The Jericho Pact

by Rachel Lee

“I’d think so,” Jefe said. “But we know who paid for the training of the rebels who killed the ambassador in Guatemala, and we know who was paying al-Khalil.”

  “The Frankfurt Brotherhood,” she said.

  “Exactly. And guess who funded Soult’s Europa Prima Party when it was getting started?”

  “The Frankfurt Brotherhood.” Margarite pulled out a chair and sat, her mind awhirl with the possibility that she and Renate had put the picture together correctly. There were too many connections to ignore.

  “That puts Monsieur Soult right in the middle of this mess,” Jefe said.

  “Vasquez is Röhm,” Margarite said quietly.

  “Röhm?” Jefe asked.

  She quickly outlined the discussion she’d had with Renate in Berlin, which had led to the theory Jefe had originally found far-fetched. As Margarite talked, his stomach rolled over.

  “If Vasquez is Röhm,” he said, “then Soult is…”

  He let the sentence hang there, but she finished it.

  “Oui. Monsieur Soult voudrait devenir notre meneur.”

  Jefe shook his head. “In English, please?”

  “He wants to be our leader. It translates better into German. The word is Führer.”

  “Shit.”

  “Oui. Merde.”

  He closed his eyes, running a hand through his thick, dark hair. When he looked up, the TV was showing a view from a helicopter. A train. On fire. With dead bodies. With bullet holes.

  He turned up the sound.

  Rome, Italy

  Ahmed’s face tightened as he watched the news from Nice. The images were coming from a news helicopter, and the blackening cars of the French relocation train looked like dismembered segments of a fiery, dying serpent.

  But it was not the dying train that drew Ahmed’s attention, nor did it hold the attention of the cameraman in the helicopter. Instead, the camera focused on the bodies laid out liked pale logs alongside the tracks. A few were charred, curled into fetal position, hands clenched in the “boxer’s pose” common to burn victims. More seemed simply asleep, apparent victims of the toxic smoke as the train burned. Too many, far too many, were stitched with the telltale red blotches of bullet holes.

  They had been shot while trying to escape the inferno.

  The burn and smoke victims, he might have understood. Tragic accidents could happen, after all. But this tragedy had been compounded intentionally. This was no mere accident. This was nothing less than murder.

  “We must strike back,” Abdul al-Nasser said firmly.

  Ahmed shook his head. “At whom? It is one thing to wish to strike back, Abdul. It is something else again to strike back effectively. We have no responsible target at which to strike.”

  “Then let us burn one of their trains!” al-Nasser said. “Surely you are not simply going to let this pass?”

  “Do you really believe they would let an unescorted Muslim anywhere near a passenger train now?” Ahmed asked. “They will know we are angry. The police—everyone—will be on heightened alert for any hint of retaliation. If we try to strike now, all that will happen is that Saif operatives—good and brave Muslims—will be captured or killed. Worse, it will only salve people’s consciences over this tragedy. They will think those poor Muslims got what they deserved.”

  “You are weak,” al-Nasser said. “Small wonder that you were sent here, far from the battle in our homelands. The Europeans send Shi’a to live among us, serving them up as lambs to the slaughter, and do you take the chance to rid Islam of these heretics? No. You give them a district of their own, allow them a mosque in which to shame Allah with their infidel words. Now good and brave Muslims are slain by the hundreds, openly, for the world to see, and still you refuse to act. Sword of the East? You carry no sword, only your limp idealism. But the world cares nothing for your ideals, Ahmed Ahsami. Nothing! They will kill us all, or we will kill them all. They give us no other choice.”

  “There is always a choice!” Ahmed said, his jaw tight with rage. “And always, always, those who would make the wrong choice claim they have no choice to make. We cannot win a war of annihilation against the West, Abdul. They have nuclear weapons. We do not. In such a war, it is we who would be annihilated.”

  “Allah would never permit that,” al-Nasser replied. “You should have more faith.”

