The Geneva Strategy

by Robert Ludlum

  Wyler nodded. “They would. In fact, they just said that they were preparing to create a sort of temporary tunnel for us to evacuate through and their forces were donning containment suits before they approach.”

  “These guys have masks but no suits,” Smith said.

  “If they’re not sent by the Swiss, then who are they?” Arden asked. She returned to stare out of the window. In the next instant her face changed.

  “Oh, no,” she said.

  “What?” Smith asked.

  “I think I know who they are. They’re an army run by Stanton Reese.”

  62

  Smith called Russell. “There’s an additional problem.”

  Russell didn’t like the sound of that. “What type of problem?”

  “There’s a guerrilla force of about eight men spreading out around the conference center and moving forward in formation.”

  “Swiss army coming to the rescue?” Russell asked.

  “No. They’re not wearing any insignia. Arden thinks they’re a rogue army run by Stanton Reese. She’s heard of the same type of action in Africa.”

  Russell shook her head in disbelief although she knew Smith couldn’t see her. Beckmann, though, could, and he lowered his oxygen mask and came to stand next to her. She switched her phone to speaker so that he could listen.

  “They would have been stopped by the local police. They’ve cordoned off the area,” she said.

  “Not the villas. I think they’ve been hiding in there, within the perimeter, all this time. They’re equipped with gas masks.”

  Russell felt the air punch out of her at that. She tried to collect her scattered thoughts.

  “So I’ll tell the fighter jets to shoot them down. Or tell the army to get over here and pick them off.”

  “Forget it. They’re wearing flat, disk-like canisters on their torsos. Both sides. I’ll bet they’re filled with the same chemical that the drones are carrying. Shoot them and they’ll release the drug. Besides, they’re almost to the center already and the whole golf course has been declared a toxic zone and off limits, so I don’t think that the foot troops will come.”

  “But I will,” Beckmann said.

  “Hold on a minute,” Russell told Smith. She put the phone on mute. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” she said to Beckmann.

  He checked his gun. “I’m thinking we come in behind them and take them out, one by one. They won’t be expecting it. They think their circling drones have the regular army pinned down and their chemical payload will force the jets to hold off, and they’re right. What they didn’t consider was targeted assassination. They’ll never know what hit them and they won’t have time to release their payload.”

  Russell hesitated. She thought the idea had merit but there were so many things that could go wrong she was hesitant to green-light it.

  “Come on, Russell, you know that if we do nothing they’re all dead anyhow. This way at least some may make it out alive,” Beckmann said.

  “Let’s get the Swiss to help,” she said.

  Beckmann shrugged. “The more the merrier. Tell Smith to have Wyler make the request. But I think you and I move now.”

  Russell nodded. “I’m in.”

  She told Smith their plan and slung the two straps attached to her oxygen tank over her shoulders, allowing her to carry it like a backpack. She put her mask back on as she slung her rifle strap over her shoulder.

  They walked away from the collected emergency vehicles and started a slow jog along the far boundary of the property. When they were at a forty-five-degree angle from the destroyed portion of the center Russell cut in, jogging from tree to tree. She spotted the first group of soldiers about fifty feet in. They advanced in a controlled manner. Some moved from tree to tree but others kept a brisk walk in a straight line.

  They don’t expect to meet with any resistance, Russell thought. That expectation wasn’t entirely wrong, because with the possible exception of Smith and Arden, Russell doubted anyone else carried any weapons whatsoever. The attendees would have been depending on the perimeter guards and additional security to keep them safe. Beckmann waved her to a place behind a small building that housed restrooms. He crouched at the corner.

  “You have any type of silencer on you?” Beckmann asked. “I know the AK doesn’t have one, but are you carrying a handgun as well?”

  Russell nodded. “And a silencer. You?” He pulled a slender tube from inside his bulletproof vest and screwed it on the muzzle of his rifle.

  “I’m good to go.”

