“They’ve figured out a way, Stanley, I’m convinced of that.”
“What can we do beyond what we’ve done?” said Karin. “There’s less than twenty-four hours left.”
“Get this stuff over to London and pull in every analyst in MI-Five, MI-Six, and the Secret Service. Tell them to put everything under multiple microscopes, the more the better.”
“We can have it there in forty-five minutes,” said Witkowski, taking out his portable phone and dialing.
“I want the fastest way back to Paris, to meet with whoever’s in charge of guarding the water sources, wherever they are.”
“Why not find out where they are and land closest to them?” asked De Vries. “Claude can do that.”
“If he lives that long after I see him!” Latham spat out. “He got you in here. You called him and he got you in here without telling us!”
“He had every good reason to do as I begged him—begged him.”
“With terrific results, I might add,” said Drew. “You were damn near raped and killed, and the mighty Günter Jäger is dead under a sheet, no longer able to do us any good.”
“For that I’ll never forgive myself. Not for killing him—he had to be killed or you would have died—but the fact that I caused it all.”
“What were you thinking of?” continued Latham angrily. “That you were going to fire up his coals and he’d spew out everything?”
“Something like that, but far more than that. Harry would have understood.”
“Make me understand!”
“Frederik, for all his flaws, was once devoted to his parents and grandparents. Like many children who lose that love through separation or death, he was passionate about them. If I could fire up the coals of those memories, it was conceivable that he might break, even briefly.”
“She’s right, chłopak,” the colonel interrupted quietly as he replaced his telephone in his pocket. “The psychiatrists who saw the tape said he was unstable to the max. I understood that to mean he could go one way or the other under extreme stress. She tried with a courage I’ve rarely seen; it didn’t work, but it might have. Risks like that are taken every day in our ungodly profession, more often than not by brave people who never get credit, even for losing.”
“That was years ago, Stosh, not today.”
“I submit, Officer Latham, that today is the forerunner of our worst projections. You wouldn’t be here now, on the banks of the Rhine, if you didn’t believe that.”
“Okay, Stanley, I believe it. I’d just like to have better control over my troops—they are called ‘troops,’ aren’t they?”
“Not in your case, but everything’s clear in Paris. Moreau has two German jets at the airport, one heading to London, the other down into France, destination to be determined while airborne.”
Captain Dietz and Lieutenant Anthony walked into the chapel from the door to the rest of the house. “There’s nothing left out there but pots and pans and furniture,” said the captain. “If there’s a paper trail, it’s in those boxes.”
“Where to now, boss man?” asked the lieutenant.
Latham turned to Witkowski. “I know you won’t like this, Stanley, but I want you to take these cartons to London. They’re the best and you’re the best, and no one can crack the whip better than you. Nobody gets any rest, any sleep, everyone just keeps working, reading, trying to find any clues. Karin and our two new friends will fly down into France with me.”
“You’re right, I don’t like it, chłopak, but logic’s on your side, I’ll not deny it. But, Drew, I’ll need help, I’m not exactly on the Joint Chiefs of Staff, you know. I need more clout behind me than I’ve got.”
“How about Sorenson, or Talbot of the CIA, or the President of the United States?”
“I’d love to settle for the last one. Can you do it?”
“You’re damn right I can—Sorenson can. Call German intelligence and have a car here in five minutes.”
“It never went away, just down the road. Come on, boys, each of us takes one of these.”
As the two commandos crossed the room to retrieve the boxes, Lieutenant Gerald Anthony spotted a crushed fragment of paper on the floor at the foot of the altar. Sheer instinct made him scoop it up; he unfolded it. There were only a few words in illegible German. Nevertheless, he shoved it into his pocket.
* * *
The jet to London, its engines muted but incessantly roaring, approached the coast of England. Witkowski was continuously on the international phone, first with Wesley Sorenson, then Knox Talbot, the director of Central Intelligence, Claude Moreau of the Deuxième, and, finally, to his amazement, the President of the United States.
“Witkowski,” said the Commander in Chief, “you’re now in control of the London operation. This has been fully agreed to by the Prime Minister. You say jump, they’ll ask how high.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what I wanted to hear. It can be a little awkward for an army colonel to give orders, especially to high-ranking civilians. They resent that kind of thing.”
“There’ll be no resentment, only gratitude, believe me. Incidentally, you’re cleared at the White House switch-board to reach me whenever you call. I’d appreciate a report every hour or so, if it’s convenient.”
“I’ll try to do that, sir.”
“Good luck, Colonel. Several hundred thousand people are counting on all of you, even though they don’t know it.”
“I understand, sir, but if I may, shouldn’t the people be informed of the possibilities?”
“And have panic in the streets, the highways at a standstill, public transportation bursting at the seams as people start racing out of Washington? If an alarm is issued that the entire city’s water supply may be poisoned by terrorists, what’s next? Contaminated food, Legionnaires’ disease in all the air-conditioning units, germ warfare?”
“I hadn’t thought of that, sir.”
