Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2)

by Plame, Valerie

  Seconds passed in charged and weighted silence, until Hays cleared his throat and said, “We’ll start going through this frame by frame. We’ll find clues . . . and now we can run comparisons with the first video. There’s a good chance we can zero in on the location where they filmed . . .” His expression solemn, he said, “The more footage we have, the better.”

  One of the French techs added, “Our linguists will analyze the leader’s dialect and locate his origins geographically.” He tipped his head nervously, as if these efforts sounded less than adequate to his own ears, but he still forged on. “Working with translators, we should get some good profiling data as well.”

  Chris pushed his silver-rimmed glasses against the bridge of his nose. “Al Jazeera has agreed to release clips of the video, but not all of it. These bastards want attention so we’ll give it to them, but we’ll do it our way.”

  Vanessa realized her fingers were clenched, making fists. She stared at Chris so hard her eyes felt like bullets—Get me my damn access to Dieter Schoeman!

  Chris met her gaze and she thought that just maybe she saw him nod.

  Fournier closed the meeting with one final message: “We will keep the curfew on the city, but it will remain voluntary, for now. And let’s get these bastards before they make good on their promise.”

  22

  Roughly 120 kilometers northwest of Paris, where the winter-hued landscape dipped and swelled, rolling in earthen waves, the man with the rash of scars on his face stood in the center of an old stone building. He held the steel briefcase (under his constant watch) suspended from his shoulder and gripped in his left hand, the cable biting into his formidable wrist. His senses alert, his bearing straight and starched, he listened intently for any sound of an approaching airplane. The air inside the thick yellow limestone walls felt ten degrees colder than the air outside, but he seemed impervious to the temperature.

  His team had done their job. There was little to betray their presence. The cheap table and stools had been broken apart; the thin, black drapery and red banners had all been burned. The traitor’s body had been disposed of. The old blind caretaker kept pigs; pigs ate everything, including bones and gristle.

  The man did not like domesticated pigs; they were filthy and the fact they devoured a dead body proved it. Unconsciously, he scratched at the scattershot scars on his face.

  Most of his team had moved on ahead to meet up with him at their next destination. Only one would stay behind to receive the second hostage. The kidnapper was an unholy man, but he had a solid reputation in his field. He had done the first part of his job—he had quietly kidnapped the second hostage and was on his way to deliver.

  He inhaled the musty smell of old stone and wood and mold. His work here was finished.

  A restless energy ran through him. Was the plane late?

  He pulled a silver-plated watch from his pocket. It had belonged to his father, who died during the fighting between Muslims and Coptic Christians over the general elections in December 1995. In honor of his father, he had paid a watchmaker in Cairo to modify the pocket watch to hold an extendable piano wire hidden inside its ornamental frame. If the small silver ring was pulled, the wire could be extended to serve as a simple and lethal garrote.

  He clicked the watch open—1112 hours: three more minutes before the plane’s ETA.

  The second video would be in official hands by now. He and his team had completed two additional videos that were ready to be released to the media and intelligence officials when the timing was right. The analysts would be deconstructing every bit of digital footage.

  He didn’t know or understand all of the technical details, but he knew that eventually they would find a trail. If it led them here, so be it. They needed only a few more days and then everything would change . . .

  His chin lifted as he caught the first sound of the approaching plane. His ride. He tightened his grip on the case. Safe inside, the spool-shaped electrical device was protected by layers of heavy foam. It was the final piece they needed. Considering the contents, the scope of the destructive power it would trigger and unleash, it was surprisingly light.

  As he turned toward the rough wooden door, the phone clipped to his belt vibrated. He pulled himself up even straighter as he answered.

  He used his native Arabic to greet the caller. He listened for fifteen seconds and then he switched to almost perfect English. “It is landing as we speak.”

  He listened again, and then said, “I have the small package with me, yes. Has the other package been delivered to the tinker?” The man was especially proud of the job he and his team had done in Jordan last fall to gain possession of it.

  As he listened, his face relaxed. “Good. And the small package is on its way.”

