No Fortunate Son (23 page)

B
y the fourth ring I was convinced Knuckles was going to blow me off, making me wonder if his team was really onto something. That would be extremely odd, since I was sure Jennifer and I were tearing up the true thread, which had come through Ireland, not Morocco. There was no way some Somali ferry receipt was going to lead to the hostages.

He answered, saying, “Still on your own, huh?”

I laughed and said, “No. I’ve replaced your sorry ass. I pulled in Nung.”

“Nung? From Thailand? Seriously?”

“Yeah. I met him here in Paris last night. I needed someone to help out, and Kurt seems to believe you simpletons know more about this situation than I do. Which we both know is a mistake.”

“Not this time, Pike.” He gave me the lowdown on the Snapchat video, and for the first time I began to wonder if I was chasing phantoms. But I couldn’t be. I had the pendant. And the pendant had been found because of the Serbs.

He continued, “The housing complex is in some area known for African immigrants. A bad-guy land even on good days. The French have had a lot of riots and protests there. It fits perfectly with what we know about the Somalis’ travel history. They’re here, and so are the hostages.”

“You sure that video is real?”

“I am. You sure that pendant is real?”

“Okay, okay. You just keep your head down. Let GIGN do the work. Something’s not right about this whole thing. Hopefully it’s me, but it might be you.”

“No worries. These guys are pretty switched on. What the hell are you and Koko doing, anyway? You got Nung robbing a jewelry store or something? Kurt said you had the Taskforce translate some goofy shit.”

The cards from our penthouse photos had ended up being in Serbo-Croatian, and they’d detailed a jewelry heist. Apparently, the Serbs belonged to some ring called the Pink Panthers, and they were planning a hit in Paris. I’d spent the train ride from Brussels doing a little research, and it turned out they were some seriously badass jewel thieves.

Mostly ex-military from the bad-old days in Bosnia, they’d cut their teeth smuggling arms during the Serbian embargo, then had moved on to bigger and better things. I’d stumbled upon a YouTube video of a hit in Dubai where they’d literally driven two Audis into an indoor mall, straight through the glass wall of a high-end jewelry store. They’d cleaned the place out, then simply driven out of the mall, never to be seen again.

Their target in Paris was the Bulgari jewelry store just off the famed strip of Parisian shopping known as the Champs-Élysées. I didn’t really care about the robbery, though.

I said, “Yeah, we’re conducting a stakeout, waiting on the police to snap these assholes up. The getaway driver is an Irishman named Braden. He was on the surveillance tape I got in Cambridge, and apparently, he’s going to transport whatever they take, letting the Serbs cross the border afterward without any issues. My role ends when he gets snagged.”

I heard nothing for a minute, then, “Uh . . . You talked to Kurt lately?”

“Last night, before we came down. I gave him a complete dump. Why?”

“Before the Snapchat came in?”

“I guess so. Why do I get the feeling you know more than me? What’s up?”

“You’re not getting any police. They’re not going to show.”

“Why? Kurt told me he’d get a cutout from the FBI to link up with the gendarmerie. They’re supposed to be all over this place. The Pink Panthers are a big deal, and a successful robbery here would be pretty embarrassing. They won’t miss it.”

“Well, that would be true. If we told them. We didn’t.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The hostages take priority. The president made the call not to tell them about your lead. He didn’t want to split efforts. He couldn’t care less about a jewel heist, and he was afraid the GIGN would get tasked with both targets. The police capability would be diluted. He didn’t want that. He wants them completely focused on the hostages. On me.”

What the hell?
I felt the anger rise and saw Jennifer give me a question with her eyes. “And he wasn’t going to tell me that? He was going to let me sit out here and watch it go down? Christ. I don’t even have any weapons with me.”

“Pike, things have been a little hectic here. They spent all night getting the ball rolling on my operation. Kurt’s got to put national security ahead of his niece. Don’t blame him. He might be calling any minute.”

I said, “I gotta go.”

“Pike, don’t do something you’ll regret.”

“I’m not the one who’s going to regret that decision.”

*   *   *

Kurt introduced Creed, then took a seat in the back of the Situation Room, wondering how he was going to get grilled about Breedlove with all the people floating around the table who were uncleared for Taskforce operations. As far as they knew, he worked in the NSC with Creed. His cell vibrated, and he saw it was Pike, immediately realizing he hadn’t told him the new reality of no French help. Alexander Palmer started talking, and he shunted the call to voice mail.
He’ll figure it out.
I’ll
call him later.

Palmer said, “Creed, you sure about the location you found?”

“Yes, sir. No doubt.”

“The GIGN is trying to get the Wi-Fi on the phone to link up with a false router. They called it spoofing. Can they do that? Will that work to locate the phone?”

“Sir, in theory—”

President Warren held up his hand. “I need everyone to leave the room but the director of the CIA and Kurt Hale.”

The director of the FBI looked startled. He said, “Sir, they may start the operation at any time.”

“Fine. The feed in here is coming from the communications room, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then monitor it there. I need a word.”

