Over the turquoise Tyrrhenian Sea came the rumble of heavy engines. Janson spotted the familiar high-wing silhouettes of a fleet of camouflage-green turboprop C-160 Transalls approaching the coast at two thousand feet.
“French Foreign Legion,” Kincaid explained. “Deuxième Régiment Étranger des Parachutistes has rapid-intervention units barracked up north at Calvi.”
An orange smoke flare began burning on the beach. Kincaid scoped it with her field glasses.
“It’s an exercise. There’s brass observing.”
As they watched, the airborne Legionnaires jumped, spreading behind the planes in tight formation. They plummeted nearly to the ground. Seconds after they opened their parachutes, they hit the sand.
“Very nice,” said Janson.
Kincaid passed him her field glasses. “Look how they bunch on the beach.”
The paratroopers were free of their chutes and aiming assault rifles at their objective—a truck on top of which stood a sergeant glaring at his hand. Janson couldn’t see it, but he knew it had to be a stop watch.
“ ‘Hard Training—Easy War,’ ” said Kincaid. “Legion motto.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“I had a glass of wine with their colonel.”
“Really? …” He looked at her. “Did the colonel express an opinion about the Vallicone peninsula?”
“I did not think Iboga was a subject to raise with a French officer.”
“Roger that,” said Janson. He checked his watch and stared at the maps Kincaid had drawn.
She said, “I’ve got Freddy and his boys holding the fort at Vallicone—awaiting the word from you.”
“I’ve got helicopters on call and fast boats on a freighter standing by in the Bonifacio Strait. What I don’t have is proof Iboga is on that peninsula.”
Kincaid tapped her map. “To me, these machine guns say Iboga’s there. So do the radar and the helicopters. We have to hit them fast, before they move him.”
“If we raid the peninsula and he’s not there, we end up in a shooting war with some outfit that feels strongly enough about its security to mount machine guns, radar, and helicopters.”
“We can’t just sit around while they whisk him out from under our noses.”
“I want to know more before I commit to a raid that could turn into an ugly mistake.”
“We have to do something.”
“We’ll start by getting you out of that leather. Go down to Porto-Vecchio and buy some clothes.”
“It’s a Eurotrash town. The shops only sell slutwear.”
“Slutwear will be most appropriate.”
“Come again?” Kincaid asked with a dangerous glint in her eye.
Janson opened his wallet and showed her an engraved invitation.
“The Ministry of Economic Affairs, Industry and Employment and Agence Développement Economique de la Corse request the pleasure of Janson Associates’ company at a champagne reception for investors in a hotel and condo consortium.”
“Where’d you get that?”
“Friend in Paris. There’ll be deep-pockets developers and a bunch of French business elite. Someone ought to have the lowdown on a valuable piece of real estate like Vallicone peninsula. We’ll do our act and nail down some intelligence we can count on.”
“Which act?”
“Rich old corporate security consultant hired to protect Agence Développement Economique de la Corse from criminals who launder money through legitimate projects—accompanied by trophy girlfriend masquerading as personal assistant.”
“Which part do you play?”
“Meet me at the yacht. It’s called Tax Free.”
Kincaid nodded, still impatient, but liking the new challenge. “Where’s the plane?” she asked.
Janson looked at his watch again.“Ed and Mike should be taking off from Zurich just about now,” he assured her. “They’ll be landing at Figari Airport in two hours.” He knew she wasn’t asking about the Embraer. She meant where was her favorite rifle?
* * *
JANSON COMMANDEERED Tax Free’s flying bridge to make phone calls. High above the water, the outside steering station on the roof of the motor yacht’s wheelhouse offered a view of the crowded marina, Porto-Vecchio’s harbor, and the sun-washed houses of the town, and privacy from the crew scrubbing decks, polishing chrome, varnishing brightwork, and vacuuming carpets.
Quintisha Upchurch reported that everything he had requisitioned was in place. “Including the decoy, though I must say the Russians were really prickly about it. It would have been easier to get one of your arms dealers to sell us a real one.”
Janson confirmed names, numbers, and details, and she closed by saying, “Mr. Case called. He said to tell you he had been ‘underground’ and that you would know what he meant.”
“Thank you, Quintisha, talk to you soon.”
Janson returned Case’s call eagerly. “Underground” would be Doug’s jokey code for “mole.”
“What’s up?” he asked when Case answered.
Case said, “I’m not sure what this means, but Kingsman Helms has been badmouthing the hell out of Acting President Poe. I get the impression he’s raising sentiment in the company against him.”
“To what purpose?” asked Janson.
“You’re asking me to guess?”
“You’re in ASC’s Houston HQ,” said Janson. “I am not.”
“My best guess? Helms is laying the groundwork to turn ASC against Poe.”
“To what end?”
“Backing a replacement.”
“Interesting,” said Janson. “That will bear some thinking. How are things otherwise?”
“Personally, I’m itching to get out of here.”
“Hang in there,” said Janson. “Let all this play out. Any luck with the Reaper connection?”
“No. And I’m not expecting any. It would be a personal connection—strictly one-to-one—retired officer in private work paying a ton of dough or promising a brilliant future to a serving officer.”
“That is obvious,” said Janson. “Keep poking. What do you know about GRA?”
“Rings a bell. Sort of. Can’t place it. What does it stand for?”
“Ground Resource Access.”
“That’s oil talk.”
“Yes, but could it be a company name?”
“Who knows?”
“I’m asking you.”
“I’ll get back to you on that. Where are you?”
“London. But call Quintisha. I’m probably heading out of here.”
“Talk to you.”
* * *
DOUG CASE SAID good-bye to Paul Janson and hung up smiling.
Cons Ops had trained them how to lie. Glibly. Effortlessly. There wasn’t a lie detector or voice analyzer invented they couldn’t fox. He had been one of the best. Janson, per usual, thebest. So damned good that Doug Case was half-inclined to believe that Janson really was in London—even though he knew beyond any doubt that Paul Janson was in Porto-Vecchio on the island of Corsica.
THIRTY-THREE
Jessica Kincaid stalked into Tax Free’s salon wearing six-inch spike heels and white vintage Capri pants low on her hips. The iridescent clutch in her hand was barely big enough to hold a cell phone and a knife, and it was a mystery to Janson how a silk handkerchief had been reengineered as a halter top.
“How do I look?”
“Young enough to be carded by a responsible bartender— Wait a minute! No, you don’t. Where are your muffin tops?”
Kincaid cast a wintery eye at the bared swell of her hips. “I don’t have muffin tops.”
“But teenagers do. You don’t look chubby enough to pass for my teenage girlfriend.”
“Russian girls are the main competition for rich dudes in this town. We ain’t gonna see no muffin tops at that party.”
As they started to leave, Janson’s phone rang.