He glanced backward. Through the water and mud, he saw two figures exit the woods. Cameron kicked his legs, pulled himself up and over the fence. He landed on his feet and rolled on the sidewalk.
He got up and raced across the street, reaching the other side in seconds. He looked back, saw figures halfway up the fence. Cameron darted down the concrete steps that led to the Seine’s shore, sought a place to hide.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Cameron bolted upstream, remaining a few feet away from the edge of the concrete retaining wall. The ferocious waves continued to pound below him.
Lightning flashed. The shots came once more, muted by the thunder but clear. The sound remained in his ears long after the ground exploded to his right. Cameron could not outrun them. It was just a matter of time before the men caught up with him and finished him off. Cameron felt weak. His pace slowed. He had to take a chance, the choice not pleasant but the alternative less so. Jump and maybe die, don’t and be certain of it.
Cameron cut to the right and kicked both legs as hard as he humanly could against the weathered edge of the concrete wall, diving directly into a four-foot wave. He heard a shot while in midair but felt no impact.
The water came, sudden and cold, yet somehow soothing. He went under, below the boiling, wind-torn surface. The pain from his limbs began to subside, dulled by the cold water or perhaps because he was losing consciousness. Air.
The waves and current dragged him downstream fast. He surfaced and spotted shooters over a hundred feet away, still scanning the area where he’d jumped. Cameron continued drifting away, farther and farther. Again he felt light-headed. He fought it. He needed to somehow get the word out about Athena’s plan to destroy Lightning, but the physical abuse had been severe. His body demanded rest. He struggled to reach one of the boats but his aching legs refused to respond. He battled the waves for a few more minutes until he felt drained, totally drained, well past the brink of exhaustion. He tried to kick his legs to remain afloat, but failed. Cameron slowly went under. His last conscious feeling was a hard tug on his arm. He had found silence. He had found peace.
Higgins let the secured telephone ring three times before answering. He knew who was calling, and he also knew why. The coded message from the Paris station faxed to him just minutes ago indicated that only one man had died at the Botanical Gardens. There were supposed to have been two found dead. Case Officer Potter and Operative Stone. Yet the CIA flash report indicated that only Potter had been killed, by a direct hit to the heart. There was no mention of Stone.
He pounded both fists on the smooth wooden surface of his large desk. Stone should have never left that park alive. Now he was a loose cannon. Angry and probably confused. Not knowing who to trust.
“Yes?”
“Hello,” Higgins heard Vanderhoff’s cold voice on the other end. “This is—”
“I know who you are. How did this happen? I thought you had it under control.”
“Missions are not always successful, Mr. Higgins. A man in your position should know that.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind, Vanderhoff? Do you realize the implications? Now Stone probably thinks there’s a leak at the CIA, and if he remembers anything about standard procedure, he’ll have realized by now that the only person Potter could have made contact with was me, Chief Europe — unless he also thinks someone was tailing Potter. We have to find him.”
“Chardon thinks he drowned.”
“Did you find the body?”
“No, but…”
“Then we assume he’s still alive.” Higgins closed his eyes and rubbed a finger against his left temple.
“I know.”
“I have no other choice but to frame him for Potter’s death, to mark him for termination. I’ll need Chardon’s help in gathering the proof I need to convince my superior.”
“All right. I’ll make sure the French handle their side before midnight tonight.”
“Good. The game has changed and we must adjust. Call me back if there are any problems. Otherwise I’ll assume Chardon will handle his end. One more thing, any sign of the woman?”
“No, but we have people looking for her.”
“All right. Good-bye.” Higgins hung up the phone and rubbed his chin with the side of his index finger. He then made a fist and lightly pressed the knuckles against his lips. The situation was getting out of control. He had to act decisively. If Stone was alive, he could expose them.
Higgins’s hand reached for the next memo on the pile of paper in his in-box. He made it a personal goal to go through his in-box daily, and never let the paperwork accumulate. In his line of work he couldn’t afford to fall behind.
Higgins read the short cover letter. It was from George Pruett, his boss’s nephew working at Computer Services, routed to him from the European desk. Higgins groaned. Did he have to personally review every piece of paper the analysts couldn’t easily plug into one of their little cubbyholes?
The one-paragraph memo told Higgins that George had written an algorithm that searched for isolated incidents and attempted to look for patterns. He flipped to the second page and froze. What? How in the hell did he put these events together so fast? He read the list once more in disbelief.
Great! Just fucking great! On one side he had Vanderhoff, a scientist-turned-investor trying to play the intelligence game. And on the other side a little genius who writes software that picks up all the relevant killings out of the hundreds of killings every day around the world.
Higgins drove a fist into his palm, then rose from his chair and paced back and forth. He needed to calm down and be objective. Solve one problem at a time. First was the problem with Stone. He thought he had an answer to that one. A simple straightforward answer. He just needed to convince his boss to give the order for termination. Only Pruett could label an operative “beyond salvage.”
That much should go fairly smoothly, he decided. Once labeled, Stone would be as good as dead. The standing orders would be to exercise extreme prejudice. Shoot to kill. Period.
What had Higgins concerned was the second issue. His boss’s nephew. How could he stop George Pruett’s algorithm from stirring up more trouble? From adding more pieces to the puzzle?
Suddenly, and idea came. Higgins reached for the phone and dialed a local unlisted number.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE LAWS OF PHYSICS
Everything in space obeys the laws of physics. If you know these laws, and obey them, space will treat you kindly.
“T minus four minutes and counting. Preparations for main engine ignition. The main fuel valve heaters have been turned on. T minus three minutes, fifty-seven seconds; final fuel purge on Lightning’s main engines has been started.”
The NASA public affairs commentator was broadcasting over numerous loudspeakers and through the orbiter’s communications system.
Kessler closed his eyes and desperately fought against the excitement that slowly consumed him.
“Heart rate is up to one hundred twenty beats a minute. Relax, Michael,” Kessler heard Neal Hunter’s reassuring words through his helmet’s built-in headset. Hunter was Mission Control’s capsule communicator, or CapCom, for STS-72, the number of their mission.