  He raised the gun to his shoulder, targeted a man lagging at the very end of the group, and fired. Russell saw the man pitch forward and land on the grass. None of the others looked back.

  “They can’t hear the shot over the drone noise,” Beckmann said with satisfaction.

  He targeted another and shot. The man appeared to cry out and clutched his shoulder. Another next to him turned his head and Beckmann brought him down as well. The rest of the troops were busy crawling over the broken glass and remaining jagged edges of the window where the drone had crashed and none bothered to look behind them. Russell put a hand on his arm.

  “Hold off. Let them get inside and then we’ll sprint to the other side of the terrace wall.”

  A large terrace with a stone wall extended from the conference center outward. Russell thought that it likely was an outdoor eating area, but the weather was still too cool and the terrace was empty. Russell watched as the last man crawled over the drone wreckage.

  “Ready?” she asked Beckmann. He nodded and she took off running toward the next available cover.

  63

  Smith watched the troop moving toward them. At Russell’s suggestion he’d given Wyler the task of attempting to talk the Swiss military into sending in a sniper team to take out the cell. Smith could only hope that they would agree to try to infiltrate and kill the intruders.

  He’d taken stock of their weapons. They had only two pistols: his and Arden’s. None of the other remaining survivors had any weapons. Wyler returned and from the grim look on his face Smith doubted the man had good news.

  “They have a sniper team here already. They were called in from the moment it became clear that the center was under attack. I gave them the plan.”

  “And?” Smith asked. Arden stepped up next to him.

  “I’m not sure. The biggest problem is the lack of containment suits should the troops release their chemicals. They don’t have enough and we have none. They’re deciding whether it’s safest to allow the troops to take us hostage and then negotiate terms. They’re pondering.”

  “There’s no time to ponder,” Smith said. “We need to collect every available fire extinguisher that we can.”

  “You think they’re intending to burn the center?”

  “Maybe. But if we shoot one and he releases the drug I want you to spray him with the foam. My hope is that it will smother the drug enough to contain it.”

  “I’ll get those that are in the stairwell,” Arden said.

  “I’m going to the first floor,” Smith said. “The Secret Service agent who chased us is still in the hall. We need his weapon.” He handed Wyler his.

  Wyler shook his head. “Keep it. You’re going to need it in case you run into them down there.”

  “If I do I’ll have the agent’s to use. He’s in the stairwell. If I don’t make it to him then you’ll need it.”

  He joined Arden at the stairwell door. The ax handle was still in place.

  “You think he’s behind that door waiting for us?” Arden said.

  “I don’t know, but we need to try,” Smith said.

  She nodded. “On three.”

  She counted it down and on the third count he slid the ax handle out of the door and Arden opened it slowly. She peered around the door’s edge a moment, and then swung it wide.

  “He’s dead,” she said. Her voice broke on the sentence.

  Smith followed her through and k
nelt down next to the man. In fact he wasn’t dead, he was simply flat on his back on the carpeted landing and staring upward. Smith reached down and gently removed the gun from his grasp. Wyler knelt down next to him.

  “Should we carry him out of the stairwell?” he asked.

  Smith shook his head. “Weapons first. Help Arden collect the fire extinguishers. I’m going down to guard the entrance at the bottom.” Smith sprinted down the steps. The cement enclosure lent any noise an echo and the thick walls successfully blocked most sounds from outside. Smith felt his heart begin to race as he headed lower. He hated the idea that the troop could at that moment be preparing to open the stairwell door. He made it to the bottom without incident and swallowed once. The lower stairwell door was ajar.

  Now he could hear the relentless buzzing of the circling drones and the sound of the killers making their way down the hall. He took a careful step to the side and held his gun aloft while he waited for the first man to step through the door. He heard Wyler breaking the glass on the extinguisher one flight above.

