“Waiting until the tanker was anchored right off the Polish coast seems too risky. Anyone caught snooping around that mooring area would have been damned hard-pressed to explain what they were doing there.” The CIA director shook his head. “Professionals don’t like working without a safety net. They’d pick somewhere busier, with more ships of all types coming and going. Somewhere they could slip into without being noticed and still get out of fast if anything went wrong.”
Quinn wiped his forehead again and this time pushed his chair back a foot or so from the fire. “That’s why we’re fairly sure whoever sabotaged the North Star did it long before she ever reached Gdansk. Maybe while she was still loading in Stavanger. Maybe sometime during her transit through the Skagerrak or the Kattegat.”
He shrugged. “Trouble is, there are just too many bases to cover. I’ve got officers spread through the region and so do both the British and the Norwegians, but it’s like hunting for a needle that’s not only hidden but invisible as well.”
The President, Thurman, and the others nodded their understanding. Without any physical evidence to narrow down the type of explosive device or even its location aboard the ship, Quinn’s agents faced a Herculean challenge. They didn’t know whether to look for a turncoat dockworker, bearded Green lunatics aboard a sailboat, or a highly trained commando team sent in by minisub.
Suddenly Huntington’s mind came alive as he remembered what he’d seen and been told at the Polish port. He lifted a hand, interrupting the CIA chief. “Hold on, Walt. It’s likely this mine or bomb or whatever it was, was set to go off at a particular time, right?”
Quinn nodded. “Probably. Command detonation would be chancy — especially through the water or a metal hull. Radio waves don’t travel too well through either medium. Given that, using a timed device of some sort would be the best method.”
“And that’s exactly why we know the explosives were planted sometime after the North Star arrived off Gdansk.” Huntington looked around the parlor. “The tanker didn’t offload on schedule. We all know that now. But who could have known that before she got there?”
He answered his own question. “Nobody. By the time she showed up, Gdansk was taking ships in on almost a catch-as-catch-can basis. Some tankers were in and out of the port on schedule. Others wound up days late.”
Quinn looked puzzled. “I don’t see your point.”
“Think about it.” Huntington felt excitement rising inside. It was the same feeling he used to get when he spotted the solution to a stubborn production problem or when he held a winning poker hand. “If the explosives were planted aboard any earlier, they’d have been timed to go off while the North Star was in port. Anchored smack-dab in the middle of Gdansk instead of sitting several miles offshore.”
Scofield saw it first. “Of course. Not even those bastards in Paris or Berlin would destroy a whole city just to cut off Polish oil imports.”
The President turned his gaze on the CIA director. “I think your invisible needle just turned visible, Walt. And the Poles are looking in exactly the right place.”
“So it seems, Mr. President,” Quinn said stiffly, obviously irked and embarrassed at being one-upped by an amateur. Huntington had a feeling that the director’s senior advisors were in for a tongue-lashing when he got back to Langley.
Fortunately for the CIA chief, the President seemed more interested in the next move than in finding fault for past errors. “Okay, Walt. I want a full-court press from every intelligence organization and asset we’ve got, focusing on the area around Gdansk. Satellite photos. SIGINT. Everything. Get your field people in touch with the Poles and coordinate with them. Somewhere, somehow, there’s evidence that connects the goddamned French or the Germans to what happened. And I want it. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” The President paced to the window and stood staring out into the fading afternoon. “Then, when Pendleton or any other congressional son-of-a-bitch starts moaning about our support for Poland, I’ll be ready to fire back.”
“That could be very risky, Mr. President,” Thurman warned. “Telling the American people that French or German agents murdered the North Star’s crew could rouse a fire storm of public fury — one we couldn’t control.”
“You think we should just look the other way?”
Thurman paused to relight his pipe, then nodded slowly. “There are precedents.”
Huntington knew that was true. During the cold war, the Soviets had shot down several U.S. reconnaissance aircraft — some over the Sea of Japan, others closer to the Russian coast. And Israeli jets had turned a U.S. intelligence ship, the Liberty, into a flaming, bombed-out wreck during the 1967 Six-Day War. In each case, the United States had ruled out direct retaliation or even immediate public disclosure. At the time no one in power had wanted to provoke a crisis or escalate existing tensions.
“After all, a quiet, unofficial approach to Paris with the information could…”
The President turned his head. The cold, grim expression on his face choked Thurman off in midsentence. “First we find the evidence, Mr. Secretary. Then I will decide what we do with it.”
He turned back to the window. More lights were coming on around Camp David as the day gave way to another long winter night.
Nicolas Desaix stood near the entrance to the old European Parliament’s debating chamber, watching government officials from half the continent mingle with one another, each surrounded by a gaggle of junior aides and translators. The vast hall was one great sea of gray — gray hair, gray suits, and dull, gray faces.
What a gathering of apes in fancy dress, he thought sourly.
The prospect of spending the next several days in close contact with these bumpkins from a dozen different countries was anything but pleasing. Nevertheless, it was the price he would have to pay to see his dreams for a Europe united under Franco-German influence take final shape. This conference was a necessary formality. The little nations must have their chance to babble and fume and fuss before they signed agreements already reached by their powerful patrons. International diplomacy was a game more of form than of substance.
Well, so be it.
Desaix donned a pleasant smile suited to the occasion and sauntered through the crowd, exchanging friendly words with those he knew and polite nods with those he didn’t. It was an exhausting charade. Delegates from Austria, Belgium, Croatia, and Hungary approached him one after the other, each seeking some special concession or sign of French favor. Each went away dazzled by his charm and completely empty-handed. Their Serbian, Romanian, and Bulgarian neighbors followed close behind, and received the same polite attention.
He moved on, paying careful heed to several of the neutral observers attending the conference. Russia, Ukraine, and Denmark were all nations he had set his sights on. Bringing them into the emerging European Confederation would greatly increase its size and power. The new alliance would then run unchecked from the Atlantic to the Urals and beyond.
Or almost unchecked, he reminded himself.
There were still no representatives in Strasbourg from Warsaw, Prague, or Bratislava. Desaix pondered that irritably while swapping meaningless courtesies with one of the Russians. The Eastern Europeans were proving far more recalcitrant than he’d imagined possible. What else would it take to bring them to heel?
“Minister!”
Desaix glanced toward the voice, frowning as he recognized one of his own aides. He drew away to a quieter corner. “What is it, Girault?”