Guyot leaned forward so that his face was closer to Patin’s, his cigarette temporarily forgotten. “We are obligated to report what we find, not what we think. Our report will simply relate that certain instruments aboard the flight failed at or about the same time. Panic would be the likely result of publicly stating the aircraft literally shattered in flight. We will pass that information along in confidence. There is also the strange matter of the few bodies recovered, the ones no one wants to admit exist. Desiccated and shrunken like prunes. How does one explain that? The politicians are the ones paid to decide what to do with it. Then, I intend to report what we suspect to the appropriate persons, say the DGSE, informally. If we are right, national, if not international, security is at stake.”
7
The president of the United States shifted the unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, a good sign he was still indecisive on the issue. The damned doctors had sufficiently frightened him away from lighting up the things after a brief encounter with lip cancer ending in an operation his staff had somehow kept secret from the media. Denied his favorite vice, he was reduced to simply chewing them into stubs.
Oblivious to the seriousness of the occasion, his six-year-old twins, Ches and Wes, were noisily testing their balancing skills with a Wobble Deck in front of the Resolute desk. Ordinarily, the two would have been with their mother in the upstairs private apartments, but the First Lady was hosting a luncheon for some female poet whose verse was angry, rhymeless, and unintelligible. It was an argument even the president dared not renew: If a person couldn’t sell their (choose one) poetry, play, sculpture, or painting on the open market, why should the taxpayers pick up the slack for the poet, artist, or playwright whose talents would be better utilized in, say, a car wash? The First Lady, however, felt strongly about public support for the arts.
She felt equally strongly about the “self-expression” of her sons, whose unfettered exuberance with crayons, fingerpaint, and watercolor had necessitated serious restoration of the decor of both the Blue Room and the Lincoln Bedroom. Had the Secret Service not intercepted an anonymous gift of a twenty-five-piece Black & Decker Junior Tool Kit, it was quite possible the damage done to the building in 1814 by the British General Ross would have seemed minor in comparison. The Service volunteered to provide a babysitter, but the president was unwilling to subject some unfortunate agent to the twins’ unpredictable behavior, conduct that had earned them the service’s code names Rape and Pillage.
“One of these days, someone in the Press Corps is going to catch you with one of those things in your face,” warned the only other occupant in the room.
The president shifted the cigar again. Aware that today’s smokers had replaced yesterday’s lepers as pariahs, he had been careful to restrain his limited use when anywhere near a camera.
He replied to Hodges, his chief of staff, principal adviser, former campaign manager, and general dog robber. “So what? We’ve got two years before I’m up for reelection, and the average voter wouldn’t remember if I had dropped trou and mooned the TV cameras yesterday.”
There was no point in debating the electorate’s notoriously brief memory span. Hodges cleared his throat and raised his voice to be heard over the twins. “Back to the problem: The Froggie’s DGSE says, confidentially, that the Air France crash was no accident. The CIA and MI6 don’t dispute it.”
The president put elbows on the desk, leaning forward. “They don’t concur, either. I mean, let’s face it: Death rays and the like play out great in sci-fi, but this is real life. If I cancel out because of some Darth Vader — type threats… That, the voters will recall. If not, my next opponent will remind them.”
Hodges shrugged, he was a man who knew when he was beaten. “It’s your ass, Mr. President. At least reconsider in a couple of days.”
The president sat back in his chair. “Agreed. Think where we go if we even think of canceling a state visit because some camel-fucking sum’bitches make threats.”
“Not just any camel-fucking sum’bitches. We’re talking Al Qaeda here.”
“Al Qaeda or the Boy Fucking Scouts of America, I’m going to look like a coward if I don’t go.”
8
The moment he exited the hotel, Jason Peters knew he was being watched. With snow falling through the mist like feathers from a torn pillow, there was no need for the sunglasses the man across the street was wearing as his breath came in steamy puffs in the frigid air. Not unless he considered himself a film star or sport celebrity. The monochromatic light leached color from the day as if the blood had been drained from it. Hardly a time to protect the eyes. Overcoat collar pulled up, brimmed hat pulled down, the man appeared to be studying the display in the window of a Buchhandlung, bookstore. But unless immune to the fingers of the probing cold, no one would stand outside instead of enjoying the shop’s warmth. No one who was really interested in the store’s wares, that is.
Jason declined the offer of help from the comic opera-uniformed bellhop as he tossed his single bag into the space behind the driver’s seat of the turbo Porsche, space that only the elves in Stuttgart could describe, with a straight face, as a backseat. He had not rented the car for its meager comforts, but for its nimble handling and blinding acceleration, features he had enjoyed on the winding sixty-mile drive south from Zurich. Liechtenstein had no commercial airport of its own.
He pretended to fuss with the canvas suitcase as he watched through the car’s rear window, now rapidly shrinking as snow covered the glass. The man was using the reflection in the store’s window to monitor Jason’s movements.
Jason gave a sigh of resignation. Whoever he was, whatever he wanted, Jason didn’t need his shit. He was tired and glad to be going home. Two days dealing with bankers had been enough to wear down the hardiest of souls. In an age when no electronic communication was 100 percent secure, face-to-face was the only safe way to transact business best kept secret.
The town’s dearth of nightlife had not improved his stay. The only after-hours entertainment was a slightly discordant band playing German beer-hall music in the hotel’s uninspiring bar. Liechtenstein prevented Switzerland from being the world’s most boring country.
But Jason had not come here to haunt nightclubs. With revenue-starved governments’ ever-tightening pressure on banks worldwide, it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain the anonymity large sums of ready cash demanded. That was why he had chosen Liechtenstein. Other than Alpine scenery and collectable stamps, bank secrecy was all the diminutive country had to offer.
Now this.
Jason was well aware there were a number of people in the world who not only would like to see him dead, but also had the means to bring his demise about, violently and painfully. That was why he had spent the last ten years living in remote places, places difficult to reach, where arrivals were easily noted.