  Ahmed’s face nearly touched al-Nasser’s as he replied. “Oh, I agree that Allah would not permit it. Because Allah will not permit people like you to bring destruction down on us all. Never question my faith, al-Nasser. It was my faith which birthed Saif Alsharaawi.”

  “Perhaps that is so,” al-Nasser said, “but, Allah be praised, it is not your kind of faith that will sustain Saif Alsharaawi. No, it will the faith of stronger men, men who will not shirk their sacred duty. I will contact Riyadh. They will authorize action, even if you will not.”

  “Do not go over my head,” Abdul warned. “Do not test my patience.”

  “Patience?” al-Nasser said, his face twisted in a bitter smirk. “Patience is all you have. But we need no patience now. Now is a time for strength. And strength is what you lack.”

  Abdul watched as al-Nasser stormed up the stairs. For a moment Abdul thought about following him, restraining him if necessary, before the hot-headed young man set off a fire that could not be quenched. Then he paused.

  No, he would let the sheik handle this. The sheik would see the folly of al-Nasser’s plan and set him in his place more firmly than Abdul could do. Let al-Nasser fashion his own noose.

  Then Abdul would let him hang himself in it.

  Strasbourg, France

  “This is not good,” Vasquez said to Soult. They were sitting in Soult’s inner sanctum, watching the unfolding story of the relocation train, listened to the word massacre being used over and over like a drumbeat.

  Soult swore as the images of dead Muslims were spread over the television. Some were burned, as if killed in an accident. But far too many had been shot, and there would be no doubt that it was French nationals who had done the shooting. Only the security agents had been permitted to carry weapons on the train. Only they could have opened fire.

  “The Germans,” he said.

  “Qué?” Vasquez asked.

  “This will galvanize them. Müller will not dare to contradict the mayor of Berlin now. Other mayors already follow his example. We will lose Germany.”

  “We cannot,” Vasquez said. “Their economy…”

  “Precisely,” Soult said. “The loss of Germany would be a fatal blow to the EU. And every other country will know it.”

  Another image on the screen caught his attention, and he turned to look at it more fully. A country priest was descending from the remnants of the train, a sobbing young boy in a skullcap in his arms. Behind him came a uniformed EU security guard, unarmed. Such images were likely to kill all his plans if he didn’t move swiftly.

  “We need to move against Germany.”

  Vasquez looked at him. “You will have to justify it. The French government is willing to assist you, especially against Germany, but they say they need a diplomatic explanation. They do not wish to become the ‘bad guy,’ as the Americans would say. Especially since America has troops in Germany.”

  Soult pointed to the TV screen. “We will use that.”

  “How? It looks very bad.”

  “But now everyone will be expecting retaliation.”

  Vasquez nodded slowly. “Yes. We put out some warnings.”

  “Exactly. Say we have received threats because of this. It will then become necessary to protect the government of the EU, yes? From retaliation.”

  “Yes.” Vasquez nodded in agreement. “So we protect this city with French troops.”

  “We create a defense perimeter around this city. Fifty kilometers.”

  “Which will extend into Germany.”

  Soult smiled and shrugged. “So it must.”

  “They will object.”

  “If we are fortunate,
they will defend their borders.”

  The smile of understanding that spread across Vasquez’s face said everything. “Brilliant.”

  “I did not become a general and then a president by accident, Hector.”

  “No, of course not.” But then Vasquez paused, looking at the television, and the expression on his face became hard. “I want to command the defense force.”

  Soult lifted both eyebrows. “Why do you think you should do that?”

  “Because I am in charge of the security forces. This will be an EU operation. The head of the Department of Collective Security ought to be in charge of it. And that is the understanding that we have with France. When acting under EU mandate, units will have EU leadership.”

  Soult’s brows lowered, and his tone became eerily soft. “You did not make that part the EU agreement with them, did you?”

  Vasquez flushed. “Of course. I am entitled, given my position and the purpose of this force.”