  When they came through the door they came in a group of four. They looked neither right nor left but jogged upward. Smith fired twice in rapid succession and killed the first two, shooting each one high on the shoulder to avoid piercing the canister. The shots echoed in the enclosed space and he heard a man yell. The two others swung around and opened fire on him. He gave his own yell as he dove beneath the stairs, scuttling lower in the small area available to him.

  From above he heard two more gunshots followed by the whooshing sound of a fire extinguisher. Shoes pounded down the steps above his head and he crawled out from his hiding place in time to see one of the soldiers fleeing. Smith shot at him and missed.

  “Smith, you down there?” Wyler’s voice echoed in the stairwell.

  “I’m coming back up. Don’t shoot,” Smith said.

  He dodged the two dead bodies and when he got to the next he found the third man facedown and covered with foam. Arden held the extinguisher and Wyler the gun.

  “I’ve got the gun. Back upstairs,” Smith said. He followed Wyler and Arden back to the second-story landing and the still-living Secret Service agent. “Now we move him,” Smith said. He picked up the man’s legs and Wyler slid his hands under his arms and they maneuvered him out of the stairwell into the second-story hall. Arden replaced the ax handle.

  “Did the canister explode?” Smith asked.

  Arden shook her head. “Not exactly. But I could see that the bullet had pierced it and I thought it would be best to lay down some foam. It seemed to work to contain any spray.”

  “How many entrances to this floor?” Smith asked. “Because you can be sure that once they discover the bodies they’ll have figured out that we’re up here and armed. They won’t make the mistake of charging into the stairwell unprepared again.”

  “Two elevator banks and a third freight elevator,” Wyler said.

  At that moment they heard the ping of an arriving elevator car.

  64

  Smith yanked the ax handle away and hauled the stairwell door open. Arden ran through and Wyler followed. Smith hid in the entrance and peered around the jamb, waiting for whoever was on the elevator to appear. He saw a soldier slowly edge his way out. Smith fired and the man jerked back inside. Smith backed into the stairwell.

  From below he heard a team coming up the stairs. From inside the hall he heard the soldier laying down fire, the shots getting louder as the man approached. Below him the sound of footfalls increased and he hurdled up the stairs. Gunshots echoed around him. A bullet pinged off the metal banister. He reached the third floor and Arden was there, holding the stairwell door open.

  As Smith tumbled onto the third floor Arden slammed the door closed and Wyler, Arden, and two other men began pushing a heavy desk across to block it. Bullet-sized dents formed in the metal panel when the soldiers on the other side began firing.

  “There’s an access to the roof on the far end of the hall,” Wyler said.

  Smith followed him around the curved hallway. Through the windows he saw a large drone fly by.

  Behind him he heard the ping of another elevator arriving.

  Accessing the roof would leave them exposed to the chemical if the drones chose to release their payload, but staying on the third floor was no longer an option. The two men ran into a small utility room and Smith could see a narrow set of drop-down stairs leading upward.

  Arden waited her turn and Wyler after her. Before he took a step up he glanced behind him and Smith saw his eyes widen. Smith turned to see Russell and Beckmann in the hallway. Both wore oxygen masks and both carried weapons. Russell nodded at Smith and he saw her pause a moment, looking at Wyler, and it seemed to Smith that she was relieved to see him there and still alive. Wyler moved out of the line. He took the fire extinguisher from Arden’s hands and put a second next to Smith.

  “I’ll work the extinguisher,” Wyler said. Beckmann stepped up and offered a hand grenade. Russell stayed several feet closer and kept her weapon aimed at the stairwell door, where the men from the other side were attempting to shift the desk from its place against it.

  “Hold your fire. Let them shift the desk enough to open a small space. When they do, I’ll pull the pin, toss the grenade in and then we need to push the desk back, fast,” Smith said.

  The desk slid farther out and Smith moved it to position it at an angle that kept him safely behind the door but nearer to the action. It was clear, though, that unless he could throw a curve the grenade would not land far enough inside the stairwell. He would have to step into the line of fire in order to have a clear shot to toss the bomb.

