Hunter Killer (50 page)

“Well, General, how was that?” he demanded. “Did your President do your country proud?”

“Oh, most definitely, sir,” replied the General. “That was a speech from the very…er…heartbeat of the French people. It needed to be said.”

St. Martin once more sounded a word of caution. “It was perfect, sir,” he murmured softly. “Just so long as the Americans don’t get to Col. Jacques Gamoudi before we do.”

And that night the stakes were raised yet again. At 10
P.M
. President Paul Bedford formally expelled every French diplomat from their embassy on Reservoir Road in Washington, D.C. And while he was about it, he ordered the following French consulates to close down: New York, San Francisco, Atlanta, Boston, Chicago, Houston, Los Angeles, Miami, and New Orleans.

It was the lowest point of relations between fellow Permanent Members of the UN Security Council since the Russians shot down the United States Air Force U-2 spy plane almost a half century previously.

And with the East Coast of America operating six hours behind Paris, the U.S. newspapers and television stations had ample time to rearrange their front pages and the top story that they had been planning all morning. That was the one about the state of the world economy, the one that had dominated the world’s media ever since the fateful March night when the French Navy had flattened the Saudi oil industry.

Every night things were globally bad, but tonight was especially dismal. There had been a complete electricity blackout in Tokyo, lasting from 11
P.M
. to 6
A.M
. Not one flicker of a neon light penetrated the blackness, and the Japanese government stated that this might be happening every night until further notice. They warned the population of Tokyo to be patient. The lights had been off for three days in the cities of Osaka and Kobe, as the electric-power generators used the last of the fuel oil.

Hong Kong, another voracious user of oil-fired electric power, was into its emergency supplies, and Rome, the Eternal City, was headed for eternal darkness. The northwest of France was running out of gasoline, and the great seaport of Rotterdam was virtually closed down.

There was a complete blackout in Calcutta. Traffic was grinding to a halt in Germany, and there was no power in Hamburg, with brownouts in Berlin and Bremen. In England the refineries in the Thames Estuary were slowing right down, and the government had banned all neon lights in London. In the county of Kent, particularly southeast of Ashford, there was absolutely no electricity—at all.

On the East Coast of the United States the situation was becoming critical, as the refineries along the New Jersey side of the Hudson River, opposite New York City, began to fail.

That ought to have been enough to keep the most insatiable news editor happy, but the standoff between France and the United States knocked every other story off the front pages, and from the leadoff spots on television news.

Back in the National Security Agency, Lt. Cdr. Jimmy Ramshawe was trying to hold together a great spider’s web of agents all over the Middle East, all of them trying to find Jacques Gamoudi.

And the situation was not greatly assisted by a phone call every two hours from Admiral Morgan, which always started with the words
Found him yet?
And always ended with
Well, where the hell is he?

If they had but known it, the U.S. operation was way behind the eight ball in the battle with France to find the missing assault commander, because France had inserted five top agents into Riyadh as assistants to Colonel Gamoudi in the runup to the attack on the palaces. Throughout his preparations, they had kept him informed of developments, and all five of them had enjoyed free and easy access to the ex–French Special Forces Commander. Three of them were still in Riyadh, just observing on behalf of the French Secret Service, and all three of them were regular visitors to the splendid white-painted house that King Nasir had made available for the Colonel as long as he needed it.

And suddenly, as both the U.S.A. and France stepped up the pace to locate the Colonel, the game changed. Gaston Savary, the only man with access to these three French spies, called the senior officer, former Special Forces Major Raul Foy, and instructed him, in the fewest possible words, to report to the French Ambassador in the Diplomatic Quarter.

Somewhat mystified, the Major drove over to the embassy, where the Ambassador’s secretary told him it would be necessary to wait for new orders, direct from Paris, which would be given to him by the Ambassador in person. His Excellency would be free in ten minutes.

In fact he was free in five, and Major Foy was ushered into the office. The two men shook hands, but the Ambassador did not invite his guest to sit down. He just said simply, “Major, I do not wish you to remain here for one second longer than necessary. I have just been speaking for the second time this morning to Gaston Savary. I am instructed to tell you, in the most clandestine terms, that you and your men are to assassinate Col. Jacques Gamoudi this day, on the direct orders of the President of France.”

If the Major had been given the courtesy of a cup of coffee, he would have choked on it. “B-but…” he stammered.

