Authors: Patrick Robinson

Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Political, #Thrillers, #Weapons industry, #War & Military, #Assassination, #Iraq War; 2003-

Diamondhead (67 page)

The fury of the U.S. military was barely contained in a statement from General Thomas, the U.S. C-in-C on the ground in Iraq, who was quoted as declaring, “This illegal killing has gone far enough. It is beyond our understanding why no one, and I repeat no one, seems capable of tracing this missile to its source, the factory that makes it, and stopping the production.

“We’re getting reports that six of them have just been fired at U.S. forces in Afghanistan, fortunately on armored personnel carriers that turned out to be empty. We have Intel on possible Diamondhead stockpiles in Iran, and it is the opinion of both myself and my senior commanders that we should take them out with an air strike and the hell with the consequences.”

The final words of the American C-in-C were the words of a very angry soldier. “Everyone knows the damned things are made in France. Checking the explosive and chemical is nothing less than elementary. The Diamondhead is as French as the Eiffel Tower, and it’s time someone was forced to admit it. France is, I believe, a founding member of the UN Security Council.”

“Hey,” breathed Mack, “they finally managed to make old Ben Thomas good and mad. And that means the president will pay attention. They were at West Point together.”

It was still another hour before the flight to Dublin was due to be called, and Mack whiled away the time in deep thought. Inevitably, he found it impossible to cast aside the vivid image of the burning tanks on the bank of the Euphrates. But another more urgent issue was muscling its way into his mind—how and when to contact Anne and Tommy.

He had vowed to himself that he would never use Harry’s magic astronaut cell phone unless it was a matter of his own life and death. There would be no footprint left, anywhere in France, to prove Mackenzie Bedford had ever left the shores of the United States. He knew the phone was as secure as modern aerospace science could make it. But he also knew there is no such thing as 100 percent security for anything, anywhere, anytime. Jesus, you could put the most highly trained group of U.S. combat troops, armed to the teeth, in a battlefield tank that the record says is impregnable, and a bunch of crazed, illiterate tribesmen, guys dressed in fucking sheets, somehow find a way to wipe everyone out.

The superphone was still the superphone, but would Mack risk leaving even the most fleeting set of footprints right here in France at this stage of the game? Answer: no, he would not. He would call immediately after he arrived in Boston, not before. So he just sat in the restaurant, sipping a second cup of coffee and fighting back the obdurate truth that he had no idea whether his little boy was alive or dead.

But he couldn’t be dead; the greatest surgeon in the world wouldn’t let him be dead. No, Tommy was alive—he had to be alive. They’d go fishing together very soon.
Hang in there, kid. I’m nearly there.

Senator Rossow was in his office in the Capitol when the telephone rang from Paris. “Monsieur Jules Barnier on the phone,” called his assistant.

The senator picked up the phone, and said in his naturally rather sophisticated manner, “Good morning, Jules. Do I have the pleasure of speaking to the next president of France?”

The full impact of murder, assassination, shock, and sorrow had not hit Washington, D.C., as it had France, essentially because citizens of the USA are inclined to think France is just another country full of goddamned uncooperative foreigners.

Jules Barnier was startled at Stanford Rossow’s somewhat flippant attitude to a crime that had stunned his nation. But the two men had been friends for many years, and the ex-Lazards Bank chief understood that many powerful Americans lack just a little savoir faire in certain matters, particularly of the heart.

Jules Barnier and Henri Foche had a long association. They were not close buddies, but they dined together occasionally, and while Jules lacked the driving ambition that would take Henri to the very pinnacle of French power, the brutal manner of his death had caused the Parisian banker considerable sadness.

“Ah, Stanford,” he said. “Ever the pragmatist.”

“Well, I’m correct, aren’t I? You will now be the Gaullist candidate in place of the departed Henri, and there should be nothing to stand in your way. My friend, you have a clear run to the Elysée Palace, where I very much look forward to a lot of high-class hospitality.”

Jules Barnier, grief stricken or not, was unable to avoid laughing. “I really called to let you know I have just resigned from the bank. Obviously, it would have been quite incompatible with my projected political career. It was all very agreeable, and the board members were generous to me.”

“I should think they would be,” replied Rossow. “You’ve made them all a lot of money. You’ll miss it, you know, that cut-and-thrust of the world economy.”

“I expect so, but I’ll probably have enough cut-and-thrust of my own if they make me president of France.”

“There’s no doubt, is there?”

“Well, not really. The Gaullists are plainly going to sweep to victory. Every opinion poll has us miles ahead. And I am now the candidate.”

“A few months from now, you will be all-powerful, hiring and firing cabinet ministers on a daily basis. Frenchmen will quake in their boots at the mention of your name.”

“Frenchmen of my class don’t wear boots. They wear highly polished Gucci shoes. And no one quakes when they wear those.”

Senator Rossow chuckled. “Do you still want me to keep a weather eye for a cottage here in Maine?”