  Conversation over, he disconnected. The ancient caretaker was already busy burning trash and cuttings, and he would toss the phone into the fire before he boarded the plane.

  He opened the door, stepping out into faint sunshine. The light was so beautiful a prayer came to him and he recited it softly—just as the plane began its descent to land.

  Time to move to Phase II.

  23

  After viewing the True Jihad video and engaging in a detailed Q&A session with Hays and the French techs over what their analysis might yield, Vanessa had caught a ride with Jack back to the 6th Arrondissement. At her request, he’d dropped her at the Hôtel Pont Royal, just a few blocks from the intersection of Rue du Bac, Boulevard Raspail, and Boulevard Saint-Germain. She was desperately craving un café express and sustenance (something more than croissants, yogurt, cheese), and the hotel’s café made good sandwiches and had remained open through the curfew.

  But in addition to her physical needs, she craved the deep solitude possible in a city under threat. The latest video had stirred up the most haunting images from yesterday. But the doubts were worse. Like invisible harpies, they screamed through her brain: What if they couldn’t stop the terrorists? What if she failed to make the right judgment calls? What if Bhoot was using her to throw intelligence off his trail?

  She ducked out of the café before her order was ready, and then she stepped down a narrow alley and pressed her back against the brick walls—waiting minutes until the voices finally dropped to a whisper and then went silent.

  She’d opted not to take the shortest route back to the safe house and she made herself stick with the plan; a longer, indirect course offered the opportunity to make sure she wasn’t being followed. The suicide bomber had recognized her yesterday. If Bhoot wasn’t behind True Jihad, then someone else was aware of her true identity. Either way, it was bad.

  When Vanessa walked into the dining room of the safe house, she immediately felt the collective tension and unrest.

  Fournier stood at the head of the table, flanked by Aisha and Canard—a data sheet on the table in front of them. With Vanessa’s entrance, Aisha glanced up, her expression wary and sharp.

  Khoury, Jack, and two others clustered around what Vanessa assumed was a copy of the data. Khoury acknowledged her with a nod and a look that was both pensive and preoccupied.

  Fournier slid a printout to her across the table. “Our analysts isolated the dirty bomb’s radioactive signature,” he said with his usual terseness, “and they’ve linked it to a plant in Ukraine.”

  “Where?” Vanessa asked, already scanning the values on the printout. “Which plant?”

  “Lugansk region.” It was Aisha who had answered.

  Vanessa looked up, meeting her eyes. “Which plant?”

  Aisha’s gaze slid away and she shrugged. “A private reprocessing facility in Krasnyi Luch.” She pulled her shoulders back. “Familiar with it?”

  Vanessa took a breath and a moment to remind herself not to get caught up in Aisha’s irksome and apparently endless pissing contest. She said, “After the collapse, and after the army deserted the storage bunkers that held uranium and other glowing parts, the Soviet nuke sites were stripped clean.”r />
  All eyes were on her, but it still felt like a private conversation between the only two women in the room. She said, “So now the army sites have been picked over and finally dismantled, but processing plants like the one in Luch continue to offer opportunities for thieves to sell off whatever they can steal.”

  Aisha shrugged. “You’ve done some homework.”

  “I’ve done my job. There are half a dozen operators from that region and they sell off scavenged radioactive waste from medical and industrial facilities, and Dieter Schoeman handled their trade for Bhoot before he was locked up. It was part of Dieter’s territory—and now his proxy handles things while he’s in prison.”

  “It’s still my territory,” Aisha said, the edge in her voice marking a clear challenge.

  “Fine,” Vanessa answered sharply; okay, maybe she wasn’t totally above a bit of brashness. She’d carried her dark mood in the door, and at the moment she didn’t care; it felt good to take it out on someone, especially Aisha. “Those guys in your territory will sell anything they can get their hands on—everything from X-ray machines to actual warheads.”

  Aisha stared at Vanessa, her eyes gone eerily flat. “So?”

