He did it in a way that spared her having to respond.

  She smiled at something he said, a dazzling smile he hadn’t seen before.

  Michelet returned, paid the bill and hustled Nicole out. She smiled at Steven again as she passed his table.

  He sat back, stretched and ordered a five-star cognac. This was an expense he didn’t think Sophie would mind.

  Chapter Nine

  Claussen got off the train at the Friedrichsstraße station, once the heart of East Berlin’s rail system. He joined the stream of workers heading for the huge ailing factories along the Spree.

  Glancing at his watch, he ducked into a sidewalk bar for a roll, coffee and schnapps. He stood at a round table while he ate and read the three newspapers he had bought at the station kiosk: France-Soir, Le Monde and the Daily Telegraph.

  He was disappointed. Like the rest of the subject matter he had covered since he had received the go-ahead from Delors – some privileged, some not – today’s news shed no light on the mystery of who, in addition to Delors, was paying his fee.

  It was high time he solved that mystery, he thought. If he left Europe in the dark as to the identity of Delors’ backers, it would not auger well for his life expectancy. With a secret as ugly as theirs on their conscience, and the blood of thousands of innocent travelers on their hands, these men would want him gone forever the moment he completed his mission. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise him if they had already started planning for his elimination.

  Claussen did not despise his backers for behaving the way he assumed: he would have done the same in their position. But he had to take care of himself. He was a realist. He knew he must have a device for offsetting their present advantage, a checkmate he could rely on.

  He drained his schnapps. His concerns were still a little premature. Today was the day Maria was supposed to come to the island. She had been there when he and Delors had spoken, hidden in the overgrown boathouse, deadly as usual with her Leica. She had also monitored the receiver for the tiny bug he had installed under the dock. As a result of his preparations and Maria’s help, he had a taped record of Delors’ visit to complement the photos.

  This was a good start, but it was only a start. Delors had no family. He would prefer death to revealing his backers. He was the real thing, a zealot who put the interests of his country ahead of his own well-being. He was blackmail-proof. To checkmate the others, whoever they were, Claussen had no choice but to uncloak them on his own.

  Which was why he’d sent Maria to France the week after Delors had come to see him. She went armed with her knowledge of what Delors looked like and not much more. Claussen instructed her to try to spot him outside the Piscine, the Paris headquarters of th
e SDECE, and, if she did, to follow him wherever he went.

  Claussen was guessing that the Deputy Director of the SDECE would embark on a fund raising drive when he returned to France. The task of finding that much money outside of official channels wouldn’t be easy. If Delors was able to rouse sufficient interest in the Airbus agenda, Claussen knew there would be several meetings before any agreement was reached. Hence his instructions to Maria to look for a series of meetings involving the same people, and to monitor the participants’ comings and goings for up to a month if she found something.

  Claussen knew it was a long shot and did not give her a great chance of success. But as a tracker and recorder, she was a pro. He had learned a few years ago not to count her out. He had also learned that in his business long shots were not to be despised.