The men about the table looked at one another, then began filing out. The door closed, the only sound an occasional burp from the speaker on the desk, background static from the FBI HRT team in Paris. President Warren shut it off.

Kerry Bostwick waited patiently. Warren waved Kurt forward to the table. When he was seated, the president said, “You guys see the paper this morning?”

Kerry said, “Yes, sir, and trust me, I had nothing to do with it. Nothing. I’m a little insulted by the question.”

Warren said, “I know you wouldn’t do anything outright, but could Clute have managed anything? As the chair of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, would he have the ability to do something like this? Without you knowing?”

Kerry scoffed. “Hell no. That’s all Hollywood fantasy. He’s a bureaucrat. He wouldn’t even know where to go to find the men for the job, and they wouldn’t do anything without getting sanction. Shit, sir, there’s not a man in the CIA who isn’t well versed on the repercussions for perceived illegal infractions. Half the time it’s that same jerk Clute hauling people in front of his committee. Trust me, there isn’t a lot of love for him in the CIA. His missing kids notwithstanding.”

“And you wouldn’t do anything as a quid pro quo for future inquiries? For the next time Congress starts a witch hunt? He’s a powerful man, and that’s a pretty good ace to hold.”

Kerry said, “Sir, I mean no disrespect, but if you truly think I would have that Machiavellian capability in my soul, then you disappoint me. Jesus, you’re talking about murder. You should know better, but since you don’t, I’ll tender my resignation right here, right fucking now.”

Warren took that in, ignoring the outburst. He turned to Kurt, all business. “I tend to believe him because he has no skin in the game. You, on the other hand, I have questions about.”

Kurt said, “Like Kerry, your questions should have been answered long ago. I had nothing to do with killing Grant Breedlove. Period.”

President Warren held his eyes for a moment, then said, “All right. This conversation never happened. I had to ask.”

Kurt said, “Sir, I’ve been thinking about it, and there’s one person we haven’t asked.”

“Who?”

“The terrorists. I think they did it. I think there’s an accomplice here in DC, and he’s tying off loose ends.”

Kerry said, “That’s crazy.”

“Really? They’ve kept this as quiet as we have and know how our hands would be tied if a story got out. I think it’s a lead. Whoever killed him is working with the people who have our hostages. What do the police know about the crime?”

“I have no idea. Not something I’m really worried about, beyond questioning you two jackals.”

“You mind if I look into it?”

“What do you mean, ‘look’?”

“Just poke around. See what I can find.”

“That depends on the next few minutes. We resolve this in Paris, then let the police handle it.”

There was a knock on the door and President Warren said, “Come in.”

The director of the FBI stuck in just his head and said, “They got the phone. They’re rolling.”

K
nuckles saw a flurry of movement, then heard a command in French.

Brock said, “Might be time,” and jogged over to the man who was apparently in charge.

Brett said, “You think they could neck down a phone location with that little drone?”

“I was wondering that myself. I’m thinking of volunteering your services. Get you inside with a Growler. If they’ve got the phone talking to the router, you could pinpoint.”

Brett raised an eyebrow and said, “You mean because I used to work in Ground Branch? Because I’m used to penetrating hostile environments and can’t be flustered by ordinary pressure?”

Brock came back to them, and Knuckles said, “No. Because you’re the only black man in the room.”

Before Brock could utter a word, Brett muttered, “Always about the black man.”

Brock looked at him, then at Knuckles. “You guys got a problem I need to know about?”

“You tell me. What’s up?”

“They’re ready to go, but it’s going to be a little bigger than we wanted. They’ve got the phone pinpointed to the fourth floor based on signal strength, but that still leaves fifteen apartments. The signal’s stronger in the west, so we’ll hit that first, then roll forward, taking three rooms at a time.”

Incredulous, Knuckles said, “That’s fucking insane.”

Brock said, “I know, it’s not optimal, but the guys who are augmenting all have SWAT training. They’ll lock down the floor while the GIGN clears. Nobody will get out.”

“Get out? What if the bad guys just start shooting? This isn’t a capture/kill mission. It’s a hostage rescue. The precious cargo takes priority. I don’t give a shit if all the terrorists run out the back. I do, however, care greatly if they decide to bring harm.”

Brock said, “Not our call. It’s their country. Their show. They’ve done this sort of thing a hell of a lot.”

“Screw that. What if we can neck it down?”

“‘We’? You mean us? How are you going to do that?”

“You got a signal-intercept capability with all of that tech shit you brought?”

“No. It’s all biometric. We got a Quick Capture suite here with us. We can scan an eyeball or fingerprint and get a read via satellite in seconds.” He said the last with a little pride.

Knuckles deflated him. “Who gives a shit about who they are after we’re done? You need to get back to what this is. Forget about your tours in Afghanistan. It’s all about the rescue. We can do the forensics afterward, but that’s just a sideshow.”

Stung, Brock said, “I get that, but the rescue is
their
mission. I’ve been given mine. What do you want me to do? Take over the operation?”

