“Agreed. I’ll see what I can do.” The taller man patted his shoulder kindly and edged past him out the narrow office door.
Banich sat staring down at his crowded desk till far past midnight, trying to work out how to spin a finely tuned intelligence apparatus onto a completely new tack — all without irretrievably wrecking it.
He was still at it when the first delicate snowflakes began falling on Moscow’s empty streets.
CHAPTER 4
Cataract
Paris lay shrouded in darkness. The lights were out all over the city, cut off by a day-long wildcat strike that had crippled regional power plants. Only those government ministries and corporate buildings with backup generators were lit by electricity.
Others across the blacked-out capital fell back on older, more primitive means.
Flames licked the night sky above the 19th Arrondissement, dancing eerily among the district’s decaying houses and shabby tenements. Silhouetted against the fires they’d set earlier, crowds of howling men and women surged back and forth through streets strewn with wrecked cars, bodies, and smoldering barricades. Some waved bloodied knives and makeshift clubs over their heads. Many were drunk, hopped up on a lethal mix of cheap wine and unleashed violence. All of them were poor and out of work and ready to settle scores with those they blamed for their troubles.
They blamed les Arabes. The Arabs. The Algerians, Tunisians, Senegalese, and all the other diseased, job-stealing African immigrants packed into dirty, foul-smelling apartments in the northern and eastern districts.
No one knew exactly how the trouble started once the lights went out. Maybe with a fistfight on the Rue de Flandre. Or with a shouted racial slur in the Place du Maroc. It didn’t really matter much. What mattered now was that the riot was spreading through the immigrant slums, spilling through unlit streets in an orgy of arson, theft, and murder.
At the southern end of the Arab quarter, two armored riot-control vehicles and a thin line of security police in green combat fatigues and gas masks guarded the entrance to the Place de Stalingrad and its elevated Métro stop. The troops were members of the CRS, the government’s mobile antiriot force. Their armament reflected the unit’s well-deserved reputation for brutal efficiency. Some of the men were armed only with clear plastic shields and nightsticks, but others carried loaded shotguns and assault rifles. And turrets on both their armored cars mounted launchers equipped to lob tear gas and concussion grenades into unruly crowds.
So far, though, the CRS troopers hadn’t needed to use their weapons. The mobs running amok through the burning slums north of the square hadn’t tried forcing their way past them into the city’s more fashionable districts. They were too busy butchering anyone who looked “Arab” and looting neighborhood grocery stories, wine shops, and pharmacies.
And in turn, the security police had been too busy establishing a defensive perimeter to interfere. Now that was about to change.
“Yes, sir. I understand.” Lieutenant Charles Guyon swore in disbelief and lowered his walkie-talkie. He turned to the short, sour-faced sergeant at his side. “We have new orders. We’re to advance, clearing the streets as we go.”
An angry voice spoke up out of the darkness, mirroring his own unspoken thoughts. “That’s fucking crazy! We’ll all get killed in there!”
Guyon looked up sharply. “Who said that?” He waited, scanning the cluster of suddenly blank faces around him.
No one answered.
The lieutenant glared at his men for a moment longer before shifting his gaze back to the sergeant. “We move out in five minutes. Other units will parallel us, advancing along the canal and the Rue de Tanger. We’re free to use ‘all necessary force.’ Questions?”
The sergeant shook his head slowly.
“Good. Get the men ready. I want masks on and live rounds in every chamber.” He paused, knowing his words could be heard by every man in the platoon. “But no one, and I mean no one, will open fire without a direct order from me! Clear?”
“Clear.” The sergeant spat it out, sounding as though he wanted to say a lot more.
Guyon spun on his heel without waiting to find out what that might be and headed for the two armored cars. He wanted to make sure their crews were ready to follow his troopers into the flame-lit streets in front of them. Having their steel-sided bulk and heavy firepower on tap would be vital if the rioters tried to fight back.
When he returned, his platoon stood at attention in ranks — nightstick-armed men in front, and those with shotguns and assault rifles in the back. Their uniforms, gas masks, and helmets robbed them of all individuality.
The lieutenant stepped out in front of the formation. He left his own mask dangling around his neck. The bulky rubber masks kept you safe from tear gas, but they also left you nearly blind — especially at night. And he would need to see what was going on around them as long as possible.
Almost time. Guyon licked lips that suddenly felt cracked and bone-dry. He stared at the street straight ahead. Smoke from dozens of burning apartment houses and automobiles drifted across the square, growing thicker now that the wind had died down. Shapes moved inside the smoke, rioters carrying away stolen television sets, stereos, and furniture or simply prowling for new victims. Several corpses littered the street. Two more dangled from lampposts.
He bit his lower lip. This was madness. He and his men would be swallowed up inside the maelstrom ahead. Crushing peaceful political protests was one thing. Street fighting against a crazed mob was something else entirely. He was beginning to wish he’d never transferred to the CRS. All the extra pay and privileges he’d been so proud of just weren’t worth dying for.
His walkie-talkie crackled. “All units will advance.”
Christ. Guyon swallowed hard. He snapped open the flap on his holster and drew his pistol. “Right. This is it. Platoon, follow me!”
He went forward at a slow walk, hoping his measured pace showed determination and not fear.
No one followed him.
The lieutenant turned around in disbelief. His troops still stood along the edge of the square. Not a man had moved.
“Damn it! You heard me! I’m ordering you to advance. Now!”
Silence. In the sudden stillness, Guyon could hear agonized screams rising from the slums behind him. Oh, Jesus. He could feel the hand holding his pistol starting to shake.
“Sergeant Pasant!”
The sour-faced sergeant stepped forward smartly and came to attention. “Sir!”
Guyon lowered his voice. “All right. Just what the hell are you idiots playing at?”
“The boys won’t go in there… sir,” Pasant growled, nodding toward the immigrant quarter. “Not to save black-asses and ragheads.”
A low murmur swept through the platoon as each man muttered his agreement with what their sergeant had just said.
Guyon tried an appeal to reason. “Look, I don’t like this any better than you lads do, but refusing orders is a criminal offense. This is a very serious situation, Sergeant.”
“So’s dying… Lieutenant.”
Guyon leaned closer and dropped his own voice to a soft, barely audible murmur. “You know, Pasant, I could make you obey my orders.” He thumbed his pistol’s safety catch to the off position.
The sergeant stared back, unblinking. “Maybe.” He shrugged. “But then maybe you should think about how dangerous a city fight can be. You never know where that next bullet could come from… Lieutenant.”
Guyon’s blood ran cold. The sergeant’s soft-spoken threat was crystal-clear. He might be able to force his men into action against the mob, but he probably wouldn’t come out of it alive. His hands shook harder.