“No buts, Major. My own instructions are to call the Elysée Palace the moment you leave, to confirm I have passed on the orders. I don’t need to tell you how serious this is. But I am asked to inform you that there will be an excellent financial reward for you upon your return to Paris. We’re talking six figures.”

Major Foy, a man who had faced death more than once in the service of his country, just stood and gawped.

“I’m sorry, Raul,” said the Ambassador in a kindly tone. “I know that you are certainly a very good colleague of the Colonel’s, if not a friend. But I think I mentioned, this is supremely important. The blackest of black ops, you might say. Good-bye.”

The forty-one-year-old Major turned away without a word, and walked out of the building to his car, parked outside the main door. He climbed into the driver’s seat and just sat there, stunned. He was not, of course, the first soldier to bridle at an order, and perhaps not the first to tell himself,
I did not join either the Army or the Secret Service to kill my fellow French officers
.

But he may have been the first to be told he must assassinate his own boss. And all he could think of was Colonel Gamoudi’s decency, professionalism, and understanding of his own problems working undercover in the city. When he first arrived from France, he had dined with Jacques Gamoudi on two or three occasions. The two men had spoken every day, always with immense dignity and respect.

Major Foy, who like the Colonel had served with distinction in Brazzaville at the height of the Congo revolution, was not at all sure about this—six figures or no six figures. But then, he thought of all it would mean for him, and for his wife and children.

He started the car and drove away, back toward his own apartment in the center of the city. He resolved for the moment to tell no one of his five minutes with the Ambassador. He just needed some coffee, and some time to think. He glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven o’clock on that hot Thursday morning, which gave him a lot of time to contemplate, since there was no way he was going to shoot Colonel Gamoudi in cold blood in broad daylight.

THURSDAY, APRIL 15, 10:00
P.M.
DIPLOMATIC QUARTER
RIYADH

Major Foy parked his car approximately two hundred yards from the “grace and favor” home awarded by King Nasir to Jacques Gamoudi. He had made up his mind now. He locked the car door and walked quietly up the deserted street, beneath the trees and the fading pink and white spring blossoms still hanging over the high walls of these impressive houses.

When he reached the wrought-iron gateway to the Colonel’s Riyadh home, he tapped on the window of the guardhouse outside and was pleased to see that the men inside both knew him. They waved him through, opening the electronic gates.

At the front door, he faced two more Saudi armed guards whom he knew even better, and they too directed him inside. And there the duty officer greeted him. “
Bonsoir
, Major. I am afraid the Colonel has retired to bed for the night. I don’t think he wants to be disturbed.”

“Ahmed,” said the Major, to a young man with whom he had been on friendly terms for more than four months, “I have just come from the French Embassy. I have a message for the Colonel that is so secret they would not even commit it to paper. I have to tell him in person. I’d better go up. He’s probably reading.”

“Okay, Major. If it’s that important, I guess you better.”

Raul Foy walked up the wide staircase and along the left-hand corridor. At the double doors to the master bedroom, he hesitated and then knocked softly. Jacques Gamoudi heard the knock and slipped out of bed, positioning himself behind the door with his bear-slaying knife in his right hand.

But Gamoudi did not answer. The door opened quietly, and Major Foy came into the room and closed the door behind him. The Colonel heard him whisper, “Jacques, wake up,” in a somewhat hoarse voice.

The Colonel did not recognize that voice, and he leapt forward into the darkness, seizing the intruder by the hair and flattening the blade of his knife hard onto the man’s throat.

Raul Foy almost died of shock, for the second time that day. “Jacques, Jacques,” he cried. “Get off. It’s me, Raul. I’ve come to talk to you—urgent. And get that fucking knife out of my neck.”

Colonel Gamoudi released him and switched on the light. “Jesus, Raul, what the hell are you doing, creeping around in the middle of the night?”

“Jacques. Do not interrupt me. Just listen. This morning I was given personal instructions from the goddamn President of France to assassinate you, at all costs. I don’t know why but, Jacques, you are a marked man. They are determined to kill you. They even offered me a financial reward to do it. A big one too.”

“Christ, you haven’t come to shoot me, have you?” The Colonel grinned.

“Not while you’re holding that fucking knife,” Foy replied.

“No, Jacques. Seriously. I’m not even armed. I haven’t even told my team. I’m here to warn you. Honestly, you have to get out of here. Now. These guys are not joking. Run, Jacques. You’ve got to run.”

“And you, Raul. Now you have neglected to kill me, what will you tell them?”

