“And who, precisely, does the President have in mind for an operation like this?” asked the General.
“Oh, he’s never even thought about that,” said Savary. “He just wants to know if we think it is possible. At this stage no more.”
“Do you have the feeling that if we say yes he will start thinking about it very, very quickly?”
“I do,” replied Savary. “And we may as well have a few answers. So let me ask a question: King Khalid Air Base — who goes in, us or an Arab force?”
“Oh, that would have to be a French assault force,” said the General. “I doubt anyone except us, the Brits, the Americans, or the Israelis could possibly pull that off…but it seems so incongruous to have a French force, out there on its own, attacking that Saudi air base.”
“There would have to be some Arab involvement,” offered Admiral Pires. “Maybe a 2/IC, or a couple of locals, men who understand command and may know the terrain, and speak Arabic.”
“I see that,” said Savary. “I see it very clearly. We could provide the force, if we approve the plan. But Prince Nasir will have to provide some leadership or, at worse, some high-level advice.”
“I don’t know that any Arab army has the kind of man we are looking for,” said the Admiral. “We need a skilled Special Forces operator with a sound knowledge of high explosives, close combat fighting, and making detailed plans.”
“I don’t think they have anyone to fill that bill,” said the General. “And anyway, how the hell do we get in there? We can’t suddenly drop sixty parachutists into Saudi Arabia. Too high a risk.”
“Then they’d have to come in by sea,” said Admiral Pires. “But it would be difficult by submarine. The SDV holds only a half-dozen. A ferry service like that would take hours and hours. And they couldn’t swim in. Too far. Too dangerous.”
“That’s the kind of problem that gets solved by an Arab who knows the territory,” said Admiral Pires. “And understands what’s required. The kind of Arab who probably doesn’t exist.”
“I know of one,” said Savary.
“Oh? Who?” asked General Jobert.
“He’s the Commander in Chief of Hamas. Name of Gen. Ravi Rashood. From what I hear, he’s ex — British SAS. He could do it. The Americans think he’s pulled off some terrible stuff these last few years. He could take the air base.”
“But would he?” wondered the General. “Why would he?”
“Because he’s a fanatical Muslim fundamentalist,” replied Savary. “And he hates the Americans, and he wants them out of the Middle East forever. And he knows that without Saudi support and Saudi oil they would have to go. I think you’d find General Rashood more than willing to talk, but I think you’d have to pay him, and Hamas, for the privilege of his involvement.”
“Hmm,” said the General. “Interesting.”
“And now,” continued Savary, “For the biggest question of all…who commands the Saudi mob in Riyadh? Who recruits, organizes, arms, and rallies thousands of citizens who hate the King, but have no idea what to do?”
“I know one thing,” said Admiral Pires. “You need a top-class soldier for that. And top-class soldiers become well known to many people. In all of France, it might be impossible to find such a man, who had the right qualifications and a properly low profile. Those kinds of leaders become public figures. And one sight of this man, leading an attack on the Saudi royal family, would end all of our chances of anonymity.”
“You speak wisely, Admiral,” said Savary. “But there must be someone. A trained fighter somewhere who has been in combat yet has not reached the highest rank. Someone who has perhaps retired in recent years. Someone who would perhaps consider undertaking such an operation for, say, ten million U.S. dollars. Enough to allow him to live his life free of all financial worries.”
All three men grew silent. Savary seemed to be at a loss, but the two military men pondered the problem, each of them running their minds back over a working lifetime in the armed services.
Eventually, surprisingly, it was Savary who spoke up. “There was such a man, you know, who worked for my organization, Secret Service, the DGSE. I never met him, because he was mostly based in Africa, rose to be deputy regional director of a large area — northern, sub-Saharan, and western Africa. He operated out of Dakar.”
“Did he have combat experience?” asked the General.
“And how,” replied Savary. “I believe he started off in the Foreign Legion. And I think he distinguished himself in Chad, that battle against the rebels at Oum Chalouba, 1986. He was decorated as quite a young officer for conspicuous bravery. I’m not sure what he did after that, but he definitely joined the Special Forces.”
“Do you remember his name?” asked Michel Jobert.
“Yes. He was Moroccan by birth. Gamoudi. Jacques Gamoudi. Had some kind of a nickname, which for the moment escapes me.”
General Jobert ruminated. “Yes, Gamoudi. I think I’ve heard that name. He was involved with COS, after his service in the Legion. But I can’t remember precisely what he did.”
Jobert walked over to a computer desk at the far end of his office and keyed in the information he had. “This ought to come up with something,” he said. “It’s an amazing piece of software, gives detailed biographies of all French serving officers of the past twenty-five years.”
They waited while the computer buzzed and whined. Then the screen brightened. “Here he is,” said the General quietly. “Jacques Gamoudi, born 1964 in the village of Asni, in the High Atlas Mountains. Son of a goatherd who doubled as a mountain guide.”
“Hell, that’s a big step. Moroccan farm boy to a commission in the Foreign Legion before he was twenty-two.” Admiral Pires was baffled. “Those guys can’t usually speak French.”
“Looks like he had some kind of sponsor. Man called Laforge, former Major in the French Parachute Regiment. He was wounded in Algeria, 1961, medically discharged. Then he and his wife bought some kind of hotel in the village, and young Gamoudi worked there. Looks like Laforge helped him join the Legion.
“Jesus. There’s a copy of his original application form, Bureau de Recrutement de la Legion Etrangere, Quartier Vienot, 13400 Aubagne. That’s fifteen miles from Marseille. He went down there a few weeks later, in 1981, passed his physical tests, and signed on for five years.”
“You’re right,” said the Admiral. “That’s a hell of a piece of software.”
“Any sign of his nickname?” asked Savary. “I’d know it if I’d heard it.”
“Can’t see it,” said Michel Jobert, scrolling down the computer pages. “Hey, wait a minute, this could be it. Does Le Chasseur sound familiar? There’s a bunch of mercenaries he led in some very fierce fighting in North Africa. According to this, they always called him Le Chasseur.”
“That’s him,” said Savary, thoughtfully. “Jacques Gamoudi, Le Chasseur.” He flattened his right hand, and drew it across his throat. Which was a fair indication of the reputation of Colonel Gamoudi — Le Chasseur, the Hunter.
CHAPTER TWO
The trouble with Le Chasseur was he had essentially vanished into the crisp, thin air around the high peaks of the Pyrenees, somewhere up near the little town of Cauterets, which sat in the mountains 3,000 feet above sea level, hemmed in by 8,000-foot summits. Snowy Cauterets was normally the first French Pyrenean ski station to open and the last to close.
It was common knowledge that Col. Jacques Gamoudi had taken early retirement from the Army and headed with his family to the Pyrenees, where he hoped to set himself up as a mountain guide and expedition leader, as his father had done before him, in faraway Morocco.
Indeed an inspired piece of guesswork by Gaston Savary had brought him, in company with Michel Jobert, to the town of Castelnaudaray, thirty-five miles southeast of Toulouse, where Le Chasseur’s military career had begun. Quartier Lapasset, home of the Foreign Legion’s training regiment, was in Castelnaudaray, and the young Gamoudi had spent four months there as a recruit.
Savary and the Colonel had made extensive inquiries, and not without some success. But there were no details, only that Jacques Gamoudi, with his wife, Giselle, and two sons, now aged around eleven and thirteen, had
