The Geneva Strategy

  “I guess they’re considered expendable,” Russell said.

  “How about the kitchen? Can we plant someone there? Catering or wait staff?”

  Russell shook her head. “I used the flower service to smuggle in a gun in Turkey, but we don’t have any comparable assistance here. The Saudis have hired their own, well-vetted vendors.”

  Smith walked to stand next to Russell while he prepared a pot of coffee. “I never asked, what happened in Turkey? Were you close to the action?”

  Russell nodded. “I was inside the building when the problems started, but never in any real danger.”

  Howell looked up. “Not in danger? Didn’t the entire lobby blow up?”

  Russell shrugged. “Well, not in danger the way that everyone in this room defines it.”

  “Interesting that we’ve dealt with two timed bombings in as many weeks. First you in Turkey and then Beckmann and me in Germany,” Smith said.

  Russell looked thoughtful. “You think they’re linked?”

  “Same strange behavior before the bomb went off,” Smith said.

  “Not exactly. The men in Turkey behaved oddly before they killed each other. You didn’t have that in Germany, did you?”

  “No, you’re right. But I guess you could call Warner’s amnesia odd. And then the bomb.”

  “Well, it’s wise not to rule anything out,” Russell said. “But I still don’t think I was in as much danger as you were in Germany. The biggest problem we encountered was the smoke from the fires. It made it impossible to see anything.”

  Smith dumped some cream into his cup and swirled it with a swizzle stick. As he did he watched the beige liquid merge with the darker.

  “Wait a minute. That gives me an idea. What if we were to create a distraction with smoke? Almost like a fog? If we could get it to fill the stairwell it might obscure the camera lenses enough to give me a chance to get down to the door below. Once there I could disable any obvious video feed at the source.”

  A slow smile spread over Howell’s face. “There are several companies that have such fog machines as their security systems. They’re actually quite common.”

  Russell pushed off the counter. “Is it actual smoke?”

  Howell shook his head. “No. It’s a fast-deploying fog system that fills a room in seconds and retains its density before dissipating. It’s not toxic and is breathable. Almost like a mist. I know of several art galleries that use it. The theory is that they obscure any potential thief’s view of the room while the alarm system dispatches the police.”

  “Is it installed with the security system then?” Beckmann asked.

  Howell nodded. “Usually in a device placed below a window. When the alarm is finished you can open the window to help remove the fog at the source. But I’ll bet we could send you in with a canister that you could toss to create the same effect.”

  “That doesn’t really help us, though, because the metal detector will flag any canister he carries,” Russell said. “And even if you got past that hurdle there’s the internal security to worry about. They see you activate and throw a canister, they’ll gun you down for sure.”

  Smith started pacing. He thought the idea had real merit if they could overcome the problems of the metal detector, the security guards, and the cameras. Quite a list, he thought.

  “How long before the fog dissipates?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Howell admitted. “But if we decide to use it I can find out.”

  “How will we use it? We need to get the device inside the embassy without triggering the metal detector,” Beckmann said. He turned to Howell. “Can your housekeeper spy bring it in on a cleaning cart?”

  Howell shook his head. “The crew cleaned the embassy yesterday. Today through tomorrow afternoon is left to set the dining tables and arrange the flowers. No cleaning. Besides, it’s likely the security team will sweep the reception room before the guests arrive. If they do they’ll discover it. Over the past year our agent tried to plant several small and ingenious listening devices and the Saudis found and disabled them all.”

  “We need to get it in place just before we use it,” Russell said.

  Smith kept up his pacing, stopping before the window that looked out onto a quiet London street. Several tiny sparrows flitted past to land on a nearby tree. He heard Beckmann chuckle.

  “Got it. We fly it in,” he said.

  Smith turned to look at him. “Fly?”

  Beckmann nodded. “This Rendel is in charge of the drone program, right? How about we get a drone to deliver the payload? Poetic justice. Do you have an idea of how large this canister is? Is it like a tear gas canister?”

