Charade

  Nothing was happening and Mark guessed that nothing would until the video was released and someone in authority set up comms, or tried to.

  One of the terrorists pulled something out of a backpack. A laptop. Two laptops. He opened them up and set one to France1, the main French news station, and the other to CNN. They were expecting the news to hit at any moment.

  Five men surrounded the laptops, jabbering excitedly in a mixture of Syrian Arabic and Iraqi Marsh Arabic. Their guard was down. Mark could have taken them down if he had his old team with him. But he didn’t. Going after them single-handedly would just get him killed and would leave Harper alone.

  The Moscow theater hostage crisis lasted 4 days. The Beslan school siege lasted 3 days. This hostage crisis, though in a country that wasn’t willing to sacrifice hostages, could last days, weeks. If Mark went out and sacrificed himself, Harper would be left to starve or die of thirst before it ended.

  He had a few ideas but they would have to wait.

  “So,” Harper said, looking up at him. “A plumbing supplies importer?”

  He looked at her and smiled.

  “How did you come up with that?”

  “It’s the most boring job I could think of. Actually, my dad had a plumbing supplies import business. A really big one. I could bore you senseless comparing French and Italian zinc tubing. The job is the kiss of death. No one wants to hear about it. Another boring job is tax software manager.”

  “You’ve used that one, as well?”

  Mark nodded. “And logistics expert a couple of times. That’s a big yawn, too.”

  She put a hand on his chest, her fingers finding the knot of tissue that was a bullet scar and he’d told her was from a practice stick. “Those scars are not from practicing martial arts in dojos.”

  “Nope.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments.

  “So…who are you? I could make a couple of educated guesses. And if you are what I think you are, you probably can’t say much. But the truth is that we could die here. We’ve…been to bed together. I think I deserve to know who you really are.”

  They had had sex, and Mark wanted to have sex with her again. And again and again. But it wasn’t just that. He wanted to simply spend time with her. She was so beautiful, so graceful and so very smart. Every minute with her was a pleasure, and he wanted a lot of those minutes. So if they were going to be together, yes, she deserved to know who he was.

  But it went against his every instinct to tell her the truth. He hadn’t told anyone outside the service and his business who he really was for years. His company employed two anti-social media experts who worked night and day to keep him and his business out of the news. He operated best in the dark. He hadn’t been photographed other than for IDs since he was 22. Revealing his identity was almost like slicing open his chest and showing his beating heart. His throat felt tight.

  When he didn’t say anything, Harper looked down at her hands. “Is Mark Redmond even your real name?”

  His throat opened up a little. “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s a start.”

  This was surprisingly hard. Being naked with her, with all his scars, was nothing in comparison. Mark didn’t know how to continue. Foreign territory. He’d never opened up to anyone, ever. The people he worked with knew who he was, what he could do. The rest of humanity stayed in the dark.

  Once he started, though, it became easier. Sitting with his back against a dusty wall, not knowing if they’d live to see another day, with murderous terrorists on the other side of the wall, he told this beautiful woman who fascinated him the truth.

  “I wasn’t brilliant at school, but I loved military history, had excellent hand-eye coordination and was really good at martial arts, which made the military an obvious choice. I think my dad would have wanted me to take over his business—boring as it was¾when he retired but it was clear to him by the time I was ten that wasn’t going to happen. What I said about the dojo was mostly true. I have been around dojos since I was a kid. I swept and changed towels at my first dojo in exchange for some lessons. My dad didn’t want to pay for them, he wanted me to do accelerated math, which interested me but not as much as martial arts. He paid for my lessons finally and then ended up buying the dojo. We bought about ten of them after that, which I ran while I was in high school. I was…pretty single-minded.

  “I joined the military after college where I got a degree in computer science, and turned the chain of dojos over to a good friend. The chain is doing really well, and always has. When we started training in hand-to-hand combat in boot camp, I knew what I was doing. Same with firearms. I was in Special Forces for eight years, doing things I can’t talk about unless you have clearance for it. When I got out, I set up a company of my own as a security consultant. We’re the people you call when you have a problem that can’t land in the newspapers.”

