by Harold
“Actually, none,” the scientist replied. “Yellow cake is unenriched uranium so it’s no use in a weapon. It’s mostly used to obtain purified uranium oxide in fuel rods. That in turn can be part of weapons grade production, especially plutonium.”
“Then, if I understand it right, producing yellow cake really isn’t very hard,” the former Legionnaire said.
“No, it’s a relatively straightforward process. But in most parts of the world the procedure is closely guarded through international accords. That’s where I come in, with IAEA. But in Chad and other places, that’s not always so. Consequently the extra cost of mining relatively small quantities is not a real concern. The people who want uranium without anybody knowing it are well funded, and to a large extent they don’t care what it costs.” He shrugged. “When you sell billions of barrels of oil a year, several million dollars for yellow cake is no big deal.”
“Like Iran?” Breezy suggested.
“Certainly. Iran consistently ranks in the top five oil exporters, between three and four million barrels a day.”
Langevin saw Bosco and Breezy exchange whispered comments. “Ah, something you want to discuss, gentlemen?”
Breezy sat upright. “We were, uh, just saying that you seem really well informed. Sir.”
Bernard Langevin beamed. The former Air Force short colonel was unaccustomed to compliments from knuckle-dragging door-kickers. “Just doing my job, son. Just doing my job.”
* * * *
38
N’DJAMENA
Whitney knocked on the apartment’s weathered door. It had “safe house” written all over it: not too fancy, a plain, white-washed exterior with a good view front and back and access to two streets. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder, knowing that Johnson and Wallender would be watching her from a rented panel truck.
Gabrielle answered the door and greeted her guest in English. “Martha! So good to see you. Please come in.” She stepped back to allow the American to enter.
Whitney took three steps inside, facing her host. As she did so, she took in the setting with the mindset of an alumna of the CIA Directorate of Operations. Curtains partly drawn to limit the view from outside. Too suspicious if they were closed. Large rug on the floor: good footing but she won’t try anything here in case there’s bloodstains.
Tixier smiled. “After last time I think we should have some tea!” She managed a credible giggle. So did Whitney. Female bonding, nice touch, honey. “I have a pot warming in the kitchen,” Tixier explained with a gesture toward the back of the house.
Whitney nodded politely. “Après vous.” She thought: No way am I letting you behind me, sweet cheeks.
Tixier accepted the fact that she had been outmaneuvered and led the way to the kitchen. Whitney recognized the signs of a setup: Venetian blinds mostly closed, tile floor for easy cleanup of messy fluids.
Gabrielle made a point of turning to the stove to retrieve the teapot while Martha remained standing, holding her purse. The sound-activated mike inside was tuned to the frequency that J. J. Johnson was monitoring in case the conversation was conducted in French. He and Wallender could be inside in about thirty seconds, which was the best compromise. Any closer and they would surely be spotted.
While Tixier was adjusting the burner, Whitney did a complete scan. She was comfortable that nobody else was nearby. Not yet, anyway. She turned back to Tixier. Just you and me, babe.
The Frenchwoman carried the pot to the table where cups and saucers were set. She looked a little surprised. “Oh, please, sit down, Martha.” She patted a chair to the left of her own.
Whitney took the chair opposite Tixier rather than the one indicated, keeping the table between them. Apparently in frustration, Tixier dropped the smiling pretense. She took two quick steps to the side of the table, dropped the teapot’s lid, and flung the contents at Whitney’s face.
Martha reacted instinctively. She sidestepped most of the scalding brew, ignoring the liquid pain on her left arm and shoulder. As Tixier grabbed for a towel on the ledge, Whitney stepped in, connected with a swift overhand karate chop to the base of the neck, immediately following with a backhand blow to the larynx. Tixier gasped, slumped against the counter, and grabbed for the towel. As she fell to both knees, a 9 mm Makarov clattered to the floor.
Whitney kicked the pistol away and drew her Glock. “She’s down, J. J.!” Whitney wanted backup available soonest. “I’m unlocking the back door.”
Before turning away from an assailant, Whitney wanted some insurance. She set down her bag, brought up a can of pepper spray and gave Tixier a four-second dose to the face. The Frenchwoman reeled away, fell on her back, and rolled in pain, hands at her eyes.
Johnson and Wallender entered with pistols drawn. Without a word, they obeyed Whitney’s head gesture to clear the apartment. They disappeared through the door, “slicing the pie” to search progressively around each corner.
Whitney knew it would take at least a couple of minutes to complete the search. She locked the door and closed the blinds all the way. Then she turned to Gabrielle Tixier.
The fight was gone from her. She had managed to raise herself to a semi-reclining position, back against a kitchen cabinet. She inhaled slowly, watching the American woman with awe in one eye, fear in the other; streaming tears in both.
Whitney picked up the Makarov, dropped the magazine, and ejected the chambered round into the sink. She ran some water in a glass and examined her assailant. “That’s right, honey. Slow breaths. Breathe through the mouth; your sinuses are messed up.”