  “You are entitled to what I give you, and nothing more. Frenchmen will not fight under a Spaniard!”

  “Monsieur President, may I remind you—”

  “You may remind me of nothing!” Soult said. “Go see to the remaining plans, while I fix this mess you’ve made.”

  Vasquez hesitated, then nodded. As he walked out, both men looked as if they had just tasted something noxious. There had just been a rupture. The only question now was which of them would get the better of it.

  Soult was sure he would. After all, he’d known Vasquez’s usefulness was reaching an end. Soon, perhaps sooner, he would become nothing but a handicap.

  Hector Vasquez was merely hurrying the inevitable.

  Part III:

  LA FLEUR DE GUERRE

  (French: The flower of war)

  22

  Berlin, Germany

  T he headlines shrieked from every newsstand: Massacre in Nice. Renate stood on the rain-dampened street before the vendor’s stall, the night hazily illuminated by streetlights that only seemed to heighten the sense of quiet desolation. A horrific story. She had seen the video clips on the news, along with the strangely awkward reportage that seemed almost to dance around the entire event. As if no one wanted to face up to the underlying reality that had put nine hundred people on that train and sent them out to die.

  The German government had already acted. Chancellor Müller had been on the news last night, ordering all local officials to suspend relocations in Germany. No sooner had he spoken than Soult had been on the screen, hinting that there had been a suicide bomber on the train, arguing that the hundreds of deaths were an unfortunate incident that could not be allowed to set back the plan that had, until then, been quieting the unrest in Europe. To stop the relocations was to give in to terrorism, he said. Then he had specifically challenged the Chancellor, stating that Germany was obliged to comply with EU mandates.

  After her phone call that morning with Jefe, and the clear if circumstantial evidence that Soult was working through Vasquez to spread the very violence he claimed to be quelling, she no longer had any doubt where her duty lay. She was a German. First, last and always.

  Annoyed and irritable, she turned from the mainstream press to the tabloid Bild. Germans joked that one should trust nothing one read in Bild, not even the date. Renate hadn’t read the rag since her teens, when it had been a fun excuse to giggle with her friends.

  But alone on a darkened Berlin street before sunrise, with no company save the occasional passing car and the vendor who sat in a corner of his stall smoking a pipe, she needed distraction. Things inside her were moving, shifting, trying to upend her in some way, and keeping her from sleep in the process. She felt awful, horrible, much as she had felt in the weeks following her death, when she had become Renate Bächle. Some major change was trying to take place.

  Bild, with its usual disregard of events of current significance, was still harping on the riot that had resulted in Lawton’s jailing. Photo of bomber! the headline shrieked. Unable to stop herself, she picked it up and paid for it.

  A photo, even one from Bild, might provide a clue.

  She was strolling away from the kiosk with the paper tucked under her arm because there wasn’t enough light to study it on this wet, hazy night when her cell phone rang. It was an odd hour for a call, and at once her heart kicked into high gear.

  The voice that spoke her name was utterly unexpected.

  “Renate,” he said. “Ahmed.”

  Ahmed. The Saudi who had helped them take down the cell in Prague. The man who called his organization the Sword of the East and claimed that all he wanted was to put the Muslim countries on an equal footing with the rest of the world. Put simply, he wanted the rest of the world to, as Lawton would say, “Butt out.”

  “What a surprise,” she replied. They spoke in English, their only common tongue.

  “I wish it could be a pleasant surprise.”

  “You read about the train?”

  His voice was cold. “Read it. Saw it on TV. Already the photographs of the carnage are blown up as posters and plastered in cities across the Middle East, as well as in the relocation zones in Europe. It is a gift to the worst among us. I am told that boys and girls as young as seven or eight are flocking to the extremists.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Renate, you must listen. I cannot say much. But I will tell you this—Saif Alsharaawi will likely respond to this atrocity. And neither of us is going to like that response.”