“Very much so. France is even more inclined than America to close down for the summer. I have always loved that Maine coast, and I can’t think of anything nicer. In any event, waterfront real estate on your coastline is an excellent investment.”

“Always the banker, Jules, always the banker.”

“Not at all. But the dollar’s weak against the euro, trading this morning at 1.54. For me, that cottage is a buy.”

Both men laughed. “Well, it would be great fun to have you here for a few weeks each year. You’d bring the boat?”

“Certainly. I might even keep it there.”

“Just so you remember, Maine has a very short summer. End of August, we’re all done. It’s likely to snow in October, and it doesn’t get real warm until the middle of June at best.”

“That will suit me very well. I look forward to it, all those beautiful islands, with the pine trees coming right down to the shore, the deep water, and the
homard! Formidable.
”

“Oh, Jules, there was one thing I wanted to mention. Will you carry out Foche’s intention to cut right back on the purchase of foreign hardware for the military?”

“I will not. Because it goes against every principle I have about international trade. There’s nothing sillier, in this day and age, than any form of isolationism. I believe in expansionism, and to tell the truth I thought some of Henri’s ideas were very old-fashioned. I expect you are talking about that little shipyard you have mentioned before.”

“Well, I was about to talk about Remsons,” replied the U.S. senator. “And I have explained how important it is to them—that frigate order from the French Navy. And it’s pretty damned important to me. As you know, I don’t have a huge majority in this state.”

“Stanford, my friend, the frigate order stays in place, for a lot of reasons. I value my connections in the USA, and when I’m president, I’ll value them even more. And I like the . . . er . . . cross-pollination between our defense industries, that we buy and sell from you and vice versa. Warships and missiles. I want to increase that, not shut it down.

“Stanford, I’ll tell the navy to order three of them, keep Mr. Remson busy for ten years, and then you can be carried shoulder-high through the town as the great savior of the shipyard!”

“I like that, Jules. I like the way you’re thinking.”

“Listen, Stanford, I have to go. But don’t worry about that frigate anymore. You can consider it done. And tell your Mr. Remson I’m coming down for a visit, to see my new ship, just as soon as you find my new house.”

“’Bye, Jules, and
bonne chance
.”

The Air France passenger jet took off into a light southeast wind, banked hard right, and flew up the left bank of the muddy Gironde River estuary, high above the greatest wine-producing châteaus in the world. They passed over the little port of Pauillac, which is surrounded by the fabled appellations of the Haut-Medoc, Margaux, and Saint Julien. There are eighteen
crus classes
around Pauillac, including the world-famous Rothschilds’ Lafite, and Mouton, and Château Latour.

Mack Bedford was oblivious to the splendor below. He was staring out to the west, out to the Atlantic, and he could feel the aircraft inching its way toward the ocean. In a few moments, he would be clear of the French coast, and somehow safe from the ten thousand police and security forces currently searching for him.

On reflection he considered his masterstroke was in moving so quickly, so far to the south of Saint-Nazaire. It was obvious now that the police had written off entirely the possibility of anyone making the south bank of the Loire. Every broadcast, every newspaper stressed that the search was concentrated in the northern part of the country. Especially the Northwest.

As a strategy, that was 100 percent wrong. Henri Foche’s assassin had headed due south immediately after his mission was accomplished, and that decision had allowed him to make an almost serene getaway. Aside from the policeman at the bus stop, nobody had challenged him, because no one was looking in his part of the country.

And now he was on his way out, beyond the reach of the goddamned gendarmes, back to Ireland and then home, leaving no trace. It was thus a relaxed flight, past the great hook of the northwest coast of Brittany, up the Irish Sea, and into Dublin at 2:00 P.M. sharp.

Mack just held up his Irish passport, the one bearing the name and identification of Patrick O’Grady, and the immigration officer waved him through. He walked across the airport to the escalators and traveled up to the second floor. He had the document for his first-class open return ticket, and now he changed for the last time, slipping into the men’s room and fixing his Jeffery Simpson wig, mustache, and spectacles. This rendered him precisely the same person who had entered Ireland almost two weeks previously.

He walked to the Aer Lingus ticket desk, and asked if there was space on the evening flight to Boston. He was told it was half empty, and five minutes later he had a boarding pass and a seat in the front row of the aircraft, which would depart at 7:30 P.M. local time, arriving in Boston a little before 10:00 P.M.

Mack showed his passport. The emerald green-clad Irish ticket assistant handed it back with a smile. “Have a nice flight, Mr. Simpson.”

Other books

Aliens Are Real: Part 2 by Sabrina Sumsion

Black Swan Green by David Mitchell

The Lycan Rebirth (The Flux Age Book 3) by Steven J Shelley

Psycho - Three Complete Novels by Robert Bloch

Thy Neighbor by Norah Vincent

Capture The Night by Dawson, Geralyn

Bloody Kin by Margaret Maron

Our Game by John le Carre

Strange Music by Laura Fish

Etiquette & Espionage by Gail Carriger