“Jacques. You are going. Now. I’m going to tell them I got here to obey their orders, and you were gone. Do you want a lift to the airport or somewhere?”

“No,” replied Colonel Gamoudi. “The King will arrange my transportation. I’ll just round up General Rashood, who’s in the billiards room, and we’ll be on our way. And thank you, Raul. I mean that. Because I just cost you a lot of money, in a way.”

The French Secret Service man smiled, and told him, “Earlier today, I made a decision, based on a few lines written by the distinguished English novelist, E. M. Forster.”

And with that, Raul headed toward the door. But when he reached it, he turned back and embraced his former boss, with genuine concern. “Good-bye, Jacques,” he said. “For Christ’s sake, be careful and…and God go with you.”

“Well,” said Jacques wryly, “before you go, you might tell me the lines which caused you to spare me.”

Raul Foy looked quizzical, as if nervous to utter the sentence that would confirm his loyalties. But then he said carefully, “Very well.” And he recited, to the best of his memory, Forster’s words:
“If I was asked to choose whether to betray my country, or my friend, I hope I’d have the courage to choose my country.”

THURSDAY, APRIL 15, 11:00 P.M.
ARABIAN DESERT

They prayed at sunset, out on the edge of the desert, southwest of Riyadh. King Nasir of Saudi Arabia and all of his most trusted council members turned east toward Mecca and prostrated themselves before God in accordance with the strict teachings of the Koran.

Tonight would see the ancient ritual of the
mansaf
, and the prayers were as much a part of the rite as the dinner itself: the rice served on the flat whole wheat crust of the
shrak
and the succulent boiled lamb poured upon it, with a sour-milk sauce.

Tonight the King would dine with his advisers, six of them gathered in a circle around the great circular feast, eating with their bare right hands, selecting pieces of lamb and rolling them expertly into rice balls with the dexterity of a group of cardsharps.

These nights, in the opening days of the new King’s reign, the prayers were particularly poignant, because Nasir demanded that Islam and its teachings pervade every aspect of Bedouin life.

I witness there is no God but God, and Mohammed is the messenger of God…
The murmured prayers of the most powerful men in the kingdom were spoken with firmness, and the words hung heavily on the warm night air.

The tall, bearded ruler of the kingdom, on his knees in the center of the vast brightly patterned Persian rug spread out on the sand, epitomized the strength that lay in the fellowship of faith. In all of their conferences since he had assumed power, King Nasir had made it abundantly clear that he was dedicated to a return to the ancient ways, and not merely in the creed of personal faith and piety.

King Nasir wanted to restore Muslim life back to the correct code of ethics, the one passed down through the wisdom of the Koran. He wanted a culture, a system of laws, an understanding of the function of the State—Islamic guidelines for life in all of its dimensions.

And there was not a man on the great carpet in the desert who did not believe that the King would achieve his aims. Nasir was a strong leader, unbending in his beliefs. He still refused to sleep in an ornate, lavishly decorated bedroom, preferring his plain, white, almost bare room, which was more like a cell.

And he preferred to dine in the desert, sitting outside his tent, ensuring that everyone had enough to eat, including all of the fifteen servants who attended him. On this night, he had characteristically invited four perfect strangers, mere passersby, to join the gathering.

And now the robed figures were preparing to sit up long into the night indulging in that most ancient of Arab rituals—sipping coffee freshly roasted on an open fire while dinner was consumed and served from a long-beaked, blue enameled pot with pale cardamom seeds.

It was an unchanging scene, out here beneath a rising desert moon: modern men upholding their Bedouin past as if time had stood still down the centuries. Except that at twenty-two minutes before 11
P.M
. the King’s cell phone rang loudly from somewhere in the folds of his robes. His expression changed from content, to startled, and then to irritated. It was as if someone had offered him a cup of instant coffee.

But he answered the call. Because it must be critically important. No one could remember anyone having the temerity to interrupt Nasir al-Saud during the ceremony of the
mansaf
, not even when he was only Saudi Arabia’s Crown Prince.

The gathering was hushed as he spoke.

“Why, hello, Jacques. Are you safe?”

And then there was silence while Colonel Gamoudi explained there was about to be a second attempt on his life, how the French Secret Service man had arrived in his bedroom with the warning.