  She didn’t like what she was hearing. He was no longer in control of his own organization. After they disconnected, she quickly looked around to make sure she was not being followed, she hurried back to her hotel.

  Her worst nightmares were coming to pass.

  Béziers, France

  “What feeling are you getting from the news over there?” Grant Lawrence asked her.

  “It’s been shifting even as I watch it,” Miriam said. “The word massacre is being mentioned less, and there’s more talk of a suicide bomber on the train.”

  “That’s what we’re starting to see here, too. Your impression?”

  “It’s being spun,” she said. “It’s a cover-up.”

  “You think the shootings were deliberate?”

  “Not necessarily the shootings. But the evidence I’ve found here points to one place, and that place isn’t in the Middle East.”

  “Miriam,” Grant said, “what are you saying?”

  “I can’t say much, Grant. Not on the phone. But I have some sources who have been working this for a while. It looks like President Soult may be behind a lot of it. Like it’s been orchestrated.”

  There was silence from his end. “What can we do?”

  “Rice needs to let Müller know he has the support of the U.S. in defying these EU mandates. And Soult has to know it, too.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Grant said. “So can I tell Terry you’ll be coming home?”

  “Not yet. There are some leads I need to follow up.”

  She hated to hold things back from Grant, but she saw no other option. There were too many leaks in Washington, even in the White House. She couldn’t risk exposing Father Steve, or Lawton and the rest of Office 119. And she might have to do some things Harrison Rice could not know about.

  “Okay. But keep in touch. I’ll work on Rice to handle the diplomatic angle with Müller and Soult. You take the operations side.” He paused for a moment. “Make things work out right, Miriam.”

  She disconnected. Grant had chosen his words well, with a clear subtext: Do what needs doing, and don’t leave our fingerprints when you’re done.

  After she disconnected, she turned to Steve. “So what haven’t you told me? Are you all right?”

  “Honestly, no. My superiors attempted to have me followed. They still want the artifact I was sent to Guatemala to find. But it was stolen from me, and now they think I’m trying to get it back.”

  “Are you?”

  He nodd
ed, eyes hollow. “Miriam, I thought it was merely a bit of text that might be embarrassing, but it’s more than that. It is terrifyingly more than that.”

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “You would never believe me. Suffice it to say that it is a powerful tool. A weapon. It killed Chancellor Vögel.”

  She hesitated, then said, “You know, Steve, if I can believe that much, I can believe a lot more.”

  His head jerked a little, but why she couldn’t tell.

  “You look awful,” she said finally. “You haven’t been eating, have you?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Well, you can eat and be busy at the same time. I haven’t eaten today, so I’m going to call room service. What kind of food are you eating these days?”

  A small smile leavened his face. “Anything that doesn’t include a tortilla.”

  She chuckled at that, and reached for both the menu and phone. Before she dialed, however, she looked at him again. “I know we don’t have much of a history, but what we do have was very, very important to me. You changed me, Father. Forever.”

  “The experience changed us all.”

  “No, you changed me. So let me make one thing very clear to you.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t have to believe every word you say in order to do everything within my power to help.”

  “What do you know about the Tablets of Thoth?”

  Miriam frowned for a moment. Her initial impulse was to frown at words that sounded like ancient legend, but then an odd sense of rightness settled over her. “Nothing at all. Let me order, then we’ll talk.”

  At Miriam’s suggestion, Steve slipped out of sight when the room service cart arrived. If the waiter thought it at all odd that someone so slender should have ordered so much food, he never let it show. One advantage of a great hotel combined with generous tipping was the best service in the world.

  When the waiter had gone, and the door was locked and chained, Steve joined her, and they sat down to a repast of duck, and an assortment of side dishes and desserts fit for a king. With an almost apologetic smile, Steve dug in like a starving man. Miriam smiled at his enjoyment. There was, she thought, genuine asceticism, and then there was foolhardiness. Steve’s gaunt body worried her.