The Devil's Banker

Chapter 8

A faint blue light glowed in the office of General Guy Gadbois, chief of the General Directorate for External Security. Gadbois, a barrel-chested paratrooper, forty-year veteran of Algeria, the Congo, and too many brushfires to mention, lit another cigarette and stared at the blizzard of gray and white snow swirling on the television screen a few feet away. Though the tape had finished fifteen seconds before, he couldn’t shake his eyes from it.

“Again,” he said dully, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

“Oui, mon general.”

Gadbois sighed as his assistant rewound the digital tape. Though it was two A.M. and well past normal working hours, three other officers of the French intelligence service were also present. Two of the men came from the Arab Department, known inside the service as the “Midi Club,” as it handled information concerning Spain, Morocco, and the erstwhile French colonies of Algeria and Tunisia, as well as the Middle East. They were here to translate and to offer opinions that Gadbois knew in advance he would disagree with.

The third man came from the operations directorate, or the DST, the crazy bastards who had bombed the Rainbow Warrior, Greenpeace’s protest ship, in Auckland Harbor fifteen years back. It was he who had lifted the digital film from the evidence locker at the Sûreté’s headquarters. He was short and thin, and looked like he weighed less than a fully loaded pack. But he was tough, thought Gadbois, for whom “tough” was the highest accolade. Anyone who was still on his feet after such a blast, let alone operating with his faculties intact-well, he must have a head like pig iron. If only he’d cut his hair like any self-respecting soldier.

Without preface, the dark screen came to life. Fragments of binary data flashed on the screen in colorful erratic patches. Fifteen seconds passed before the first clear image appeared.

“Stop!” Gadbois pounded his meaty fist on the table.

The image froze. A male figure clad in the Palestinian freedom fighter’s de rigueur getup of olive drab combat jacket and red-checkered khaffiyeh, or headdress, stood in front of a generic Islamic flag-crescent moon and star against a field of forest green. What wasn’t de rigueur, however, thought Gadbois, was the pair of mirror sunglasses.

“Print a picture,” said Gadbois. The digital VCR player whirred and a moment later, he had a snapshot of the freedom fighter. “Go on.”

The image remained clear. The man began to speak.

“Americans, Zionists, and your sycophantic allies, I address you in the name of Muhammad, peace be unto him, and in the name of everlasting peace between all peoples. Today our battle has reached your shores…”

The picture sputtered, dissolving into a chaotic digital patchwork, before regaining clarity. Gadbois watched for another three minutes, jotting down the words he was able to pick up, stopping twice more to ask his assistant to print a photograph. Finally, the picture crapped out altogether. Gadbois grunted again. “Anything else on the tape?”

“No, sir.”

“Well?” he asked. “What the hell is it? A martyrdom message?”

“Certainly not,” declared Berri, one of the Arabists. “At no time did he offer himself to the ‘Lord, Allah,’ as is customary. At least not that we saw. It is simply a claim of responsibility.”

Gadbois agreed. This was something different from the trash that had been coming out of the Middle East the past few years. He was reminded of the time in the mid-seventies when every week had seemed to bring similar messages from the Red Army Faction, the Baader-Meinhof gang, and Black September. But this- Gadbois grimaced, as his stomach rumbled, souring with acid reflux. This looked like it might be on a larger scale than a kidnapping or a car bomb. He looked at the man from the DST. “And so?”

“They are planning an attack,” said Leclerc, sitting forward to meet Gadbois’s pouchy stare. “That much is apparent. We have some idea where and we may assume it will be soon. They do not make these tapes until shortly before the attempt is carried out. That is all, except for one small thing.”

“S’il vous plait, Capitaine.”

“They are quite certain that they will succeed.”

General Gadbois stood, signaling the meeting was over. For the moment, he didn’t need to know anything more. When the room was empty, he picked up the telephone. “Get me Langley,” he ordered.

Waiting, he lit a cigarette and exhaled a thick stream of blue-gray smoke toward the ceiling. A familiar voice answered, and Gadbois said, “Hello, Glen. I have some news that might require disturbing the President.” He wanted his colleague’s full and undivided attention.

Yet even as he related the contents of the tape he had just watched, a most uncharitable and unprofessional thought crossed his mind: Thank God it wasn’t going to happen in France.