He answered his own question. “Nobody. By the time she showed up, Gdansk was taking ships in on almost a catch-as-catch-can basis. Some tankers were in and out of the port on schedule. Others wound up days late.”
Quinn looked puzzled. “I don’t see your point.”
“Think about it.” Huntington felt excitement rising inside. It was the same feeling he used to get when he spotted the solution to a stubborn production problem or when he held a winning poker hand. “If the explosives were planted aboard any earlier, they’d have been timed to go off while the
Scofield saw it first. “Of course. Not even those bastards in Paris or Berlin would destroy a whole city just to cut off Polish oil imports.”
The President turned his gaze on the CIA director. “I think your invisible needle just turned visible, Walt. And the Poles are looking in exactly the right place.”
“So it seems, Mr. President,” Quinn said stiffly, obviously irked and embarrassed at being one-upped by an amateur. Huntington had a feeling that the director’s senior advisors were in for a tongue-lashing when he got back to Langley.
Fortunately for the CIA chief, the President seemed more interested in the next move than in finding fault for past errors. “Okay, Walt. I want a full-court press from every intelligence organization and asset we’ve got, focusing on the area around Gdansk. Satellite photos. SIGINT. Everything. Get your field people in touch with the Poles and coordinate with them. Somewhere, somehow, there’s evidence that connects the goddamned French or the Germans to what happened. And I want it. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” The President paced to the window and stood staring out into the fading afternoon. “Then, when Pendleton or any other congressional son-of-a-bitch starts moaning about our support for Poland, I’ll be ready to fire back.”
“That could be very risky, Mr. President,” Thurman warned. “Telling the American people that French or German agents murdered the
“You think we should just look the other way?”
Thurman paused to relight his pipe, then nodded slowly. “There are precedents.”
Huntington knew that was true. During the cold war, the Soviets had shot down several U.S. reconnaissance aircraft — some over the Sea of Japan, others closer to the Russian coast. And Israeli jets had turned a U.S. intelligence ship, the
“After all, a quiet, unofficial approach to Paris with the information could…”
The President turned his head. The cold, grim expression on his face choked Thurman off in midsentence. “First we find the evidence, Mr. Secretary. Then I will decide what we do with it.”
He turned back to the window. More lights were coming on around Camp David as the day gave way to another long winter night.
Nicolas Desaix stood near the entrance to the old European Parliament’s debating chamber, watching government officials from half the continent mingle with one another, each surrounded by a gaggle of junior aides and translators. The vast hall was one great sea of gray — gray hair, gray suits, and dull, gray faces.
What a gathering of apes in fancy dress, he thought sourly.
The prospect of spending the next several days in close contact with these bumpkins from a dozen different countries was anything but pleasing. Nevertheless, it was the price he would have to pay to see his dreams for a Europe united under Franco-German influence take final shape. This conference was a necessary formality. The little nations must have their chance to babble and fume and fuss before they signed agreements already reached by their powerful patrons. International diplomacy was a game more of form than of substance.
Well, so be it.
Desaix donned a pleasant smile suited to the occasion and sauntered through the crowd, exchanging friendly words with those he knew and polite nods with those he didn’t. It was an exhausting charade. Delegates from Austria, Belgium, Croatia, and Hungary approached him one after the other, each seeking some special concession or sign of French favor. Each went away dazzled by his charm and completely empty-handed. Their Serbian, Romanian, and Bulgarian neighbors followed close behind, and received the same polite attention.
He moved on, paying careful heed to several of the neutral observers attending the conference. Russia, Ukraine, and Denmark were all nations he had set his sights on. Bringing them into the emerging European Confederation would greatly increase its size and power. The new alliance would then run unchecked from the Atlantic to the Urals and beyond.
Or almost unchecked, he reminded himself.
There were still no representatives in Strasbourg from Warsaw, Prague, or Bratislava. Desaix pondered that irritably while swapping meaningless courtesies with one of the Russians. The Eastern Europeans were proving far more recalcitrant than he’d imagined possible. What else would it take to bring them to heel?
“Minister!”
Desaix glanced toward the voice, frowning as he recognized one of his own aides. He drew away to a quieter corner. “What is it, Girault?”
The younger man handed him a wire service printout. “It’s the Americans, Minister. And the British. They’re going to keep shipping oil and gas to Gdansk. And they’re sending warships to escort each tanker from now on!”
Desaix was stunned. “What? Impossible!”
“The American Secretary of Defense made the announcement an hour ago.” Girault pointed to the crumpled piece of paper still clutched in his superior’s hands. “He called it Operation Safe Passage.”
The Foreign Minister skimmed through the report, his jaw tightening as he realized that his aide was right. Against every expectation, the Americans and their British lapdogs were not abandoning their attempt to break the Russian oil embargo. If anything, they were upping the ante. Committing military forces to the Baltic was a clear signal that the two English-speaking countries planned to reinvolve themselves in Europe’s internal affairs.
That spelled trouble. Trouble because the Poles, Czechs, and Slovaks would be even more likely to spurn his latest diplomatic overtures. And trouble because a strengthened Anglo-American presence could only encourage the irresponsible elements already resisting Franco-German influence throughout Europe.
He shoved the printout into his pocket and grabbed Girault by the arm. “Find Chancellor Schraeder and bring him to me. Immediately. Tell him we have important matters to discuss. In private.”
The younger man nodded and hurried away into the milling crowd.
Desaix watched him disappear and then swung away on his heel. His mind was already busy exploring ways to hurry this insufferable conference along. With luck, the Americans and British would soon see their paltry naval venture overshadowed by the power of a newly united Europe.
The National Photo Interpretation Center occupied a large, nondescript office building deep inside Washington’s Navy Yard. Managed by the CIA for the country’s other intelligence services, the NPIC’s several thousand specialists were responsible for analyzing the pictures obtained by America’s orbiting spy satellites. Every president since John F. Kennedy had relied on their skills and expert knowledge during times of crisis.
This President was no different.
Bill Reilly was the senior photo interpreter assigned to the center’s northern Europe section. He’d spent years analyzing satellite pictures covering the old Warsaw Pact’s major naval bases, airfields, and army installations all the way from the Baltic to the Kola Peninsula. So many years, in fact, that he often joked he could find his way around Murmansk better than he could around his own hometown — at least from two hundred miles straight up.
His coworkers called him the KH Gnome. He stood just an inch or so over five feet tall, and even on a good day his short-sleeved shirts, wide ties, and brown or blue slacks looked like he’d slept in them. A surprisingly deep,
