“Is our launch on schedule?” asked Chardon.
“All is in place. An Athena V with an explosive drone attached to a communications satellite is scheduled to lift off at 11:35 P.M. local time the day after tomorrow, but remember, gentlemen, the satellite is just a contingency. We don’t expect Lightning to reach orbit.”
“Any problems at NASA?”
“No. All is in place there as well.”
Chardon leaned back and nodded. The room fell silent.
“Very well, then,” concluded Vanderhoff. “General, you’ll handle Mr. Stone. I’m flying back to Kourou immediately to supervise the launch. Call me the moment you have news. Meeting adjourned.”
CHAPTER SIX
GAMES OF THE TRADE
The storm arrived sooner than Cameron had expected. Flashes of lightning temporarily illuminated the dark afternoon sky. Ear-piercing thunder shook the soft grass beneath him. Secluded yet open, the park offered several escape options. Closing time was only a few minutes away, and most of the strollers had already left to get out of the rain.
Marie was not with him. He had talked her into waiting outside the park’s walls, out of sight by the Seine. He would get her after cauterization was complete.
Cameron watched the light drizzle turn into a heavy rainfall as he stood a hundred feet from the Quai Saint Bernard, the four-lane street that separated the gardens from the enraged waters of the Seine. The powerful winds drove three- and four-foot waves savagely against the century-old retaining walls. Water exploded in a cloud of white foam that seemed to engulf the tourist boats docked nearby, but somehow the brightly colored crafts emerged time and time again from beneath the maddened waves, refusing to surrender to their much stronger adversary.
Cameron pulled up the collar of his trench coat, leaned against an oak, and watched a single deer peacefully taking refuge from the storm inside one of several man-made caves built as part of their caged habitat. Cameron smiled. He had not been at a zoo for some time. Actually he didn’t expect to see animals here. According to the sign outside, JARDIN DES PLANTES, he was in the Botanical Gardens, yet in the short time he’d been moving around waiting for Potter to arrive, Cameron had seen enough wild animal cages and enclosures to fill a small-sized zoo.
He checked his watch once more. It was past five o’clock and still no sign of-
Cameron spun around. His ears had registered a new sound, almost imperceptible against the thunder. A gunshot.
He reached for the Beretta 92F, pulled it firmly to free it of the Velcro strap, and curled his fingers around the black alloy-framed handle. He turned and headed into a cluster of trees. Who was the shooter? Was it Potter? Was his case officer corrupted? Anything seemed possible at this point.
His thoughts quickly vanished as bark flew off the trees under the impact of a high-velocity round. He squinted but couldn’t see anything through the heavy rain. The report came a second later as he rolled away over the muddy soil toward cover.
The cold rain quickly seeped under his coat and soaked his cotton shirt. The wet fabric clung to his chest. His back hit the trunk of a cedar tree hard. He burrowed into the foliage, quickly surrounding himself with cover, temporarily safe. Smeared mud covered his face. His hair felt heavy with it. Cameron turned his face to the sky and let the rain wash it clean. Crouched, uncomfortable still, he raced through his options. A second, he thought. A second for the sound of the gunshot to reach his position. The shooter had to be about a thousand feet away, Cameron estimated as he unsuccessfully scanned the area. Already darkness and the rain made it impossible to see anything out beyond thirty feet away, except during lightning flashes. But he also knew that the shooter could most likely spot him during that time also. His night vision lost to a lightning flash, Cameron waited for a moment, until it cleared. He raced forward, away from the protection of the trees, across the clearing to where an animal cage, the ape pen, stood in the middle.
One, two, three bullets ricocheted loudly off the wet concrete a mere two feet from him. Close, too close, he decided, suddenly realizing his mistake. The shooter didn’t need the infrequent bolts of lightning to illuminate his target: he had a night-vision scope. Cameron was safe as long as there was lightning, when the bright sky would literally blind anyone using night-vision gear. The scope would amplify the surrounding lightning by a hundredfold, blinding the user with very high-intensity flashes, and rendering the equipment useless.
Darkness returned. Two more shots. Two more splashes. Bingo. Cameron spotted the bright muzzle flashes through the rain, coming from the mound next to the distant aquatic garden.
He reached the rotunda in the center of the park and hid behind a three-foot-tall concrete wall; waited in the dark. Lightning gleamed and he jumped over the low wall, tripped on something, and landed headfirst in a puddle of water. Involuntarily, he inhaled, choking on muddy water. He snorted and coughed to clear his airway, and breathed deeply for several moments to catch his breath.
Night resumed. Two more shots. Another bolt of lightning. The two seconds of light revealed what had tripped him. Bile rose in his throat as he experienced a field operative’s worst fear: the compromise of his case officer. It wasn’t Potter shooting at him. Who?
Darkness came as suddenly as it had departed. Cameron rested against the concrete wall as water dripped down his forehead. He tried to come to terms with Potter’s death, with the breaking of his link to the CIA. Only Potter could officially pull him in, but the next lightning flash showed a hole the size of Cameron’s fist in Potter’s chest. Not only high-velocity, but also jacketed hollow-point as well, he decided. One good shot and the game had ended.
Cameron wiped the cold water off his face with his quivering hands. Soaked to the skin, he began to shiver. But Cameron knew he couldn’t let that slow him down. He tensed, ready to move, when a bullet struck the Beretta just forward of the trigger casing, missing Cameron’s index finger by a fraction of an inch. His hand stung from the impact, which brought memories of Little League bats held too loosely. He instinctively let go of the weapon, watched it skitter across wet concrete. The gunfire had come from his right.
A second shooter!
Cameron ran as fast as his legs allowed him. He disappeared into the small forest, stopping when he estimated he was at least a hundred feet away from the clearing. He cut left and headed toward the back of the park, reaching the edge of the woods a minute later. He found the rear gate already closed, the security guard gone. Cameron had not expected to be there so late. The deserted four-lane street and the Seine extended beyond the six-foot-tall, ornate wrought-iron fence.
Cameron inhaled deeply and broke into a final run. He felt light-headed but persisted, concentrated on reaching the fence. Nothing else mattered. The black fence. The winds and rain intensified, blowing him to the side. He forced his aching legs to continue running, positioning his body against the rain falling at nearly a forty-five degree angle, pushing harder and harder against the wrathful storm until he managed to curl his fingers against the thick metal bars at the top of the fence.