  The desk shifted again, opening a small gap between the door and the jamb. The pushing stopped. Smith pulled the pin on the grenade, moved forward and to the side, stretching his arm out. From his new location he saw the backs of two soldiers as they pressed themselves against the door. He flicked the grenade into the small opening and threw himself sideways. Russell, Wyler, and Beckmann joined him in pushing the desk back. It moved with surprising ease and Smith realized that the men had scattered at the sight of the grenade.

  “Let’s move,” Russell said. She, Beckmann, and Wyler began sprinting toward the utility closet. Smith ran halfway, but stopped there, knelt down against the wall farthest from the glass with his back to the desk and his face to the wall.

  The resulting explosion blew the door open and sent the desk tumbling. The draft from the opening hit Smith in the back and he pitched forward, but managed to rise. He directed the extinguisher nozzle and sprayed the foam, hoping to force any accumulated clouds of chemicals back into the stairwell.

  Russell came up next to him and placed her oxygen mask over his nose. He took a deep breath and nodded, and she put it back over her own face. She waved him toward the access stairs. From the left he saw Beckmann aiming a gun downward, through a hole in the glass that the grenade had blasted open. He jerked his head in that direction and Russell moved with him to line up next to Beckmann.

  On the grass below Smith saw Gore, in army fatigues and wearing a gas mask, aiming a rifle at the third floor, targeting Beckmann. The men fired and Gore went down. Beckmann’s body jerked back and he landed hard on the carpet. Smith watched Gore, who wasn’t dead but was rolling around in the grass holding his arm.

  A man stood at the tree line and Smith squinted to try to make out who it was. He dropped the extinguisher and went to Beckmann.

  “Where is he hit?” Smith asked.

  “In the chest. The vest absorbed it,” Russell said.

  “I think it may have broken a bone in my shoulder,” Beckmann said.

  “Let me have your gun,” Smith said. He dropped the extinguisher, took the rifle, and went back to the window bank. The man at the trees was no longer there, but he saw another standing over the prone Gore. It was Darkanin. He raised a gun and shot Gore once. Gore jerked and lay still. Darkanin took two more steps closer to Gore. Smith stepped up to the w
indow. From that height and from that angle the shot was a difficult one. Smith aimed, but before he could pull the trigger he saw Gore raise his own gun. He shot Darkanin square in the chest.

  The hall went quiet except for the buzzing sound of the drone as it flew by.

  65

  Howell watched while the pilot, a young officer in the Royal Air Force, maneuvered the chopper until it was flying parallel to the nearest drone, a larger plane with a twelve-foot wingspan and a payload canister attached to its underside. The Swiss authorities were issuing frantic requests to Howell and his pilot to remove themselves from the area, and a fighter jet flew alongside and repeated the demand. It rose up a bit and rumbled somewhere above their heads.

  “Ignore it,” Howell told the RAF pilot.

  He shot Howell a concerned look. “It is their airspace,” he said.

  “And if I were Swiss I’d also be angry as hell, but I’m not.” Howell ran through his mind the names of his friends in the Swiss army who might be able to back off the jet long enough for Howell to assess the situation.

  “They’re the ones in charge here,” the pilot said.

  “And you are a member of Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force flying a high-ranking official to the scene of a disaster that may have its origins in the UK.”

  The pilot inhaled and shot Howell another look from the corner of his eye. “Whatever we do, it would be my suggestion that we do it fast. The Swiss won’t put up with this much longer,” he said. Howell heard a beep through his headphones. “We have a call coming in from Fort Meade in America.” The pilot punched a button and patched it through to Howell.

  “Is this Peter Howell?” the caller asked.

  “It is.”

  “I’m Kimball Canelo, an officer in the U.S. Army based in Djibouti, and until recently I was in charge of the piloting and implementation of the joint CIA-NSA Unmanned Aerial Vehicle program. Mr. Scariano asked me to contact you. I understand that you’re having a problem with a drone that may have originated out of Djibouti.”