Without Warning (64 page)

“Motherfuck!”

Pileggi spun around in her chair, half raising herself as she did so.

Musso didn’t bother with the formalities of ending the meeting. They were both already headed for the door when a navy lieutenant appeared, blocking their exit. She was holding a sheaf of paper and appeared goggle-eyed with surprise.

“General Musso. There’s a message for you, sir. From President Chávez.”

“Who?” He was tired, worn slick, and not firing on all cylinders.

“Hugo Chávez, sir, president of Venezuela.”

She handed it across as more explosions ripped through the night, muted by distance. A crackle of small-arms fire resolved itself from the rolling thunder.

“What the fuck?”

He snatched the piece of paper and skimmed it.

“What is it, General?” asked Susan Pileggi.

“It’s that commie wing nut down in Venezuela,” said Musso as he finished rereading the transmission. “He’s demanding that we leave Cuba. Says the External Committee of the Cuban Politburo in Caracas has requested the assistance of Venezuela in removing ‘all imperialist chancres’ from the body of Cuba.”

“What?”

“He’s a wack job, how do I know what he means?”

Pileggi’s eyes suddenly flew wide open, just as Musso’s had done a few seconds earlier.

“Those container ships,” she said. “We haven’t been able to inspect them yet. One of them’s a ConRO vessel.”

Musso shook his head, trying to clear the mud out and not having a lot of luck.

“A container ship with a roll-on/roll-off facility,” she explained, quickly. “Just like an LHD. You could use it for putting troops ashore.”

“Shit!”

Another officer appeared at the door. An Army Signal Corps captain.

“Excuse me, General, you need to see this, sir. It’s a distress call from the French ship. The
Montcalm.
She says she’s been torpedoed. Three hits and she’s going down, requesting immediate SAR to this location.”

The captain handed over another piece of paper with the grid coordinates.

“Venezuelan navy, Lieutenant. Do they even have submarines?” he asked the wide-eyed naval officer.

She seemed to stumble over the answer before composing herself.

“Two that I recall, General. A couple of Type 209 diesel electric attack boats. German design. Not a bad ship killer if you can’t afford a top-shelf product.”

Musso squeezed out a silent curse as the sound of gunfire escalated behind him. He hurried back to the window for a quick look-see. The previously calm moonlit setting had changed into a maelstrom of moving craft, all illuminated by the burning freighter. By pressing his face right up against the glass he could see far enough up the main branch of the bay to make out a big cargo vessel that appeared to have beached itself. An armored vehicle rolled down off the ramp, spewing tracer fire into the camp.

The soup was a simple broth, a thin brown liquid in which floated a few chunks of carrot, some onion, and a little shredded meat, possibly beef, but to Caitlin it was heaven in a bowl. She sipped at the rim. Her hands shook too much to use the spoon they had given her, and she had already finished the small piece of bread that came with the meal.

“Thank you,” she said again. “I’m afraid this place doesn’t really deserve its Michelin star.”

Captain Rolland smiled kindly and affected a very Gallic lift of the shoulders. “Standards are slipping everywhere, mademoiselle.”

Caitlin returned the smile.

“I dunno. My last stay here wasn’t much better either.”

She finished the bowl and placed it on the small table in front of the old leather couch on which she sat, wrapped in a clean blanket and dressed for the first time in weeks. Rolland snapped his fingers, and a young soldier appeared from outside the office to clear away the dish and plate. They did not speak while he was in the room. Caitlin peered out the window, over a rain-slicked parking lot below. A bus burned in one corner, and a couple of bodies lay nearby in pools of blood, which became lighter and pinker as the rain diluted
them. She appeared to be about three stories up, high enough to see over the red-tiled roofs of the surrounding buildings to the eastern suburbs of Paris. A few fires burned in a desultory fashion here and there, dwarfed by a huge tower of smoke about five miles away.

She couldn’t see any movement in the streets, but she could hear gunfire. A lot of it.

“Sounds like Beirut. Or maybe the Mog,” she said.

Rolland, a handsome thirty-something man with a full head of black hair swept back and oiled in a very old-fashioned style, lit a cigarette and then stopped himself.

“Excuse me, do you mind?”

The pain in her head was wretched, but it was no worse than any of her other manifold agonies.

“Knock yourself out,
mon capitaine.
I doubt those things will kill me. They’re at the back of a very long line.”

Rolland sat down across the coffee table from her and drew deeply on the unfiltered cigarette with evident pleasure. His uniform was filthy and his boots were caked with mud. He had not shaved in a few days.

“This is my first one all week,” he said, waving the cigarette around. “And I had to take it from one of the jihadi pigs. It’s Turkish. Not my blend. But what can one do?”

“Yeah, the jihadi pigs. About them. You want to tell me what my target was doing in your dungeons? You know, besides raping me.”

Rolland shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“I am sorry,” he said. “It was a disgraceful thing. But, I am afraid, all too common these days. Monsieur Baumer, your target—and mine, as it transpires—he unfortunately escaped our net. We were hoping you might be able to help us find him. After all, you are the expert on al-Banna?”

She laughed, a short, joyless sound.

“I’m the world expert on getting my ass kicked by him. And I have to tell you, Rolland, the shape I’m in, I’d get it kicked all over again if we met. But you’re not answering my questions. What was he doing here? What were any of them doing here? And what the hell’s been going on out there? Reynard told me you guys had things under control.” She nodded toward the city center. “But that’s not under control. This place is dying.”

