The Crimson Code

by Rachel Lee

  All of that lay ahead. But first, he must triumph this day. A day that would engrave his name on the tablet of human history.

  Place St. Etienne, Strasbourg, France

  "We are looking for a needle in a haystack," Niko said over the walkie-talkie. "One man in a city of a quarter million…it is impossible."

  The impatience in Niko's voice was echoed in the minds of every member of the team. Renate was patrolling the Rue des Frères, and in alternating moments every face and no face looked like the photo of Kasmir Al-Khalil. Every nerve in her being screamed for his to be the next face she saw, the next man she encountered at a bus stop. The man who murdered her family was here, somewhere, and she could not find him.

  For months now, her every waking moment had been dedicated to avenging her parents' murder. The Frankfurt Brotherhood had tried to kill her again, in Rome, and that had only made her rage burn the hotter. She would find Al-Khalil, and she would find out who was pulling his strings. Then she would kill them. It was as simple as that.

  Five years ago, the thought would have repulsed her. Five years ago, she had been an agent of the Bundeskriminalamt, the Federal Criminal Office, and while she had been trained in the use of firearms, she never anticipated using one in anger. She had been a forensic accountant, investigating fraud, money laundering and other financial crimes. Then she had stumbled across the Frankfurt Brotherhood and fallen into a rabbit hole from which there was no escape.

  The Brotherhood had tried to kill her once before and murdered her best friend in the process. That had sent her into the netherworld of Office 119, a nonexistence that demanded she surrender all human ties. She had lived in virtual isolation, walking through the world with a false identity, answering to a dozen aliases on different missions. She had forgone that most basic of human needs—love—in order to devote herself fully to the mammoth task that Office 119 faced.

  And still they had murdered her parents.

  The rational, clinical part of her knew that such emotions were not helpful and were indeed dangerous. She should have been focused on the larger picture, the plot behind Black Christmas and how to neutralize the growing power of the Brotherhood. They now owned a U.S. President, who for weeks had been threatening to escalate the war on terrorism with the use of nuclear weapons. She had no doubt who was pulling that string.

  Thousands of people had died on Black Christmas, including three hundred in the bombing at Baden-Baden. And yet she could see only three.

  Her father, a gentle man who had taken delight in teaching her the game of poker, always ready with a smile or an embrace. Her mother, a school-teacher, a quiet but firm voice of discipline in the home, a woman who had made sure Renate had focused on her studies and attended university. And her niece, a young girl whom she had met only twice, when the girl was an infant. Renate had at first quailed at the notion of changing the baby's diapers, and then had come to enjoy it, because her niece had always giggled when Renate tickled her.

  Three lives, exceptional only for their ordinariness. And all of them ended because of her.

  That was the worst part of all. Whatever the larger motives that had lain beneath the Black Christmas plot, the bombing in Baden-Baden lay on her head. The Brotherhood was willing to destroy three hundred people in order to ensure the murder of three in particular…three people whose deaths would draw Renate herself into their sights.

  Hardly a day had passed since Christmas when Renate had not wondered whether she ought to have obeyed the orders of her Hauptkomissar and dropped her investigation of the Brotherhood. Her friend would still be alive. Her parents would still be alive. She would not be living in secret, inhabiting the shadows of a world seemingly gone mad with violence. She would not be seething with rage, waiting for the opportunity to kill in cold blood those who had taken her life away.

  Yet she knew such wondering was futile. What was past was past, and she steeled herself to focus on a single thought. By destroying the Brotherhood, she would honor her parents in the only way left to her. She would make sure they would not have died in vain.

  For that reason, she studied every face she could see on every bus and streetcar that passed, every face that passed on the sidewalk, looking for Al-Khalil. And yet she knew Niko was right. It was a hopeless task to find one man in a city the size of Strasbourg.

  "Margarite?" she said into her walkie-talkie. "Is there any traffic on the police frequencies?"

  Margarite was back at their hotel, monitoring the scanner for any hint of trouble, anything that might betray Al-Khalil's whereabouts.

