by Rachel Lee
But his battalion was not merely cannon fodder to be chewed up in the first hours of such an attack. It was not a suicide mission. For while Neufel was only a sergeant and a single tank commander, Bundeswehr doctrine was to brief all members of a unit as thoroughly as was consistent with operational security. He knew his battalion’s task, and he believed they could carry it out.
The key to stopping any river crossing was to destroy the bridges. On the face of it, that was impossible, for to deploy pioneers onto the Europabrücke and prepare it for demolition would be far too provocative. It would almost guarantee the very war that Neufel and every sane German wanted to prevent.
However, two kilometers east of the Rhine lay the Kinzig, a smaller tributary that joined the main river at Auenheim. Both the highways running east into Germany from Strasbourg, as well as the railway, crossed the Kinzig north of Kehl. Crossing the Rhine would not help the French unless those bridges were also secured.
And they were already prepared for demolition.
If French troops began to cross the Rhine, the Kinzig bridges would be blown, trapping the French in the densely built-up triangle between the rivers. Neufel’s battalion would pin them there while the Luftwaffe’s Typhoon fighter-bombers pounded them. The rest of Neufel’s brigade would then come up to deliver the coup de grâce, smashing Soult’s notions of European empire.
“You worry too much, Neufel.”
He looked down to see Leutnant Bräuburger beside his tank. Ordinarily he would have saluted the officer, but now he did not. To do so here, out in the open, would identify his platoon leader, whose tank would then become the first target in any attack.
“Perhaps,” Neufel said. “Perhaps others do not worry enough, Herr Leutnant.”
“Herr Kanzler Müller was a soldier,” Bräuburger said. “He knows the risks.”
“Monsieur President Soult was also a soldier,” Neufel said. “Would this be the first time two old soldiers sent young soldiers to die?”
The lieutenant ignored the question. “How are your men, Neufel?”
“They are good.” Neufel had not told Bräuburger about Schulinger’s intended stunt, nor would he. As the tank commander, it was his responsibility to handle such matters. “I told them to get some sleep.”
Bräuburger nodded. They had moved into their positions overnight, and the entire platoon was exhausted. Neufel had taken it upon himself to remain awake, watching the bridge, trying to calm his thoughts. He could not have slept regardless.
“You do not doubt them?” the lieutenant asked.
“No more than I do myself,” Neufel said. “None of us wants war.”
“No,” Bräuburger agreed. “But we are soldiers.”
Neufel nodded. “We are.”
He looked across the river. A few small dust clouds signaled vehicles changing their positions, probably as much to keep the men sharp as for any tactical reason.
“I wonder if they are having these same discussions over there, sir.”
“I’m sure they are, Neufel. But it is best not to dwell on such matters. If they attack, we cannot think of them that way. If we do, we will hesitate at the moment when hesitation could kill us.”
That, more than anything, was what Neufel feared. He had no doubt of his own competence or that of his crew. They could follow orders quickly and efficiently. Nor did he doubt his weapon. The Leopard II was an effective main battle tank, capable of hitting a moving target on the first shot, while moving itself, at a range of nearly two thousand meters. His vehicle was in good working order; he and his crew took a perverse pride in the tedious routine of maintaining it.
He did not doubt his crew or his weapon.
He doubted his hate.
That would be the difference between hesitation and cold, calculating, deadly efficiency. He would have to hate the men across that river, to feel no pity as their vehicles exploded and the men within were burned alive or torn in two by the blasts. He would have to feel a brutal satisfaction as the Typhoons swept in, spilling death and destruction on the French trapped in that killing ground between the two rivers.
He would have to hate.
And he was not sure he could.
Béziers, France
Miguel joined Steve when he visited Miriam that evening. She hardly recognized the youth she had met in Guatemala, and spent a few moments holding him at arm’s length and looking him over.
“You’ve grown taller,” she said, having to look up at him now.
