Pénichon continued before Renard could respond. “You have behaved properly in passing information along about your contact with Morgon, and you will continue to notify us of any further contacts. You are right that the letter”—here Pénichon patted his jacket—”is of great importance. We will see to it that it finds its way swiftly and safely into the appropriate hands. But, as for the rest of it, these are matters you must leave to the experts, those of us who have trained and prepared for such occasions. I hope that is well understood, inspecteur.” Renard had no other choice. He saluted Lieutenant Pénichon, who responded with a crisp salute of his own.
XVII
Every morning at seven thirty a member of the president’s national security staff entered the Oval Office to deliver the daily security briefing. This was usually the president’s first appointment of the day, and they were usually alone together. On this particular Monday morning, however, the security adviser was surprised to find the Oval Office buzzing with activity. The president was at his desk looking through a stack of papers while his chief political adviser murmured fervently in his ear. Other political advisers and strategists hovered nearby, talking on the telephone or huddled in groups of two or three.
Over the weekend the president’s reelection, which, until now, had seemed a foregone conclusion, had suddenly been cast in doubt. Several leading newspapers, including some friendly to the president, had published reports that important intelligence used to justify a particular military action had either come from an unreliable agent or been an outright falsification. Despite the best efforts of spokesmen from the Department of State and the White House, a political firestorm was brewing around these revelations.
The president’s opponent, whose campaign efforts up to now had been mostly futile, had seized the opportunity and charged that the president’s policies had not only been ineffectual in the battle against terrorism, but had actually made the country more vulnerable to a terroristic attack and less safe. “I believe that this president has put politics before national security,” he said, “and, in doing so, has placed the country at risk.”
Moreover, the latest polls showed that, for the first time, the challenger’s charges were sticking. In just a few short days the race had tightened up to such an extent that the outcome now appeared to be within the margin of error; that is, the race was too close to call.
For that reason Carl, the political adviser, and his staff were preparing the president for a whirlwind campaign foray. A helicopter waited on the South Lawn to take the president to his plane for a tour of three of the so-called battleground states, where polls showed the election to be a dead heat.
“I know, I know. God damn it, Carl, I know,” said the president.
“I know you know, Mr. President,” said the political adviser. “That’s why I’m reminding you.” The adviser’s phone chirped, and he turned away. “Talk to me,” he said, stepping into the small alcove that had become his temporary operations center.
“Phil!” said the president, looking expectantly at the security adviser. “How are you? What’s up? What have you got for me?” The security adviser passed the briefing folder across the desk to the president.
“It’s pretty much what we’ve been seeing for a while, Mr. President,” said Phil. “The hot spots are North Korea and Iran with their nuclear aspirations. The North Korean program has stopped moving for the moment, contrary to what they’re saying. We believe that what we’re hearing from them is mainly for Asian consumption. The Iranians, on the other hand, have continued assembling nuclear materiel. The Russians have been worrisome in that regard. We’ve followed several shipments of nuclear materiel—”
“And the war on terror?” The president leafed back and forth through the briefing book. “What about the war on terror? I don’t see anything here on the war on terror.” The president slapped the briefing papers with the back of his hand and looked up.
“No sir, Mr. President.” Phil removed his glasses and put them in his pocket. “Al Qaeda has not been heard from for a while. Suicide bombings in Iraq and Israel both are down. It’s been quiet on that front lately, I’m happy to say.”
“Well, I’m happy about that too, Phil. I believe we’ve got them on the run. But … listen, Phil: fighting terrorism, that’s supposed to be our strong suit, damn it. I realize everyone is putting in long hours, Phil. Believe me, I know that, and I appreciate it. You don’t know how much I appreciate it. I mean, all I want is an all-out effort to win this war on terror, to finally smack these bastards into oblivion.
“We’ve got al Qaeda on the run, but things are kind of stalled right now, aren’t they? We’ve got to keep the heat on them so they don’t have time to regroup. What the hell ever happened with that thing Hugh Bowes was working on, in …?”
“In France?” said Phil.
“France. Right,” said the president. “If we could destroy a cell right under Chirac’s nose …”
“Yes sir, Mr. President. The investigation is still very much alive, very much in play. But nothing is happening there at the moment. That cell dispersed suddenly, and pretty much vanished from sight for the moment.”
“Vanished?” said the president. “How the heck could that happen? I know, Carl, I’m coming.” The political adviser had just whispered urgently in his ear. You could hear the thwak-thwak of the helicopter.
“Louis Morgon, the ringleader—” Phil began.
The president was on his feet, slipping his arms into the jacket that an aide was holding. “I don’t care about that. I just want some results. Jesus, that guy’s still on the loose?”
“Central Intelligence, the FBI, everyone is all over it, sir. It’s only a matter of time until we smoke him out.”
“Smoke him out? Hell, I thought we had him. The Agency? Well, forgive my scepticism, Phil, but I don’t want to leave anything up to those guys. And damn it, Phil, we don’t have a hell of a lot of time. I want you and your people all over this thing. And I’ve already told the secretary of state and everybody else the same damn thing.”
“Yes sir,” said Phil.