  Vanessa crossed her arms. “So, just like that, you know which one of the dozen-plus scavengers, crooks, and small-time punks sold off this particular bit of nuclear waste?”

  “No, but I’ll find out tonight from my asset. She’s a little broken bird, but she’s reliable,” Aisha said, crossing her arms, a mirror of Vanessa. “You know the Russian saying ‘The less you know, the better you sleep’?” Aisha’s mouth curled into a bitter smile. “I don’t sleep much.”

  “Take Vanessa with you tonight,” Fournier said to Aisha.

  Aisha instantly answered back in fast, regional French that was indecipherable to Vanessa. Except that she was clearly registering a protest.

  “I thought we’re all part of a team,” Vanessa said, feeling both irritated and weary.

  Aisha shrugged again. “I told Marcel that I don’t have time to babysit.”

  “And I don’t have time for bullshit.” Vanessa shook her head. “I’m used to working with people who accord each other basic respect. You’re wasting everybody’s time with your attitude. I have other things to do.”

  Aisha’s mouth tightened, but she managed a quick shift and offered a smile meant to be conciliatory—except it didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry for the rudeness. Meet me by Brasserie Balzar on Rue des Écoles, at 0100. It’s close to the Sorbonne, only two Métro stops. It’s going to be a long night.”

  “Fine.”

  “And make sure you”—Aisha waved a hand, gesturing to Vanessa’s casual jeans and pullover sweater—“dress for clubbing, try to look a little sexy, so you don’t stand out.”

  24

  Aisha was late.

  0112 hours and Vanessa stood shivering at the edge of a glistening pool of light cast by a streetlamp on the corner where they had agreed to meet. Her aviator-style jacket, although fleece-lined, was no match for the wind chill, and her leather pants and red stiletto boots were definitely wrong for Paris in February. She tugged her red patterned wool scarf tighter around her neck.

  The Sorbonne was only a few streets away; this was an area frequented by students. But in the twenty minutes she’d been waiting, she’d seen only four people on foot, two on bicycles, and three vehicles.

  She felt pinpricks of moisture on her face, the rain starting up again.

  Perfect.

  Vanessa’s glowing watch face showed 0119. She caught a new sound—the rev of a scooter—and then she saw the white Peugeot approaching the intersection; dark hair streamed out from underneath the driver’s helmet.

  Come on, Vanessa thought. Even in Europe people drive cars, not scooters, at night in the rain.

  Aisha pulled up to the curb. “You don’t look happy,” she said, pointing to a spare helmet strapped on the scooter.

  “I’m not. You’re late and I’m freezing. Who are we looking for?”

  “She goes by Tanya. Hop on. I’ll fill you in when we get there.”

  —

  THEY DIDN’T FIND Tanya at the first stop, an after-hours club located in a narrow alley and marked by an exterior blue-neon display—martini glass with a cigar balanced on its rim and a plume of rising smoke—and the faint but deep bass vibration carried on the night air. The crowd was in its twenties and rowdy, and the overwhelming need to socialize, drink, dance, and live in the moment with friends won out over curfews.

  Life in a war zone, the chance to defy death—Vanessa empathized.

  “A lot of the girls here come from eastern Europe,” Aisha had explained as they exited the club past a long queue waiting to get inside. “One of the dancers is lovers with a Ukrainian girl, Tanya, whose brother drove for the thieves who supplied Schoeman with junk rads.” She even gave Vanessa a half-nod as she climbed the few concrete steps to the alley. “Nice work putting him away, by the way.”

  The rain had eased off and the cold air felt good to Vanessa after the heat of the club. She was almost getting used to riding on the back of the scooter. Almost.

  About ten minutes later Aisha braked near a bike rack. Vanessa climbed off feeling damp through her clothes to her skin. She tugged her leather pants into a more comfortable position while Aisha secured the scooter with a lock.

  Vanessa watched while Aisha shook her long curls loose from the helmet, reached into the V-neckline of her jacket to adjust her cleavage, and finally smoothed the leather of her cliff-heeled boots that stopped just above her knees; she definitely looked hot.

