“What do you mean, ‘if there are terrorists’?” Gellard demanded. “There’s no ‘if about it! What’s more, it’s obvious that they were aided by traitors inside our own work force. By some of your lazy, shiftless countrymen!”
The factory manager frowned. “Given that fact, Colonel, even an idiot should be able to understand why my company can’t trust this investigation to you or your men. Hungarians hunting Hungarians? The very idea is ludicrous.”
Hradetsky’s irritation flared into open rage. He could stomach arrogance, but he’d be damned if he’d put up with deliberate insults. He stepped closer to Gellard — a move that wiped the easy assurance off the Frenchman’s long, aristocratic face. “I think you should reconsider your choice of words, monsieur. Some of my countrymen might say that you have a tongue so sharp that it must wish for the touch of a knife. Do I make myself clear?”
The manager paled, evidently aware that he’d gone too far. “I didn’t mean… that is, what I said was…”
A helicopter roared low overhead, drowning out his stuttered apology. Both men turned to stare as it circled, flared out, and clattered in to land in the administration center’s parking lot. Hradetsky scowled at the blue, white, and red tricolor emblazoned on the helicopter’s tail-rotor pylon. Clearly the French government wasn’t wasting any time before poking its own nose into this matter.
Three men climbed out of the aircraft, ducking under its slowing rotor blades. Two were big men, mere muscle. The third wore a dark gray civilian suit, carried a bulging leather briefcase, and walked with the easy assurance of a man used to command.
When Hradetsky turned back to face Gellard, the Frenchman had regained his poise. “That will be the security specialist dispatched by my embassy, Colonel. An expert on terrorism and counterterrorist tactics. You can deal with him in future.”
The Hungarian police colonel eyed the short, grim-faced man striding briskly toward them. Something told him this wasn’t going to be a pleasant or productive meeting. “What’s his name?”
Gellard smiled coldly. “Major Paul Duroc.”
CHAPTER 2
Minuet
Paris lay oddly quiet beneath a cloudless blue sky — its wide, tree-lined boulevards and parasol-shaded outdoor cafés empty and deserted. For most Parisians, August was a time for vacations, for a month-long flight from their government jobs, factory floors, and schools. But now the tourists who would ordinarily have taken their places were gone, too — discouraged by the visa restrictions, high prices, and official harassment that were part of the world’s ongoing trade war. Only the growing armies of the unemployed and the homeless were left in the capital. And they were too busy looking for work or food to saunter through the abandoned fashionable districts.
The Place du Palais-Royal showed its own signs of abandonment. The shops and kiosks that normally catered to foreigners eager for postcards and subway maps were padlocked. Instead of block-long lines of sightseers and chattering schoolchildren, only a few scattered art lovers wandered in and out through the Louvre’s north gate, dwarfed by the museum’s gray bulk. A handful of bored cabdrivers loitered near the Métro stop’s escalators, exchanging gibes and the latest gossip through a thin haze of cigarette smoke.
Across the square, the Palais-Royal seemed wrapped in the same kind of August inertia. Soldiers in full dress uniform stood motionless behind the tall iron gates that blocked access to its inner courtyard and main entrance. Others, clothed more comfortably in camouflaged battle dress and fully armed, manned rooftop observation posts. Pairs of hard-faced policemen patrolled the pavement along the fence, looking for beggars or street Arabs to muscle.
Most of the massive building’s windows were either shuttered or blocked by heavy drapes. Few official cars were parked in the inner courtyard, and most of those were covered by tarpaulins to keep the dust and city grime off while their usual passengers and assigned drivers were away on vacation. Despite the tight security, the Palais-Royal appeared as deserted as its surroundings.
But appearances were, as usual, deceiving.
Built during the 1600s, the Palais-Royal had first served as the residence of the Red Eminence, the Cardinal Richelieu. As the twentieth century drew to a close, it contained offices for several high-ranking French officials.
Nicolas Desaix’s private office had its own aura, one matched perfectly to its master — an air of close-held power and restrained elegance. A carpet worn thin by a hundred years of use and embroidered in rich tones of royal blue and scarlet covered the floor. A tapestry commissioned by Richelieu himself graced the wall behind a massive oak desk, and paintings of famous French military victories filled the other walls, on permanent loan from the Louvre. As head of the French intelligence service, the DGSE, Desaix had two other suites — one at the Élysée Palace itself, close to that of the republic’s President, and another at his directorate’s headquarters. But this history-filled sanctuary was the place he preferred for important work.
Now the late afternoon sun slanted through its tall windows, filling half the room with rectangles of red-tinged gold and leaving the rest in shadow.
Alexandre Marchant paused by the door, momentarily dazzled by the sharp contrast between light and dark.
“My dear Marchant! Come in. Come in.” Desaix rose from behind his desk and strode forward, motioning him toward a pair of high-back armchairs off to one side of the room. “You’re looking well.”
“As are you, Director.” Marchant sat down gladly. Years of devotion to good food, good wine, and desk work had saddled him with increasing weight and an expanding waistline. Few of his old schoolmates would have recognized him as the same short, skinny young aeronautical engineer who had once dreamed only of designing the world’s most advanced aircraft. Now those dreams were dead — crushed by the day-to-day considerations of profit margins, costs, and personalities involved in managing the huge industrial conglomerate called Eurocopter.
The man who took the chair across from him couldn’t have been any more different in physical appearance. Nicolas Desaix had the same tall, slender build and prominent, jutting nose his countrymen still associated with France’s last great leader, Charles de Gaulle. It was a resemblance Marchant was sure the intelligence chief valued.
“You’ve seen Major Duroc’s preliminary report?”
Marchant nodded, remembering the blank-faced motorcycle courier who’d hand-carried the document to his home, stood waiting while he read it, and then retrieved it for immediate shredding at the DGSE’s headquarters. That, more than the report’s cold, factual words themselves, had rammed home the dreadful seriousness and secrecy of this matter. What had been planned as a fairly simple act of self-inflicted sabotage had escalated into gunfire and sudden killing.
Desaix seemed to read his mind. “I regret the unfortunate… complications, Alexandre. Especially your security guard’s death.” He shook his head sadly. “He had a wife, I understand?”
“Yes. In Lyons.”
Desaix sighed. “A great pity.” He looked up. “She will be provided for?”
“Of course.” Marchant folded his hands across his lap. “We carry life insurance policies on all our employees, and in this instance my personnel people are organizing a special compensation fund.”
“Good.” Desaix nodded his approval. “France must care for all her fallen sons. No matter how they fall.”
Eurocopter’s chief executive was struck by the evident sincerity in his voice. A few simple words transformed young Monnet’s death into an act of patriotic sacrifice. It was astonishing. This man had more charisma and command presence than the President and the rest of the cabinet combined. Half his talents were wasted in his present position.