Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) (22 page)

At 0120 hours the Gulfstream IV took off from the airport at Le Bourget, heading for an abandoned Slovakian air base near Bratislava. The flight time would be just under two hours.
Two very long hours,
Vanessa thought fifteen minutes into the flight as she eyed Fournier, who occupied the slate-blue seat opposite her.

In the dimly lit middle cabin his dark eyes glowed with a spark, the reflected gleam from one of the four mounted monitors, this one tuned silently to Al Jazeera.

With Dieter’s file open on her laptop, she took the opportunity to study Fournier. The strong, square angles of his cheek and chin stood out behind a day’s growth of beard; his eyes, watching the world from beneath heavy lids, skin creased at the corners, seemed feral, almost predatory.

She didn’t believe that he was one of Bhoot’s spies, but she barely trusted anyone these days.

She looked away quickly when he shrugged out of his jacket, but she watched him in her peripheral vision. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing not only the Vacheron Constantin watch but also a very
visible scar on the inside of his left forearm: a thick white rope stretching from wrist to elbow.

Wikipedia had a surprisingly detailed entry on him and his rise to the head of DCRI operations. Contrary to most intelligence professionals, it seemed, he’d sought out the spotlight more than once during his career, including a very visible, on-again, off-again romance with a famous French actress, an affair that earned him extensive coverage in
Paris Match.

According to his Wikipedia entry, his father joined the police force in 1965 but was killed on duty when his son was seven years old. Fournier’s mother, Corsican by birth, had taken her only son back to the island, where she married a local politician. Interesting place to grow up, Corsica—birthplace of Napoléon, a violent history, home of a visible organized-crime network that resisted periodic efforts to stamp out corruption. In the past week alone Vanessa had read about a kidnapping and a new assassination attempt on the island.

Fournier had become a cop, too, following in his father’s footsteps. But he’d joined the military, using it as his path to intelligence. The most volatile rumors pegged Fournier as a veteran of Algerian covert ops in the early to mid-1990s.

Was the scar on his arm an Algerian souvenir? What Vanessa knew about the history of the FIS, the Islamic Salvation Front from the Algerian civil war, came mostly from drinks with longtime intelligence veterans at the Agency. Like Sid, who was in his late fifties and close to retirement and who could have filled volumes with his war stories of field ops gone good—and bad. FIS, she mused silently, were crazy-assed guys way before Jihad.

Fournier’s bio simply proved that he was a complex character, and maybe it gave her a few clues on how best to deal with him while she was communicating with Dieter.

Fournier had closed his eyes and reclined in his seat. She went back to reviewing Dieter’s files.

—

SHE SHIFTED RESTLESSLY,
glancing at her watch. They were due to land in just over twenty minutes.

After her last disastrous exchange with Bhoot, she’d given up on her plan to ask him for a safe word for Dieter, a word or phrase that would let the South African arms dealer know she was there with Bhoot’s blessing. But only hours before the flight she’d been caught by surprise.

After dropping Peyton at the airport she had returned the BMW to a prearranged parking spot several blocks from the safe house. As she locked it, she’d noticed a small pastel-rose-and-moss-green-colored bag in the backseat
.
Probably because she knew and loved the cookies made by the same company that produced that distinctive sack, she had picked it up (albeit gingerly) to find a card clipped inside: a Ladurée business card with its logo on one side, a hand-printed message on the other: “For our mutual friend.”

The contents appeared to be a brand-new small cellophane-wrapped box of the almond macaroons. No sign of tampering.

Luckily the package fit easily along with her laptop inside her shoulder bag. Inevitably, when Fournier did see the package, he would demand to know what the hell she was doing carrying expensive French macaroons to Dieter Schoeman. She would tell him the same thing she planned to tell prison officers.

—

THE G-IV TOUCHED DOWN
hard and fast at 0330 hours. Beyond the harsh corridors of light marking the landing strip, the dark pressed in. Vanessa knew only that this black-site prison was located at an abandoned Slovakian military base, and she had no way of knowing exactly where in the country it was.

For all the controversy surrounding post-9/11 secret CIA
detention facilities and the use of enhanced (translate that to “extreme” and “inhumane” in Vanessa’s opinion) interrogation, the term “black site” simply marked the facility as secret or unacknowledged. She knew Dieter’s new accommodations would be Spartan but humane.

As the jet taxied to a stop, Vanessa put her laptop away. Across from her, Fournier sat up calmly, appearing well rested.