  “The company must be doing very well,” Harper said. “Private limo, the Ritz.”

  “Yeah.” His company was one of the biggest in the world in that business.

  The satellite phone vibrated soundlessly. Mark put the earbud in and tapped it twice. “Yeah, talk to me.”

  Mike’s voice was calm. “Thank God you were able to get a shot of the leader before he put the ski mask on. He’s been identified as Pierre Hamidou, third-generation Algerian. Mentally unstable. He joined the police force in 2013 but proved too unstable and he was forced out. But evidently, he recruited some men. Four of the men are either current police officers or were in the police force. Bad business.”

  “Yeah.” Mark thought through the consequences. “We don’t know how high up this goes. Tell our contact at the DGSE not to share with any of the police authorities.”

  “Hard. But agreed.”

  “Mike…” Mark hesitated. This was unusual. He never hesitated when he spoke. But this was important.

  Silence. Mike was waiting.

  “I’m with a civilian here. She must be kept safe. I don’t want her caught in the cross fire.”

  This was the first time—whether in the military or in his eight years running his company—that he’d had any consideration beyond the mission. Whatever Mike thought, Mark was deadly serious. He was not doing anything to endanger Harper.

  “Roger that,” Mike said.

  “Your word.”

  “My word.”

  That was good enough for Mark.

  “So. Is there a plan?”

  “We’re still working on one.”

  “Because I have one.”

  “I’m not surprised. Talk.”

  “The Dubrovka Theater scenario. Modified so it doesn’t kill hostages.”

  Silence.

  “And I need to be armed. I could grab one of the attackers and get his weapon but the leader, this Pierre Hamidou, keeps checking in with his men. I could make it look like an accidental death but nothing would explain away a lost weapon. They’d tear down the building looking for it and someone sooner or later will think of the hollow walls, which is where we’re holed up right now.”

  “I’ll talk with our guy at the DGSE,” Mike said. “He’ll be in touch soon.”

  “Roger that,” Mark said and disconnected.

  “The Dubrovka Theater scenario?” Harper asked.

  Harper was smart but she was a civilian. She was nearly overwhelmed as it was—trapped behind walls, with murderous terrorists just feet away. A thousand ways to die. Mark didn’t want to flood her with data on something that might not be viable. He hugged her closer, putting his mouth close to her ear again.

  “One of many possible scenarios,” he said. “We’ll have to wait and see. And—” He stopped, looking at his cellphone screen.

  In the room outside, the two laptops came to life. CNN and FRANCE1, both.

  The sound was adjustable. Mark used the screen to direct the tiny microphone toward the laptop showing CNN. He didn’t want the distraction of French.

  BREAKING NEWS was on the red ch
yron scrolling across the bottom. THE LOUVRE UNDER ATTACK.

  The opening words of the anchorwoman were lost. Mark finely adjusted the tiny directional mic. Suddenly, the anchorwoman’s voice was as clear as if she were speaking next to him, the FRANCE1 anchorman’s voice a dull background noise.

  The red chyron below the FRANCE1 anchorman read: DERNIERE MINUTE: ATTAQUE TERRORISTE A LA LOUVRE.

  CNN. “For those just now tuning in, there is a developing hostage crisis at the Louvre, in Paris, France. This morning at 10:35, there were shots at the entrance to the world-famous museum, under the Pyramid. The shots were closely followed by the sound of explosives as the entrance was blown up and buried under glass and stone. The famous Pyramid in the courtyard of the Louvre is no more.”

  On the screen appeared a helicopter shot of the internal courtyard of the Louvre with a jagged hole in the center. Mark heard Harper’s sharp intake of breath as she realized what it was—the place the graceful glass Pyramid used to be. Her fingers dug into his thigh and he tightened his arm around her.

