Scarecrow (34 page)

‘Yeah. Once or twice,' Mother said grimly.

‘Don't hear about the ICG much anymore,' Rufus said. ‘They say it was a bad-ass government agency that infiltrated military units, big companies and universities with its agents and then reported back to the government. But there was a purge a couple of years back that wiped it out. But some members like Brandeis survived. Turned out the ICG had been behind the attacks on the US embassies in Africa—they were liquidating some spies in those offices and had got Al-Qaeda to do their dirty work.

‘To cover itself for the lighthouse bloodbath, though, the ICG blamed the whole thing on Knight. Said that he'd been taking millions from Al-Qaeda. Attributed all thirteen Delta deaths to Knight by saying that he pre-warned Al-Qaeda of their arrival. Knight was placed at the top of the Department of Defense's Most Wanted Persons List. His file was marked Classification Zebra: shoot on sight. And the US Government put a price on his head: two million dollars, dead or alive.'

‘A bounty hunter with a price on his head. Nice,' Mother said.

Rufus said, ‘But then the ICG did the worst thing of all. Remember I told you that Knight had a young wife. He also had a baby. ICG had them killed. Set it up as a home invasion gone wrong. Killed the woman and the baby.

‘And now, now the ICG is dead and Knight's family is dead, but the price on Knight's head remains. The US Government occasionally sends a hit squad after him, like they did in Brazil a few years ago. And, of course, Wade Brandeis is still on active duty with Delta. I think he's a major now, still based in Yemen.'

‘And so Knight became a bounty hunter,' Mother said.

‘That's right. And I went with him. He saved my life, and he's always been good to me, always respected me. And he ain't never forgot Brandeis. Got a tattoo on his arm just to remind himself. Boy, is he waiting for the chance to meet that cat again.'

Mother took this all in.

She found herself reliving the mission she'd endured with Schofield and Gant at that remote ice station in Antarctica a few years back, an adventure which had involved their own battle with the ICG.

Fortunately for them, they had won. But at around the same time, Aloysius Knight had also been doing battle with the ICG—and he'd lost. Badly.

‘He sounds like a Shane Schofield gone wrong,' she whispered.

‘What?'

‘Nothing.'

Mother gazed out at the horizon, a peculiar thought entering her mind. She found herself wondering: what would happen to Shane Schofield if he ever
lost
such a contest?

A few minutes later, the
Black Raven
hit the coast of Brittany.

Rufus and Mother saw the cliff-side roadway winding away from the Forteresse de Valois—saw the exploded-open craters in the road, the shell impacts on the cliffs, saw the crashed and smoking remains of trailer rigs, rally cars and helicopters strewn all over the place.

‘What the hell happened here?' Rufus gaped.

‘The Scarecrow happened here,' Mother said. ‘The big question is, where is he now?'

 

THE FRENCH AIRCRAFT CARRIER, RICHELIEU , ATLANTIC OCEAN, OFF THE FRENCH COAST 26 OCTOBER, 1545 HOURS LOCAL TIME (0945 HOURS E.S.T. USA)

The giant French Super Puma naval helicopter landed on the flight deck of the aircraft carrier—with Shane Schofield in it, handcuffed and disarmed and covered by no fewer than six armed sailors.

After the patrol boat had picked him up near the cliffs, Schofield had been taken to the French destroyer. From there he had been whisked by helicopter to the colossal Charles de Gaulle-class carrier,
Richelieu,
hovering on the ocean farther out.

No sooner had the helicopter landed on the flight deck than the ground beneath it moved—downward. The Super Puma had landed on one of the carrier's gigantic side-mounted elevators, and now that elevator was descending.

The elevator lurched to a halt in front of a massive internal hangar bay situated directly underneath the flight deck. It was filled with Mirage fighters, antisubmarine planes, fuel trucks and jeeps.

And standing in the middle of it all, awaiting the arrival of the elevator containing the chopper, was a small group of four very senior French officials:

One Navy Admiral.

One Army General.

One Air Force Commodore.

And one man in a plain grey suit.

Schofield was shoved out of the Super Puma, his hands cuffed in front of him.

He was brought before the four French officials.

Apart from Schofield's half-dozen guards, the maintenance hangar had been cleared of personnel. It made for an odd sight: this cluster of tiny figures standing among the aeroplanes inside the cavernous but deserted hangar bay.

‘So this is the Scarecrow,' the Army General snorted. ‘The man who took out a team of my best paratroopers in Antarctica.'

The Admiral said, ‘I also lost an entire submarine during that incident. To this day, it has not been accounted for.'

So much for forgetting about Antarctica
, Schofield thought.

The man in the suit stepped forward. He seemed smoother than the others, more precise, more articulate. Which made him seem more dangerous. ‘Monsieur Schofield, my name is Pierre Lefevre, I am from the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure.'

The DGSE
, Schofield thought.
The French version of the CIA. And aside from the Mossad, the most ruthless intelligence agency in the world.