“You ready to face the man you helped put behind bars?” Fournier asked.

“I can’t wait,” she said coolly, as she shrugged into her Burberry. True, she was excited to talk with Dieter, but she was also intimidated and slightly anxious. Before the joint U.S.-British sting, Dieter had been bringing in hundreds of millions of dollars and living the high life. Now he was serving a life sentence, in large part thanks to Vanessa.

She stepped into the aisle, Fournier behind her, but before she could head to the jet’s exit door, he stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Just tell me,” he said in a low voice, “what do you expect to get from Schoeman?”

Vanessa wanted to pull away, break his intrusion into her personal space, but that would mean giving over to his power. Fournier would take it that way. So she stood her ground and said, “I want verification that the prototype is real. I want him to give us something we can use to identify Scarface. And while I’m
wanting
, I’ll take the lowdown on True Jihad.”

Fournier gave a derisive snort. “What makes you so positive he’ll know the answers, and if he does, why would he tell you?”

“I’m not positive, but I’ve got good sources and good instincts.” She turned, already starting down the aisle toward the exit. “As for why he would tell me, I doubt he likes the view from here or the accommodations.”

The attendant motioned her forward and then down the stairs to the tarmac. She saw the strand of harsh perimeter lights about a
kilometer away. An icy wind slammed past, followed by another strong gust, pushing her off balance on this dark and cold morning in Slovakia.

The wind seemed to wake Fournier and he strode past her to a waiting Range Rover. Bracing against the cold, Vanessa hurried after him—
black night, black site, black SUV
.

As the Range Rover accelerated, their driver, an alert man in khakis, said, “It’s three klicks. Have your IDs ready.”

Minutes later the driver let the SUV idle as massive seven-meter-high gates topped with razor ribbon rolled open. About two hundred meters behind the double chain-link fence the low and rambling prison buildings spilled up against almost blinding light.

A tall Slovakian officer pushed a button on his control panel and the metal barrier slid open.

Vanessa stepped through a scanner, joining Fournier.

They both stood in place on designated footprints while they were exposed to a programmable laser scanner and computer, apparently able to detect everything from explosive residue to metal and plastic objects to the molecules from your morning cup of French roast.

Vanessa had taken off her trench coat and produced the box of Ladurée sweets, displaying it for the officer. She knew Fournier had raised both of his expressive dark brows, but she refrained from acknowledging him, instead keeping her hopes on the guard. Should have brought a second box for him.

“It’s part of the interrogation process,” she said, doing her best to sound both professional and ingenuous. “The interrogator of Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, who was the mastermind behind Nine-Eleven, used honey instead of torture and Mohammed gave up what they needed.”

The officer shrugged, eyeing her pointedly. “I wouldn’t know how that worked, but they look good to me and the scanner. Just keep in mind, if he manages to file his way out with a macaroon, you’re the one we will come after.”

He let her keep the box even as Fournier scoffed audibly.

A second officer led them down a long, brightly illuminated corridor. They turned into another hallway, following it until they reached a door marked
10
. Not a cell but an interview room. The door had a very small reinforced window, but all Vanessa could see was the glare of light on the other side. A few paces to the right of the door, a one-way mirror stretched for about a meter. She took a quick look. Hands restrained behind his back, Dieter Schoeman sat stiffly in a molded plastic chair in the center of the room behind a small table. A second chair and a stool had been pushed against one wall.

The strain of the cuffs and the uncomfortable position of his arms showed clearly on Dieter’s face.

As the officer punched a code into the electronic security pad, Vanessa asked, “Can you take the cuffs off?”

“No, ma’am, but I can cuff him in front if you feel safe.”

“Do it,” Fournier said.

The door clicked and the officer entered first.

Fournier pressed an arm to hold Vanessa back. “I’ll go in, warm him up for you.”

“Not bad cop, good cop,” she said, raising her eyebrows.
Please don’t . . .

“Non,”
Fournier said, shaking his head.
“Macho versus belle.”
And with that he stepped into the room and shut the door.

Vanessa moved to the mirrored window to witness the exchange. Sound was transmitted through a small speaker set into the wall. Not surprisingly, everything had a tinny echo.

The officer had just uncuffed Dieter, who shifted with visible
relief in the chair. He complied willingly with the officer recuffing his wrists in front, and when it was done he rested his forearms on the table.

“Better?” Fournier set his file case and his phone, which was recording, on the table.

Dieter looked over Fournier’s shoulder.

“Expecting someone else?” Fournier asked.