  Howell poured some hot water into a glass and dropped a tea bag into it before responding.

  “I think the size depends on the amount of smoke you need. But I’m sure our engineers can get us one that’s small but still quite effective. I must admit, I like the idea, but how will you get the drone inside the room? We still have the same access issue.”

  “Actually, we don’t,” Russell said. “I’ve seen drones as small as hummingbirds. Granted, they’re not good for much, but they can stay aloft for ten minutes. If we made a drone that looked like a bird, a larger bird so that it could house the size motor that it would need to carry a heavier payload, we could fly it into the room as the door is opened for the incoming guests.”

  “And it would hover above the metal detector, and so wouldn’t set it off,” Beckmann said. Smith could hear the excitement in his voice and Smith’s own spirits were rising with the suggestion.

  “If a drone delivered the payload security would fire on it, not me. A scenario that I find to be infinitely more reassuring,” Smith said.

  Russell headed to the suite’s door. “I’m going to a secure location and contact headquarters. I’m pretty sure we can have a smaller drone prototype here in a few hours. In the meantime, I’ll leave the rest of you to work out the details.” She strode out of the room, with her phone at her ear.

  Smith sat down next to Beckmann. “Okay, let’s run through a plan,” he said.

  28

  An hour before the reception, Smith was dressed in a business suit and stood before Beckmann, Howell, and Russell, who had returned a few hours later to report that a drone would be programmed and delivered shortly. Beckmann waved Smith over and handed him a small pen-and-pencil set.

  “What’s this?” Smith asked.

  “Unscrew the pencil.”

  Smith did and he saw that, instead of an ink cartridge, the pencil housed a small lock pick set.

  “I don’t know how to pick locks,” Smith said.

  “Unscrew the pen,” Beckmann instructed. Smith did, and found that it housed a small, thin tube with an LED tip and a thicker base. “It’s a camera lens. Press the button on the end and it will begin to record images. You use the pick set to move aside any tumblers on an average keyhole and then insert the camera. We’ll be watching on this end. If anyone’s in the room, we’ll see it, record it, and use the feed to raise holy hell with the international community until Rendel is released.”

  “Will I be wired for sound?”

  Russell stepped up. “Initially, yes.” She handed him a small device the size of a pencil eraser. “That goes in your ear and acts a bit like a hearing aid. It will both send and receive audio to our computers here.” Russell indicated two laptop computers that sat on a folding table. Both had large flat-screen monitors and speakers.

  “Who will be manning the computers?”

  “Beckmann and I,” Russell said. “We debated giving you a video feed device as well, but it’s just too risky. Likewise we’ll only speak to you when we have to. We have little doubt that they’ll be continuously sweeping for bugs during the length of the party, and if you’re discovered wearing any type of device there would be no way for you to talk your way out of an accusation of spying.”

  Smith held up the tiny earpiece. “Then what about this?”

&
nbsp; “It’s a risk, but a small one. You can legitimately claim that it’s a hearing aid. We’ve devised it to be identical to an actual hearing aid that’s on the market now.”

  “But if you see any type of sophisticated sweeping equipment, you may want to toss it. We have other ways of watching you,” Beckmann said.

  Smith raised an eyebrow. “How?”

  “Marty’s tied together a feed from the seven cameras that he was able to access. Take a look.” Russell jutted her chin at the computers. Smith walked around and saw that the first computer screen was broken into several quadrants, and each displayed activity occurring at the embassy’s entrance. He watched as a guard walked into the frame and then was picked up by the next camera. None of the cameras, though, captured any images from the embassy’s interior.

  There came a knock on the door and Russell peered through the peephole before opening it. A man dressed in a hotel uniform handed her a large carton.

  “Delivery for Mr. Smith,” he said. She stepped aside and Smith signed for the box, tipped the man, and closed and relocked the door. Russell placed the box on the cocktail table and they all gathered around while she used a letter opener to slit the tape and move aside protective bubble wrap.

