THE PARIS PLOT
Izzy
A perfect day for the White House Easter Egg Hunt. The South Lawn, bathed in glorious March morning sunlight, is filled with the laughter of several hundred children, doting parents, President Leyland Childs, the First Lady and special invitees from the Hill.
Isabella “Izzy” Stone, Secret Service Special Agent in charge of the presidential detail, is trailing Childs as he good-naturedly urges the children to fill their baskets. She’d like to be closer but this morning he wants more space.
Above, the sky is dazzling blue and cloudless. Izzy scans the panoramic vista where, in the distance, a sole bird circles in the peaceful emptiness. She wonders if it has lost its way from the flocks that often make their passage across the Potomac. Well, the bird will find its way back eventually. That’s what birds do.
She returns her attention to the president. He’s waded deep into the crowd and is holding a baby dressed in a rabbit’s costume. The baby is smiling as the president bounces it gently in cradled arms.
Out of the corner of her eye Izzy can see the bird continuing its aimless orbit above the Washington monument beyond the South Lawn. And it occurs to her that the bird must be larger than she imagined, perhaps a hawk, because given the distance to the monument, a smaller bird would be hard to see.
As she watches, Izzy observes a subtle inflection in the creature’s airy movement that seems off, unnatural. Suddenly, It drops almost vertically and disappears from her line of sight.
Something’s wrong!
A survival reflex deep in her reptilian brain is screaming DANGER!
Jesus! It’s headed for the president!
Now Izzy is moving fast toward Childs who’s buried in the admiring throng.
I’ll look like a monkey’s ass if I’m wrong.
“Incoming!” Izzy is shouting, her arm pointed upward as the president and other agents turn to her then look skyward with bewildered expressions. She hears the buzzing doppler sound of an approaching motor and frantically hurls herself into the crowd violently knocking parents and toddlers aside as she struggles to reach Childs. Only a few feet away she leaps toward the president, her body in full block mode.
Too late! The drone, loaded with TATP high explosives, detonates with
murderous force, sending Childs and the mangled body parts of 200 others flying in a thousand directions.
*************************
Dammit!
Izzy Stone awakened in a sweat. Again. She brushed her thick red hair back with her right hand and checked the clock.
Two A.M.
For days she’d been having recurring nightmares like the one tonight. They all followed the same pattern. The president was going to die and she couldn’t stop it because she’d missed something critical, waited too long to act, and now it was too late.
The nausea was back. Izzy made her way to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet. Afterward she brushed her teeth and looked in the mirror.
Am I losing the ability to keep POTUS safe?
West Point had toughened her and years with the secret service had wizened her. Yet she knew the job of protecting the president from the kooks, crazies and terrorists of the world eventually took its toll and had to wonder if she was losing her edge.
As head of the presidential detail it was her job to worry, especially given the upcoming POTUS visit to the volatile Middle East, where everybody seemed to have gone bat-shit crazy. But menace came with the territory, and given the
constant threats against POTUS there was always more than enough to worry about.
Still, something about this particular trip was gnawing at her. She’d read and re-read the trip Intel, but the mandarins of the spy world hadn’t identified a specific threat to the president. Even so, whether intuition, clairvoyance or just a feeling in her bones, something wasn’t right in the cosmos, and that put Izzy into an elevated state of unease and vigilance.
Will I be able to stop the next one? Because sure as hell there’ll be a next one.
In the morning she’d have to push CIA, NSA and every other intelligence asset to dig deeper. There was something. But what? She considered the advice she’d often imparted to the members of her detail, “It’s a big world with lots of moving parts. Expect the unexpected.”
THE PARIS PLOT
CHAPTER 32
(Sit-Room - Sample)
(Sit-Room - Sample)
Situation Room – West Wing
Vice-President Isaac Stein, Secretary of State Noel Traficante, National Security Council Adviser Ed Valucek and five other senior government, intelligence and defense officials were gathered in the Situation Room monitoring the strike on Omar Mohammed. At the far end of the room a sixty-inch LED monitor was displaying a real-time drone video feed of the target site, an industrial building, one of several, located along a narrow service road. A heavy, low-lying fog had closed in on Islamabad, preventing a clear view of the target.
