The Geneva Strategy

  “You’re not thinking of jumping?” Wyler asked. He’d wrapped the towel around his forearm and tucked the edges in. A large red stain bloomed through the fabric.

  Russell nodded. “It’s not that far and from this angle it should be fairly easy to land on that deck.”

  “It’s not necessary. The police are here and they never came through that bathroom door. They must have heard the sirens and taken off. It’s safer to wait here until the police give the all-clear.”

  “Not if they left another timed bomb at the door, just like in Turkey.”

  “Ah shit,” Wyler said. “You’re right.”

  Russell swallowed once, rose up, took two steps downward, and jumped. Her trailing foot hit the deck’s railing but the rest of her had cleared it easily and she landed on the deck with a thud. Wyler performed the leap and cleared the railing with far more free room than Russell, but he landed heavily and staggered as the forward momentum took him.

  Russell took two steps toward him before the roof behind them blew up.

  51

  Russell stood next to Wyler and watched as flames leapt out of the town house roof. She heard a clicking behind her and the sliding glass door that accessed the deck slid open. Beckmann and a wide-eyed woman in a bathrobe stepped out. Russell held the gun behind her back and tried to look like a homeowner who had just fled a burning house rather than a CIA officer who had just thwarted an attack on a high-ranking ambassador. Wyler stepped toward the woman.

  “Madame Clochard, thank you for helping me. My friend and I smelled gas and were just able to leave the house before it exploded.” He put his hand out to the woman but she bypassed it and wrapped her arms around his waist.

  “Monsieur Wyler, I am so happy to see that you are not hurt.” She glanced at the bloody towel wrapped around his forearm. “Oh, no, you are hurt.”

  Wyler shook his head. “Only a scratch. Nothing to worry about.”

  Beckmann remained where he was and Russell saw him take in first her state of undress and then Wyler’s before turning his attention to the burning town house next door.

  “Looks like you’ve had a busy night,” he said.

  Russell exhaled and headed to the door, taking care to keep her gun out of sight as she passed Wyler, who was attempting to disengage from a determined Madame Clochard. She passed Beckmann the gun and he slid it into his waistband and dropped his lightweight windbreaker over it. Russell waited for Wyler, who managed to charm his way out of the clutches of his neighbor and join her. They took an interior stairwell to the ground level and Wyler again managed to talk his way out of leaving by the front door, instead using the back gangway. They emerged at the side of the house and out of sight of the assembled squad cars.

  “This is a friend of mine,” Russell said, indicating Beckmann. “I don’t think it’s advisable that either of us meet with the police.”

  Wyler nodded. “Let me handle this. Go ahead and take the car. It’s in that garage.” Wyler indicated a low-lying garage building a block away. “Give me a minute and I’ll retrieve the keys.” He strode away and Russell sighed. The adrenaline that had propped her up through the ordeal was already dissipating.

  “How did you get here so quickly?” she asked Beckmann.

  “Marty reached me. He’d managed to code a standing intercept that pings him whenever one of us is mentioned on an NSA site. Seems as though they had bugged Wyler’s house. They saw you go in and then several hours later picked up an image of guys in ski masks.”

  “Now the NSA is bugging our own ambassadors? And here I thought his house would be a safe zone.”

  “We need to find Rendel and this mole and fast. Any idea where they came from?”

  Russell shook her head. “Could have been the same group that attacked the reception in Turkey.”

  “That seems likely. It was another bomb, right? I’m starting to think of the bombs as their signature,” Beckmann said.

  “Wyler was concerned that he had been targeted, and had requested but been denied a bodyguard.”

  “He’s lucky you were there. He couldn’t have asked for a better bodyguard.”

  “Thanks for the compliment, but I’m genuinely concerned that the next time he won’t survive it.”

  “Do you want to bring him with us? It’s his car after all. I’m sure he can give a plausible excuse for a couple of days off. From what I saw back there on the deck he’s a quick thinker, cool under pressure, and a diplomat to the core. We could use someone with authority and such an easy manner at the border. After that we can split and go our separate ways.”

  Russell was tempted to agree, mostly because she wanted to keep Wyler close, but she thought that this time his request for additional bodyguards would be granted and he’d actually be better off away from her. Especially if the mole gave killing her another shot.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea. We’re somewhat of a lightning rod for danger. Let’s get to Geneva and assist Smith. I’m done playing their game.”

  Wyler reappeared, wearing gym shoes and a black T-shirt, carrying a set of keys and a messenger bag. He handed them both to Russell.

  “Here are the keys and some clothes for you to wear. I’m sorry, I wasn’t able to recover yours. They were incinerated in the blast. These are from a workout bag I keep in the front hall closet.” Russell took the items and opened the messenger bag to look inside. “It’s a pair of sweats. Mine, so not your size and for that I apologize, and a sweatshirt.”

  Russell reached in and removed a flask. “What’s in here?”

  “Scotch.”

  “Excellent,” Beckmann said. “Why don’t you give me the keys and I’ll go get the car.” Russell tossed him the keys and he put his hand out to Wyler. “Glad to know that you’re okay.” Wyler shook his hand.