They all heard the King ask, “And that saved you? Those wonderful lines from
Two Cheers for Democracy?
” And they saw him smile, fleetingly, before adding, “Yes. I do know them. I know them quite well.” But the King’s face was grave when he said, “Jacques, when you leave here it will be as if I have lost a brother. I am deeply disappointed in the conduct of my allies in France, but I agree you must go, because no security is one hundred percent.

“I will have you collected from the house and taken to the airport where a private Boeing will take you anywhere you wish to go. I want you to keep it for as long as it takes, until you are safe.” He then asked quietly, “Does this mean that General Rashood will leave as well?”

And it was clear from the sad expression on Nasir’s face that the Hamas leader was also going to fly out of Saudi Arabia. “You both go as my brothers, and my comrades in arms,” he said. “Your names will not be forgotten here, and you have my support and my help until the end of my days. Jacques, go in peace, and may Allah go with you.”

Thirty minutes later, an amazing clatter split the night air of the Diplomatic Quarter as a Royal Saudi Navy helicopter, an Aerospatiale SA 365 Dauphin 2, came in low over the houses and put down with a tremendous racket on the wide lawn outside Colonel Gamoudi’s bedroom.

Gamoudi almost had a heart attack at the sight of the French-built Dauphin, assuming briefly that it was Gaston Savary’s hit squad coming to finish him off. But when he looked closer, he could see the insignia of the Saudi Navy and the crown painted near the stern that signified it was for the use of the King.

The loadmaster who came to the front door was immediately admitted, as if the guards had been forewarned of his arrival. Both Gamoudi and Ravi Rashood traveled light, each with just one duffel bag, a machine pistol, four magazines of fifty rounds, and their combat knives. Suits, shirts, and uniforms were left behind for another time.

The Dauphin took off instantly, the moment they were aboard, and eight minutes later it put down at the head of the runway at King Khalid Airport, right next to a fully fueled Boeing 737, its engines running.

They thanked the helicopter flight crew and bolted up the stairway into the big private jet. The doors were slammed and, with immense dignity, the second officer came through to inquire, “Where to, sir?” as if the Boeing were a taxi.

General Rashood’s mind raced. He considered Damascus was not a good option—not on a direct flight from Riyadh. Jordan was not far enough; neither was Baghdad. Tel Aviv was too dangerous. And so was Cairo.

“Beirut,” he said. “Beirut International Airport.”

“No problem,” replied the co-pilot.

Three minutes later they were hurtling down the runway, climbing above the sea of light that is modern-day Riyadh. The only difference being, since they arrived, there had been a change in management.

SAME NIGHT
, 9:00
P
.
M
. (
LOCAL
)
DGSE HQ
PARIS

Gaston Savary hardly left his office these days. And mostly he just sat and fretted, unshaven, praying for the phone to ring, praying it was someone with the news that Col. Jacques Gamoudi had been eliminated.

So far he had been out of luck. And tonight was no different. Maj. Raul Foy was on the line from Riyadh, imparting the precise information Savary did not wish to hear.

“Sir, I gained entry to the house at ten-thirty tonight. I entered his bedroom only to discover he had already left and was not expected to return. The guards there of course know and trust me. One of the guards told me Gamoudi had left Saudi Arabia; I understand the King himself organized his escape.”

The name of the Major’s target was naturally never mentioned, but Gaston Savary did not need reminding of it.
“Merde,”
he said. “Do we have any clue where he’s gone?”

“Nossir. All we know is one of the King’s private jets took off from King Khalid Airport shortly before midnight, and that our man may have been aboard.”

Major Foy, treading the treacherous line between traitor and efficient undercover agent, added helpfully, “It’s damned hard to trace the King’s aircraft, sir. They never file a flight plan from his own airport, and of course no one has any idea where it’s headed.”

“Merde,”
said Savary. “What now?”

“Sir, that Boeing can fly more than twenty-four hundred miles. But General Rashood may also be onboard. He was staying at the Colonel’s house. I suggest we place agents in the Middle East airports where we think they might be going. I’d say Jordan, certainly Damascus, where it’s possible the General lives. Cairo, which is a hell of a good place to hide. Maybe Djibouti, because that’s where General Rashood came in before the attack. Certainly Tripoli, because Rashood could get help there, and possibly Beirut, which is often beyond the rule of law.”

“How about Baghdad, Kuwait, or Tehran?” suggested Gaston Savary.

“Not Baghdad, because the General might have enemies there. But perhaps Tehran. He is, after all, from Iran. And Kuwait…I don’t think so…it’s too close. It’s like going nowhere.”

