“There are major gaps here,” said Hadash.
“Yes,” conceded Rubens. “But the time factor is critical. If we interpret the date on the site as being significant.”
“You have no idea if it has any significance at all,” said Namath. “You told us that yourself. Is it saying this is the date we will strike? Or is it saying wait until the weather turns cloudy?”
Before Rubens could rebut him, Marcke cut in.
“We have to inform the French,” said the President. “Think if the situation were reversed and this was the Statue of Liberty we were talking about — we’d want to know. Absolutely. And now. With as many details as we can provide.”
“I doubt they’ll believe us,” said Namath.
“They may or they may not,” agreed the President. “That’s their call.”
“They’ll want specifics,” said Lincoln.
“As would I,” said Marcke.
Rubens had no problem sharing the eavesdropping information they had obtained from Morocco — it didn’t involve sensitive technology, nor was the source on French soil. The information about the computers was somewhat more delicate, but the work had been done from the United States and it provided a vital clue; there was no way it could be left out.
Telling them about the chemist, however, would make it clear that the Americans were running an operation on French soil. It was one thing for everyone to know that this sort of thing went on and quite another to admit it openly.
“Telling them about the French source would add a great deal of credibility,” said the Secretary of State.
“That’s letting them in too deeply,” objected Brown. “And it may endanger our people.”
“I doubt they’ll assassinate your people,” said the President drily.
“Agreed,” said Rubens. “However, the Frenchman LaFoote believes the head of Paris security was involved.”
“Unlikely,” said Namath.
“Perhaps,” said Brown. “But if he was, our people would definitely be at risk.”
“They’re at risk now,” said Namath.
“The French don’t know about our operation,” said Rubens.
“I think any data we have we should share,” said Lincoln.
But Rubens and Brown stuck to their position, and eventually Hadash backed them up; together they worked out an arrangement that would leave LaFoote and, more important, the Deep Black agents unmentioned. They would also leave out the fact that the explosives involved seemed to have been made by a chemist who had worked for the French government — but at the same time supply enough technical data about what they perceived the threat to be. The French would figure out what the explosives were, even though they would be given the impression that the Americans didn’t know who had helped develop them.
“You think they would turn around and track the chemist, what’s his name, on their own?” asked Namath.
“Vefoures,” said Rubens. “They may. They’re welcome to. We’ve tried. He’s gone, almost surely killed. It’s the car thief we need, Mussa Duoar,” added Rubens. “He’s connected to the computers. He’s a devout Muslim. He has connections in the underworld. And to terrorists. He’s in the middle of this.”
“Car thieves don’t blow up national monuments,” said Namath.
“They also usually don’t gather money for terrorists,” said Rubens. “Or have connections with radical Muslims.”
“Connections that don’t necessarily add up to anything except coincidences,” said Namath.
“Granted, I’m making a leap,” conceded Rubens.
“What about the warhead that’s missing?” asked the President.
“Definitely still a concern,” said Rubens. “Mussa was from Algeria.”
“More connections,” said Namath.
“Admittedly, it may be a coincidence. We have nothing tying him or any of this to the warhead. What we’ve seen so far are conventional explosives, the exact type that Vefoures was working on,” said Rubens. He turned to Namath. “We have no indication that the warhead is involved and as far as I know it hasn’t been located, unless you’ve found it.”
Namath’s frown made it clear that the CIA hadn’t.
“The explosive could be used to fashion a triggering device for a nuke,” said Hadash.
“Absolutely,” said Rubens. “But it would be no easier with this explosive than with another. And quite frankly, such lenses are not easily constructed. You’ve seen all the trouble the Pakistanis have had.”
“It would be easier to overengineer,” said Hadash. “To compensate for the inferior lens.”
“It would be a big bomb then,” said Rubens.
“But that’s what we’re talking about.”
Rubens conceded that he couldn’t completely rule out the possibility that the warhead was involved, but even Namath had to admit that there wasn’t any indication that it was. The discussion shifted over to other possible targets.
As the conversation continued, Rubens noticed that Hadash began glancing at his watch every few minutes. He obviously had a busy schedule today and even though it was still very early in the morning would want to push things along to wrap up quickly. Hadash and the President would be leaving Washington at 2:00 a.m. tomorrow, and Rubens knew from experience that the national security adviser would want to finish early and sneak home for a nap before boarding the plane. The President never bothered with such strategies; he seemed never to be affected by jet lag, either.
“What do you think the odds are that the French will believe us?” President Marcke finally asked Rubens.
“Truthfully, I’m not sure.”
“Admiral?”
“Not sure.”
“Line?”
“I don’t know,” said the Secretary of State.
The President turned to Hadash with the same question.
“About as much as if they told us the White House was being targeted,” said the national security adviser.
I hope more than that, thought Rubens, though he didn’t say it.
* * *
“How did the General’s court hearing go?” asked Brown on the helicopter back to Crypto City.
“It was an informal meeting with the judge,” said Rubens. He explained that the judge had appointed a lawyer to represent the General.
