Shadow Game Page 15

  The White House was much more than an opulent residence for the president and his family. Flanking it are the East Wing, the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, the Blair House, and most importantly, the West Wing. This was where the office of Kim Cushman, the president's chief of staff was located, just down the hall from the Oval Office.

  Cushman sat quietly inside the president's private study through the west entrance to the Oval Office. On the other side of the door the president was meeting with the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, Brent Woodward. As all appointments went through Cushman, he was the most connected man in town. If anybody sought an audience with the country's chief executive, they had to go through the gatekeeper. Cushman relished the power he held.

  Glancing at his watch, the chief of staff knew the president's meeting would be wrapping up at any moment. He stood from his chair, adjusted his tie, and glided toward the door. He had an extra bounce to his step as he anticipated delivering the good news to the president.

  Cushman pulled open the door and stepped into the Oval Office. President Rutherford stood off to the side of his desk staring out the south window into the Rose Garden. This was a typical habit for the president in moments of both consternation and contemplation. Cushman silently closed the door behind him and took in the office. He was always impressed with the quietude. With the hundreds of staffers, advisors, press correspondents, and secret service personnel running around the West Wing, the Oval Office was a remarkably insulated room.

  “How did it go with the DCI?” Cushman asked. Washington DC vernacular consisted of a broad array of acronyms. DCI was short for Director of Central Intelligence.

  “It's been said that knowledge is power,” Rutherford said, without turning from the window. “Well, there are days when I know that ignorance would be bliss.”

  “What happened?” Cushman knew the meeting must have gone poorly. In this office a poor meeting was one where bad news was delivered.

  “The CIA just heard from their deepest source inside the Iranian Intelligence and Defense Ministry.” Rutherford turned to face Cushman as he spoke. The bags under his eyes betrayed his fatigue. “The Iranians are much closer to developing their nuke than we initially surmised. This is precisely why we pulled out of the Iran Deal. We knew they wouldn’t give a crap about it.”

  “Then we need to move up our timetable and clearly define our red line,” Cushman stated. “If we don’t get on top of this the war hawks are going to have a field day.” His primary job was to keep the president not only informed, but confident and upbeat. “I'll assemble the joint chiefs and the other principals in the situation room. Does one-hour sound good?”

  Rutherford sat behind the Resolute Desk and leaned back in his chair. “Yes, an hour is fine. We will need to have a plan of action today. I will not allow the Iranians to play us. We need to be more aggressive. We can get international support on this.”

  “I agree. Urgency is key. If we have this intel, then you can bet that the Israelis will acquire it soon enough. The second they feel threatened and isolated, they will unilaterally attack, despite our protests. It would be wise to phone their PM and keep him in the loop.”

  “I will do that now,” Rutherford said. “What else do you have for me?”

  “I have some good news.” Cushman now stood right beside the president's desk. “I just received confirmation that our missing physicist has been found.”

  “That is great news,” Rutherford exclaimed. The president's demeanor instantly changed from dismay to exhilaration. “Was it the FBI?”

  “Not exactly,” Cushman offered vaguely. “We had another group looking for her apart from the FBI.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “James, it is my job to shield you from things that are beneath this office. Let's just say that it's best that you don't know.”

  Rutherford nodded cautiously. This wasn't the first time that Cushman had used the plausible deniability line on him, and certainly wouldn't be the last. There were just some things the president was better off being in the dark about. That way, if something blew up in their faces, he would have political cover. It was the way of Washington DC, plain and simple.

  “Where is she now?” Rutherford asked.

  “She's in a nearby lab finishing her work. I would like to assign a secret service detail to her until it’s complete.” Cushman pulled out an executive authorization form and put it in front of the president.

  “This is prudent,” Rutherford said. He signed the form and handed it back to his chief of staff. “Her research is too important. We can't risk losing her again.”

  “I will make it a priority.”

  “By the way, do we know who was after her?”

  “There's a trail of bodies that seem to indicate that the Russians were responsible.”

  “What!” Rutherford exploded. “First they interfere with our elections and now they openly operate on our soil against one of our citizens? I am sick and tired of these guys. This provocation will not go unpunished.”

  “I know it looks bad, but there's a time and a place for retribution, sir,” Cushman said calmly. “You need to focus on the Iranian threat, and I'll deal with the Russian situation. We meet in the situation room in one hour.”

  Cushman excused himself and walked out the west entrance leading toward his office. The Russians were not the problem, but the president didn't need to know that, just like he didn’t need to know that what he signed wasn’t an executive authorization form. It would destroy him to know the real threat to his legacy was none other than Madison Jenkins.

  29

  As the Gulf Stream jet descended over France, Reddic marveled at Paris' immense size. The sun was yet to rise, but the terrain was still well illuminated, giving validity to Paris' well-known sobriquet as La Ville-Lumiere, or, The City of Light. Of course, the name was originally bestowed upon the city during the Age of Enlightenment as a figurative honor, denoting the depth of ideas and educational advances originating from Paris.