Dieter let seconds pass before he spoke. “I thought the Americans might be sending someone. You don’t sound American.” He hit his consonants hard and stretched and flattened his vowels, his South African accent strong. Still, he managed to sound almost droll.

Judging from photographs at the time of his arrest, Vanessa noted, he’d changed greatly during his year of detention. He was a far cry from the man Vanessa had helped the Brits capture and imprison. He’d put on soft pounds and his color was bad, his cheeks and chin splotched with the freckles of a redhead who’d spent too many years south of the equator.

Dr. Peyton’s advice from yesterday registered again. Vanessa had just pulled over at the curb for departures and the psychologist offered a practical good-bye: “I hear you’re on your way to talk to Schoeman. Play on his vanity. He will respond strongly to attention and verbal strokes from an attractive young woman, even if it wounds his ego to be seen in less than flattering light, so to speak.” Peyton’s mouth twisted into a quick wry smile. “Make sure you allow him just a taste so he remembers what it was like to be in control.”

Fournier had moved the second chair from wall to table. He pulled several documents from a folder and set them down in front of Dieter with only the top page visible. Even viewed through the slightly clouded pane, Vanessa recognized it as part of the schematics for Bhoot’s prototype nuclear weapon that Khoury had found.

Dieter barely glanced down.

“Regarde,”
Fournier said slowly. Take a look.

Dieter let his eyes sweep across the page. He said nothing.

“Does this look familiar?” Fournier asked, his voice tinged with impatience.

Dieter refused to engage with Fournier or the schematic directly. Instead, he kept his eye on the wall, not far from where Vanessa studied him from outside. He said, “Should it?”

“All I want from you is the truth,” Fournier said softly. “Or maybe you want to spend what’s left of your pathetic life locked away in this place even God forgot.”

Dieter almost managed to pretend that he was impervious to threats of absolute abandonment.

“Works for me . . .” Fournier let his words echo in the silence.

Dieter swallowed. He ran his tongue across lips gone suddenly dry. His voice seemed hollow when he finally spoke. “Maybe I’ve seen it before.”

“Maybe?” Fournier said.
“Maybe!”

Out of nowhere, Fournier slammed his fist onto the table. Dieter flinched.

“Yes or no!” Fournier barked. “But don’t give me your fucking
maybe
!”

For a few seconds, Vanessa thought Fournier’s tough-guy tactic might work. But then a low growl came out of Dieter’s throat.

Vanessa’s cue. She pushed the door open and stepped into the brightly lit room. Dieter blinked up at her. He looked quickly to Fournier, then away again. His eyes darted between them before they settled again on Vanessa. He stared so hard at her she almost took a step back from the table.

“What the hell are you looking at?” Fournier hissed, leaning close to Dieter.

Vanessa reached for Fournier’s arm, but he pushed her hand away.

Dieter let his eyes travel over Vanessa’s body. He inhaled slowly.

“Go ahead and breathe,” Fournier said, “because this is as close as you will ever get to a beautiful woman for the rest of your sorry life.”

Vanessa balanced herself on the edge of the table directly opposite the prisoner. “How are they treating you?”

His lip curled up again. “They’re not drowning me or beating me,” he said. “Just boring me to death.”

“Not the life you’re used to,” Vanessa said. “I’ve had the chance to study your file. Did you design your home in the Zimbali Coastal Estates? It’s lovely, although I can’t imagine needing eight bedrooms. But your view of the Indian Ocean—at dawn or sunset—must be incredible.”

She shook her head. “None of it belongs to you anymore. Not your sea-facing rim pool. Not your golf course or sauna or masseuse. Not your four champion ridgebacks or your ancient milkwood or frangipani . . . it’s all gone, isn’t it? Oh, I almost forgot your beautiful mistress, Shizandra. She sounds like something out of a fairy tale, but she’s gone now, too. Now happily fucking Riaan Van de Merwe, someone I believe you once trusted, am I right?”

He’d tensed at the mention of his mistress.

She waited for a moment and then asked, “Do you mind if I call you Dieter? Good, let’s go with first names. My colleague is Marcel. I’m Vanessa. And I would shake your hand, but . . .” She looked pointedly at his cuffed wrists.

Dieter’s eyes narrowed, sending furrows through already creased skin.

“My associate and I need your help. He showed you something.” She tapped the page with her forefinger. “But you’ve barely looked at it.”

Dieter shrugged and Vanessa hoped the gesture meant that he was unwilling to give until he knew what he could get. He asked, “When am I going back to Belmarsh?”