Wetting one end of the towel, Whitney poured water over Tixier’s face and gently wiped away some of the OC spray. Nasty stuff. Great stuff. She allowed the younger woman to rinse her mouth with some water and spit it onto the floor. Tixier needed both hands to steady the glass, allowing Whitney to search her. There was a switchblade in one vest pocket. “You expecting trouble, sweetie?” Whitney grinned as she tossed the shiv over her shoulder.
In a moment Tixier was able to focus. Then she said, “Tuez moi.”
Whitney gave a forced laugh. “Kill you? Why would I do that?”
Tixier spat out some mucus. “If you don’t, Marcel will. That’s why I had to kill you.” She spat again. “I am finished.”
Martha made a point of sitting on the floor, appearing less threatening. “Sweetie, don’t you think you’re premature? You can come with me. We’ll take you away and you never need to see him again.”
Tixier’s blue eyes were still watery. She rubbed them with the back of one hand, an endearing little-girl gesture. She sniffed loudly, then shook her head. “No, it’s no good. I know something of the intelligence world. I would be useful for a while, then . . .” She shrugged. “Believe me, if it took the rest of his life, Marcel would find me. I would never have any peace. I would rather be dead.”
Whitney placed a hand on Tixier’s arm. “Gabrielle . . .” She sought the right words. “You know, in America we have a saying. Never kid a kidder. Well, honey, we’ve been trying to kid each other. You know what I mean? We been playing this damn game trying to get each other to talk. The other night you talked more than I did, and now your friend Marcel wants me dead. But you know what? It don’t matter. He must know that, too. My friends already have the information, sweetie.”
Tixier nodded gravely, staring at the far wall. “Yes, I know.”
“Well then?”
“It is as you say Martha. It doesn’t matter. Marcel knows that I betrayed him even if I didn’t mean to. There’s no going back.” She turned her head to spit up again.
“But . . .”
Tixier raised her left hand. It trembled as if from Parkinson’s. “You don’t know him. A few years ago he thought a man had betrayed him. A friend from La Legion. Marcel spent eight months tracking him down. Then he killed him most. . . painfully.”
“Well, I see what you’re saying . . .”
“No you don’t, Martha. A few weeks later M
arcel learned that the man had not betrayed him. Somebody else did and blamed the Legionnaire. You know what Marcel said?” Before Whitney could respond, Tixier added, “He said, ‘Mauvaise chance.’“
“Bad luck?”
“That’s all. Just that. Then he spent more time looking for the one who really turned on him. But that man had burned too many others and he turned up dead in Marseilles. So Marcel never got his revenge. He was furious about that. Which is why I know he will never stop until he finds me.”
Johnson stepped into the kitchen, holstering his Sig. “All clear. Martha, we’d better get her out of here.”
Whitney stood up, rubbing her arm. “Gonna have to get some ointment,” she said.
“Yeah, but what about. . .”
“No. She’s made up her mind.”
“Well, I don’t know, Martha. She’s a good source.”
Whitney leaned down to touch Tixier’s cheek. “She’s already told us everything we need, J. J.” She looked at her younger colleague with moisture in her brown eyes. “And she just told me what she needs.”
Tixier mouthed the words. Thank you.
Martha Whitney almost smiled. “Adieu, ma ch é rie.”
* * * *
39
KOSSEO AIR BASE, N’SJAMENA
Terry Keegan had seen worse maintained helicopters, but not recently
Standing on the ramp with Eddie Marsh and their contract mechanic, Keegan waited for the Air Force advisor to conclude his arcane business with the Chadian officer. Keegan knew that at one point the commander of the Force Aerienne Tchadienne held the exalted rank of lieutenant.
At length the advisor shook hands with the African officer and walked toward Keegan and Marsh. “Come on, we’re going over there,” the major said, pointing beyond the security perimeter.
“What’s the deal, sir? Aren’t we using these birds?”
Major Allen “Jigger” Lowe kept a straight face. “What’s the matter, Mr. Keegan? Do you like flying old, leaky helos or something?”
“Well, it’s just that. . .”
Lowe stopped so abruptly that his charges went two steps beyond him. He motioned over his shoulder. “You see that Chadian officer back there? Well, he told me that he wouldn’t fly very high in one of the Alouettes you just saw.”
Eddie Marsh ventured an opinion. “Sort of like the hang glider’s motto?”
Lowe grinned in appreciation. “You got it. ‘Don’t fly any higher than you’re willing to fall.’ Which is why we’re going the long way ‘round to check out the other helos.”
Keegan gave a tight-lipped grin. “I see, said the blind man. We’re gonna borrow some of the French birds.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny.” Lowe began walking again. “But it’s all been arranged back-channel; I just had to settle with our, ah, colleague over there.”
Keegan regarded the blue-suiter with growing admiration. The former Navy man suspected that his Air Force host had just greased somebody’s sweaty palm.