  The title, however, took on a more literal meaning during the reign of Napoleon III when his architect, Baron Haussmann, was commissioned to level entire districts of what was once narrow, winding streets in lieu of wide avenues lined with neo-classical facades. These avenues were illuminated with streetlamps, making Paris the first “modern” city in the world. The real reason for the architectural facelift, at least according to Jaxon, was more militant in nature. It was to suppress future demonstrations by allowing troops to more easily navigate the streets.

  As the jet touched down at Charles de Gaulle airport and taxied across the tarmac, Reddic reflected on the previous seven hours of travel. As an NBA player, he was accustomed to traveling. For eight months out of the year he traveled on average three days per week. The setting, however, was much different. Apart from some lighthearted banter with his teammates, his time was usually spent resting or watching game film. The flight across the Atlantic with his brother was anything but restful.

  Reddic expected to hear a few points of trivia about Paris, which, upon hindsight, was a gross miscalculation. He had a Harvard history professor to himself for seven hours. He should have realized that he was a prime audience for one of Jaxon's famous lectures. As the jet pulled into the private hangar, he tried to shake off the exhaustion of having sustained a veritable information tsunami.

  Stepping out of the jet, Reddic surveyed his surroundings. On the far side of the hangar was an automatic door leading to various offices and a customs officer. For them to enter the country they would need to pass through without incident. If there was one positive note to having endured Jaxon's historical discourse, it was to create an authentic cover. They were coming to France under the guise of visiting professors.

  Reddic had a false passport inside his backpack, which he extracted and placed inside his jacket pocket. He never traveled under his own name when working for EOS, but Jaxon was using his own passport. He explained to his
brother what their cover story was on the jet. He chose the role of professor for two reasons. First, it would be easiest for Jaxon, as he wouldn't have to act out of character. Second, professors were generally well respected within most social circles of Paris.

  Pulling his travel bag behind him, he led Jaxon out of the hangar. Immediately upon passing through the sliding doors they were met by a solemn Frenchman who addressed them in his native tongue.

  “Documents and declaration of your visit, please,” he said perfunctorily. It was clear he was not happy with this posting. Private hangars were not frequented often, especially during the early hours of morning, and when they were, the proceedings were usually non-eventful.

  “We are here as visiting professors from Harvard,” Reddic responded in French, handing both passports to the man.

  “Ah, Americans,” the man responded in English. “And to what do we owe the pleasure of such distinguished guests?”

  “We are scheduled to lecture at Paris-Sorbonne this afternoon,” Jaxon responded. The original University of Paris was decentralized around 1968, creating thirteen autonomous universities in the system throughout the city. Paris-Sorbonne's primary niche was art and history.

  “Very well,” the customs agent said. “Welcome to France.” With that he stamped their passports and handed them back.

  Reddic took the passports and smiled. It would have been satisfying to have poked the man in the ribs a little bit, but it would have defeated their primary intent of keeping a low profile. It was no secret that some Frenchmen viewed Americans as boorish and bullish, a preconception that bothered him to no end. He knew America had its faults, but to deny its positive influence throughout the world was simply ignorant.

  Shaking off his annoyance, Reddic walked away toward the building's exit. Long ago he learned that life was too short to worry about things that one could not control.

  “Charles de Gaulle is probably the most influential leader in France's modern history,” Jaxon said, as they headed toward a taxi station.

  “Fascinating,” Reddic responded without emotion.

  “He was the consummate patriot. Sure, we know him as a great general and the founder and first president of the French Fifth Republic, but what we don't emphasize enough was his patriotism to his country. For instance, did you know that during World War II he refused to capitulate to Nazi Germany, even though the city was overrun with Germans and France's defense was clearly defeated? In fact, his radio address from Britain when the Nazi's marched on Paris was what elevated him to iconic status. And, despite France's troubled history, he always viewed her as an independent major world power. Only a true patriot would ever believe that.”

  Reddic threw their bags into the trunk of a white Renault taxi and slid into the back seat. He realized when he closed his door that Jaxon was still talking.

  “And that's why the French named their largest airport after Charles de Gaulle,” he said in conclusion.

  “Makes sense to me,” Reddic said. He leaned forward to address the driver. “Take us to the Park Hyatt, please,” he said in French.

  The drive into Paris was one of geographical transitions. The airport was located on the northeast outskirts of the city, which was not uncommon for most European urban areas. In America many international airports were built in propinquity to the major population clusters. This was a direct reflection of the sheer age difference between Europe and America. The United States was still a relatively young country compared to France. Having been continuously inhabited since around 4500 BC, Paris had no choice but to build its largest and busiest international airport well outside of the city limits.

  The landscape slowly transformed from verdant open space by the airport to industrial development and dense residential. However, it didn't truly feel like they were in Paris until they entered the inner ring. The inner ring, known as the Peripherique, was a major freeway that circled the entire city along the approximate line of 19th century fortifications. Inside the Peripherique was where the real Paris was found.

  Outside of maybe Rome, there was possibly no other city that had preserved its history and culture through architecture more than Paris. Although there were major improvements made in the middle of the 19th century, Reddic could not help but marvel at how much the city and its inhabitants had experienced and persevered over centuries of time.