That evening when the president arrived back at the White House, Phil was waiting. He asked to see the president urgently and was summoned to the residential quarters. The president was in shirtsleeves when Phil was escorted into his office.
“Mr. President, good evening.” Phil passed an acetate folder across the desk.
“I’m worn out, Phil,” said the president.
“Yes sir, I know,” said Phil. “And I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, but—”
“What’s this?”
“This couldn’t wait, sir. It’s a letter, sir, that came in just this afternoon. It’s a stroke of luck, really. It was forwarded to us through the French sécurité. It’s from Morgon.”
“Who?”
“The terrorist, sir. Secretary Bowes’s terrorist. Louis Morgon. We were speaking about him this morning.”
“A letter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“To whom?”
“To you, sir.”
“To me? The son of a bitch sent me a letter?”
“Yes, sir. If I may, sir, I believe this may be just what you’ve been looking for, Mr. President.”
The president read the letter. Then he read it again. He looked up at Phil. “God damn! Jesus H Christ! Is this for real?”
“It checks out, sir. All the bona fides are there.”
The president turned to his aide. “Get Carl in here. Does the secretary of state know about this? Get him in here too, the CIA chief …” He named other senior officials. “And Hugh Bowes. Find out where Hugh Bowes is, and get hold of him as soon as you can.”
The political adviser’s limousine was halfway to his house in McLean when the phone in the armrest rang. “What is it?” he said. “Yes. I’ll be right there.” He hung up the phone. “We’re going back,” he said to the driver. The secretary of state and the other senior officials had been sent tran
scripts of the letter, so as soon as word came that the president had returned, they hurried to the White House.
Hugh Bowes was in Mexico City, where he was negotiating a large and complicated deal between AmericaBank and some large Latin American financial institutions. Hugh’s assistant entered the conference room and whispered in his ear. “Right now?” said Hugh.
“Yes, sir,” said the assistant. “He said it was urgent.”
Hugh excused himself from the table. “Gentlemen, if you will excuse me. I have to take an urgent call from the president.”
“It has to do with your Louis Morgon,” said the president, once he had Hugh on the line.
“Louis Morgon?” said Hugh.
“We found him,” said the president.
“You found him? Did you? That is good news, Mr. President.”
“I need you back here, Hugh. ASAP.”
“I am at your service, Mr. President. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”
“Time is of the essence, Hugh.”
Hugh’s clients did not mind his sudden departure. In fact, it pleased them, despite the inconvenience to their enterprise. After all, they had engaged his services mainly because he was at home in the halls of power in Washington and had access to the highest decision makers. What better demonstration could there be of his value to them than a summons from the president of the United States?
A police escort and limousine met Hugh’s Gulfstream on the secure apron at Reagan National Airport. They raced to the White House with sirens wailing. The president rose to greet Hugh as he was wheeled into the Oval Office. “Great work, Hugh,” he said, walking forward and clasping Hugh’s hand in both of his. “Thanks to you, we’ve reeled this son of bitch in, this Morgon character. You spotted him, and now we’ve got him.”
“Have you been able to interrogate him? Or is he dead?” Hugh raised his eyebrows slightly, as though the matter were only of passing interest to him.
“Dead? No, he isn’t dead. It’s a whole lot better than that. He’s alive and ready to talk.”
“To talk?” said Hugh. “That is a surprising development.”
“He wants to give up his al Qaeda comrades. I don’t know how much he knows, but somebody that high up in al Qaeda has got to know something. Right? He should know who’s where. Hell, maybe we can finally get that son of a bitch, bin Laden. This is a huge break. Of course, Hugh, it still all depends on you.”
“I fail to understand, Mr. President, just how it depends on me.”
“Show him the letter, Phil.”
Phil stepped across the room and handed Hugh the acetate folder.
The letter had been written on three pages of white paper with a blue fountain pen in a careful hand. It’s author, Louis Morgon, described how he had discovered that his house was under surveillance and how he had fled shortly thereafter in order to avoid being assassinated. He confessed that, at the moment of his flight, he had been serving as the chief of a terrorist cell that was in the course of planning various catastrophic events. He declined to be specific about these events.
He realized, he wrote, that once his identity had been revealed to the Americans, his value to al Qaeda was seriously, if not fatally, compromised. In that moment, he went from being an important asset to being a liability. His life was in danger, as much from al Qaeda as from the Americans. Maybe more so, since al Qaeda had, so far, been better than the Americans at searching out their enemies and destroying them.
Louis Morgon wrote that he was willing to reveal what he knew about the operations of al Qaeda, which, he promised, would be sufficient to cause large-scale disruption in that organization. He declined to go into further detail. Suffice it to say, he had information he knew would please the president and his administration and would offer them significant strategic advantages in the so-called war on terror.
He offered this information in exchange for safe passage into the United States witness protection program, although not in the United States. And there was one other condition. He would only give his information in person to former secretary of state Hugh Bowes. The reason for this, he explained, was that he knew Secretary Bowes from his earlier career in the State Department. He believed that Hugh Bowes had been the only official who had treated him fairly during and after his dismissal from government service. Secretary Bowes was the only American official he would trust.