Great
.

‘So, Pierre,' he said, ‘what's the story? Is France in league with Majestic-12? Or just Jonathan Killian?'

‘I do not know what you are talking about,' Lefevre said airily. ‘All we know is what Monsieur Killian has told us, and the Republic of France sees a tactical advantage in allowing his organisation's plan to run its course.'

‘So what do you want with me?'

The Army General said, ‘I would like to rip your heart out.'

The Navy Admiral said, ‘And I would like to show it to you.'

‘
My
objective is somewhat more practical,' Lefevre said calmly. ‘The Generals will get their wish, of course. But not before you answer some of my questions, or before we see for ourselves whether Monsieur Killian's plan is truly foolproof.'

Lefevre laid his briefcase on a nearby bench and opened it . . . to reveal a small metallic unit the size of a hardback book.

It looked like a mini-computer, but with two screens: one large touch-screen on the upper half, and a smaller elongated screen on the bottom right. The top screen glowed with a series of red and white circles. Next to the smaller screen was a 10-digit keypad, like on a telephone.

‘Captain Schofield,' Lefevre said, ‘allow me to introduce to you the CincLock-VII security system. We would like to see you disarm it.'

 

FORTERESSE DE VALOIS BRITTANY, FRANCE 26 OCTOBER, 1600 HOURS LOCAL TIME (1000 HOURS E.S.T. USA)

They dragged Libby Gant into the dark underground pit.

Bloodied and wounded and teetering on the edge of consciousness, she noticed its circular stone walls, the pool of tidal seawater that filled most of its floor area. Seawater which contained two prowling sharks.

Thunk.

The upper half of the guillotine's wooden stocks came down over Gant's neck, pinning her head firmly in place.

The armed man covering her shot home the lock. Gant had never seen him before: he had carrot-red hair, vacant black eyes, and an exceedingly ugly rat-like face.

The imposing frame of the guillotine loomed above her—her head now fastened twelve feet beneath its suspended blade.

Gant grimaced. She could barely even kneel. The tracer wound to her shoulder burned with pain.

Next to Rat Face stood one of the bounty hunters—Cedric Wexley's No. 2, a psychotic ex-Royal Marine named Drake. He covered Gant with a Steyr-AUG assault rifle.

Gant noticed that Drake was wearing a strange-looking flak vest—a black utility vest equipped with all manner of odd-looking devices, like a Pony Bottle and some mountaineering pitons.

It was Knight's vest.

That made her look up.

And she saw him.

There, fifteen feet in front of her—standing on a stone platform which was itself two inches under the waterline, his eyes squeezed painfully shut since his amber glasses had been removed, his back pressed against the curved stone wall of the pit, his wrists manacled and his holsters glaringly empty—was Aloysius Knight.

A voice echoed across the watery dungeon.

‘ “Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer. Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.” Yeats, I believe.'

Jonathan Killian appeared in the viewing balcony—with the bounty hunter Cedric Wexley at his side.

Killian gazed out over the Shark Pit like an emperor at the Colosseum, his eyes falling on Gant, fifty yards away, on the other side of the pit.

‘Anarchy is loosed upon the world, Lieutenant Gant,' he said pleasantly. ‘I must say I like the sound of that. Don't you?'

‘No,' Gant groaned with pain.

They didn't have to raise their voices; their words echoed across the dungeon.

Killian said, ‘And Captain Knight. I find your actions most disturbing. A bounty hunter of your fame
hindering
a hunt. There can be only one conclusion: you are being paid to do so.'

Knight just stared back at the young billionaire, said nothing.

‘It concerns me to think that someone wishes to foil the plans of the Council. Who is paying you to save Schofield, Captain Knight?'

Knight said nothing.

‘Noble silence. How predictable,' Killian said. ‘Perhaps when I have your tongue wrenched from your mouth, you will wish you had spoken sooner.'

‘We know your plan, Killian,' Gant said through clenched teeth. ‘Start a new Cold War to make
money
. It won't work. We'll blow the lid on it, inform the US Government.'

Killian snorted.

‘My dear Lieutenant Gant. Do you honestly think I fear
governments
? The modern Western government is but a gathering of overweight middle-aged men trying to gloss over their own mediocrity with the attainment of high office. Presidential planes, Prime Ministerial offices, they are but the
illusion
of power.

‘As for a new Cold War,' Killian mused, ‘well, that is more the Council's plan than my own. My plan would embody somewhat more
vision
.

‘Consider that poem by Yeats. I particularly love the notion of the falconer no longer being able to command his falcon. It suggests a nation that is no longer capable of controlling its most deadly weapon. The weapon has developed a mind of its own, realised its own deadly potential. It has outgrown its owner and attained dangerous independence.

‘Now place that in the context of the US defence industry. What happens when the missile builders no longer choose to obey their masters? What happens when the military–industrial complex decides it no longer needs the United States Government?'