  As Jaxon described in detail on the jet, Paris had served as ground zero for countless invasions, plagues, and uprisings over its long and storied history. One of the first was in the 9th century, when the Vikings sacked the city and held it ransom. During the 14th and 15th centuries the Black Death arrived, killing over forty thousand. Then there was the Hundred Years War when the English occupied the city.

  The French Revolution capped off the 18th century with one of the bloodiest political revolutions in world history. A republic was born in 1792 as a result, but at the expense of hundreds of guillotine executions and the ultimate rise of a warmongering emperor named Napoleon Bonaparte. After Napoleon's defeat in 1814 the Russians occupied the city. Cholera epidemics and the Franco-Prussian war dominated the remainder of the 19th century.

  In 1940 Paris fell to the Germans after only five weeks of fighting. As luck would have it, the German commander of the occupation, Dietrich von Choltitz, was ordered to destroy the city and all its historical monuments, but he refused. Choltitz's defiance saved one of the world's great treasures. Every time Reddic traveled to Paris he marveled at its architectural brilliance and often wondered what it would be like if Choltitz had followed his order.

  The taxi turned onto RUE DE LA PAIX and came to a stop in front of the Park Hyatt Paris. A bellman was quick to open the curbside door to let Jaxon out first. Reddic opened his own door and paid the driver.

  “Welcome to the Park Hyatt, monsieurs,” the bellman stated cordially. The hotel had no distinguishing features from its connecting buildings. There was a gold-plated sign just above the front entrance, but the hotel was nondescript otherwise, at least on the exterior. Yet with two hours before the sun was set to rise, a bellman was still working, a clear statement that the hotel was a five-star property.

  Reddic nodded and waited for the taxi to turn the corner. He grabbed his brother's arm and pulled him across the street. Traffic on RUE DE LA PAIX was nonexistent this early in the morning. Around 8:00 AM, however, the street would be packed with locals and tourists alike. It was, after all, the most famous shopping district in all of Paris, home to such brands as Cartier, Louis Vuitton, and Chanel Boutique. The street was New York City's Times Square with a bourgeoisie standing and without all the lights. In other words, it was the most expensive two blocks of real estate in the entire city.

  “Where are we going?” Jaxon asked. “I thought we were staying in the Hyatt. Isn't that where you NBA players stay?”

  “We are off the books on this trip,” Reddic said. “We have accommodations already set up for us.”

  Reddic led them to an arched alleyway leading to the interior section of the block across the street from the hotel. Jaxon stopped short before entering. He was peering down the street toward the southwest. Reddic immediately knew what he was looking at.

  “The Vendome is pretty amazing, isn't it?” he said.

  Jaxon looked back and smiled. “You know the Vendome?”

  “Of course. This isn't my first time to Paris, you know.” That was the funny thing about historians. They seemed to always be surprised if a non-historian knew something about history. The Place Vendome was one of the more visited attractions in the city. It was a massive square of over two football fields long and more than one hundred meters wide. Many stores, fashionable hotels, and the Ministry of Justice were located within its confines.

  In the middle of the square was a column towering over one hundred and forty feet. It was made of brass plates that had weathered considerably, giving it the appearance of a mossy green.

  “Men and their trophies,” Jaxon said, gesturing tow
ard the column. “Napoleon erected that column to celebrate the victory over the Russo-Austrian army in Austerlitz.”

  “Imperialists,” Reddic deadpanned. Jaxon broke out in an audible laugh.

  “Wow, you're really getting into your cover as a history professor, aren't you?” he said.

  “Don't get too carried away,” Reddic countered. “Follow me.”

  He turned and casually walked down the alleyway into an open courtyard in the middle of the block of buildings. On the south there was a large, solid oak door with a keyhole and a miniature keypad just above. There was no handle on the door. He extracted a small key from his backpack and inserted it into the small hole without turning it. He punched in a ten-digit code then turned the key counterclockwise. The door pushed open silently.

  “It's a security precaution,” Reddic explained, closing the door behind him. “If somebody were to insert the key and turn it before entering the correct code, the property will lock down.”

  Jaxon nodded soberly. Having accompanied his brother on a previous operation, he knew he would never fully comprehend all the layers of security surrounding him. But he understood enough to know that in the world of espionage, as Reddic explained, one mistake could cost you your life.

  Inside the door was a cavernous entryway. A single bulb lighted the room. There were no windows and absolutely no character. The walls were barren, and the floor was a soulless tile. Against the far wall was an iron spiral staircase leading one story up. They took the stairs two at a time and arrive at another solid door. Again, Reddic inserted his key, typed in a code, but this time turned the key clockwise.

  The door swung open smoothly, revealing a spacious and utilitarian Parisian flat. There was no elaborate decorating scheme or stylistic furniture. There was a couch against the wall, two armchairs and a small table. There were two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a surprisingly large and modern kitchen by European standards. The faint glow of the city's lights spilled in through the large windows.