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He looks through the windshield and makes out the shape of the aircraft, admiring the skill of the pilot, who lands in a long, gentle swoop. Through the night-vision goggles the engine glows a hot, ghostly white as the aircraft slows down, the propeller still spinning, as it starts taxiing in their direction, then wheels about in a neat 180-degree turn close to this end of the runway, where he and Marcel are parked in a wide dirt area, a narrow road leading off behind them.
The airplane halts.
A door opens on the right side of the fuselage and the ghostly figure steps onto the tarmac.
“Kill the runway lights, send the signal,” Rashad says, “and then let’s get over there.”
Marcel types a command into his phone, then turns on the Fiat Doblò’s engine and flashes its headlights twice. Marcel shifts the van into Drive and they move out to the runway, Rashad feeling the wheels of the van get on top of the tarmac.
Just a few minutes more.
Chapter42
WHEN Iearlier met Victor, he had the cheerful look of a typical French bureaucrat who slides into work at 10 a.m., takes a two-hour lunch with a bottle ofvin ordinaire,and heads home around 4:30 p.m.
But right now, in battle gear and heavily armed, he looks like he wants to shoot me dead here in this little building, with the confidence that the men under his command would back him up by saying it was an accident.
“What do you mean ‘a disaster’?” He nearly spits out the words.
I’ve faced men like Victor before: higher-ups who can’t believe that someone beneath them has a different view or a different opinion. And, in this case, a different way of using a restroom.
I go back to the map and say, “This is like a bad techno-thriller, don’t you think? Abandoned runway. Van waiting for the drop-off. Mystery plane coming in from Kazakhstan, carrying not only a Russian-made suitcase nuke but an informant who secretly works for you and gives you everything in great detail.”
It gets so quiet I can hear the gentle whir of the fans coming from the CCTV monitors. I slap at the map. “Here. Runway stuck out in the middle of fields and woods. One road leading in and out. Where’s the escape route or alternate exit? And where’s the security? This van supposedly has Rashad, an accomplice, and what—five million euros’ worth of uncut diamonds? And just two guys in it, sitting on a fortune? Doesn’t make sense. It’s way too dangerous…for them.”
Save for one person—Jeremy—the faces of the French intelligence officers and their boss, Victor, are looking at me with open hostility.
Yeah, I figure.
“The flight is coming in from Kazakhstan, right?” I ask.
Victor’s voice, clipped and formal. “Correct.”
“All right,” I say. “Do you know what kind of aircraft?”
Victor is still staring at me. “Cessna. The 172 model.”
I nod. “All right. Based on the distance from here to there, and the average cruising speed of a Cessna 172…” I pause for a moment, then say, “You’re looking at a full twenty-five hours of flying time. That doesn’t include stops for refueling, rest, refreshments, or anything. That’s twenty-five hours, carrying a weapon of mass destruction, betting you won’t be rousted by customs officials or local police—not to mention hoping the engine doesn’t conk out or bad weather grounds you.”
Jeremy looks like he’s going to say something, but keeps his mouth shut.
“And then there’s TRIPWIRE,” I say.
Victor looks like he doesn’t want to ask the question, but he does. “What’s TRIPWIRE?”
“Three modified WC-135 aircraft,” I tell him, “either flown by the Air Force or NATO. Originally they were ‘sniffer’ aircraft, sampling the atmosphere, looking for isotopes and radioactive materials associated with nuclear-bomb tests. These new aircraft have a next-generation detection system, looking for unexplained airborne gamma-ray sources. Like aircraft smuggling in nuclear devices.”
I glance at the map and back at the silent crowd. “If you have an aircraft inbound carrying a nuke, then it’s passing through TRIPWIRE’s area of operations, and if it’s detected, that aircraft is forced down within minutes. I don’t believe these smugglers would use an aircraft. Easier to use a truck or a shipping container. So I don’t believe your intelligence. This is either a hoax or a trap.”
Victor looks to his crew like he’s seeking reassurance.
“Thank you for your input, Madame Amy,” he says. “But the operation will proceed.”
What a surprise.
“If you say so—but I’m coming along.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not possible.”