  "Non," Margarite said. "Rien."

  No. Nothing. Renate bit her tongue. She was fluent in French and understood Margarite easily, but it was Office 119 policy to use English. Ordinarily, Margarite did that. But here in France, she had reverted to her native tongue, much to the consternation of Lawton and Niko, neither of whom spoke French at all.

  "All right," Renate said. "All teams to Checkpoint Echo. We will have to intercept him at the EU parliament complex."

  Renate boarded a bus heading northeast, toward the Parc de l'Orangerie, designated as Checkpoint Echo in their operational plans. It lay directly across the Avenue de l'Europe from the EU parliament buildings. Margarite had chosen it because the park was always crowded, and their teams could blend into the crowds without attracting any attention. Still, because of its proximity to the target, Renate knew there would be greater security, and a greater possibility of a chance encounter with Brotherhood agents who might recognize her.

  But there was no other way, and she knew it. She leaned her head against the glass, looking out as the sights of the historic city moved past, and whispered a silent prayer.

  Please, God, let me find them. And kill them.

  The God she knew would not approve of such a prayer. But perhaps he would understand it anyway.

  32

  Washington, D.C.

  "You know there's not a lot we can do if they both deny it," Grant Lawrence said, looking across his desk at Miriam Anson. "And Bentley's going to be there."

  "Yes, sir," Miriam said. "And I know what this could cost you, sir. If it goes wrong, well, you won't be high on President Rice's friends list."

  Grant smiled and shook his head. "Don't worry about that. Harrison and I were never close. We worked together on legislation because we had some common goals, but we weren't friends. And I don't have to tell you what it was like during the primary campaign. We went at each other tooth and claw."

  Miriam nodded. "I appreciate your help on this, sir."

  "How could I refuse?" Grant asked. "You saved my daughters' lives. That's a debt I can never repay."

  "How are they doing?" Miriam asked.

  "They're doing well. They're both still seeing the counselor, of course. Cathy says she wants to become a cop or an FBI agent. And the look in her eyes when she says it…" He paused a moment and smiled sadly. "Well, she reminds me a lot of Karen in those moments. Her eyes have the same haunted look I see in Karen's eyes when she gets home from work."

  Miriam nodded, knowing the look. Terry, who was Karen Lawrence's partner, often wore the same expression. She'd seen the look in her own eyes after the messes in Guatemala, Idaho and Montana. Eyes that had seen death up close, in color, without the swelling chords of a Hollywood soundtrack to leave the impression of glory and triumph.

  "It wasn't your fault, sir. You know that."

  "Wasn't it?" he asked. "I try to tell myself that, that I wasn't the one who kidnapped my daughters, that I wasn't the one who pulled the trigger in Tampa. But they were after me both times, Miriam, and my girls have suffered for it. Now…well, maybe it's for the best that I'm not the president. I'm back to the relative obscurity of the Senate, and that's better for my family."

  "And I'm asking you to step into the lion's den again," Miriam said.

  "You're just asking me to do my job, Miriam. I swore an oath to uphold and defend the Constitution. Given what you've told me, that's not what's
happening in the White House. So I have a duty here, just like you do."

  "Duty," she said. "Interesting word. Not one that's real popular nowadays, but you're right."

  "Duty has never been a popular word," he said, with an encouraging smile. "It's not in our nature to subordinate our own interests to something else. Most of us, when we do it at all, do it because we think we have no choice. We go to work. We take care of our kids. But we usually don't like it. Duty is never popular."

  Miriam chuckled. "You should have been a priest. You remind me of one I met in Guatemala."

  "Idealistic fool?" he asked, laughing.

  "Not a fool," Miriam said. "Just another person who'd like the world to be better than it is and is willing to work to make it that way."

  "Like I said…an idealistic fool."

  Now it was her turn to laugh. "Then God grant us more idealistic fools, Senator."

  "Amen to that," he said.

  Miriam looked at her watch. "Almost time, sir."

