The guard hit a button on the wall nearby and the steel wall beside Schofield suddenly began to rise—it was in fact a door, a great fighter-sized steel door—revealing darkness beyond it.
Out from the darkness came a second forklift, on which stood another captured individual, crucified in the same manner as Schofield.
There was only one difference.
The man on this second forklift had been thoroughly tortured. His face, his shirt, his arms—they were all covered with blood. His head hung limply over his chest.
Lefevre said, 'Captain Schofield, I'm not sure if you have met Agent Alec Christie of British Intelligence.'
Christie. From MI-6. And the bounty list.
So this was where Christie had got to.
'Over the last two days, Mr Christie has been a fountain of information for us regarding Majestic-12,' Lefevre said. 'It seems that for the last eighteen months, he has been well placed in Loch-
Mann Industries as a personal bodyguard to Mr Randolph Loch, the Chairman of M-12. But while Mr Christie was watching Loch, we were watching Christie.
'However, in one of his more lucid moments last night, Mr Christie told us something of concern. He stated that Randolph Loch has been most displeased of late with one of the younger members of M-12, our friend Jonathan Killian.
'According to Mr Christie, Randolph Loch commented several times that Killian was quote, "pestering him with this follow-up idea". It appears that Mr Killian does not think Majestic-12's plan goes far enough. In light of your own investigations, Captain Schofield, do you know anything about this "follow-up idea"?'
Schofield said, 'Killian's your friend. Why don't you ask him?'
'The Republic of France does not have friends.'
'I can see why.'
'We have useful acquaintances,' Lefevre said. 'But sometimes, one must watch one's acquaintances as closely as one's enemies.'
'You don't trust him,' Schofield said.
'Not an inch.'
'But you give him protection, sanctuary.'
'For as long as it suits us. It may no longer suit us.'
Schofield said, 'But now you're worried he's playing you.'
'Yes.'
Schofield thought about that for a moment.
Then he said, 'One of M-12's Chameleon missiles is aimed at Paris.'
'Oh, please. We know that. We are prepared for that. That is the very idea behind my country's involvement with Majestic-12. That was why we provided them with the bodies of the Global Jihad terrorists. For while America, Germany and Britain suffer catastrophic losses, France will be seen as the only Western nation to have defeated this threat.
'Where New York, Berlin and London will be lost, Paris will stand tall. France will be the only nation to have successfully shot down one of these terrible terrorist missiles.
'It took America three whole months to retaliate for September 11. Imagine how shell-shocked they will be when they lose five entire cities. But France, France will be the nation who beat off these heinous attacks. The only Western nation who moved fast enough. It will make us—strong and capable and completely unhurt—the world's leader in this new Cold War period.
'Captain Schofield, our friends in Majestic-12 want money out of all of this, because for them money is power. The Republic of France does not want that kind of power—we want something far more important than that. We want a global power shift. We want to lead the world.
'The 20th century was the American century. A sad bankrupt time in the history of this planet. The 21st century will be the French century.'
Schofield just stared at Lefevre and the generals.
'You guys are really messed up, you know that,' he said.
Lefevre pulled some photos out of his briefcase, showed them to the elevated Schofield.
'Back to Killian. These are photos of Monsieur Killian during his tour of Africa last year.'
Schofield saw standard newspaper pics: Killian standing with African leaders, opening factories, waving to crowds.
'A goodwill tour to promote his charitable activities,' Lefevre said. 'During that tour, however, Killian attended meetings with the leaders and defence ministers of several strategically significant African nations: notably Nigeria, Eritrea, Chad, Angola and Libya.'
'Yes . . .' Schofield said expectantly.
Lefevre paused, delivered the punch. 'Over the last eleven hours, the Air Forces of Nigeria, Eritrea, Chad and Angola have all scrambled, with over two hundred fighter planes converging on airfields in eastern Libya. Now, taken individually, these air forces are relatively small. Taken together, however, they make up a veritable aerial armada. My final question for you, Captain, is what are they doing}'
Schofield's mind raced.
'Captain Schofield?'
But Schofield wasn't listening. He could only hear Jonathan Killian's voice in his head, saying: 'Although many don't know it, the future of the world lies in Africa.'
Africa . . .
'Captain Schofield?' Lefevre said.
Schofield hlinked. Came back.
'I don't know,' he answered honestly. 'I wish I did, but I honestly don't.'
'Hmmm,' Lefevre said. 'That is exactly what Mr Christie said, too. Which might mean you are both speaking the truth. Of course, it might also mean that you need some more persuasion.'
Lefevre nodded to the driver of Christie's forklift.
The driver fired up the engine and drove the vehicle a few yards to the left, so that Christie—raised up on the forklift's prongs—was positioned right behind the thrusters of a nearby Rafale fighter jet. The driver then quickly jumped out of his seat and ran away.
A moment later, Schofield saw why.
ROOOOAAAARRRRR!
The fighter's engines rumbled to life. Schofield saw another French soldier standing in its cockpit.
The battered and ragged Alec Christie looked up at the sound of the colossal noise, and found himself staring into the yawning rear thruster of the Rafale fighter. He didn't seem to care. He was too beaten, too weary to bother straining at his bonds.
Lefevre nodded to the man in the cockpit.
The man hit the plane's thrust controls.
Instantly, a shocking tongue of white-hot fire blasted out from the rear thruster of the Rafale, engulfing the immobile Christie.
The heat-blast battered the British agent's body like a wind-fan—the piping-hot air blasted his hair backwards, ripped the skin off his face, burned his clothes in a nanosecond—until ultimately it tore his body to pieces.
Then, abruptly, the burst stopped and the hangar was silent again.
All that remained of Alec Christie were four grisly quarters, charred and disgusting, dangling from the forklift's prongs.
'This is very bad,' Schofield swallowed.
Lefevre turned to him. 'Does that refresh your memory at all?'
'I'm telling you, I don't know,' Schofield said. 'I don't know about Killian or the African countries, or if they have anything in common. This is the first I've heard of them.'
'Then I am afraid we have no further need for you,' Lefevre said. 'It is now time for the Admiral and the General to have their wish and watch you die.'
And with that, Lefevre nodded to Schofield's forklift driver. Schofield's vehicle moved forward, stopping alongside Christie's charred forklift, in front of the Rafale's second rear thruster.
Schofield gazed into the dark depths of the thruster.
'General?' Lefevre said to the old Army officer, the man who had lost an entire paratrooper unit to Schofield in Antarctica. 'Would you like to do the honours?'
'With pleasure.'
The General stood up from his chair, and climbed up into the Rafale's cockpit, glaring at Schofield all the way.
He leaned into the cockpit, reached for the flight stick, his thumb hovering over the 'afterburn' switch.