“Stay on top of it,” said Brown.
“I’m trying,” said Rubens. “There’s a medical examination this afternoon.”
“You’ll be there?”
“I hope to be.”
“You should try.”
The secure phone buzzed in Ruben’s briefcase; he was only too happy for the excuse to end the conversation.
“Rubens,” he said, snapping the phone on. “Johnny Bib says the explosives fit the Eiffel Tower program precisely,” said Chris Farlekas. “They’ve located the library and he wants to go ahead and recover the hard drive.”
“How difficult will it be?” Rubens asked Farlekas.
“Unknown until we get somebody in to look at the setup. But I’d think it’d be a piece of cake. It’s a small library outside of Paris. The drive itself isn’t anything special — you could replace it in a few minutes or so. There’s a similar size one in the Paris safe house and we can upload the legitimate programs within an hour, maybe less. Whatever is on that locked-out section, of course, stays locked out.”
On the one hand, the sectors had been locked out because of a physical error on the drive, then it would be unlikely that anyone would realize they had taken it. On the other hand, if the locked-out space wasn’t really bad — if what Johnny Bib and his people thought was a malfunction turned out to be a clever masking program they had never encountered before — then whoever was using it would know they were on their trail.
In an ideal world, Rubens would have preferred leaving the drive in place for a few weeks and setting up some sort of trap to catch whoever accessed it. But this wasn’t an ideal world; he was simply going to have to take a risk, and it seemed to him t
hat the risk with the least amount of foreseeable downside was in grabbing the drive.
“Can Tommy get it after he meets with LaFoote?”
“That may be difficult. There were complications.”
“What sort?”
“LaFoote is dead. Looks like murder.”
“I see.”
A confirmation that they were on the trail to something, he thought, though beyond that was all speculation.
“Get Dean over there right away,” Rubens told Farlekas.
“Charlie Dean? Change a computer drive?”
“Good point,” said Rubens. “Send Lia with him to do the actual swap.”
53
Father Brossard proved not to be at home when Karr called, and wasn’t expected back until the next morning. The priest’s housekeeper was from Kenya, and her English turned out to be somewhat better than her French. She explained that the priest had many churches to cover and traveled constantly around the local diocese.
“You think I should break in?” Karr asked Farlekas as he walked back toward Knox and the Renault.
“I don’t think Mr. Rubens would approve breaking into a church.”
“Sure he would,” said Karr.
“We want to see what’s on the disks you got from LaFoote’s house,” said the Art Room supervisor. “I think that’s more important right now. The account information may not yield anything.”
“How many hiding places can a priest have?” asked Karr.
“Let me see if I can get ahold of Mr. Rubens again. Stand by.”
Karr walked over to the car where Knox was slumped back in the seat. The CIA officer had been both apologetic and defensive since Karr had discovered LaFoote dead.
More the latter.
“I need you to create a diversion,” Karr told him. “Keep the housekeeper occupied.”
“How?”
“Just talk to her.”
“But—”
Karr leaned against the car, which sagged heavily under his weight. “Do what I say, all right?”
“I’m sorry. Yeah.”
The back door to the parish house was open, and Karr had no trouble sneaking inside and getting up to the priest’s room while Knox pretended to be a parishioner in need of immediate counseling. The ruse wasn’t particularly apt — the parish was small enough that even the housekeeper knew just about everyone who lived in the area — but it gave Karr enough time to check the room, which had no furniture besides the bed and clearly wasn’t hiding anything. He nearly got caught in the kitchen when the housekeeper came back, but the telephone saved him.
“You were supposed to wait,” said Farlekas when Karr got back to the car.
“Yeah, but I’m done now,” said Karr. “He doesn’t have it in his room and he doesn’t seem to have a study here. According to the housekeeper he travels among several parishes.”
“Mr. Rubens said that if you couldn’t find it easily, bring the CDs back to Paris. We’re looking for the account on our end in the meantime.”
“Sure? Church doesn’t look like it’s locked.”
“Tommy.”
“I’ll call you from the safe house in Paris.”
54
“Wake up. We have to go steal a computer from a library.”
Dean jerked out of bed with a start. Lia was standing over him, frowning.
“How the hell did you get into my room?” he asked her. “I had the dead bolt set.”
“Oh, Charlie. You’re so naive.”
Dean pulled his clothes on and went to the bathroom to shave. Just as he finished he heard a knock on the door; thinking it was Lia, he yelled to her to come in. A French voice answered, informing him it was room service with his coffee.
Suspicious, Dean took a towel and covered his pistol, opening the door for the man. He was, in fact, from room service, and he did have a large pot of coffee. Dean blanked on the cover name used for the reservation, so he scrawled a signature that could have been anything from John Doe to Napoleon on the receipt. He was on his second cup when Lia returned.
“I got a car. Come on, let’s go,” she said.
He grabbed the small knapsack that had met them at the airport as part of their mission equipment. Besides some maps, his handheld computer, and a sweater, the knapsack had a spare satellite phone.