“Better diet,” Steve remarked.
“And you’ve gained weight, as well.”
“Pasta,” Steve said, reaching for a piece of fruit on the room service table Miriam had ordered earlier.
Miguel chuckled, then reached out to hug Miriam. “Do you like my hair?”
“I liked it better Quiche style, but I can understand why you changed it.”
Miguel’s face darkened. “I’m sorry….”
Miriam shook her head, silencing him. “You were a boy. A very hurt boy. Let’s put all that behind us. Apparently, according to Steve, we need to save the world.”
There was no laughter.
Miriam’s attempt at a smile died. “I can’t reach my friend in Rome.”
Steve looked up from the plum he was about to bite into. “No?”
“I’ve sent several e-mails and tried several times to phone the number he gave me.”
“So something is wrong.”
She nodded and sat on the chair at the suite’s desk, near her computer. “I’ve always received prompt responses before. I have another friend who worked with this man, but he’s…away right now.”
Steve nodded thoughtfully and seemed to lose all interest in the plum. He placed it back on the table.
“Where does this leave us?” he asked. “I can’t go back to the people who sent me, and your contacts are missing. We can’t solve this situation alone.” He did not mention the Guardians. He still had doubts about them.
“I have other contacts,” Miriam said slowly. “The thing is, I’m reluctant to spread what we’ve learned when I don’t know who all the players are.”
“But what exactly have we learned?” Steve asked. “No one would believe in the existence of the codex, and the fact that I was pursued across the Guatemalan jungle by a man who was employed by EU security is hardly going to raise alarms. What we have are suspicions of Soult’s imperial ambitions. I’m sorry, Miriam, but no one in your agency is going to worry about that.”
“Actually,” she said, “I know someone who might. And I should call him before we get any deeper into this mess, in case something happens and I can’t tell him later.”
“Do not mention the codex,” Steve warned her sternly. “We don’t need any more people trying to obtain it.”
Miriam’s smile was crooked. “I’d be a fool to mention it. I want to be believed.”
She excused herself, leaving the two men to eat and drink in the sitting room, and took her cell phone into the bedroom with her. A few minutes later she was on a secure line with Grant Lawrence.
“How’s it going?” he asked. “When can we expect you?”
“Not soon. Things are developing here.”
“Care to tell me what things?”
“I can’t tell you all of it, Grant. But there’s one thing I’m sure of: Jules Soult is making a play to consolidate power. A lot of power. In himself.”
Grant paused for a moment. “Lay it out for me, Miriam. I’ve got to go to the President on this.”
“The plan seems to be to centralize power in the EU, far more than its charter and the current treaties would support. A source here referred to it as ‘aspirations of empire.’ People working for him may have been instigating a lot of the street violence he’s now claiming to quell.”
“Make them afraid and they’ll grovel for security,” Grant said. She couldn’t tell if his voice was laden with sadness or anger.
“It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried that
plan,” she said. “Here’s the thing. Right now he has a lot of popular support. And we can’t go public with what he’s doing until we have the evidence nailed down. Even then, it would be better if the information came out here in Europe. Through the Brits, maybe. They’re sitting on the sidelines so far.”
“What do you need?” Grant asked.
“Get on the NSA,” she said. “Get them into Soult’s banking and business records. I think he started this by hiring private contractors, but he’ll have done it through an intermediary. That man will be the weak link. We find his intermediary, we snatch him, and we squeeze him until he coughs up the details. Then we expose Soult and let the EU take him down.”
“Will they do that?” Grant asked. “Can they do that?”
“If we can prove that Soult has been sponsoring criminal acts…”
She didn’t need to finish the sentence.
“Okay,” Grant said. “I’ll get on the NSA, Treasury and anyone else we need to nail this down. It may take a while, though.”
“I’m not sure we have a while,” she said. “Things are getting dicey over here.”
“I’ll do what I can.” He paused a moment. “Keep your head down, Miriam.”