Gaston Savary scribbled the names on a pad in front of him. He told Major Foy to stay in touch, and he prepared to put at least two DGSE agents into the airports where the Boeing might land. That would be his first call. The second one would be to Pierre St. Martin. Savary was not looking forward to that one.

FRIDAY, APRIL
16, 0030
25,000
FEET ABOVE AL NAFUD DESERT

General Rashood had regained his composure. Relaxed here in the first-class compartment, he pulled out his state-of-the-art cell phone and for the first time in almost four months dialed his wife’s number in Damascus.

Shakira answered immediately, despite the late hour, and was overjoyed to hear from him. She told him she had been at her wit’s end to know whether he was alive or dead, but she understood he could not risk calling her.

And was it safe now? Could someone be listening in?

“Since I’m calling from a passenger jet about five miles above the desert, it’s unlikely,” he said.

“Are you coming home?” she asked. “Please say yes.”

But Rashood’s answer was stern. “Shakira, I want you to get a pen and write some things down. Meet me tomorrow afternoon in the town of Byblos; that’s less than thirty miles up the coast road from Beirut. To get there, you’ll drive sixty miles along the main Damascus highway, straight over the Lebanon Mountains. It’s a good road, but you should allow four hours from home to Byblos.

“When you arrive, you’ll find the main attraction is some Roman ruins right at the edge of the town. You get into them through an old crusader castle. I’ll meet you in there, in the castle, at three
P.M
.

“Before you start, please go to the bank and get money. A minimum of fifty thousand U.S. dollars, a hundred thousand if you can. We’ve got five million on deposit in the Commercial Bank of Syria. I’m guessing you’ll be out of the bank and on the road by ten-thirty in the morning.

“And, Shakira, bring an AK-47, hide it in the compartment I had built into the Range Rover. There are a few checkpoints on that Damascus highway, but they won’t be thorough. Use your Syrian passport, and bring your Israeli one.

“Shakira, just tell me you have your notes correctly written down, and then ring off. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Are we in trouble, Rashood?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, I love you anyway. Wait for me.”

EARLIER, THURSDAY, APRIL
15, 1700 (
LOCAL
)
NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY

The eight-hour time difference meant it was still late on Thursday afternoon in Washington when Colonel Gamoudi’s Boeing roared up into the midnight skies above Riyadh.

Within minutes, there had been a check call from the CIA’s duty officer at King Khalid Airport, informing the Riyadh embassy that one of the King’s private aircraft had taken off with just two unknown passengers. As always with the Saudi royal family’s personal transports, its destination was unknown.

The embassy in Riyadh was very quickly off the mark, and on the phone to the CIA’s busy Middle East Desk in Langley, Virginia. They already knew a Navy helicopter transmitting military radar had landed in a well-guarded private residence near the Diplomatic Quarter just before midnight, and had taken off immediately.

Inside the NSA, Lt. Commander Ramshawe already had a report from the CIA’s man at the airport who had photographed the chopper with night lenses as it arrived at King Khalid, and he had seen the Boeing take off. The assumption in Riyadh, Langley, and Fort Meade was that Le Chasseur had been airlifted out of Saudi Arabia and that he was somewhere above the desert in the Boeing.

The Americans, after all, knew the French had already tried to assassinate him once, and it was now obvious the King was taking steps to protect him, in return for the enormous favor he had done the kingdom.

The question was, where was he going? The CIA did, more or less, what the French DGSE had done: they posted men at the likely Middle East airports, watching and waiting for King Nasir’s Boeing to touch down.

There was, however, one major problem. Beirut was last on the Americans’ list, and their man did not arrive there until 4
A.M
., by which time General Rashood and Colonel Gamoudi had been whisked away to the new Saudi embassy in Beirut, by orders of the King.

It took the CIA agent an hour to ascertain that the Boeing had indeed landed, which left him with little to do except sit and watch until it took off again.

The French agents were, however, on time. And while they never got anywhere near the two passengers, they were able to follow the diplomatic car to the embassy, so at least they knew where the fugitives were. Whether or not they would be lucky enough to get a sniper shot in was very questionable.

Nonetheless, the French were plainly winning this race. And when a different, smaller vehicle pulled out of the embassy the following morning, with a chauffeur driving and darkened rear windows, the four French agents now involved in the chase elected to tail it—all the way up the coast road to the ancient city of Byblos.