  “As you can see, the Pyramid of the Louvre has been destroyed. Attackers swarmed through the famous museum and there are reports of many casualties. Exactly how many is unknown since the security cameras inside the museum have been turned off. We do have footage of the start of the attack from visitor cellphones. Some sent the footage to the police authorities. We are showing a selection of them. Warning—some of the footage is very graphic. Parents, be advised.”

  What followed was a gruesome montage with a soundtrack of screaming, terrified tourists. Running full out were men dressed in black with black balaclavas, shooting as they ran. Tourists falling. Some of the men were dressed in police uniforms.

  People falling on the grand staircase, blood on the white stone, the images shaky, the sounds heartbreaking.

  An apocalypse.

  Harper watched wide-eyed, face pale, tears tracking down her face.

  Even Mark, a battle-hardened soldier who’d seen plenty of blood spilled, felt his heart clench. These were civilians, innocent tourists. Men, women and children falling. Someone had had the time and decency to pixelate the faces of the children, but that did nothing to soften the blow of seeing their small bodies crumpled on the ground.

  CNN cut back to the grim-faced anchor. “As you can see,” she said, “it’s a massacre. That is the only footage we have from inside the museum because at 11:10 a.m. all communications from cellphones inside the Louvre ceased. It is assumed that the terrorists effected a cellphone-coverage blackout.”

  She kept her voice even but her hands were gripping the sheets of paper on her desk.

  “Here are some tourists who escaped from the terrible attack.”

  The screen cut to eyewitness accounts from shaken tourists. None of them came from the Gallery.

  “The terrorists are now in the Salle des Etats, the room in the Louvre with eight world-famous paintings, including the Mona Lisa. And now—” She stopped, head down, hand pressed against her ear. She looked up into the camera. “Now for breaking news, we go to the CNN correspondent in Paris, Lyle Parsons, at the Élysée Palace. We have just been told that the president of the French Republic is going to be speaking.”

  The monitor switched to a scene in a great ceremonial room, huge chandeliers mirrored along the ornate walls.

  Under the screen was another chyron. Hervé de Montigny, President of France, addresses the nation.

  The president began talking and Mark followed the subtitles.

  “Today all of France is under attack. An attack on the Louvre is an attack on the heart of all French women and men. It is an attack on the world. There are dead men and women lying in the halls of the very symbol of French civilization, and a number of people are being held hostage in the Salle des Etats, under the Mona Lisa, which was attacked as well.”

  The video shifted to the shot of Pierre Hamidou looking like he was going to behead the blonde tourist, instead swiveling and slashing the painting behind him.

  The screen cut back to the president. “To the despicable men now holding hostages in the Salle des Etats in the Louvre, we say this: we will never negotiate with barbarians, with terrorists.”

  The screen cut back to the studio, the anchorwoman looking somber. She’d clearly been briefed on the threats coming from the terrorists. “What the president didn’t state was the requests of the terrorists. CNN has sources saying that the Louvre attackers wish to swap the hostages for terrorists being held by French law enforcement. To understand the situation better, we have terrorism expert Manuel LaVarga in our studio. Mr. LaVarga, how would you describe the current situation in the Louvre?”

  Mark studied LaVarga’s face carefully. He’d had dealings with LaVarga before and found him to be tough and smart.

  “Well, I’d say right now that this is a classic stalemate. The attackers have managed to fortify themselves in the middle of a huge building where they would have ample notice if French soldiers were to attack. Word is that they have planted explosives, and besides wanting to keep the hostages safe, I can say that there isn’t a Frenchman alive whose heart doesn’t quake at the thought of the destruction of the Louvre. And there isn’t a Frenchman alive who isn’t heartbroken at the destruction of the Pyramid.

  “So the attackers—and we don’t know their affiliation as of this moment, whether they are ISIS or Al-Qaeda or any of their offshoots—are in a way protected by hundreds of thousands of square feet of building that law enforcement and the military do not wish to see harmed. They are holding over a hundred hostages and will no doubt start killing them if their demands are not met. And you have just heard the French president say that France does not negotiate with terrorists. So—stalemate.”

