The Apocalypse Watch (92 page)

“I’ve made more than I can count,” said the ambassador. “Tell us what we have to know, Drew.”

“The general’s name is Monluc, André Monluc—”

“
André
,” interrupted Karin. “That’s where the code name came from.”

“Right. The château’s called the Eagle’s Nest, in the Loire Valley. François thinks Bergeron may have fled there because he once called it a sanctuary in a moment of anger and perhaps fear.”

“
When?
” Witkowski broke in. “When did he call it that?”

“Very astute, Stanley,” replied Drew. “When Bergeron ordered an old, buried file on Monluc to be delivered there—the night Jodelle killed himself in the theater.”

“Thus removing any possible connection between Jodelle and the general,” said the ambassador. “Does anyone know anything about this Monluc?”

“Not by name,” answered Latham, “because the classified files that contained it were also removed from Washington. But the preliminary documentation on Jodelle detailed his accusation, an accusation that lacked any evidence, say nothing of proof. It’s why D.C. intelligence
considered him a madman. He claimed that a French general, a leader of the Resistance, was in reality a traitor who worked for the Nazis. It was Monluc, of course, the man who ordered Jodelle’s wife and children executed, and had Jodelle sent to a death camp.”

“The younger child who survived being Jean-Pierre Villier,” added Karin.

“Exactly. According to Villier’s father—the only father he ever knew—Jodelle’s suspicions obviously reached the unknown general, who protected his cover while becoming rich with Nazi gifts of gold and expropriated valuables.”

“I think I should have that mythical meeting with the French President,” said Courtland. “Write a complete report on everything, Drew. Dictate it to a secretary or two, whatever you need, just do it quickly, say in an hour or so, and have it on my desk downstairs.”

Latham and Witkowski exchanged glances. The colonel nodded at Drew. “That won’t work, sir,” said Latham.

“What?”

“To begin with, there isn’t time, and then we don’t know who the President will confer with, but we do know there are neos in the Quai d’Orsay, possibly in the President’s inner circle. We don’t even know who we can call for help, or who
he
might call.”

“Are you suggesting that we take action
ourselves
, American Embassy personnel in a foreign country? If so, you’ve lost your senses, Drew.”

“Mr. Ambassador, if there’s anything to learn in that château, any records, papers, telephone numbers, names, we can’t take the chance of their being destroyed. Forget Bergeron for the moment, if that place is a sanctuary or a refuge, there’s got to be more than beer and sausages and Horst Wessel songs. We’re not talking just about France here, we’re talking about all of Europe and the United States.”

“I understand that, but we
can’t
take unilateral
American
action in a host country!”

“If Claude Moreau were alive, the situation would be different,” interrupted Witkowski. “He could and would
accept the mantle of a French covert operation in the interests of France. Our FBI accepts that kind of thing all the time!”

“Moreau’s
not
alive, Colonel.”

“I realize that, sir, but there may be a way.” Witkowski turned to Latham. “This François you just spoke to, he owes you, doesn’t he?”

“Get off it, Stosh, I won’t involve him.”

“I don’t know why not. You just made a pretty good case for serious diplomatic interference, serious enough to have an ambassador replaced.”

“What’s your point?” said Drew, staring at the colonel.

“The Deuxième works with the Service d’Etranger—that’s the French foreign service, Mr. Ambassador—and their lines of authority frequently cross, not unlike our CIA and FBI and DIA. That’s understandable, isn’t it?”

“Go ahead, Colonel.”

“Both the blessing and the curse of all intelligence bureaucracies is the confusion that results from these conflicts—”

“What the hell is your
point
, Stanley?”

“Simple,
chłopak
. Have this François call someone he knows pretty well at the Etranger and repeat, say, half the story he told you.”

“Which half?”

“That he suddenly remembered that Bergeron, who everybody’s looking for, sent him with some old file to that château in the Loire. That’s all he has to say.”

“Why wouldn’t he give the information to his own people at the Deuxième?”

“Because no one’s in charge. Moreau was killed yesterday, Bergeron disappeared a few hours ago, and he doesn’t know whom to trust.”

“Then what?”