Moments later, Keegan and Marsh were looking at newer, obviously better maintained Alouette IIIs. No visible leaks; no pitted Plexiglas; not much chipped paint. A couple of them even had Chad’s red-yellow-blue cockade over the red-white-blue emblem of France.
Keegan consulted with his mechanic, a burly, monosyllabic individual between thirty-five and fifty years of age, who spoke fluent French and aviation English with a Canadian accent. The Americans knew him as Charles Haegelin; heaven knew what his passport said, let alone his birth certificate. Keegan only knew him slightly; they had partnered with SSI once before.
Lowe opened the door of the nearest Alouette and withdrew a canvas satchel. “Mr. Haegelin, here’s the airframe and engine logs. I believe this is the low-time bird of the bunch. I’ll stick around while you gentlemen decide which ones you want to use, but you’ll have to sign for them before you leave.”
While Haegelin and Marsh checked fuel and fluids on the first helo, Marsh and Lowe examined another. Far enough from inquiring ears, Marsh leaned close. “Jigger, how’d you swing the loan of some of the French birds?”
The advisor was deadpan. “I don’t understand the question.”
Keegan thought he detected a wink, but perhaps it was an ordinary blink. “Okay, I won’t ask embarrassing questions.”
“Works for me,” Lowe said. “Now, how much Alouette time do you have?”
“Oh, maybe two hundred hours.”
“Current?”
“Yeah, I flew a few days before we left home.”
Lowe nodded. “Good ‘nuf for government work!”
* * * *
40
N’DJAMENA
Paul Deladier glanced up from his paper as Marcel entered. “I’ve been waiting for you,” the younger man said. “I thought you’d be back by now.”
“It always takes longer at the embassy” Hurtubise replied evenly. He loosened his tie and looked around. “Where’s Gabrielle?”
Paul shrugged. “I haven’t seen her today.”
Hurtubise glanced at the clock on the stove. “She should be back by now.”
Deladier turned a page. “Maybe she’s out shopping with her nigger friends. I don’t know what she sees in them.”
“No, she was . . .”
Four sharp raps came from the door. One, pause, three. “That’s Raoul,” Hurtubise said. He opened the door.
Raoul Clary’s face told the story. “She’s dead.”
Deladier gasped audibly. “My God! Gabby . . .”
Hurtubise pulled the operative inside, then closed and locked the door. “Tell me.” His voice was emotionless, flat.
“I followed her as you said, making sure she didn’t try to run. But she kept the appointment all right. She met the fat American at the other apartment like you suggested. Gerard and I had the van with a body bag and cleaning supplies and the medical kit. All we had to do was look for her signal.” He spread his hands. “Marcel, why didn’t you let us do it? There would have been no trouble. The black woman would just disappear.”
“I have my reasons,” Hurtubise snapped. “Go on.”
“Well, after twenty minutes we saw the American arrive. She left not long after that. There was no sign of Gabrielle so we waited a little more, then entered through the bedroom window. She was dead in the kitchen.”
“How?”
“Shot in the head.”
“Executed?” Hurtubise asked.
“No, not if you mean from behind. But. . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, now that I think of it, the entry was in the left temple. Her Makarov was on the floor beside her.”
“Had it been fired?”
Clary nodded. “Once.”
Hurtubise felt a chill. Gabrielle had been left-handed. “No other ballistics? Any sign of a fight?”
“No. Oh, it looked like she had been sprayed with Mace. We could smell it a bit, too.”
“Where is she?”
“Gabrielle?”
“Yes, Gabrielle, you idiot!”
“Well, I thought you might mean the American. Gabrielle’s body is still in the van. Gerard is parked outside. We thought it best to come here rather than risk calling.”
Hurtubise began pacing, biting his lip in concentration. Deladier and Clary watched him closely. They thought they knew what Gabrielle Tixier meant to him, but they also knew his ruthless quality. It was at once a strength and a fault.
Abruptly he turned on a heel. “Raoul, you and Gerard get rid of the body. Remove all identification, everything. In fact, bring the clothes. I’ll burn them myself.” He turned to Deladier. “Paul, call the charter pilot.”
“Where are we going?”
“We’re flying up to the mine tonight. Something’s going to happen there. I feel it. Let Etienne know we’re coming.”
Deladier merely nodded. Then he asked, “What are you going to do, Marcel?”
Hurtubise regarded his colleague with a shark’s flat eyes. “I�
�m going for a walk.”
* * * *
41
SSI COMPOUND
Steve Lee hung up the phone and turned to Daniel Foyte. “Gunny we’re set. That was Roosevelt. He says the 130s are landing tomorrow and we’ll have the final briefing two days later. That allows for some slack in the schedule, mainly for deploying the helos up north.”
Foyte was helping himself to a pinch of Redman, an old habit. He only used smokeless tobacco, as it gave little indication of his presence whenever the urge hit on an ambush site. He settled the wad in his cheek, then said, “Very well, sir. I’ll tell the guys. Uh, when do you want to spring it on the two action platoons?”