  Nestled inside the box was what looked like a radio-controlled device in the shape of a falcon, with a broad wingspan and a curved beak. Russell carefully lifted it from a nest of tissue and held it up for all to see. In its talons it held a small canister the size of the pneumatic canisters Smith sometimes used at his bank’s drive-in facility to send his checks to a waiting teller.

  “It’s gigantic,” Smith said.

  “Looks like a bald eagle,” Beckmann said.

  “Someone at your headquarters is a patriot, but should they have announced the identity of the maker in such obvious terms?” Howell asked.

  Russell sighed. “I think it was supposed to resemble a raptor. Or a vulture.”

  “At that size there’s a real possibility that security will shoot it down long before it gets through the entrance,” Smith said. “If it even makes it through the entrance with that wingspan. What’s the usual clearance in a doorway?”

  Russell stared at her phone. “According to their email the guys are assuming a single door, not a double, and the usual thirty-two-inch opening. They say that I’ll have to figure an inch less to accommodate the door hinges. The bird, whose name is Lawrence by the way, after Lawrence of Arabia”—Howell groaned and Russell ignored him—“has a twenty-inch wingspan, can fire two rounds of nine-millimeter bullets from a belly-mounted magazine, and his beak contains a laser glass etcher and is made from a high-tensile metal that can be used to batter the device through two panes of weakened glass and the average hollow, pressed-wood doors.” Russell snorted. “They go on to tell me that they suspect that the embassy doors are likely not cheap pressed wood, but the windows do not appear to be triple-paned.”

  “Are you flying this thing?” Smith asked.

  Russell nodded. “Howell will have it in the trunk of the car and get it in position near the embassy.” She continued reading her email. “The eyes contain two lenses”—Russell leaned closer to stare at Lawrence’s head and Howell, Smith, and Beckmann moved in as well—“that will record and send images and not only supply an accurate view of the area but also display a grid detail to help me pilot it through the opening.”

  “They’re likely to shoot Lawrence down before you have a chance to get him in place,” Smith said.

  “If so, then abort mission,” Howell said. “Finish the reception and come back out alive. We’ll find another way in.”

  Russell handed Smith a small pen.

  “Another pen? I’m going to look like an engineer. All I need is a plastic pocket protector and I’ll be all set,” Smith said.

  “It’s the detonator,” she said. “You press on the cap, just as if you were intending to use it to write, and that will activate the smoke. Once you do, wait ten seconds for the room to fill. From there you have three seconds to open the door to the stairs. The smoke will fill the hall; our engineers think it will take at least another eight seconds for the hall to be filled enough to obscure the video on the stairs.”

  “How long before it begins to dissipate?”

  Russell rocked her hand back and forth. “That’s a tough question to answer. A lot depends on how quickly the security team responds, whether or not they fling open a window or adjoining doors. If they do nothing, the smoke will begin to clear about five minutes after deployment and adequate visibility will return after ten.”

  “That’s not very long,” Beckmann said. “So you need to be prepared to have your reconnaissance done and your cover story prepared for when the smoke is gone and the cameras find you where you’re not supposed to be.”

  “In the meantime, Howell will be positioned at the top of the hill, across from Hyde Park. He’ll pick you up,” Russell said.

  Smith raised an eyebrow. “How will you manage that without Arden getting suspicious?”

  “We’ve been able to access the car service that Arden is using. I’ll be driving you and Ms. Arden. I’d wait closer, but I’d rather not be caught idling on any CCTV cameras. The area I’ve chosen is a blank zone, at least as far as we can tell.”

  “Has the CIA operative been briefed on the plan?”

  Russell nodded. “To the extent that she can be, she has. She doesn’t know who the other operative is in the room and she thinks you’re a member of the CIA, not Covert-One. Her orders are to scream and faint during the melee in order to create another distraction. Like you, she has no gun, but she does have a detonator pen as a backup should yours get confiscated.”