“And you can add wholesale destruction of property, the looting and roving gangs that would follow, rampant hostilities out of control. Also, our experts tell us that the main reservoir is armed to the teeth, every conceivable penetration prepared for. They don’t believe anything like Water Lightning can happen.”
“I hope they’re right, Mr. President.”
“They’d better be, Colonel.”
* * *
Twenty minutes out of the airport in Bonn, Latham received a call from Claude Moreau. “Please do not waste time berating me, Drew. We can debate my decision later, argue the risk I took.”
“You can bet your ass we will. So what have you got?”
“You’ll be landing at a private airport in the Beauvais district; it’s twelve miles away from Paris’s major reservoir. You’ll be met by my second-in-command, Jacques Bergeron—you remember him, I trust.”
“I remember him. So?”
“He’ll take you to the water tower and the military commander in charge of the defenses. He’ll answer any questions you have and give you a tour of the fortifications.”
“The problem is, I really don’t know a goddamn thing about reservoirs other than what Sorenson told me and Witkowski confirmed.”
“Well, at least you’ve been prepared by experts.”
“Experts? They’re not even engineers.”
“All of us become experts and engineers when the sabotage of utilities may be on the table.”
“What are you doing?”
“Overseeing an army of agents, soldiers, and police who are searching every square foot of territory within ten miles of the waterworks. Looking for what, we don’t know, but a few of our analysts have suggested missile launchers or rockets.”
“That’s not a bad idea—”
“Others say it’s insane,” the Deuxième director interrupted. “They say that to use launchers with the accuracy required would entail a couple of tons of equipment with enough electrical power to light up a small town, or blow it out. Also, they’d need launching sites, and we’ve pho
tographed every inch of ground via aircraft and satellites.”
“Underground pads?”
“That’s what we’re afraid of, but we have over two thousand ‘deputies’ spreading out all over the place, asking if any unusual construction equipment has been sighted. Have you any idea how much concrete goes in a single pad? Or the electrical wiring required from a power station?”
“You’re keeping busy, I’ll say that.”
“Not busy enough, mon ami. I know you’re convinced that the pigs have figured out a way, and I agree with you. Frankly, it was the reason I let Karin convince me—but let’s not go into that. I have a gnawing feeling that we’re missing something, something rather obvious, but still it eludes me.”
“How about something as simple as bazooka-type rocket launchers with canisters?”
“Among the first things we thought of, but using such weapons would require many hundreds, all positioned with clear sightlines. You can’t walk twenty paces in the woods around the water without colliding with a soldier. A dozen rocket launchers, much less hundreds, would be spotted instantly.”
“Could it all be a hoax?” asked Drew.
“A hoax on whom? We both saw that tape. Führer Günter Jäger was not speaking to us, not threatening us, he was declaiming to his sworn constituency, some of the wealthiest men in Europe and America. No, mon ami, he believes he can do it. And so we must keep thinking. Perhaps the London analysts will find something, God willing. Incidentally, you were right to send those materials to the British.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that.”
“You shouldn’t be. Not only are they very professional, but the U.K. was never occupied. I grant you that the majority of the people reading through the material were probably not around during that war, but the scar of occupation remains on the national psyche. The French can never be totally objective.”
“That’s quite an admission.”
“It is the truth, as I see it.”
They landed in Beauvais at 6:47 in the morning, the private airfield awash with the blinding early sun. The N-2 unit disembarked and was taken directly to the airport’s lounge, where clean, dry clothes awaited them. They changed quickly into the lightweight military fatigues, Karin the last to finish. When she emerged from the ladies’ room in the pale blue army coveralls, Drew remarked. “You look better than you should,” he said. “Now roll or bunch your hair up and shove it under the beret.”
“It’ll be uncomfortable.”
“So’s a bullet, and if anyone in that German detail at Jäger’s place was on his side, word will be sent down to take out the female. Come on, let’s go. We’re down to seventeen-plus hours. How long will it take us to get to the—what-do-you-call-it, Jacques?”
“The water tower complex at the reservoir,” replied the Deuxième agent as they walked out to the waiting car in the parking lot. “It’s eighteen kilometers from here—twelve miles American—so it won’t be longer than ten minutes. François is our driver, you remember François, don’t you?”
“From that carnival? The man with two bawling daughters he sent home?”
“The same.”
“My blood pressure remembers him very well, especially when he drove up on sidewalks.”
“He’s quite clever behind the wheel.”
“Another word is maniacal.”
“The director sent up several hundred aerial photographs for you to look at, to see if you might spot something we’ve missed.”
“Not likely. While I was in college I got my pilot’s license—props only—and did about thirty hours solo, but without a radio I could never find my way back to an airport. Everything looked the same.”
“I can commiserate. I spent two years as a pilot officer in the Armèe de l’Air and it was the same for me.”
“No kidding? The French air force?”
“Yes, but I did not especially like heights, so I resigned and studied languages. The mystique of a military pilot fluent in different tongues still exists. The Deuxième picked me up.”
They reached the Bureau’s vehicle; it was the same nondescript car, with an engine designed for Le Mans or Daytona, that Latham remembered so well. François was effusive in his greeting. “Have your daughters forgiven you?” asked Drew.
