“Nope,” Steve said, finishing off the last of the meat and rice. “Born and raised in Alabama. Went to UA. Roll Tide and all that. Got a degree in video tech and a job with ABC. Been all over the U.S., but this is my first overseas assignment. Sitting in Paris, nursemaiding a broken van.”
Mike watched as Steve set down his fork, and it hit him. Americans, almost invariably, will cut a piece of meat with the fork in their left hand and then change back to holding it in their right. Steve had been eating with the fork held, almost the whole time, in his left. It was the “Continental” style of eating. And he’d done it smoothly and flawlessly. It wasn’t just that he was trying to pick up local manners, it was his normal mode of doing things.
“What’s wrong with the van?” Mike asked disinterestedly.
“Generator’s broke,” “Steve” said. “We’ve got a call in to a tech, but I can’t get it running.”
“You got any other problems?” Mike asked, taking a sip of coffee.
“Other than the generator, nope,” Steve said.
“Well, if you do have any, call the embassy,” Mike said, standing up. “They’ll know how to get in touch with me.”
“Will do,” Steve said, smiling. “Good to hear American again.”
“Same here,” Mike replied, grinning back. “It’s gonna be a good day.”
He wandered back out of the press area, stopping from time to time to chat with the American crews, then over to the command post.
“Colonel Chateauneuf?” he asked one of the sergeants at the main van.
“He is around,” the sergeant said, shrugging.
“Call him,” Mike said in a command tone. “Now.”
Chapter Seven
“You, as they say, rang?” Colonel Chateauneuf said, strolling up.
“I hope like hell I didn’t hit pay dirt,” Mike said, pulling him over to where they could talk quietly. “But I think I did. There are three ABC vans. One of them has a ‘broken’ generator. The guy nursemaiding it says he’s American, and he’s got a good accent, but he’s not.”
“And you know this, how?” the colonel asked, carefully.
“The way he eats?” Mike said. “Word choice? He’s not.”
“Does he know that you suspect?” the colonel asked.
“I’m pretty sure not,” Mike replied.
“So… and so…” the colonel said, blowing out and grimacing. “How to do this?”
“I have an idea,” Mike said.
“Hey, Steve,” Mike said, walking over to the ABC van. “Your country needs you.”
“What?” the man said, standing up from where he’d been tapping on his laptop.
“I’ve got a situation I need help with,” Mike replied, closing the laptop and pulling on his arm. “Quick. CBS has managed to really piss off the French. Something about camera angles. I don’t know for camera angles so I need a third party to interpret.”
“I’ve got to watch the van,” Steve said desperately, his accent slipping.
“Look, this won’t take more than five minutes,” Mike replied, stuffing the laptop into the man’s case and hanging it over his shoulder. “It’s locked, right?”
“Yeah,” “Steve” said, allowing himself to be led away.
Mike led him out of the press area and over to an area that was near the command post and out of sight.
“So,” Mike said as they rounded a corner and “Steve” found himself confronted by three sub-gun wielding police and Colonel Chateauneuf, “care to tell me who you really are?”
“Steve” let out a grunt of surprise and plucked his cell phone off his hip.
“Not happenin’,” Mike said, grabbing his hand and twisting it so hard he heard a crack.
The man let out a cry and dropped the cell phone, cradling the wrist as one of the police officers stepped forward. The officer slid plastic cuffs on him, broken wrist and all, then a hood over his head. The man was hustled into a police car, which drove sedately away.
“I think you may be right,” Chateauneuf said, blowing out and picking up the cell phone gingerly.
“May I?” Mike asked. When the colonel handed it to him, he scrolled through the speed dial list. Most of them were names, all European sounding and almost certainly false. But one was listed as “Fire” and one as “Ice.”
Mike noted down those two numbers and handed the phone back.
“And now,” Mike said, “I think you’d better call your very best EOD people.”
“We cannot afford to move it,” the senior EOD tech said.
The hurried meeting was taking place in one of the police vans. It included Madame LaSalle-Guerinot, who was looking pissed as all get out, the colonel, a couple of senior police officers and Mike, who had forced his way in through sheer chutzpah.
“There could be tremblor switches,” the tech continued. “There could be a locator system. They could be watching, for all we know. It could be detonated at any time.”
As he said that, the terrorist’s cell phone, which was in the middle of the table, began to buzz.
Most of the people around the table looked at it like it was a snake. Mike just leaned forward and picked it up.
“Yep?” he said in his very best Southern drawl.
“How is it going, Steve?” a man said. He had a faint British accent underlaid with something else. Mike recalled that the “engineer” had been trained in British boarding schools. He was talking loudly since there was music in the background. Mike recognized the tune as being a current dance hit. He mainly recognized it because it was the sort of thing you heard in strip joints a lot.
“Turr’ble,” Mike answered, half shouting. “Jist turr’ble. Generator’s still broke. D’ju call that technician?”
“Yes, I did,” the man said in a puzzled tone.
“Talkin’ to a guy from the embassy ‘bout it now,” Mike drawled, rolling his eyes. “Hope he gits har befur the pope.”
“Ah,” the man shouted understandingly. “He will, I’m sure. Or about the time the pope arrives. When he gets there, you can go, of course.”
“Weel thankee,” Mike yelled, his eyes cold. “Thankee kindly. Gotta go now. Later.”
“Later,” the man said.
Mike hit the disconnect and counted.
“One, two, three…” He closed his eyes and waited and then sighed. “I think he bought it. One Southern accent sounds about the same as another to a foreigner. They can’t tell the difference between Alabama and North Florida.”
“Are you INSANE?” Madame LaSalle-Guerinot shouted. “He could have decided that the operation was blown and blown us all sky!”
“Oh, higher,” Mike said. “Which was exactly what he would have done if the phone wasn’t answered. With, more or less, the correct voice. I know this bastard. He loves to see things go boom. He set the timer on the nuke in Andros, for example, rather than have it fall into our hands. If he gets a sniff that there’s anything wrong, he’ll set it off just to see the pretty lights on TV.
“Look,” he continued to the EOD tech. “Go in looking like repair technicians. That is what everyone in the area is expecting. Enter the forward part of the van; I’ve seen him use the door, so it can’t be rigged. You have his keys. Set up in there, out of sight. Do your magic. Get cracking, though. It’s going to be a tough nut.”
“That will work,” one of the senior police said, to nods. “We can give you cover clothing. You’ll have to pack your gear so it is out of sight.”