“Then we put him in front of the UN, he cuts the balls off the lying French, and we give him a new identity and a new life. That’s when we go and take over the Saudi oil, because no one can deal with France, and the towelheads can’t do it without us.”
“Neat,” said Admiral Doran. “I’ll tell you something, that Gamoudi character just became the most important man on this planet. And we got the added problem of the French trying to kill him.”
“If I were French, I’d be trying to kill him,” said General Scannell. “All I can say is we better get Mrs. Gamoudi real quick, and try to avoid breaking more than about a hundred international laws while we’re about it.”
“You’re right there,” said Morgan. “We screw this up, we’re in more trouble than France. Because without Gamoudi we can’t prove a damn thing. Anyone know what time John Bergstrom is due in?”
“Thirteen hundred,” said Frank Doran. “He left San Diego at o-five-hundred this morning.”
Two armed, uniformed guards were waiting at the helicopter pad on the White House lawn, staring into the skies way down across the eastern bank of the Potomac. They could see it now, the big U.S. Marine guided-missile gunship, the Super Cobra, clattering in over the river.
On board was the Emperor SEAL, Admiral Bergstrom, Commander in Chief of SPECWARCOM, the top Special Forces unit in the U.S. military. The Marine guards watched the helicopter bank right and then settle gently onto the White House landing area. The loadmaster was out before the brand-new four-bladed rotor even slowed down. He opened the door for the Admiral, who stepped down and returned the rigid salute of both guards.
“This way, sir,” said one of them. And beneath the steady gaze of a fully armed SWAT team, positioned with machine guns primed on the White House roof, the three of them headed up the short, grassy slope to the West Wing entrance. Today’s meeting, comprising just Adm. Arnold Morgan and Adm. John Bergstrom, would be, as ever, a strategic discussion, for “action this day,” between two of the toughest men who ever wore shoes.
They greeted each other like old friends, and Morgan outlined the situation, stressing the critical nature of the capture of Colonel Gamoudi, and the even more critical nature of the kidnapping of Giselle and the two boys.
Admiral Bergstrom was thoughtful. “I do see the problem,” he said. “If we have the family members, the Colonel will
“That’s right,” said Morgan. “And it’s likely to be ten times easier to find a man who is trying to find us, than to find a guy who’s essentially on the run.”
“And you are proposing to send a team of SEALs into a tiny French town in the Pyrenees and snatch Giselle and her boys?” John Bergstrom looked highly doubtful.
“You think that’s a problem?” said Morgan.
“It’s not a problem to grab them. And it’s not a problem to get them away. It’s the sheer ramifications that bother me. First of all, it’s plainly illegal. Second of all, it’s damn nearly a declaration of war — the U.S. military going into action against innocent foreign civilians in full public view.”
“Well,” said Morgan, “How about we put the SEALs in plain clothes?”
John Bergstrom was deeply unimpressed. “Arnie,” he said, “you can’t hide or disguise SEALs.”
“Why not?”
“They’re not the same as other people.”
“What do you mean?”
“They look different.”
“In what way?”
“They just stand out. Their powerful physiques…crew cuts. They just look too hard, too healthy…the way they carry themselves…the way they walk…straight backs, erect…fantastic posture…they look like they’re marching even when they’re going for lunch. And they have this alert, wary look about them, like wolves. Arnie, they can’t help it. They’re trained killers.
“And Mrs. Gamoudi’s going to be under escort, and those escorts will recognize my guys at a hundred paces. You want a nice quiet grab at three civilians, you gotta do it with civilians. My guys could cause a fucking uproar. Trust me. They’re not trained in subtlety.”
Admiral Morgan nodded. For a few moments he paused, then he said, “I’m getting kinda used to making shaky judgments on this operation. Guess I must be getting old.”
“The best of us make shaky judgments,” said John Bergstrom.
“And it doesn’t matter a damn. The only thing that matters is how quickly you recognize the problem, and how ready you are to make the change.”
“I’m ready,” said Morgan. “What do you suggest?”
“Okay. We got a nice French lady and her two young sons. They’re effectively under house arrest, right? By the French Secret Service, somewhere near the town of Pau, in the Pyrenees. We have to hand this to the CIA and they have to locate her and watch the house for a couple of days. When they pounce, they do it quietly, in the street. A diversion. The grab. Getaway car. Escape by helicopter. No problem. Very fast. No one knows what the hell has happened.”
Admiral Morgan visibly brightened. “Got it,” he said. “You’re right. But what about when we grab the Colonel himself?”
“That has to be at a seaport or on a beach. Then my guys can move in and complete the operation. But if the French are trying to kill him, we may have to be pretty darned brutal in our execution of the mission.”
“The stakes are about as high as they can get, John,” said Morgan quietly. “We better get a full team of your guys on standby, probably in the Mediterranean. Because we’re gonna find the ol’ Chasseur in there somewhere.”
“Who the hell’s the Chasseur?” asked Admiral Bergstrom.
“Oh, that’s Colonel Gamoudi’s nickname. He’s had it a long time. Le Chasseur. It’s French for The Hunter.”
“That’s not good,” replied the SEAL Chief.
“Why not?”
“Because guys don’t get names like that unless they are damned dangerous. Was he ever in the Special Forces?”
“Sure was. First Marine Parachute Infantry. And the French Foreign Legion. And the French Secret Service, on active duty in North Africa.”
“Jesus Christ,” said John Bergstrom. “That’s a trained professional fighter. You don’t want to try and take him against his will. Otherwise someone’s going to get killed. You have to get Mrs. Gamoudi and the kids. And you have to get ’em real quick.”
Andy Campese and a CIA team of some fifteen field operators, including his colleague Guy Roland, had been tracking, watching, and logging the life of Giselle Gamoudi for several days. It had been a simple matter to trace her to her mother’s house, north along Montpensier Avenue, to a tree-lined residential area near Lawrence Park.
But she was never out of the house for more than a half hour, and she was never without two plainly armed escorts, one of whom was, quite often, the same Secret Service officer Andy had met at her own home back in the village of Heas.
The boys were always with her. But Campese had seen no sign of their attending school. This was plainly an enforced break, courtesy of the French government. He had expected it to be a mission packed with tension, since the French Secret Service obviously wished to keep her away from any intruders. But thus far he had been mildly surprised at how relaxed his quarry and her “minders” seemed to be. Right now Campese and young Roland were sitting in a parked car watching the driveway of Giselle’s current residence. She was in the car with a driver, but the left, rear passenger door of the car was open, awaiting, Campese guessed, the arrival of the two boys.
He was correct about that. The older one came running out first, followed by the yelling Andre. They both piled into the backseat, and the car pulled out into the south-running avenue that led to the central area of Pau, almost a mile away. An identical car, parked in the street right outside the house, immediately fell in behind them.