  “Is that French policy? Not negotiating with terrorists?”

  LaVarga nodded. “It is. The French over the course of the past decade have taken a hard line on terrorism, having suffered numerous attacks on their citizenry. The French president means it. No negotiation. But that doesn’t leave the authorities many cards to play.”

  “Thank you for that analysis, Manuel.” The anchor swiveled a little in her chair and faced forward. “That about wraps up what we know at this time. Over one hundred hostages are being held in the Louvre by terrorists who shot their way in, leaving behind hundreds of dead bodies. At this moment, we have no idea exactly how many victims are lying dead in the halls of the museum. The terrorists have defaced the most important painting in the world, the Mona Lisa. They have blown up the famous entrance to the museum, the glass Pyramid. They threaten to kill the hostages and blow up the world-famous museum if their demands to free what they call political prisoners are not met. Stay tuned for further news on the ongoing hostage crisis at the Louvre.”

  The FRANCE1 anchorman was still talking. Mark slipped his earbud to Harper and positioned the mini mike so that it was picking up the French channel clearly.

  His satphone vibrated. Mike. “What do you have for me?”

  “The head of Action Division of the DGSE on the line.”

  Mark wanted to know one thing. “Do you trust him? Him personally?”

  “Yes,” Mike answered, “I do. Absolutely.”

  That was enough for Mark. Mark’s expertise was the Middle East and Mike’s was Europe. “Can you patch me through?”

  “Roger that. Hold.” There were a series of clicks and whistles, most of which were encryption and decryption. They were being routed from satellite to satellite and station to station. “Okay, Mark, you’re a go. You’re speaking with the director of Action Division, Serge Robert.” Mike pronounced it Roh-ber.

  “Mr. Redmond.” A deep voice with a faint accent came online.

  Harper must have realized that something was going on. She’d been listening carefully, taking notes in a little booklet of notepaper, but now she looked up at him, a question in her eyes.

  He kissed her gently on the forehead and rotated his finger. Tell you later.

  She nodde
d and went back to listening to French TV.

  “Mr. Robert,” Mark answered. He had a ton of respect for the DGSE. They were tough and smart and hard-asses, every one. “You understand the situation.”

  “I do,” the deep voice answered. “And I’ve seen the video.”

  “I’m going to send all my videos, if you give me your number.”

  “Excellent.”

  Robert gave his number and Mark sent him everything his cellphone had recorded. It would be a lot more intel than the propaganda video broadcast. It would give the number of terrorists in the room, weaponry, position with regard to the hostages. Not to mention the uncovered faces.

  “Received. Excellent intel. I understand you’re in a concealed position,” Robert said.

  “We’re in a concealed position.” Mark met Harper’s eyes. “There are two of us, myself and a woman. Her safety is paramount.” Mark was willing to go on the attack if they could arm him but only if he could mount that attack far away from Harper.

  “Understood,” Robert murmured. “Can you state your position?”

  “We are inside the walls of the Mona Lisa room. The walls have an internal space. We’re fairly well concealed, but the entrance to most of the side rooms of the Grand Gallery are covered by armed men.”

  “Understood. We’re working on a plan. We are also considering your proposal of the Moscow Dubrovka Theater scenario.”

  Good. So far it was the only way out that Mark could see. Except for the fact that in Moscow, people died at the hands of the police rescuing them. And in this case, the police could also be part of the problem.

  “Do you understand why I had Mike contact you and not the police?”

  “I do.” Robert’s voice turned grim. “Excellent call. Not only is the ringleader a former police officer—though for only a few months—but we’ve identified three of the men in the video you sent me. The intel just came in. They are all in some way connected to the police force. Two were briefly agents, one applied but didn’t make the grade. I’m sending you their police ID photos and the job application photo of the one who didn’t make it into the police.”