  “Thanks. You take care tomorrow. I hope that whatever your mission is, it’s successful and you both skate through without injury.”

  Beckmann walked away and once he was out of sight in the garage Wyler reached to Russell and pulled her into an embrace. She wrapped her arms around him and held him against her, pressing her check against his chest and listening to the slow beat of his heart through the shirt. After a moment he shifted and bent down to kiss her. A band of light swept across them as Beckmann pulled up.

  “I’ll be in touch as soon as it’s safe. This time insist on bodyguards and don’t back down until you get them,” Russell said.

  “I’m saving the Armagnac for us to share when you return,” Wyler said.

  Russell didn’t trust herself to speak. Instead she nodded and got in the car, and Beckmann drove away. Through the side-view mirror she could see that Wyler watched them until they turned the corner and she could see him no more.

  52

  How are you holding up? Do you want me to drive?” Arden asked.

  Smith shook his head. “So far I’m doing okay.”

  “Tell me about the drone program.”

  “The one in the UK?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a joint CIA-NSA program. Croughton gathers the intel and sends it to Camp Lemonnier in Djibouti. The CIA can’t launch assassination strikes anymore, so they contract them out to comply with the new law.”

  Arden nodded. “And if it’s a U.S. citizen that’s the target, then the strike can’t continue without first seeking Department of Justice approval. Can you find out if the DOJ was notified?”

  “Of the strike on me? Are you thinking that this was a sanctioned strike? That never occurred to me. I’m actually shocked that you would even consider it.”

  “It could be an attack on you or the others with you. Croughton could have sent a request to Djibouti.”

  “They deny any knowledge of the attack before it began.”

  “There must be several drones parked at Croughton. It’s conceivable that the actual operator was sitting in Djibouti when he launched them, but I can’t believe that a drone strike within an allied country, and Brita
in to boot, can be managed out of Djibouti. Someone, somewhere in Croughton would have seen the thing take off and raised the alarm.”

  “They claim to have only learned of the problem when the drone was picked up on radar and questions called in.”

  “Do you believe that?” Arden asked.

  “I’m not sure what to believe.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing. Follow the money or track the power and you’ll find the culprit.”

  Smith smiled into the darkness. “A certain financier I know always insisted that money was the driving force behind most of the crime in the world. She didn’t believe that power was ever a driving force except when it was a drive to accumulate more money from that power.”

  “People are strange and those with money are often the strangest. There’s a study out that found that most CEOs of major companies are psychopaths.”

  “Really?” Smith was intrigued. “I hadn’t heard that. Have you read it?”

  “I didn’t have to. I deal with so many psychopathic CEOs that it was old news to me.”

  “Well, I hate to tell you, but by tomorrow afternoon we’re headed into a pharmaceutical conference that will be loaded with them.”

  “Why is that?”

  “We need their help.”

  “For what?”

  Smith paused, trying to decide how much more to tell her.

  She waved him off. “Never mind, I can see that you won’t tell me why. But they won’t help you unless you pay for it.”

  “I intend to appeal to their better instincts.”

  “They don’t have any,” Arden said.

  Smith thought the assessment a little harsh, but he kept the thought to himself while he drove.

  They reached the border almost six hours after they’d left Dieppe. Smith slowed about a mile before the checkpoint and pulled off the road.

  “So tell me about red notices. What can I expect?”

  “Not much unless we get some very ambitious border guard who decides to actually check a passport. But if he does, and his system is up to date, he’ll get a ping and you’ll be taken into custody. Most of the time the border guard station is closed this late at night. Budget cuts.”

  “But there will be cameras. How about you lower the seat and look like you’re sleeping. Keep your face below the dash and turned toward the door.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m hoping the beard will help.”

  Smith started forward again and Arden lowered her seat into the full recline position and turned her head to the door. As they neared the border the lanes narrowed and Smith could see a large bridge-type structure ahead. A spotlight illuminated a Swiss flag that flapped in the night breeze on the top of the bridge. They slowed behind three other cars and each was waved through by a guard on his telephone. Smith pulled up next and the guard hung up and leaned out.

  “You’ll need to buy a vignette,” he said. Smith nodded and handed him some euros. After a moment the guard gave him back a sticker for his windshield and waved the next car forward. Smith drove through.

  “That was remarkably easy,” Smith said.

  “At least something is going our way.” Arden moved her seat back into a sitting position.

  Thirty minutes later Smith pulled onto a private road. The only illumination came from reflectors placed on sticks at regular intervals on either side. After half a mile they came to a rustic-looking ranch house with a horseshoe drive. Smith killed the engine and soaked in the sudden silence.

  “Looks deserted,” Arden said.

  “There should be a lockbox and key around the doorknob.”

  Smith got out, stretched, and reached in the back passenger seat where he’d thrown his suit jacket. He was looking forward to getting out of the suit, which he’d been wearing for almost thirty-six hours straight. Klein had promised to have new clothes in the house.

  Smith freed the keys from the holder and opened the door. The house’s interior was clean and the furniture minimal. A front foyer area opened into a great room with an open design. A stone fireplace separated the front area from the kitchen and dining room. A hall to the left led to three bedrooms, with a bathroom door on one side and a master bedroom and bath in the back. Smith threw his coat on the master bed before returning to the kitchen, where he found Arden filling a pitcher with water. She handed him a glass.