The president was on the South Lawn preparing to welcome the new Chinese Premier with full pomp and ceremony, projecting an air of public normalcy while the military operation unfolded. The president had asked to be immediately informed as soon as the missile strike was confirmed.
Air Force Brigadier General Peter Piper, seated with the others at a conference table in the SitRoom, had been updating the operation on his computer. As Assistant Commanding General Joint Special Operations Command his task was to coordinate the stream of intelligence and operational information flowing into the SitRoom from half a dozen intelligence sources. He turned away from his computer and looked at vice-president Stein.
“Any moment now, Mr. Vice-President,” he said.
All eyes turned to the LED screen. Suddenly, a massive flash filled the screen.
"Jesus," someone said as the group stared in disbelief at the terrifying scale of the explosion and debris field created by the hyper-sonic missiles. After two minutes of mesmerized astonishment the silence was broken.
"Mr. Vice-President," Piper said, “US Strategic Command at the Pentagon reports telemetry confirming Trident III detonations on the outskirts of Islamabad.”
“What do we have from USS Longstreet?” Stein said.
“The USS Longstreet is just coming in via satellite, we’re decrypting.”
A moment later, Piper said, “Sir, the USS Longstreet reports ninety percent confidence on destruction of target.”
Sitting next to General Piper, Ed Valucek, National Security Adviser, smiled. He was starting to feel really good. He knew the president anxiously awaited the outcome of “Operation Zebra,” the code name for the strike on Omar Mohammed.
But Valucek was a detail man. Although he wanted nothing more than to whisper the words ‘Voldemort-EKIA’ in the president’s ear, he wanted everything nailed down before he went trotting up to the president. For Valucek it could mean a major promotion, possibly Defense or CIA.
He turned back to General Piper. “General, what do we have from our Special Ops team on the ground in Islamabad?”
Piper shifted uneasily in his ergonomic swivel chair.
“We were expecting our team to report in about two minutes ago. It’s possible they’re having difficulty with their satellite uplink.”
Valucek didn’t like operational hiccups. Especially in a strike as critical as this. On the other hand, he knew that stuff happened. A solar flare, a blown chip, an improperly oriented dish could complicate a transmission. Besides, the pentagon and the USS Longstreet had pretty much said it was a done deal. No need to panic.
As he mulled this, the relative serenity of the SitRoom was jolted by the gut-wrenching sound of an incoming CRITIC MESSAGE. All heads in the room turned to the klaxon beside the naval duty officer. Meanwhile General Piper was reading the incoming message on his computer as his own intelligence sources decrypted the CRITIC.
The naval duty officer quickly disabled the klaxon. The CRITIC was from the Special Operations team that had been tasked to monitor the strike from a safe distance. General Piper read the message then appeared to read it again.
“General,” Valucek said, “what do we have?”.
The General looked up from the screen, his expression grim. “Our Special Ops team in Islamabad is reporting a targeting anomaly.”
THE PARIS PLOT
CHAPTER 48
(Commandant Poussin - Sample)
(Commandant Poussin - Sample)
Paris –Rue de Rivoli
10:15 p.m.
Paris police commandant Jean Poussin couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. Thick-necked and sweaty, Poussin was sitting in the front seat of a speeding police car clutching a sheaf of official documents in his right hand. They’d been delivered to him by special courier an hour earlier. The documents carried the signature of Andre Malevu, Chief Magistrat and Juge d’Instruction in Paris’ most powerful and secretive court. Following the assassination of magistrat Abelard, Malevu had become the most powerful judge in all France.
As the car raced down Rue de Rivoli, Poussin’s thumb and index finger nervously worried his left eyebrow, mentally replaying his earlier frantic phone call to magistrat Malevu.