“I’ll do my best.”
When she hung up, she sat thinking for several minutes, trying to figure out her next moves. If only she had more to go on. At the moment, though, she knew of only one thing to do: head for Rome, which seemed to be at the center of at least some of this, and keep trying to find Lawton.
Slowly, feeling suddenly old, she returned to the sitting room.
“We need to move,” Miriam said. “Staying in one place is never wise when you’re hunted. So I suggest we start making our way toward Rome. A roundabout way.”
“There is no need,” Steve shrugged. “If my watchers discover me, they will think I am returning like a good priest with what they want.”
Miriam frowned. “I’m worried about other watchers. Steve, you have some idea of how big this is. I seriously doubt the church is the only interested party.”
“Of course not. But why would anyone else be seeking me?”
“That depends on who knows what. Let me introduce you to the shadowy world of intelligence, Father Steve. Invariably, there are multiple players. And the ones you need to worry about are the ones deepest in the shadows. If what you suspect about Soult is true, then there are people behind him. And those people aren’t likely to have anything to do with your church, nor are they likely to have many scruples.”
She looked at her computer again, but the e-mail screen offered no new information. “Circles within circles. And no one person knows where they all intersect. This game is growing deadly. We need to make a plan to go to Rome. Now.”
Vatican City
Monsignore Veltroni listened to Hans Stoll’s voice on the phone, his stomach tightening with each word.
“It is time,” Stoll was saying. “We are leaving for the bridge.”
The knot in Veltroni’s stomach caused him to offer a last protest. “Hans, you will be standing between two armies prepared to fight!”
“We know that. And as you know, we are ready to face the consequences. Some of our flocks will accompany us.”
“Hans…” Veltroni closed his eyes, incapable of speech. Hans Stoll was a life-long friend. Now the reality was here.
“We must stand up for what is right,” Hans said. “We cannot stand by while people are persecuted for their beliefs. Nor can we stand by while a war is begun for no good reason. Maybe our deaths will shock the world into paying attention.”
Veltroni doubted that anyone in the world who mattered was ignoring the present situation, but he knew what Hans meant. The Nice Massacre had succeeded in causing Germany to take a stand against the removals. A protest on the very bridge that was symbolic of the yearning for European unity might have an impact beyond imagining.
But still his stomach and chest ached with prescient grief. “I will call the others to support you,” he said.
“The cardinal will not approve,” Stoll warned him.
It seemed to Veltroni that Stoll was trying to protect him now. “Estevan isn’t going to know until it’s too late. But you will not stand alone, Hans. This I promise you.”
“Do not come yourself, Giuseppe,” Stoll said after a moment. “If we fail, your voice will be needed.”
“I cannot come,” Veltroni said, anguished. “Estevan suspects something, I think. And now I am getting hints that I may get my audience with His Holiness. I cannot afford not to be here if the opportunity arises.”
“Good. That relieves me, my friend. Your presence in Rome will do more good than your presence here.” Hans fell silent for a moment. “Send only those who are willing to face the consequences freely. And offer a Mass for us, Monsignore.”
“I will offer a novena of Masses for you. And I will keep pressing to see the Holy Father as soon as possible.”
“Perhaps what we do on the bridge will make an opening for you.”
“But at such a cost!”
“The cost will be higher if we do nothing. History has taught us that lesson.”
Hearing the resolve in Stoll’s tone, Veltroni knew there was only one thing left to say. “Dominus vobiscum. The Lord be with you.” Veltroni replaced the receiver in the cradle almost reverently.
Tears stung his eyes as he made his way to the kneeler in the corner and looked up at the wooden crucifix carved so long ago as a gift by a skilled carpenter in his home village. The corpus on this cross displayed all the anguish of a man dying for the sins of others.
And in that tortured face Veltroni suddenly saw the face of Hans Stoll. Bowing his head, he prayed fervently for God’s help, begging for God’s grace for them all, to guide them all correctly.