  Already moving, Aisha said, “Not far to the next club.”

  Vanessa caught up, jamming her hands deep into the pockets of her leather jacket. “If Tanya’s your asset—”

  “The brother was my asset.” Aisha kept her eyes straight ahead. “He’s dead. The family lived close to Chernobyl. He died a few years ago, but his sister and her lover still party with those guys who sell spare nuke parts. Good enough for you?”

  “It’ll do for now,” Vanessa said. Yeah, it’s going to be a long night—no problem as long as there is a payoff coming before the end.

  She braced against the wind, grateful when Aisha turned sharply to follow another back alley Vanessa would have missed.

  The only sign Vanessa could see identifying the second club was the Greek zeta spray-painted on the wall of an old warehouse. But the insistent call of the deep, throbbing bass overlaid by a sinuous Arabic melody was a giveaway.

  She followed Aisha down narrow basement steps to find a long passage obstructed by a line of twentysomething clubbers—from the look and sound of them, a mix of French, German, English, and a fair number who looked Middle Eastern. Their mood felt boisterous and defiant—terrorists weren’t going to frighten them or control their choices.

  Aisha didn’t slow. Vanessa had to admit grudging admiration for the way she wove with seeming ease among the excited, intoxicated men and women. Repeating “Désolée” and “Ana asfa.”

  Like Vanessa, she carried herself with athletic confidence, but she had some mix of privilege and street toughness that seemed to make her untouchable.

  Vanessa barely caught up with her at the inner entrance, where Aisha joked familiarly in Arabic with a huge man, his dark skin made darker with copious henna tats—the club bouncer whose bulk seemed to be made up of equal parts fat and muscle.

  Aisha gestured back to Vanessa, and the laughing bouncer opened the gate to let them pass—but not before offering Vanessa an exaggerated leer and a wink.

  Inside, amid the crush of sweat-slick dancers, Aisha headed for one of several circular bars. Vanessa stepped up next to her, ordering club soda to Aisha’s “usual.” She was beginning to overheat and she shrugged out of the aviator jacket, glad she’d chosen a sleeveless silk shirt.

  Aisha turned to take in the club floor, giving Vanessa the chance to observe her—rainbow lights catching the
sheen of her flawless skin, illuminating her beauty, and the sense that she was haunted by things she’d seen . . . or done.

  After a moment, Aisha turned back to the bar to pick up her shot glass. She downed the shot and leaned in so Vanessa inhaled the strong scent of licorice alcohol. “I told the bouncer you have a thing for dark, mysterious Arabic men.”

  Vanessa raised one eyebrow and returned Aisha’s stare. Where the hell did that come from? She took a drink of soda, just now realizing how thirsty she was. “And what about you?” Vanessa countered. “How do you like your men?”

  Aisha’s dark eyes narrowed. “I like a man who understands my world, who speaks my language, who gets where I live.”

  “Thats a lot to ask.”

  Aisha’s mouth curled into a private smile. “Maybe not . . .”

  Is she talking about Khoury? Vanessa shook off the thought and shifted impatiently. “Where’s your friend?”

  Aisha held up one hand. “Be right back.” She wove her way past the bar to a stage set up for the DJ, who was spinning a house mix—he or she, Vanessa couldn’t tell which, was pretty and skinny, with a brilliant smile and ultra-short, glittered dark hair. And the mixes were good—deep and sexy and pulsating.

  Along the edge of the stage, Aisha stepped into a narrow passage that was just visible from where Vanessa stood. She felt the instinct to follow but made herself stay put. Aisha had stopped to speak with a short, wiry man who wore a black sleeveless T-shirt; his choice of wardrobe showed off vibrantly colored body art.

  He turned and disappeared, and Aisha walked back toward the bar. “Okay,” she said. “Now we wait.”

  “For?” Vanessa took a deep breath, attempting to keep calm. She really hated that she wasn’t the one in control.

  Instead of answering, Aisha grabbed Vanessa’s wrist, pointing to a small scar. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Jumping out of a tree when I was nine.”