  "Yes, it is," he replied. "And, Miriam?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Stop calling me 'sir.'"

  She smiled. "Yes, sir."

  Parc de l'Orangerie, Strasbourg, France

  Renate was the first of the group to reach the small garden in front of the Pavillon Joséphine, a conference building and one of the most common gathering points in the park. Its snow-white facade could not have been more at odds with her inner landscape. She found herself studying every face she passed, noting every passerby's movement. In the largest and most beautiful park in Strasbourg, where families gathered to walk, take boat rides or watch the animals in the zoo, she saw nothing but threats.

  Perhaps it was the contrast between her own anxiety and the relaxation of those around her, but she came to realize that this moment by moment search for danger had become her constant mode of being. She saw peril in the most innocent of gestures, the most casual of glances. It had made her into someone she didn't especially like. On the other hand, there was that American adage: It's not paranoia if they really are out to get you.

  She tried to muster a smile as Ahmed walked up, the first of her companions to arrive. From the look on his face, she hadn't succeeded.

  "I fear this will not be a good day," he said. "If we cannot stop Al-Khalil…the consequences…"

  "All we can do is our best," Renate said, trying to sound reassuring, even though her own thoughts mimicked his. "And we are doing that."

  "Yes," he said, nodding. "But if you will pardon me, that is easier for you to say. The Americans will not use nuclear weapons here in Europe. They will not decide to eradicate Christianity. The war, if war will come, will be fought in the lands of my people."

  "Perhaps," she said. "But your parents were not killed on Black Christmas. Mine were."

  If she had kicked him in the stomach, he could not have looked more stricken. "I am sorry, Ms. Bächle. I had no idea."

  "We have a story in my country," she said. "In August of 1870, when the Germans went to war with the French, a man said to his neighbor, 'I hope the war will end quickly.' In February of 1871, after Paris had fallen, the man returned and said, 'The war is ended quickly!' His neighbor replied, 'The war will never be ended, because my son was killed.'"

  "Yes," Ahmed said, shaking his head. "You are right, Ms. Bächle. I spoke foolishly."

  "Forty years later, the Germans and French went to war again, and millions were killed," Renate said. "And twenty years later, war again, and even more millions were killed. That is why we created the European Union, Mr. Ahsami. So we would never again destroy one another. You have seen the statue in front of the parliament building?"

  "Yes," Ahmed said. "An embrace."

  She nodded. "That is what the European Union means. That is what Al-Khalil and his masters wish to destroy."

  "There is great evil in this world, Ms. Bächle. But there is also great good. We are both trying to be part of that good."

  "Then we need to try harder," Renate said.

  Lawton and Niko joined them moments later, followed by the remainder of the team.

  "We're getting nowhere fast," Lawton said. "Niko and I tried to go to the Parliament building. There are metal detectors at every entrance. There's no way we could get in there. Not armed."

  "And the city buses drop people off almost at the entrance," Niko added. "The crowds are heavy, and there are French police and EU security officers all around. If we try to intercept him there, it will be a bloodbath."

  Renate paused for a moment, then nodded. With their original plan scuttled, she had to think quickly. "But we must at least know when he arrives. Al-Khalil is not a martyr. He will give himself plenty of time to escape. We take him after he leaves the parliament complex and then alert EU security. Their dogs will find the bomb."

  "Sounds good," Lawton said.

  "I agree," Ahmed added. "This is all we can do."

  The other members of the team concurred. Even O'Connor voiced no objection.

  Renate keyed her walkie-talkie. "Margarite?"

  "Oui?"

  Renate explained the new plan quickly. "Lawton, Ahmed and I will go to the parliament complex to watch for Al-Khalil. Niko and the teams will be standing by. Once we know how Al-Khalil will return to his hotel, I will need the exact route at once. We will plot an intercept point, dispatch Niko's and Ahmed's teams, and rendezvous on-site. You will call in the bomb threat, and we will let EU security take care of that."