  “Let me repeat the specs to you one more time,” Smith said.

  Russell nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “The door to the lower level is on the northwest wall. From there I enter a narrow hallway and take ten steps down. We don’t know which door down there houses the prisoner, but there are at least two that I need to check: one left and one right.”

  “And remember, the plans don’t show it, but Marty’s been able to pinpoint on a neighbor’s CCTV camera the embassy’s back exit door. It’s possible that you’ll be able to access that exit from the lower level as well. There’s a two- or three-step riser before the back door, so it’s also possible that there will be a window in the room that accesses the outside. Kind of like a basement apartment,” Russell said.

  “But Marty didn’t see a window, right?”

  “That’s right. Not a window, or bars on a window, so we’re speculating as to this last bit.”

  “Got it,” Smith said.

  “Ready?” Howell placed a chauffeur’s cap on his head to complete his somber private-driver uniform. Smith nodded and they left the hotel and turned a corner. Howell stopped and beeped open a black car parked in a handicapped parking spot.

  “Which one of us is handicapped?” Smith asked.

  “Me. Old war wound,” Howell said and then grinned.

  “Does it bother you much?”

  “Only when it rains.”

  “Rains a lot in London,” Smith observed.

  “Which is why I spend most of my time in the Sierra Nevada,” Howell replied.

  Smith settled into the car and Howell started it. He stopped a block before Brown’s Hotel.

  “I’ll let you walk from here.” Howell consulted his watch. “She’s requested the car for six o’clock, so expect me then.”

  Smith nodded, got out, and headed down the street at a leisurely pace that belied his inner turmoil. The mission bothered him on so many levels that he didn’t know which problem to focus on first: the security guards, the massive drone with its payload, or the fact that he’d be watched every step of the way by somebody, whether on the street or in the embassy building.

  He stepped into the hotel lobby and saw Arden standing in the center. She wore a dark-blue sheath dress in a material that shimmered with a short jacket over it. She smiled at
him with real warmth and for a moment he forgot who she was and what she did and that nothing would make her happier than to hang the deaths in Djibouti on USAMRIID. He shook off his sudden empathy and put back his shoulders. He had important things to do this evening. He handed her a piece of paper.

  “The list of USAMRIID employees currently on medical leave,” he said.

  Arden raised an eyebrow and scanned the list, nodded once, folded the paper, and put it in her evening bag.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He held his hand out to her. “Shall we go?”

  29

  Darkanin was putting on his suit jacket when his phone buzzed. The display read “Unknown Caller.” He answered.

  “Did you find him?” he asked.

  “I never discuss business over a phone, and you shouldn’t either,” the caller said. Darkanin recognized the voice as Asam’s.

  “My phone’s secured by the finest security personnel in Shanghai.”

  “Nothing that uses the airwaves is secure. Your friends in Shanghai should have told you that. Meet me at my apartment in ten minutes and we’ll talk.”

  Darkanin consulted his watch. “I have a function to attend in thirty.”

  “I know. But the apartment isn’t far. It’s above the bar where we met last. Number four.”

  Asam hung up.

  Ten minutes later Darkanin ascended a stairwell lit by weak wall sconces. As he did, the pulsing music from a dance club that shared a common wall receded. He reached the third-floor landing and knocked on the door to his left. After a moment it slowly opened to reveal Asam, in jeans, a white shirt with the top button undone, and bare feet. He stepped aside and Darkanin entered.

  The small studio apartment was devoid of furniture except for a narrow table in the attached dining area and a small, low cocktail table in the living area. Cabinets lined the far wall to Darkanin’s right and below them was a counter with a built-in dishwasher and a refrigerator. A large Oriental carpet covered the wood floor, and two rolled sleeping bags along with pillows were shoved to one side under a bank of windows to the left. A hookah pipe sat on the cocktail table and a laptop computer whirred from its location on the kitchen table.