“I’ll take care of the rest,” replied Witkowski softly.

“I beg your pardon?” said Courtland.

“Well, sir, there are always things a man in your position can legitimately deny because he didn’t know about them.”

“Tell me about it,” interrupted the ambassador. “It
seems I spend considerable time learning about those things I’m not supposed to know about. What can you tell me now that will still support my deniability?”

“Very innocuous, sir. I have friends, let’s say professional colleagues, at the higher levels of the Etranger. There could have been times when American criminals, say members of organized crime or drug barons, were in France, and we’ve kept better track of them than they have.… I’ve been generous with our information.”

“That’s about as oblique as you can get, Colonel.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador.”

“To repeat,” said an agitated Latham, “what’s your
point
?”

“As long as the information comes from a French Intelligence source, I can move in. The Frenchies will jump at it, and we’ll have whatever support personnel we might need in an emergency. Above all, we’ll have the secrecy that’s vital because we have to move quickly.”

“How can you be sure of these things, Colonel?”

“Because, sir, we in the clandestine services love to propagate the myth of our invincibility. We especially like it if we come up with astonishing results when nobody knew we were there. It’s idiosyncratic, Mr. Ambassador, and in this case, that works in our favor. You see, we’re on top of the information, we orchestrate, and the French take all the credit. It’s heaven-sent.”

“I’m not sure I understood a word you’ve said.”

“You’re not supposed to, sir,” said the veteran G-2 officer.

“What about me?” asked De Vries. “I’ll be with you, of course.”

“Yes, you will, my dear.” Witkowski smiled gently, glancing at Drew. “We’ll study the area charts—the Etranger has every square foot of France mapped—and find some high ground within sight of the château. You’ll be on the radio.”

“That’s nonsense. I deserve to be
with
you.”

“Don’t be unfair, Karin,” said Latham. “You’ve been hurt and no amount of painkillers can bring you up to a
hundred percent. In plain words, on the scene you’d be more of a concern than an asset. Certainly to me.”

“Do you know,” said De Vries quietly, her eyes level with Drew’s, “I can understand that and accept it.”

“Thanks. Besides, our lieutenant will be of very little use and will stay way back in the boondocks. He’s worse off than you; the only way he can fire a gun is if it’s cemented to his hand.”

“He can be on the radio with Karin, a backup relay,” added the colonel. “Coordinators, so we don’t have to be in constant communication, just open earplugs.”

“That sounds terribly patronizing, Stanley.”

“Maybe it is, Karin, but you never know.”

The career senior deputy of the Service d’Etranger was an ambitious forty-one-year-old analyst whose good fortune was to know François the Wheelman. He had been a suitor of François’s wife, Yvonne, before her marriage, and although he had traveled faster and further up the government ladder than François, they remained friends and François knew why. The opportunistic analyst never stopped probing about the secretive Deuxième.

“I know just the man to call,” François had said in answer to Latham’s request. “It’s the least I can do for you, and, I imagine, for him, after all those expensive lunches and dinners where he learned nothing. He’s paid very well, you know; he graduated from university and is quite intelligent. I think he’ll be most enthusiastic.”

They all knew that analysts were not field men, nor did they pretend to be. Even so, given a specific operation and hypothetical circumstances, they could usually provide precedents and strategies that were frequently very valuable.
Directeur Adjoint
Cloche, for that was his name and it fit, met with the N-2 unit at the Plaza-Athénée.

“
Ah
, Stanley!” he exclaimed, walking into the suite with a briefcase. “When you telephoned soon after François’s rather hysterical call, I was so relieved. It is all so tragic, so
catastrophique
, but with your sense of control, well, I
was
relieved.”

“Thanks, Clément, it’s good to see you. Let me introduce
you.” Introductions were made, and they all sat around the circular dining room table. “Were you able to bring what I asked you for?” continued the colonel.

“Everything, but I must tell you, I did so on the basis of
fichiers confidentiels
.”

“What’s that?” asked Drew, his tone of voice bordering on the discourteous.

“The copies were made for Monsieur Cloche in terms of confidential extrusion,” explained Karin.