  "Oui," Margarite said. "That is the best way."

  "Merci," Renate said. She lowered the walkie-talkie and turned to the others. "Let's go."

  Washington, D.C.

  Miriam had been to the White House only once, when she had received her commendation after the Montana incident. Grant Lawrence had been there many times in his career, and he seemed at ease as they were checked through security and escorted to the West Wing. Miriam, however, felt anything but at ease. She was not here to receive a commendation this time. She was here to confront a president and his National Security Advisor, to accuse them of conspiring to take the nation to war using the most horrific weapons that had ever been created.

  "Relax," Grant whispered as they strode through the corridors to the waiting area outside the Oval Office. "This building is designed to intimidate guests, but the people who work here are just that…people. And you know how to work people."

  Miriam nodded, hearing the words but not feeling them in her heart. She had to focus on the specific tasks at hand. Kevin Willis had taken the tapes of the Katherine Dixon interrogations, along with the documents she had given them, to a federal judge with a reputation for both courage and discretion. Still, the judge had not felt the evidence was compelling enough to issue a warrant for the arrest of Phillip Bentley on charges of conspiracy and murder. Without a warrant, all Miriam could do was bluff. And while she had never been a poker player, she had more than once bluffed a suspect into a confession. She would simply have to try to do it again.

  "Senator," the receptionist said. "The president will see you now."

  Grant nodded amiably and rose with only a slight grimace. It was, Miriam thought, an indicator of his true feelings. When he was tense, the knee injury he had sustained in childhood seemed to trouble him more.

  Still, he managed to walk without a limp, and she followed him into an office that she had seen countless times in movies, television series and news reports. But for a handful of personal articles that Harrison Rice had brought with him—most notably an old, cracked football that seemed to have been signed by an entire team, resting in a glass case on a side table—the room looked exactly the same as she had expected, albeit somewhat smaller.

  Harrison Rice was standing behind his desk as they entered, and he quickly rounded it, approaching Grant with a smile and his hand extended. "Grant Lawrence. It's been far too long, my old friend."

  Grant shook his hand, returning the smile. "Thank you, Mr. President. And this is my…keeper…Special Agent Miriam
Anson. I'm sure you remember her from the news reports."

  "Yes," Rice said, turning to her. "You were quite the hero in Guatemala, and then again in Montana, Special Agent Anson. The Bureau can be proud to have people like you."

  "Thank you, Mr. President," Miriam said, shaking his offered hand. "It sounds clichéd, but I was simply doing my job, sir. Our tactical teams did the hard work."

  "You're too modest," Rice said. "I read the news coverage. You were no mere desk jockey. You put yourself in the line of fire, more than once, to rally your people and provide leadership. I don't know if I could have done that."

  "I'm sure you would have," Grant said, nodding to the football. "You have a knack for stepping up to the task at hand, Mr. President."

  The door opened, and Phillip Bentley entered the room. "Ah, you're here already, Senator."

  "They were just shown in, Phillip," Rice said. He made the introductions and turned to Grant. "I'm sorry to say I'm on a tight schedule, Grant."

  "Yes, of course," Grant said. "As I told Mr. Bentley, I wanted to thank you personally for the Medal of Freedom. It meant a lot to my family, even if I wasn't fully aware of what was happening at the time."

  "You're welcome," Rice said. "Though it is the nation who should thank you for your courage and sacrifice. You have given much to this country, Senator Lawrence. A Medal of Freedom was the least the country could do in return."

  Grant smiled. "Thank you, sir."

  "And thank you for coming," Rice said. "After what happened in the primary fight, it's nice to know that we're still friends."

  "Politics and friendship are separate spheres," Grant said. "When we forget that, democracy suffers."

  "Yes," Bentley said. "Well, Senator, if you will excuse us, the president has a briefing soon."

  "He may need to postpone it," Grant said, his smile fading. "My friend Special Agent Anson has come to me with some concerns. Evidence that requires our attention. Your attention, Mr. President. And yours, Mr. Bentley."