Momentary confusion passed over the soldier’s face as he shook his head. “Reynard? Oh, you mean Lacan. No, it is not under control, mademoiselle. It has not been for weeks. Half of the city’s population has fled into the countryside, but things are worse out there. All the cities have emptied out. You can imagine what that means. Some of them took tents and provisions for a
few days’ camping. Most just fled when the Intifada and La Résistance began in earnest. Farms and villages have barricaded themselves off from the world, fought off everyone who seeks shelter or aid. It is a Dark Age again. There are bodies piling up in fields. Possibly a million of them by now. With thousands more dying every day. Many, many are the dead.”

Caitlin was already dizzy with exhaustion and moral collapse, but Rolland was making her head spin. She imagined a host of totally unprepared urban-ites swarming over the French countryside expecting to live off stolen eggs and wild berries. They’d have stripped the fields bare in days. She began shaking again, the same deep-body tremors that had seized her after being raped by al-Banna.

“S-sorry,” she stuttered.

Rolland reached into his blood-smeared tunic and removed a silver flask.

“Here, drink some,” he said. “It is brandy. Good brandy, not like the hospital disinfectant you are familiar with. And my battalion surgeon, he said these may help, too.”

A small blister pack of tablets dropped to the tabletop. Half of them had already been popped.

“They will calm your nerves,” he explained. “But should not dull your senses.”

Caitlin briefly wondered whether she might react adversely to them, given her medical condition. Then she thought, what the hell, and downed two with a swig from Rolland’s flask. The liquor burned softly and warmed her upper body. As she handed back the brandy, a jet suddenly screamed through the air nearby, the noise arcing up from a distant whine to a deafening shriek in mere seconds. A very short time later she heard the unmistakable crump of air-dropped munitions detonating within a few miles.

“So, things haven’t gone as well as I was led to believe?”

Captain Rolland took a long draw on the harsh-smelling cigarette.

“I am afraid not. The situation remains … confused.”

“Not as confused as me. Why don’t you try explaining? You could start with Baumer. He was one of yours? That’s why I was targeted?”

“A double agent? No. I am afraid not.”

Caitlin’s head felt as though it had been wrapped in old towels soaked in chloroform. She had trouble concentrating and holding her thoughts.

“But what was he doing here at the fort? What, are you saying that Reynard, sorry, what did you call him …”

“Lacan. Barnard Lacan. The second-in-charge of the action division.”

“Okay. Lacan then. You’re saying he’d sold out to the Intifada?”

Rolland waved his hands in a frustrated manner, as if trying to shoo a fly.

“It is not so simple, no. You have been out of contact for a long time, Caitlin. Do you mind if call you Caitlin?”

“It’s not the worst liberty’s been taken with me recently. Go on.”

“Lacan was working with Baumer’s network, yes. But not just Lacan. And not just with one jihadi cell. It is difficult, Caitlin, this situation I must explain. Please bear with me. You will be aware of some of the history of the DGSE, your rival service,
non?”

She leaned back against the arm of the lounge and pulled the blanket around to a more comfortable position. Outside the rain began to pick up, strongly enough to wash much of the blood from the courtyard. The pills hadn’t kicked in yet, but the brandy was having a soothing effect. Rolland used the opportunity to light another cigarette.

“Unlike your CIA, and despite its name, the action division does not maintain a standing section of paramilitary covert operatives. When such skills are required it draws on what we call a ‘tank’ of operators from the army, mostly the special forces and commandos.”

She nodded. The information wasn’t new to her.

“Do you know of the original battalion on which the division relied?”

She searched her battered memory and came up with some fragment.

“Some paratroop regiment?”

“Very good.” Rolland nodded. “Almost right. The Onzième Bataillon Parachutiste de Choc,” he said. “The Shock Parachutist Battalion, as you would say, first raised in 1946. It was disbanded in 1963 because its officers were collaborators, supporters of French Algeria.”

“Okay. That means they backed whitey, right? The
pieds noirs.
Ancient history, but go on.”

“Ancient for you, young lady. Not for France. The Algerian war nearly destroyed us. It collapsed the Fourth Republic. Brought back the Gaullists, and forever changed our view of France as
une puissance musulmane.
Do you know the phrase?”

“A Muslim power,” she replied. “Again, so what? A hundred years ago you wanted to lord it over the Arabs, because the Brits scarfed up all the good colonies for themselves.”

He favored her with a lopsided smile.

“I had been told you were a difficult woman.”

“I prefer to think of myself as challenging.”

“Your American psychology betrays you, Caitlin.
Une puissance musulmane
does not just mean to wield power over the House of Peace. It means to hold that power in … how would you phrase it? … agreement, accordance, a sort of
entente cordiale
with the Islamic world itself. You and the British
often described your filial bonds as a special relationship. Indeed, that relationship extended across all of the English-speaking world. Your employer, Echelon, it was a perfect expression of that dysfunctional Anglophone family,
non
? An alliance, a secret one, between the English-speaking powers, directed against
everyone
else. That is quite special when you think about it. Well, our special relationship, our particular delusion if you wish, was with the Dar al-Islam. Or so some thought.”

“Captain,” she said, as toxic rain began to patter against the windowpanes and the room became even gloomier, “you’re going to have to help me out here. I have a brain tumor. I have trouble putting two and two together.”

Rolland stood up and flicked on a light. He called out to one of his men stationed in the corridor, and they spoke in murmurs for a moment before he returned.

“Excuse me. I am expecting someone. Yes, I am sorry. It is the continental way of narrative. Much more elliptical than your own. Let me bottom-line it for you, to borrow from your own vernacular. Since the accommodation in Algeria, there has been a school of thought, a quiet but powerful clique within the state, that has believed that accommodation with Islam is the only way forward. At first this group was centered on the Quai d’Orsay, and they applied their doctrine within their own sphere, often in conflict with other actors in the state realm.”

“Okay, so you had some surrender monkeys in the foreign ministry and they were rub-fucking the Arabs. I have to say, this isn’t breaking news.”