Prometheus's Child s-2

by Harold Coyle

  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 Marcel 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 chérie.”

  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?”

  “Not until we’re ready to board the Hercs. Far as the troops will know, we’re just conducting a mobilization drill. Colonel Malloum might go along but he understands it’d just be for show.”

  The former Marine went to work on the chaw, nodding his approval. “Yessir. Uh, what about the choppers?”

  Lee suppressed a yawn; he had been up much of the night, finalizing arrangements for the operation. “Keegan and Marsh are checking out two Alouettes today. The attaché will help them test fly two birds and get them headed for the border tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

  “What about maintenance?”

  “Already handled, Gunny. Our pilots brought a guy who knows Alouettes inside out, and one or two Chadian mechs are going along with some spare parts.”

  Foyte was working on his wad now, savoring the juice. “Well, all right, Major. But I’d be damn nervous riding in a machine that wants to tear itself apart on a good day, let alone one maintained by some of the boys in this neck of the woods.”

  Lee sat upright, looking Foyte full in the face. “Gunnery Sergeant, this has come up before, and I need you to tune your command set to ‘receive.’ Are you reading me?”

  Foyte knew what was coming. “Yessir. I read you five by five. No more talk about ‘boys.’“

  “You got it.”

  N’DJAMENA

  Marcel Hurtubise walked rapidly, covering ground in a purposeful stride that led nowhere. Hands in his pockets, uncharacteristically looking at the ground rather than 360 degrees around him, he realized with a start that he had circled a city block for the second time. He looked at the sky. Late afternoon. Gabrielle has been dead at least six hours.

  He resumed walking.

  In his lonely, violent forty-four years, Marcel Jules Marie Hurtubise had learned to rely upon himself. Oh, there had been the comradely nature of the Legion—Legio pro patria and all that — but it was not strong enough to hold him. He had wanted something else, something more.

  Gabrielle.

  He saw her again in his memory for the first time: the defiant, skinny teenager who could use a good meal and a hot bath. He had seen many like her: frightened, angry runaways seeking temporary shelter, both physical and emotional. Somehow, it had worked with her. Most of the time, anyway. It had not been easy, getting her off drugs and off the street. But in months rather than years, his attention and his patience had won her. He remembered the first time she had given herself to him. And with something approaching remorse, he recalled the only time he had forced her — the result of a simple job that had gone terribly bad and there was no one else to take his wrath. She swore that if he ever did that again, she would kill him, herself, or both of them.

  He believed her.

  After that, the years had been more good than bad. She grew to mental maturity, if not emotional, and occasionally shared in his work. She was a natural in some ways — coy, manipulative, astute about people. Especially men. But eventually he had seen the edge return, something hard and bitter behind the big blue eyes. When she had wanted to execute the Israeli, he knew she had turned a corner that offered little chance of return.

  Raoul’s question forced its way to Marcel’s consciousness again. Why not let us do it?

  He had answered, “I have my reasons.”

  True, Clary and any of the others could have handled the intrusive American female, but Marcel wanted Gabrielle to do the killing. She had arrogantly asserted that she could handle the con job, and when she failed, it became her responsibility to put things right. If she did it, maybe there was a chance she could recover. If not… well…

  Mauvaise chance.

  Hurtubise bit his lip until it hurt. He thought he tasted the salty tang of blood. We came so close, Gabby. After this job, we could go anywhere, settle down, enjoy life. He even had a spot picked out, a semi-secluded property in Switzerland. Wonderful scenery, skiing in the winter, not too many neighbors.

  Now that was gone. It was partly her fault, partly his, and partly theirs.

  By God, the Americans were going to pay

  He turned around and strode back to the apartment.

  42

  SSI COMPOUND

  Steve Lee was a professional pessimist. He spent much of his life contemplating what might go wrong, and shared that philosophy with the SSI team’s final briefing for the raid.

 
; “As I see it, the biggest problem we might have is the people north of the border.” He indicated the boundary with Libya, barely forty kilometers from the uranium mine. “Now, there’s no reason to think that they’ll get involved, but in my experience that’s reason to think they might.” He gave an ironic grin that prompted polite chuckles from his audience.

  “If we take them by surprise, there shouldn’t be much trouble. But if they ‘make’ us inbound, if they have much warning at all, they could have some yellow cake on a couple of trucks hightailing it for Colonel Qadhafi. From there, the load could go anywhere. Like Iran.”

  Bernard Langevin, monitoring the briefing from the back row, raised a hand. “Steve, I agree that’s a concern. But I just don’t think the Libyans are going to pick a fight with the U.S., not even in Chad.”

  Lee laid down his pointer and turned to the scientist. “Look at it from their boots, Bernie. They won’t know we’re Americans. Hell, officially we’re not even involved in this op. That’s the whole idea behind SSI: deniability.”

  Before Langevin could respond, Brezyinski posed a question. “Sir, doesn’t Iran have uranium? I mean, why go to all the trouble to smuggle the stuff from Chad or someplace?”

  Langevin nodded. “Reasonable question. But you’ve just had a hint of the answer from Major Lee: deniability.”

  Breezy wrinkled a brow. “How’s that, Doc?”

  “Almost every uranium ore has its own identification, like a fingerprint. If there’s anyplace on earth that hasn’t been fingerprinted, so to speak, I don’t know where it is. So if the Iranians want to nuke someplace, they’re not going to use material from their own backyard. They have at least three mines but they’ll want to use refined ore from someplace else, the farther away the better. They’d use it from Colorado if they could get enough of it.”

  Bosco, whose scientific interest generally was limited to pulp fiction and Star Wars movies, now took a closer interest. “Excuse me, sir. But how much uranium do you need for a bomb?”