He didn’t expect to like the answers to his prayers. God’s will seldom led to an easy path.
All he wanted was to choose rightly in the hours and days ahead.
And to have the strength to bear the coming burdens.
Then, rising, he gathered himself to do something he had never dreamed he would do: call men and women to ask them to lay their lives down for a principle.
29
Strasbourg, France
“T he German people will not allow this,” Chancellor Müller said. “Even if it were not political suicide, I would not support it. The success of the removals is, at best, a temporary one. In the long term, they will create far more tension than they relieve. The violence will only explode in even worse form.”
Harald Müller had flown from Berlin to Strasbourg to make a last, face-to-face attempt at a diplomatic solution. While he did not have high hopes, he was as familiar with the history and workings of the European Union as any man alive. He had no doubt that, if anyone could reach Soult, he would have to be the one to do it.
So here he was, sitting across the conference table from Soult. The two men were alone, each having shooed away a phalanx of anxious aides who wondered what their principals might say in their absence. God forbid that anyone should speak an impolitic truth, even when those impolitic truths were precisely what the situation called for.
Müller had resolved that he was going to tell the truth, so far as he knew it to be. Nothing less had any hope of penetrating the knot of war that threatened to entangle all of Europe.
“You must understand, Monsieur Soult,” he continued. “I have a responsibility to my people and to history. I will not betray either. What you propose will not work. We—you and I—must find another solution.”
“The European Union will not have policy dictated to us,” Soult replied. “Not by Islamic fanatics, and not by American puppets in Berlin. Do not lecture me on what will work and what will not. Europeans—all real Europeans—will make this work.”
“And who are the real Europeans, Monsieur President? You have already chosen to remove people who have lived among us for generations. Who will you remove next? Germany is not alone. The B
ritish have not yet decided on removals. Will you wage a second Norman Conquest, as well?”
“I will do what must be done to secure Europe.”
Müller paused at that. Soult had used the verb assurer, rather than protéger. To make certain, rather than to protect. Make certain of what?
The conversation was trailing dangerously into an exchange of insults that would—to quote an American phrase—generate more heat than light. He decided to pull it back on track by an appeal to something that perhaps Soult would understand.
“Perhaps you do not see what this area means to the German people,” Müller said. “The Rhine has been our shelter and our lifeline for centuries. It runs through our music and our mythology. You would go beyond even that. Your proposed zone would gouge a hole in some of the most sacred land in Germany, the Schwarzwald. The Black Forest is not simply ‘in Germany.’ It is German. It is part of our national identity. It would be as if France were asked to cede part of Paris.”
“Pah!” Soult said with a sweep of his hand. “These lands are only yours because others in my government agreed to give them back after World War Two. Weak-minded men who foolishly believed that a united Germany would never again threaten Europe. And here you are, threatening to tear Europe apart again, for the sake of a handful of ingrates who would kill us all if we let them.”
“I have threatened nothing!” Müller said. He took a breath, trying not to rise to the bait that Soult had quite purposefully dangled. A shouting contest would accomplish nothing. “Monsieur Soult, need I remind you that it is the French army that is poised to attack Germany and not the other way around.”
“Non! It is a European army.”
Müller sighed. “Do not take me for a fool, Monsieur Soult. That ‘European’ army is equipped with AMX armored vehicles and Mirage jets, manned by French soldiers and airmen, under French commanders. You may announce that the Paris government has ‘loaned’ them to the Union, but no one believes this. Certainly no one in Germany believes this.”
“It matters not what you believe,” Soult said. “The facts do not change. French army? European army? There is no difference. Europe has spoken—I have spoken—and you will comply or face the consequences. Need I tell you what your advisors undoubtedly already have? We have three hundred combat aircraft. You have one hundred eighty. And do not forget, we have nuclear weapons. You cannot hope to prevail.”