“Yes. Tell them we have some kit to isolate the phone. Get us something better than an entire floor. I’ll send Brett in. He conducts a recce and comes back.”

“What skill does he have?”

“Not much, but he’s black.”

Brett, digging through a Pelican case, snorted and said, “Trust me, I’ve got more skill than anyone in this room for the mission. Get the commander over here.”

Brock stood for a moment, and Knuckles could see the options banging through his skull, the implications of action competing with the results of inaction. He knew Brock was feeling enormous pressure to do nothing and let the French take the blame for any problems, but the
hostages’ lives weighed in the balance. Knuckles waited on the correct decision and had no doubt Brock would make it. They were both too much alike not to.

Brock turned away and waved. The troop commander came over, and Brock began speaking French to him, surprising Knuckles. They went back and forth, and the commander looked at Knuckles. Speaking with a heavy accent, he said, “You have done this before?”

“Yes. It’s what we do.”

“The FBI does this? I have never seen this, and I’ve been to Quantico several times.”

Knuckles grinned and said, “Special cell.”

The commander slowly nodded, then started barking in French. Soon enough, Brett was outfitted with derelict clothes and given a motorbike. The commander said, “No weapons. You go, you come back. Understand?”

Brett said, “About what I expected.”

Knuckles buried the Growler in a knapsack slung over his back, running the antennae down the shoulder strap. He said, “You want backup?”

“No. I don’t need a white-boy spiking.”

He pulled out of the garage, and Brock said, “Need to send in a SITREP. Let them know the FBI is operational on this mission.”

Knuckles grabbed his arm. “You don’t need to send shit. He’s my man. My responsibility. I’ll send the SITREP.”

“To who? This is my show.”

“To the National Command Authority. Trust me, it’s not your show.”

*   *   *

Brett returned barely thirty minutes later, tooting his horn to get the garage door up. He entered, the GIGN surrounding him. Knuckles pushed through and said, “Well?”

“I couldn’t get a single apartment, but I necked it down to two. Fourth floor, just like the Frogs said.”

The GIGN commander smiled at the verbal slight and said, “Show me.”

Brett spent twenty minutes describing the entrance, the stairwell, and the target doors. The GIGN men, through the commander, asked questions about breach points, security positions, and lighting, all of which showed Knuckles they were on their game. He relaxed, letting them get to it.

Brock said, “I guess that was a good call.”

Knuckles said, “Intelligence is
always
a good call.”

“Doesn’t change anything. You’re still in the back, and I’m still the ground force commander.”

Knuckles looked at the ceiling and said, “No worries.”

Five minutes later they were rolling, a caravan of various panel vans and bread trucks, all designed to blend in to the environment. Knuckles looked out the windshield, following along as the men in his vehicle checked and rechecked breaching charges, weapons, and radios.

They turned down a street and he saw a large Orthodox church at the end. The stick leader in his van said something in French, and Brock said, “Thirty seconds.”

Knuckles stacked against the back of the van, next to Brett, giving the GIGN full access to the sliding door. He saw two vehicles continue straight, the regular gendarmerie locking down the block. Sealing off the operational area. The vehicle in front turned into a narrow lane, revealing a metal gate. Incongruously, as often happened in such operations, there was a single man out front on a park bench, talking on a phone, oblivious to the impending storm. Knuckles realized he was white, the sight looking completely out of place.

The lane opened into a courtyard and Brett recognized the building. He said, “This is it.”

Knuckles forgot about the man and focused on the fight, taking deep breaths and getting his adrenaline under control. He elbowed Brett and whispered, “This is cool shit, huh?”

Brett smiled. “Yeah, when we’re surrounded by all this firepower. It was some scary shit thirty minutes ago. You’re lucky you’re not black.”

They pulled in behind the single van. The doors slid open at the same time, and the GIGN spilled out, moving like water from a split dam.

They raced to the stairwell, sprinting up, very little noise other than
the clank of equipment. At each floor, two men in the front of the column peeled off, locking down the entrance to the stairwell and preventing any surprises from the rear.

They reached the fourth floor and the teams split, two men locking down the hallway to their rear, and the rest sprinting to their designated targets. The two FBI agents were supposed to follow the first team to their room, leaving Knuckles and Brett for the second door, but there was a tangle in the hallway, and they ended up at the back of the same stack.

The electricity of the operation flowing through him, weapon held high, Knuckles saw the two GIGN breachers look at each other and nod. They raised their battering rams and struck the doors at the same time, shattering the locks. The men shot into the rooms like lava from an erupting volcano, shouting commands to gain dominance.

Knuckles heard no gunfire.

Last in, he entered to find the room empty, the GIGN dominating the entire structure. No furniture and no terrorists. On the floor was a Samsung Galaxy cell phone, blinking. On the walls were packages.

It coalesced in his brain in a nanosecond, and he shouted, “Avalanche!”

Nobody in the room other than Brett understood the Taskforce command for immediate evacuation. Bulling his way to the entrance, Knuckles grabbed one GIGN man and bodily flung him through the door. He took two steps toward it, seeing Brett dive outside, when the room erupted in fire.