The president should let Louis know his decision by publishing a small advertisement in the employment wanted section of The International Herald Tribune. Louis would then send instructions about how, where, and when he and Hugh were to meet.
Hugh continued to look at the letter long after he had finished reading it. Everyone in the room was silent. He looked up finally and smiled slightly. “Well?” said the president. “What do you think? This is what we’ve been waiting for, Hugh, and we owe it all to you. You discovered this guy, and you delivered him. I can’t thank you enough.” The men and women standing around the president nodded in agreement.
“Of course, Hugh, whether you meet him or not is entirely up to you. It is a mission not without risk. I would understand completely if you were to decide it’s too dangerous to you personally. But if you agree to go, I promise you will be completely protected.”
“I’m sure, Mr. President—”
“No, I mean it, Hugh. We won’t let you go in by yourself. My thinking is, his days are over and he knows it. He’ll have to make some concessions on where and how you meet. You’ll have bodyguards with you. There will be sharpshooters standing by. We’ll make certain the area is clear of any of his cohorts. I guarantee you, by the time we get it all set up, it will be the safest place on the planet …” The officials around the president’s desk nodded again in agreement.
“I’m sure that’s true, Mr. President; I have no hesitation on my own account. I only wonder whether he has the information he claims to have.”
“That’s a big if, Hugh. Frankly, I’d guess he probably doesn’t. But he’s still a big fish, and he’ll know something. And info or no info, we’ll have him.”
“He’s expecting safe passage, Mr. President …”
Phil jumped in. “Then he’s a fool, sir.”
“Phil’s right,” said the president. “He’s not Osama or Al-Zarqawi, but he’s a big enough trophy to mount above the fireplace.”
“He’s going to pick a meeting place where he knows there’s a way out for him. He’s a smart and clever man,” said Hugh.
“Not as smart as you, Hugh. Hell, you’re the one that caught him, Hugh. Not the other way around.”
XVIII
The boy, Zaharia Lefort, was lost. He knew, of course, that he was in the main hall of the Gare St. Charles, the Marseille railroad station, and he knew Marseille was in France. The station, with its noise, its bustling crowds, its announcements, its rows of tracks and trains gave him some comfort. It seemed like you could go anywhere from there. But where should he go? Marseille and France were mere words to him, without any context. He did not know the names of other places in France, besides Marseille and Paris. He did not even know where the sea was; was it to the north or south? He was a world away from Al Harib and Algiers and everything else he knew.
To complicate things further, Zaharia did not have French identity papers, or Algerian ones, for that matter. He did not have a plan or a thought, even, beyond getting away from the police and whoever else had killed his father, and who were now undoubtedly looking for him.
Zaharia chose a ticket window with a sympathetic-looking woman behind it and got in line. When his turn came, he spoke to her in Arabic. “I want to buy a ticket to here,” he said. He held his father’s list of names against the glass and pointed to the words Saint Leon sur Dême.
The woman at the window leaned forward, squinted over her glasses at the words, and typed them into her computer. She waited for a moment and then typed something else. After studying the screen, she wrote something on a piece of paper and slid the paper t
hrough the slot to Zaharia. She said, in French, that he would first have to travel to Lyon, where he would have to change trains for Orleans. In Orleans he would have to change for Tours, and then from Tours he would have to take a bus or a taxi to Saint Leon sur Dême. The departure and arrival times were on the paper she had handed him. The ticket to Tours would cost 109 euros. She did not know how much the bus or taxi would cost.
She spoke slowly and, by studying the paper as she spoke, Zaharia was able to understand what she said. He looked at the sum she had written and considered the money in his pocket. He had enough to pay for the ticket, but some of the money his father had given him would then be gone, and he might need it later.
“No thank you,” said Zaharia.
The woman asked him something he did not understand. She sounded concerned.
“No,” said Zaharia quickly. “My parents are over there.” He pointed toward a crowd of people and walked away from the window before she could ask any more questions.
Zaharia studied the sign with the departing trains. A destination city and a track number scrolled off the top of the sign as each train departed the station. The information on the remaining trains then scrolled up one slot. There was a train for Lyon halfway down the sign and another still further down.
Zaharia could see trains waiting like great, sleek beasts. Puffs of steam came from beneath them, and they made loud hissing sounds. Zaharia found the next train to Lyon on track eight, just as the sign had indicated. It was not scheduled to leave for another twenty-five minutes, but people were already getting aboard. Zaharia could see them through the windows, lifting their bags onto the overhead racks and settling down for the journey, eating sandwiches or unfolding their newspapers. He looked up and down the platform but did not see anyone in uniform.
Zaharia climbed onto the train and walked through the cars. At the end of each car there were luggage racks, and some people with especially large suitcases had lifted their bags onto these racks before finding their seats. Zaharia waited until no one was watching and climbed onto a luggage rack. He squeezed behind the suitcases, lay down with his head on his small bundle of clothes, and waited. Before long he felt the train begin to move. He remained hidden until they reached Lyon. Then he pushed the suitcases aside and got off the train.
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