“Now,” Jean-Claude said.
There was a brief flash from one of the eight intruders; it was strange to see but not hear it. Ryan couldn’t tell if the guard moved as a result, but his cigarette did, flying perhaps two yards, after which both images remained stationary. That’s a kill, he told himself. Dear God, what am I watching? The eight pale shapes closed on the camp. First they entered the guard hut — it was always the same one. A moment later they were back outside. Next, they redeployed into the two groups of four, each group heading toward one of the “lighted” huts.
“Who are the troops?” Jack asked.
“Paras,” Jean-Claude answered simply.
Some of the men reappeared thirty seconds later. After another minute, the rest emerged — more than had gone in, Ryan saw. Two seemed to be carrying something. Then something else entered the picture. It was a bright glow that washed out other parts of the picture, but the new addition was a helicopter, its engines blazing in the infrared picture. The picture quality deteriorated and the camera zoomed back. Two more helicopters were in the area. One landed near the vehicles, and the jeeps were driven into it. After that helicopter lifted off, the other skimmed the ground, following the vehicle tracks for several miles and erasing them with its downdraft. By the time the satellite lost visual lock with the scene, everyone was gone. The entire exercise had taken less than ten minutes.
“Quick and clean,” Marty breathed.
“You got her?” Jack had to ask.
“Yes,” Jean-Claude replied. “And five others, four of them alive. We removed all of them, and the camp guards who, I regret to say, did not survive the evening.” The Frenchman’s regrets were tossed in for good manners only. His face showed what he really felt.
“Any of your people hurt?” Cantor asked.
An amused shake of his head: “No. They were all asleep, you see. One slept with a pistol next to his cot, and made the mistake of reaching for it.”
“You pulled everybody out, even the camp guards?”
“Of course. All are now in Chad. The living are being questioned.”
“How did you arrange the satellite coverage?” Jack asked.
This answer came with a Gallic shrug. “A fortunate coincidence.”
Right, Jack thought. Some coincidence. I just watched the instant-replay of the death of three or four people. Terrorists, he corrected himself. Except for the camp guards, who only helped terrorists. The tilling could not have been an accident. The French wanted us to know that they were in counterterrorist operations for-real.
“Why am I here?”
“But you made this possible,” Jean-Claude said. “It is my pleasure to give you the thanks of my country.”
“What’s going to happen to the people you captured?” Jack wanted to know.
“Do you know how many people they have assassinated? For those crimes they will answer. Justice, that will happen to them.”
“You wanted to see a success, Jack,” Cantor said. “You just did.”
Ryan thought that one over. Removing the bodies of the camp guards told him how the operation would end. No one was supposed to know what had happened. Sure, some bullet holes were left behind, and a couple of bloodstains, but no bodies. The raiders had quite literally covered their tracks. The whole operation was “deniable.” There was nothing left behind that would point to the French. In that sense it had been a perfect covert operation. And if that much effort had gone into making it so, then there was little reason to suspect that the Action-Directs people would ever face a jury. You wouldn’t go to that much trouble and then go through the publicity of a trial, Ryan told himself. Goodbye, Francoise Theroux . . .
I condemned these people to death, he realized finally. Just the one of them was enough to trouble his conscience. He remembered the police-style photograph he’d seen of her face and the fuzzy satellite image of a girl in a bikini.
“She’s murdered at least three people,” Cantor said, reading Jack’s face.
“Professor Ryan, she has no heart, that one. No feelings. You must not be misled by her face,” Jean-Claude advised. “They cannot all look like Hitler.”
But that was only part of it, Ryan knew. Her looks merely brought into focus that hers was a human life whose term was now unnaturally limited. As she has limited those of others. Jack told himself. He admitted to himself that he would have no qualms at all if her name had been Sean Miller.
“Forgive me,” he said. “It must be my romantic nature.”
“But of course,” the Frenchman said generously. “It is something to be regretted, but those people made their choice, Professor, not you. You have helped to avenge the lives of many innocent people, and you have saved those of people you will never know. There will be a formal note of thanks — a secret one, of course — for your assistance.”
“Glad to help, Colonel,” Cantor said. Hands were shaken all around, and Marty led Jack back to the headquarters building.
“I don’t know that I want to see anything like that again,” Ryan said in the corridor. “I mean, I don’t want to know their faces. I mean — hell, I don’t know what I mean. Maybe — it’s just . . . different when you’re detached from it, you know? It was too much like watching a ball game on TV, but it wasn’t a ball game. Who was that guy, anyway?”
“Jean-Claude’s the head of the DGSE’s Washington Station, and he was the liaison man. We got the first new picture of her a day and a half ago. They had the operation all ready to roll, and he got things going inside of six hours. Impressive performance.”
“I imagine they wanted us to be impressed. They’re not bringing ’em in, are they?”
“No. I seriously doubt those people are going back to France to stand trial. Remember the problem they had the last time they tried a public trial of Action-Directe members? The jurors started getting midnight phone calls, and the case got blown away. Maybe they don’t want to put up with the hassle again.” Cantor frowned. “Well, it’s not our call to make. Their system isn’t the same as ours. All we did was forward information to an ally.”
“An American court could call that accessory to murder.”
“Possibly,” Cantor admitted. “Personally, I prefer what Jean-Claude called it.”
“Then why are you leaving in August?” Ryan asked.
Cantor delivered his answer without facing him. “Maybe you’ll find out someday, Jack.”
Back alone in his office, Ryan couldn’t get his mind off what he’d seen. Five thousand miles away, agents of the DGSE’s “action” directorate were now questioning that girl. If this had been a movie, their techniques would be brutal. What they used in real life, Ryan didn’t want to know. He told himself that the members of Action-Directe had brought it on themselves. First, they had made a conscious choice to be what they were. Second, in subverting the French legal system the previous year, they’d given their enemies an excuse to bypass whatever constitutional guarantees . . . but was that truly an excuse?
“What would Dad think?” he murmured to himself. Then the next question hit him. Ryan lifted his phone and punched in the right number.
“Cantor.”
“Why, Marty?”
“Why what, Jack?”
“Why did you let me see that?”
“Jean-Claude wanted to meet you, and he also wanted you to see what your data accomplished.”
“That’s bull, Marty! You let me into a real-time satellite display — okay, taped, but essentially the same thing. There can’t be many people cleared for that. I don’t need-to-know how good the real-time capability is. You could have told him I wasn’t cleared for it and that would have been that.”
“Okay, you’ve had some time to think it over. Tell me what you think.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Why?” Cantor asked.
“It broke the law.”
“Not ours. Like I told you twenty minutes ago, all we did was provide intelligence information to a friendly foreign nation.”
“But they used it to kill people.”
“What do you think intel is for, Jack? What should they have done? No, answer this first: what if they were foreign nationals who had murdered French nationals in — in Liechtenstein, say, and then boogied back to their base?”
“That’s not the same thing. That’s more . . . more like an act of war — like doing the guards at the camp. The people they were after were their own citizens who committed crimes in their own country, and — and are subject to French law.”
“And what if it had been a different camp? What if those paratroopers had done a job for us, or the Brits, and taken out your ULA friends?”
“That’s different!” Ryan snapped back. But why? he asked himself a moment later. “It’s personal. You can’t expect me to feel the same way about that.”