“Where are we going?” Dean asked in the car.
“A library.”
“You said that.”
“Why’d you ask again?”
“You going to be like this for the rest of your life, or just the rest of the day?”
“Like what, Charlie Dean?”
Her habit of saying his whole name grated on him, but he didn’t give her the satisfaction of complaining about it, especially not now.
He wanted to talk to her, to really talk. He wanted to let her know…
What?
That he cared. That he loved her.
“Look,” he started. “I know you’re still…”
The words failed him. He wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted to say — or he did, but he couldn’t put it into words that sounded real. He wanted to hold her, protect her — he hadn’t done that, had he?
“I’m still what, Charlie Dean?”
“I love you,” he said.
But her frown only deepened.
* * *
The computer was located in a small library in a town on the eastern outskirts of Paris. Unfortunately, the Art Room had no way of narrowing down which of the two dozen computers the libraries owned; each one had to be checked. The process was simple — they could tell simply from the directory — but it would require trying each machine, including those that weren’t in the public areas.
Farlekas suggested that the Art Room sabotage the library’s network. Lia would then go in as a techie to fix it. But the library closed at 5:00, and by the time they got out to the town it was already 4:30. Dean and Lia decided it was very possible the librarians would decide dinner was more important than fixing the machines and put it all off for the morning. Besides, Dean’s lack of French meant he’d have to stay in the background, difficult to do if he was supposed to be a technician. So they decided they would go in, look the place over, then break in after it closed.
Lia dropped Dean off and parked the car two blocks away before doubling back. She walked in the door expecting to see Dean at one of the public access machines, hunting and pecking. But instead he was talking in English with the librarian.
And quite animatedly. The woman, in her early forties, gestured with her hand and led him toward the back offices.
“What the hell is he doing?” Lia muttered.
“Looking for information on a World War One Marine who stayed in the village after the war,” said Farlekas in her ear. “Good idea for a cover, huh? He says he got it from a book he’s been reading.”
Lia stifled her response and went over to the computers used for the library catalog, trying them one by one. Dean soon reappeared, listening to the woman as she told him he could find all of the information he wanted online. She led him to the computers and then offered a cup of coffee, which he accepted with a very mispronounced, “Merci.”
“Well, he’s got the dumb-American act down pat,” Lia said under her breath.
The machines used for searching the catalog had only thirty-gigabyte local hard drives. Lia drifted through the library, noticing a room at the side that had two computers but was empty. She was just about to go in and check them out when Farlekas announced, “He found it.”
“You’re kidding,” she said.
“If you’re going to talk to yourself,” said the Art Room supervisor, “better use French.”
The computers were at the edge of the open reading area, and Lia could watch Dean easily by pretending to look through the nearby stacks. He sat at a small desktop unit whose monitor was on top of the case; there was no hope of opening it unseen.
With the computer spotted, the next step was to check the security a
rrangements and plan for the break-in. Lia drifted to the side of the room, examining the large windows. A simple contact burglar alarm was wired to the sill; she slipped a knife from her pocket and slit the wire covering open, then used a small clip to short-circuit the connection and defeat the alarm. Then she took a small Phillips-head screwdriver from her pocket and removed the screws in the lock at the top of the window, which would give way now as soon as it was pushed open.
She had just finished when she heard a commotion coming from Dean’s direction. Lia went there and found him madly trying to stanch the flow of a full cup of coffee before it reached the computer case. The librarian who had helped him before was standing next to him, fretting.
“We need more towels,” he told the librarian in English. Then he turned to Lia and said, “Can you help me take up the monitor? There’s liquid in the case. It’ll get ruined. Please. I don’t want to harm this nice librarian’s machine.”
“Je ne comprends pas,” Lia said, looking at the librarian. “I understand not much.”
The librarian told her in French that she had spilled the coffee and was afraid the machine would explode and could she please help. The woman seemed on the verge of tears. Lia told her to get some towels and not to worry.
“Where’s the drive?” Dean asked as she picked up the monitor.
“In my bag.”
He reached in and grabbed the small hard drive, which was about half the size of a paperback book. The case had a hinge and was opened by pressing two detents at the side; Dean had only just gotten it open when the librarian returned. But he handled the whole thing smoothly, grabbing the towels from her and somehow managing to swirl more coffee around while seeming to wipe it up.
The hard drive sat in a cage at the front of the machine, held by four screws as well as its cables. Lia, still holding the monitor, tried to think of a long enough diversion that would let Dean swap the drives. Before she could, the phone at the front desk rang and the librarian dashed over to get it.
“Bit of a ditz,” Lia said. “Take the monitor.”
“Seemed pretty nice to me.”
“Right.”
Lia slid around and unscrewed the drive. She was sliding the new one in when the woman put down the phone and started toward them. Dean managed to swing around and block her view temporarily; Lia fussed over the computer but couldn’t quite get the wires back before the librarian returned.
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