“Monsieur le Magistrat, this is commandant Poussin,” he’d said. “Forgive me for calling you at this late hour.”
“Good evening, commandant, I was expecting your call.”
“Monsieur, I’ve just received a sensitive document which carries your signature. I’m informed you sent it. I will not discuss the contents as I’m not calling from a secure phone. Yet what I am being instructed to do is unbelievable.”
Poussin was not in the habit of questioning the actions of judges, much less a magistrat with such immense power. But he felt he had no choice.
“If I may say, Magistrat, what I am being asked to do will put me and my men in mortal danger, to say nothing of the possibly grave consequences for the Republic of France. It is of the greatest urgency that I be certain of the authenticity of this document.”
“What is the number on the document, commandant?”
“The number is zulu, six, nine, four, zulu.”
“And the title?”
“JurUni,” Poussin said, “though I am unsure of its meaning.”
“The number and title are correct. I assure you it is the document I sent this evening.”
“But…is it legal? I mean, please excuse me, magistrat. I am no expert in legal matters, far from it, but do you have the authority to issue such an order?”
“The document in your hands was lawfully prepared pursuant to the statutes of the Republic of France, judicial rulings and the applicable statutes of the European Union. As Juge d’Instruction, I assure you I have complete authority to issue such an order.”
Poussin detected a steeliness in the magistrat’s voice.
“Commandant,” the magistrat said, “I fully expect you, as a sworn officer of the government of France to do your duty and carry out the instructions set forth in the order. It is a judicial order, not some layman’s whimsy. Now, I have a pressing engagement and I am late. Good evening.”
Poussin had heard the phone disconnect.
Now, sitting in the speeding police car, he realized he’d been handed the most dangerous assignment of his life. The fingers of his left hand continued sweeping back and forth across his brow.
I should never have left my village in Normandy. But I was naïve. I thought Paris would be easy. Wrong. It’s a jungle. And tonight I’m the endangered one.
Poussin had been ignoring a growing migraine all evening but it had now become a massive, disorienting headache. He fumbled in the left pocket of his weathered impermeable and located the ever-present bottle of Aspirin du Rhone. He opened it, poured out six pills, threw them in his mouth and swallowed hard.
"May God protect me,” he whispered to himself as the high-pitched klaxons of the caravan scattered pedestrians and motorists like autumn leaves before an ill wind.
THE PARIS PLOT
CHAPTER 26
(Izzy and Liam - Sample)
(Izzy and Liam - Sample)
It was ten P.M. when the taxi from La Guardia pulled up in front of the Hotel Provence at Fifth Avenue and Sixty-First Street overlooking Central Park. Izzy smiled her approval as they walked into the elegant lobby, valets trailing with her overnight bag and the small piece of leather luggage that had been delivered to the hotel by courier from Liam’s Manhattan apartment.
“Do you like it?” Liam said as they walked to Reception.
“It’s beautiful,” Izzy said, recalling a warp-speed fund-raising visit she’d made to the hotel with the president during the spring.
After they’d been escorted to their suite on the thirtieth floor, Izzy stepped to the tall windows and took in the magnificent view of Central Park below. An earlier rain shower had left the city glistening. The streets were bustling with cars, pedestrians and slow-moving horse-drawn carriages, their sounds muted by the thick windows and the height of the building, creating the effect of an elegant Victorian era tableau.
I’d forgotten how beautiful New York is at night.
She removed her winter coat and cashmere scarf, placed them next to Liam’s on a divan, and took a moment to explore the suite. The main room had a wood-burning fireplace that had been lit in anticipation of their arrival. In front of the fireplace two camel-color divans faced each other on thick Persian rugs. Behind the divans, two gleaming hardwood cherry sofa tables sported deep-blue Japanese porcelain vases filled with a colorful spray of fresh-cut flowers and decorated with delicate floral drawings. A collection of tasteful, eclectic furnishings and artwork completed the room.
