Siege of Lightning

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.

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.