  “From the tap. There’s a computer set up in the corner of the great room.”

  Smith passed through the kitchen to the far corner, where he found the desktop. While he waited for it to boot up he opened a door that led through a short hallway to a back mudroom. It had the usual pegs on the walls to hang coats over a built-in bench that had nooks in it to hold boots, but the opposite wall had a large built-in cabinet. Smith opened the doors and whistled. It was a gun cabinet. Every manner of weapon was lined up there: AK-47 automatic assault weapons, high-caliber sniper rifles with telescopic sights, pistols, ammunition belts, and boxes of bullets. At the end were several bulletproof vests and two helmets. A box at the base appeared to hold hand grenades and another had six cell phones still in their original packaging.

  He headed back to the computer and accessed the secure USAMRIID network. He sipped some water, sat down, and proceeded to read the various clinical trial reports and test results that the researchers had sent him. A separate email from Klein attached the report that Taylor had given him that evening at the lab.

  After an hour his head was swimming and his eyes blurring from sleep deprivation. One thing, though, was abundantly clear: Taylor had known that the drug she had created had the potential to derange or kill those who were exposed to it. At four thirty in the morning he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “Why don’t you get some sleep?” Arden said. She leaned over his shoulder and read the screen. Smith had it open to a particularly interesting aspect of the research in which Taylor had attempted to halt memory consolidation by blocking protein synthesis. A few drugs had blocking capability, but the most common was a staple on the dance club circuit: MDMA, or Ecstasy.

  “Ecstasy blocks memory?”

  Smith nodded. “It seems that there are a few drugs that can do it. Taylor was trying to create a cocktail that would inhibit the reconsolidation of traumatic memory only.”

  “Reconsolidation? What’s that?”

  “Our memories of an incident aren’t static, we just think they are. Each time we access a memory our brain actually has to reconsolidate it from various locations. Do this often enough and the memory deforms.”

  “Like eyewitness accounts in a trial. They’re notoriously inaccurate and change as time goes on.”

  He nodded. “Exactly like that. And we don’t know it’s happening to us. We actually believe it’s not. We’re wrong, of course. Taylor proved that many of our most cherished or reviled memories can not only be altered, but may not even be accurate after the third or fourth time that we access them.”

  “Was she trying to change them in a certain direction?”

  “She was. She could manage it in rats, but there were enough problems with the research that she was unable to obtain clearance to test it on humans. Her cocktail either made rats forget a recent bad memory, a good thing, or made them behave in a crazy manner, a bad thing. On the extreme end it was killing them by short-circuiting all of their brain function. A very bad thing. Aerosolizing it led to unpredictable results across the board and she wrote that in her opinion it should never be altered in that manner.”

  “Is there an antidote?”

  He shook his head. “But there is one fascinating aspect of it. The drug only worked when administered close to the actual memory. Wait too long and the brain found a way to circumvent the block.”

  “So if you’re in the area you’d better hope that you came late to the dance? Then the drug is ineffective?”

  “Except for the death aspect. If your brain was the one that was predisposed to shut down then that would happen no matter when you were
exposed.”

  “How long after exposure comes death?”

  “About sixty seconds.”

  “There’s got to be a way to block the blocker.”

  He sighed. “I agree. And given more time I probably could get close to creating it. But time isn’t on our side on this one and right now I’m too tired to think.” He exited the program and stood. “And I’m done with this beard. Time to remove it.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Arden said. She went down the hall and returned a minute later holding a bottle that she handed to him.

  “Baby oil?” he said.

  “I found it in the near bathroom. You can use it to remove the adhesive that holds the beard. While you do that, I’m going to make some food. I found some spaghetti and bottled sauce in the cabinets.”

  Smith managed get the beard off and take a short shower before he heard Arden calling down the hall. He joined her at the kitchen table, where a steaming bowl of spaghetti and a glass of wine waited. They ate a few minutes in silence.

  “I was ravenous,” he said. He pointed at the oversized watch on her wrist. “That watch is interesting.”

  She smiled. “It was my father’s. He died several years ago and I’ve worn it ever since.”

  “What did he die of?”

  “Heart attack. My father was an attorney. He worked around the clock. My mother used to try to get him to relax, but he never was able to take a break. It was as if he was trying to outrun death.”

  “That never works,” Smith said. He saw that she was finished eating and took her plate and his to the dishwasher. After a few more minutes the kitchen was clean and he felt the crushing exhaustion finally settle on his shoulders. “I’m about done.”

  Arden nodded. “Me too.”

  Smith went to the mudroom, chose a pistol and a matching magazine, and returned to the kitchen to place them on the table in front of Arden.

  “Let me show you how this works.” He showed her how to load a magazine, drop it out, and set the safety switch. “This one has a laser sight.” He pointed the muzzle at a far wall and the red dot hit a point near the doorjamb. “Put the dot on the area you want to shoot and pull the trigger.” He handed her the gun. She placed it on the table in front of her and stared at it in silence. “What are you thinking?” he asked.