“What’s
that
?”

“I believe your American agents call it ‘solo,’ ” clarified the senior deputy of the Etranger. “I gave no reason for removing them—in concert with what my friend Stanley told me.
Mon Dieu
, neo-
Nazis
in the most secret areas of the government! The Deuxième
itself
. Incredible!… I took considerable risk, but if we can find this traitor, Bergeron, my superiors can only applaud me.”

“And if we don’t?” asked Lieutenant Anthony, his sling across the table like a webbed claw.

“Well, I acted on behalf of a distraught subordinate of the leaderless Deuxième and our dearest allies, the Americans.”

“Have you ever been in deep-cover incursion, sir?” asked Captain Dietz.

“
Non, Capitaine
, I am an analyst. I direct, I do not engage in such activities.”

“Then you’re not going with us?”

“
Jamais
.”

“
C’est bon
, sir.”

“
All
right,” Witkowski interrupted, flashing a disagreeable glance at Dietz, “let’s get down to business. Have you got the maps, Clément?”

“More than simple maps. Elevations that you asked for, faxed from the zoning and assessment bureaus of the Loire.” Cloche opened his briefcase, lifted out several folded pages, and spread them across the table. “This is
Le Nid de l’Aigle
, the château known as Eagle’s Nest. It comprises three hundred and seventy acres, certainly not the largest but hardly the smallest of the inherited estates.
It was originally granted by royal decree to a minor duke in the sixteenth century, to the family—”

“We don’t need the history, sir,” interrupted Latham. “What is it
now
? Forgive me, but we’re in a hell of a hurry.”

“Very well, although the history is relevant in terms of its fortifications, natural and otherwise.”

“What fortifications?” said Karin, standing up, her eyes on the map.

“Here, here, here, and here,” said Cloche, also standing, as everyone else suddenly did, and pointing to sections on the unfolded map. “They’re deep-trenched, soft-bedded canals surrounding three-fifths of the château and fed by the river. They are filled with reeds and wild grass, as if crossing the waters were simple, but those ancient nobles who constantly were at war with each other knew the instruments of defense when under attack. Any army of bowmen and cannoneers who rushed into those seemingly shallow streams sank into the mud and drowned, taking their artillery with them.”

“That’s pretty damned strategic,” said Witkowski.

“Kind of awesome for so many centuries ago,” agreed Captain Dietz.

“How many times have I told you to look at the past?” said Lieutenant Anthony, nudging the captain with his right arm and then wincing in pain. “They worked with what they had, and history repeats itself.”

“I believe that’s an oversimplification, Gerry,” objected Karin, her eyes still on the map. “Those canal streams would have dried up years and years ago by attrition and sediment because they were
not
natural. They were dug out and constantly re-dredged. But you were right, Lieutenant, whoever owns this château studied its history and channeled them again, dredging out the old sources to the Loire River.… Am I right, Monsieur Cloche?”

“It is what I determined, madame, but no one gave me a chance to explain.”

“You have it now,” said Latham, “and I apologize. We’ll take anything you can give us.”

“Very well,
merci
. There are basically two avenues of
entry, the front gates, of course, and the northeast side. Unfortunately, at ground level, a twelve-foot-high stone wall surrounds the entire château with only one break in addition to the gates. It is at the rear, a strolling path leading to a large open patio that overlooks parts of the valley. It is the wall that will give you the most difficulty. Incidentally, it was built forty-nine years ago, shortly after the liberation of France.”

“It’s probably tripped at the top with angled barbed wire, possibly electrified,” mused Captain Dietz.

“Undoubtedly,
Capitaine
. The assumption must be that the entire compound, grounds and all, are heavily guarded.”

“Even the old canals?” interrupted the lieutenant.

“Less so perhaps, but if we learned about them, others could also.”

“What about the strolling path?” asked Drew. “How can it be reached?”

“According to the elevations,” replied Cloche, pointing to a green-and-gray-striped area of the map, “there is a promontory, the edge of a steep hill, to be exact, that looks down on the path roughly three hundred meters below. Crawling down it is one way, but even if there are no alarm wires, which there probably are, there is still the wall.”