“Never!” he exclaimed. “Le Parc de Joie is closed down and they blame me for it!”
“Maybe someone will buy it and reopen. Let’s go, old friend, we’re in a hurry.”
The N-2 unit piled in and François took off—literally, it might have seemed, by the expressions of Karin and the two commandos in the backseat. De Vries’s eyes were wide open, and the faces of the two behind-the-lines veterans of Desert Storm were white with fear as François screeched, side-slipping around curves and pressing the accelerator to the floor on straightaways until the speedometer read over a hundred and fifty kilometers an hour.
“What the hell is this freak doing?” asked Captain Dietz. “Is this a suicide run, because if it is, I want out!”
“Not to worry!” yelled Drew, turning his head between François and Jacques, trying to be heard over the roar of the engine. “He was a racing car driver before he went to the Deuxième.”
“He should have gone to a permanent traffic court,” cried Lieutenant Anthony. “He’s crazy!”
“He’s good,” answered Latham. “Watch!”
“I’d rather not,” mumbled Karin.
The Deuxième sedan screamed to a stop in the parking area of an enormous brick structure that was the waterworks of the Beauvais reservoir. As the unit got shakily out of the car, a contingent of two platoons of French soldiers converged on the vehicle, their weapons drawn. “Arrětez!” shouted Jacques Bergeron. “We are the Deuxième, here is my official identification.”
An officer approached, studied the shield and the plastic card. “Of course, we knew it was you, monsieur,” he said in French, “but we do not know your guests.”
“They are with me, that’s all you have to know.”
“Naturally.”
“Alert your commander and tell him I’m bringing the N-Two unit inside.”
“Right away, sir,” said the officer, unclipping a walkie- talkie from his belt and announcing the new arrivals. “Proceed, sir, the commander of the watch is waiting for you. He says to please hurry.”
“Thank you.” Jacques, Latham, Karin, and the two commandos proceeded in front of a row of rifles at port arms to the entrance of the waterworks. Inside, the four newcomers were startled by what they saw. It was like the bowels of an ancient castle, devoid of ornamentation, dark and reeking of dampness. Everything was very, very old brick, the walls reaching up to high ceilings; in the center, flanked by two wide stone staircases, the huge open area rose to the top of the structure. “Come,” said Jacques Bergeron in English, “the elevator is down this hallway to the right.” The unit followed the Frenchman as Lieutenant Anthony spoke.
“This place must have been built over three hundred years ago.”
“With an elevator?” interrupted Dietz, grinning.
“That came much later,” replied Bergeron, “but your colleague is correct. This plant, with crude but serviceable viaducts, was built by the Beauvais dynasty for the purpose of capturing the water and sending it out to their fields and gardens. That was in the early sixteen hundreds.”
The enormous old square elevator was the sort found in warehouses or freight depots where heavy equipment must be sent from one floor to another. It creaked and stuttered its way up, metal abrasively rubbing against metal, until it reached the top floor. Jacques opened the heavy vertical panel with such obvious effort that Captain Dietz helped him shove it up. Instantly revealed was the imposing figure of a general in the uniform of the army of France. He spoke quickly, urgently, to the Deuxième officer. Jacques frowned, then nodded, muttered a few words in French, and walked rapidly away with the soldier.
“What did they say?” asked Drew, turning to Karin as the four of them
walked out of the elevator. “They rattled too fast for me, but I got something about ‘terrible news.’ ”
“Basically, that was it,” answered De Vries, squinting in the dim light at the two Frenchmen down the darker brick hallway. “The general said he had terrible news and had to speak with Jacques privately.”
Suddenly there was a desperate cry. “Mon Dieu, non! Pas vrai!” It was followed by the mournful wail of a damaged man in pain. As one, the N-2 unit rushed into the shadowed corridor.
“What happened?” asked Karin in French.
“I will answer so our friend, Drew, will understand,” said Bergeron, slouched, his back against the brick, tears falling down his cheeks. “Claude was assassinated twenty minutes ago in the Deuxième underground parking area.”
“Oh, my God!” cried De Vries, stepping forward and gripping Jacques’s arm.
“How could it happen?” roared Latham. “That place is tighter than a drum—with your own people!”
“The Nazis,” whispered the Deuxième agent, his words choked. “They’re everywhere.”
40
The large rectangular window looked out over the vast expanse of the Beauvais reservoir. They were in the huge office complex belonging to the manager of the waterworks and his staff, who had been temporarily displaced by the military commander overseeing the fortifications. The general was nonetheless intelligent and sensitive enough to seek the advice of the civilian manager and decline to use his desk. Jacques Bergeron had been on the telephone to Paris for over fifteen minutes, intermittently catching his breath and checking his tears.
The general had spread a map and a stack of photographs over an enormous table in front of the window, and, using a pointer, was describing in detail his defenses. However, the old soldier was aware that his audience of four was not totally attentive, eyes darting and ears listening to the Deuxième officer at the desk. Finally, Jacques hung up the phone, rose from the chair, and walked to the table.