“I don’t have that information,” she said. “But I almost forgot . . .” She pulled the package of Ladurée from her bag. “I
do
have something else.” She set the package on the table. He looked at the pastel-colored box, masking his reaction except for a very small smile that flickered across his mouth.

“A friend sends regards,” Vanessa said under her breath—the truth. She knew it. Dieter knew it. Only Fournier remained in the dark.

For a very brief moment, Dieter homed in on her so intently she had no doubt he was acknowledging Bhoot’s gift. She felt enveloped by his gaze, but she swallowed her disgust and said, “Shall I open them for you?” And when he nodded, she did, sliding her index finger between seams of cellophane. She felt Fournier behind her as much as she saw him: He was taking in her performance.

“Rose or almond?” she asked, the bicolored display of macaroons displayed in front of him.

“Rose.”

She began to select one cookie. But then she stopped. Hand in midair, she gave Dieter an assessing look. Then she slid the box to him. “Your choice.”

He smiled openly now, as he selected one macaroon. He chewed with care, savoring the delicacy, and finally catching the last few sugary crumbs with the tip of his tongue.

“Good, aren’t they?” Vanessa said, pleasantly. “Help yourself to another.”

She had killed any possibility of sympathy by memorizing the facts around Dieter’s many victims: ninety-seven Marines murdered in their barracks by Al Qaeda with C-4 supplied by Dieter; thirty-six civilians (twelve children among them) killed by the bomb of his design left in the London Underground; the chemical-weapons deal he’d brokered with Syria, weapons later used on an unknowable number of civilians. And there were more.

He was finishing a second rose macaroon when she indicated the top page of schematics. “I’d like you to take a look at this.”

He looked, then shrugged one shoulder.

Vanessa touched one finger to the edge of the Ladurée box to push it away from Dieter’s reach.

He stared at the cookies. “It’s the list of specifications for metal alloys.”

“You’ve seen it before.”

“I would have to see more to know for certain.”

“I don’t think so, Dieter. I think you know it is part of a schematic for a miniaturized nuclear prototype.”

He tipped his head toward the cookies.

Vanessa let her fingers hover over the box. “First I need something: What can you tell us about Bhoot’s prototype?”

“I cannot tell you if that prototype belongs to Bhoot,” Dieter said carefully.

“Okay . . .” Vanessa shrugged. “Then just tell us about the device itself.”

“The Baby . . .” Now the former explosives expert, bomb maker, and entrepreneur closed his eyes and tipped his head back slightly, as if he were facing the hot South African sun. “She is a beautiful design,” he said, the way another man might speak of a collector’s car or a piece of art. “The power of a conventional nuclear weapon five times its size and weight, but light enough to carry almost anywhere, making the element of surprise viable.”

“You’ve actually seen it?” Fournier asked. He sounded skeptical.

Vanessa, too, wondered about the timing. Dieter had been in prison for most of a year. How long had the miniaturized device been in existence?

“Not the finished prototype,” Dieter said. “But an earlier attempt that was destroyed in the test phase. I saw photographs of the final weapon.”

“How much does it weigh?” Vanessa asked.

Dieter waited, staring at the Ladurée macaroons as if they were manna.

Vanessa inched the box slowly toward him.

“Maybe five and a half kilograms,” he said.

About twelve pounds. An eight-year-old could carry that.
She glanced at Fournier who looked increasingly grim.

In contrast, Dieter looked quite pleased with himself and with the effect his responses had on Fournier and Vanessa.

She kept her fingers on the box of cookies. “Okay, five and a half kilograms with an explosive yield of . . . ?”

“Ten kilotons.”

Jesus.
She skipped a breath, but she couldn’t slow down now to take in the true horror of a device that was both that small and that powerful.

She moved the box a few centimeters closer to Dieter. “And the detonator?”

He waited, brows arched. She relented, offering him the box again.

He took a deep breath, almost a sigh, as he reached for another macaroon. “All you need is an efficient trigger.”

“A trigger spark gap would do the trick?”

“Should.”

“And SARIT?”

He caught Vanessa’s eye and his pupils dilated inside the watery blue aureole of each iris. “I have heard they engineer quality equipment.”

“There are rumors on the street that the prototype was stolen from Bhoot.”

“What do I know, I’ve been locked away,” Dieter said. “I want to return to England. I have been cooperative.” He touched Vanessa with his pale eyes. “I will thank you in advance for your help.”