“I knew you’d find a way.”
He slid his glass on the counter and fumbled in his blazer for his cigarettes.
“Pierre?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m still here.”
“I can tell when somebody needs to talk. Keep talking.”
“Will you be sending me a bill for this therapy session?”
“Probably not. But I never thought I’d have to be your conversational crutch. You’re taking this rejection by Gomez hard.”
He changed his mind on the cigarette and lifted his fingers from the crinkling pack.
“I’m not sure I can yet qualify it as a rejection,” he said. “I rendered him services, he accomplished his mission, and he paid me my standard fee. I should be celebrating a successful client engagement. Why do I feel so damned violated?”
“Because you’ve become used to people keeping you on as their advisor until you’re done advising them. This time, Gomez kept you on until he was done being advised.”
“I see,” he said. “I’ve been a fool to think he would let me serve as his negotiator at the bargaining table. He used me instead to ignite a war. My God, what have I done?”
“You did the right thing, Pierre. I wouldn’t have helped you if I thought otherwise. The Falklands issue has been a volcano for years, and it had to erupt some time. Now’s as good a time as any while we can tie it to a hothead president.”
He reached for his cigarettes again but willed his hand back into his lap.
“Perhaps. But what do we do now that I’ve opened Pandora’s Box.”
“We stop Gomez. Is he expecting you to contact him again?”
“He said he’d summon me tomorrow morning to debrief me, but I believe that was lie. I don’t expect to hear from him again. But I will have to attempt to contact him and go through the motions since he doesn’t know that I know of his attempt to sink the Ambush.”
Her tone turned somber.
“I have bad news. Anti-submarine aircraft are going to get to the Ambush.”
“Dear God. Can anyone stop it?”
“I’m afraid not, Pierre.”
“I did this,” Renard said. “I doomed innocent men on a submarine to a ghastly fate.”
“You’ve done it before. You’ll recover from it.”
Although meant to soothe, her words stung. The count of faceless corpses weighing on his conscience approached one thousand, but each prior episode of devastation had served a greater good. The Ambush would be the first vessel sacrificed to his failing. His breathing became rapid and labored.
“How long do they have?” he asked.
“The first Orion is already dropping sonobuoys,” she said. “I’ve asked Ramirez to stop them, but he’s not sure what he can do.”
“Has he called for an emergency election for a vote of no confidence in Gomez?”
“He’s gathering commitment for the vote and expects to have enough support to call for it in the morning.”
“Then he must behave as if he already is the president. He must reach out to his loyal military followers and call off the attack on the Ambush.”
“He’s doing what he can.”
“He must do better!”
“Hold on,” she said. “Let me hang up and make a call to get an update. I need to get on the plane now anyway.”
He lowered the phone into his pocket and sipped cognac. Forgetting himself and yielding to nervous compulsion, he then tipped the glass back and swallowed the stinging heat.
When Olivia called, he lifted the phone to his cheek and heard turbojet engines whining in the background.
“Yes?” he asked. “What news?”
“An admiral loyal to Ramirez was able to pull back one of the Orions. Apparently, the admiral knows the pilot and was able to get his attention. But the second Orion is ignoring hails outside of the chain of command.”
“Misapplied military discipline,” Renard said.
“At least that’s only half the danger, right?”
“That’s like saying one dagger in the heart is less fatal than two,” he said. “It only means that the single Orion may need more time to find its target.”
“I’m sorry, Pierre.”
“Would the Argentines send one of their own aircraft to counter the Orion? Are there any pilots loyal to Ramirez?”
“No,” she said. “Ramirez can influence ground troops and small portions of the maritime forces, but Gomez owns the air. We’re lucky he got one of the Orions to turn back.”
“Are there other Orions coming?”
“No, that’s it,” she said. “They scavenged parts from their remaining aircraft to get the first two airborne. If that last remaining Orion is turned back, the Ambush will escape.”
The bartender approached Renard, who gestured for a refill.
“Is there nothing the British can do?” he asked. “Are there any combat aircraft in the area? Patrol craft from Ascension Island that could engage?”
“There’s nothing close enough from Ascension. Technically, there’s a Typhoon remaining from Mount Pleasant, but it’s helpless. It’s completely out of missiles and almost out of bullets.”
“There’s a British Typhoon remaining in theater? You jest.”
“No. I’m not kidding. One survived. The pilot is credited with shooting down five Argentine Skyhawks and may get credit for more by the time they sort it out. But he can’t do anything without weapons.”
A low flame rose within Renard’s pit of despair.
“The Orion hunting the Ambush is carrying a standard anti-submarine loadout, is it not?”
“I can’t vouch for the loadout.”
“Let’s assume that it is. That means minimal to zero air defense. That could work to our favor. What’s that Typhoon doing, specifically?”
“He’s at low altitude to hide from the Dragon’s radar and waiting for his fuel to run out before he ejects. They’ve sent ships to pull him from the water after he jumps.”
Renard’s mind jumped into hyper-drive and raced toward a perceived opportunity.
“Can I speak with him?” he asked.
“Who? The pilot?”
“Yes, I have an idea.”
“What sort of idea? I can’t just patch you into the British communications channel and let you chat with him.”
“Of course you can,” he said. “What you mean is that you won’t because of my role in these hostilities.”
“How would I introduce you?”
“As your naval combat advisor.”
“But you’re not.”
“I will be, once you agree to it.”
“Say I agree to it,” she said. “What’s your approach?”
“You and I need to understand the minimal amount of damage that an Orion aircraft can withstand before it becomes uncontrollable.”
“The British have already assessed this. They have experts, and they know that the Typhoon’s remaining bullets are useless against it.”
“Perhaps, but if you compound the bullets with the fuselage of a Typhoon aircraft moving at several hundred knots, then I’m sure you can bring down an Orion.”
“You want me to patch you into a secure Royal Air Force military channel to talk a British pilot into a kamikaze mission?”
“Not quite,” he said. “But almost. And maybe. I’ll need an Orion expert engaged in the conversation as well to help assess the approach.”
“You’re asking a lot.”
“We don’t have time. Will you patch me through? Will you trust me, Olivia?”
In the silence, he thought he heard her heart beating.
“I’ll set it up,” she said. “When I call you back, don’t use your name or any of your aliases. In fact, use the code name Angel.”