Adjoining the main room was an immense marble bathroom with two large brass-handled sinks, plush Ralph Lauren bathrobes and an elegant lion-paw pedestal tub with duplicate fluted ends.
The bedroom was elegantly decorated in earth tones. A king-size mahogany bed matched by a large dresser and two nightstands was complemented by two tasteful white-fabric chaise longues that were resting by a large window overlooking Central Park.
Soon, a waiter appeared at the hallway door pushing a trolley laden with iced platters of Kumamoto oysters, two servings of hot pasta and two chilled bottles of 2008 Puligny-Montrachet in an oversized silver ice bucket. He extended the folding ends of the trolley, placed a side chair at either end, said "Good night, Sir, Miss," and exited.
Liam opened one of the bottles and poured each a glass. They sat down, and with the appetite that travel, cold weather and anticipation had produced, ate with relish.
Afterward, they slipped off their shoes and stretched out on the thick Persian rug, sipping wine by the warmth of the fire, sharing favorite films and childhood stories.
Izzy fondly recalled her first visit to the great Louvre museum in Paris at
the age of eight. The endless corridors, stairways and maze of magnificent galleries had fired her young imagination.
"I said to my dad that day, 'What a neat place this would be to hide.'"
Liam smiled. "So you were already planning a life of intrigue."
Izzy laughed. "Maybe, but it seems you're the one with secrets."
“Do you like it?” Liam said as they walked to Reception.
“It’s beautiful,” Izzy said, recalling a warp-speed fund-raising visit she’d made to the hotel with the president during the spring.
After they’d been escorted to their suite on the thirtieth floor, Izzy stepped to the tall windows and took in the magnificent view of Central Park below. An earlier rain shower had left the city glistening. The streets were bustling with cars, pedestrians and slow-moving horse-drawn carriages, their sounds muted by the thick windows and the height of the building, creating the effect of an elegant Victorian era tableau.
I’d forgotten how beautiful New York is at night.
She removed her winter coat and cashmere scarf, placed them next to Liam’s on a divan, and took a moment to explore the suite. The main room had a wood-burning fireplace that had been lit in anticipation of their arrival. In front of the fireplace two camel-color divans faced each other on thick Persian rugs. Behind the divans, two gleaming hardwood cherry sofa tables sported deep-blue Japanese porcelain vases filled with a colorful spray of fresh-cut flowers and decorated with delicate floral drawings. A collection of tasteful, eclectic furnishings and artwork completed the room.
Adjoining the main room was an immense marble bathroom with two large brass-handled sinks, plush Ralph Lauren bathrobes and an elegant lion-paw pedestal tub with duplicate fluted ends.
The bedroom was elegantly decorated in earth tones. A king-size mahogany bed matched by a large dresser and two nightstands was complemented by two tasteful white-fabric chaise longues that were resting by a large window overlooking Central Park.
Soon, a waiter appeared at the hallway door pushing a trolley laden with iced platters of Kumamoto oysters, two servings of hot pasta and two chilled bottles of 2008 Puligny-Montrachet in an oversized silver ice bucket. He extended the folding ends of the trolley, placed a side chair at either end, said "Good night, Sir, Miss," and exited.
Liam opened one of the bottles and poured each a glass. They sat down, and with the appetite that travel, cold weather and anticipation had produced, ate with relish.
Afterward, they slipped off their shoes and stretched out on the thick Persian rug, sipping wine by the warmth of the fire, sharing favorite films and childhood stories.
Izzy fondly recalled her first visit to the great Louvre museum in Paris at
the age of eight. The endless corridors, stairways and maze of magnificent galleries had fired her young imagination.
"I said to my dad that day, 'What a neat place this would be to hide.'"
Liam smiled. "So you were already planning a life of intrigue."
Izzy laughed. "Maybe, but it seems you're the one with secrets."