The Hostage Part 1

THE HOSTAGE.

by W.E.B. Griffin.

FOR THE LATE.

WILLIAM E. COLBY.

An OSS Jedburgh first lieutenant who became director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

AARON BANK.

An OSS Jedburgh first lieutenant who became a colonel and the father of Special Forces.

WILLIAM R. CORSON.

A legendary Marine intelligence officer whom the KGB hated more than any other U.S. Intelligence officer-and not only because he wrote the definitive work on them.

FOR THE LIVING.

BILLY WAUGH.

A legendary Special Forces command sergeant major who retired and then went on to hunt down the infamous Carlos the Jackal.

Billy could have terminated Osama bin Laden in the early 1990s but could not get permission to do so.

After fifty years in the business, Billy is still going after the bad guys.

RENe J. DeFOURNEAUX.

A U.S. Army OSS second lieutenant attached to the British SOE who jumped into Occupied France alone and later became a legendary U.S. Army counterintelligence officer.

JOHNNY REITZEL.

An Army special operations officer who could have terminated the head terrorist of the seized cruise s.h.i.+p Achille Lauro but could not get permission to do so. but could not get permission to do so.

RALPH PETERS.

An Army intelligence officer who has written the best a.n.a.lysis of our war against terrorists and of our enemy that I have ever seen.

AND FOR THE NEW BREED.

MARC L.

A senior intelligence officer despite his youth who reminds me of Bill Colby more and more each day.

FRANK L.

A legendary Defense Intelligence Agency officer who retired and now follows in Billy Waugh's footsteps.

OUR NATION OWES THESE PATRIOTS.

A DEBT BEYOND REPAYMENT.

I.

[ONE].

Flughafen Schwechat Vienna, Austria 1630 12 July 2005.

As an American, Jean-Paul Lorimer was always annoyed or embarra.s.sed, or both, every time he arrived at Vienna's international airport. The first thing one saw when entering the terminal was a Starbucks kiosk.

The arrogance of Americans to sell coffee in Vienna! With such a lurid red neon sign!

Dr. Jean-Paul Lorimer, Ph.D.-a very black man of forty-six who was somewhat squat, completely bald, spoke in a nasal tone, and wore the latest in European fas.h.i.+on, including tiny black-framed gla.s.ses and Italian loafers in which he more waddled than walked-had written his doctoral thesis on Central European history. He knew there had been coffee in Europe as early as 1600.

Dr. Lorimer also knew that after the siege of Vienna in 1683, the fleeing Turkish Army left behind bags of "black fodder." Franz Georg Kolschitzky, a Viennese who had lived in Turkey, recognized it as coffee. Kolschitzky promptly opened the first coffeehouse. It offered free newspapers for his customers to read while they were drinking his coffee, which he refined by straining out the grounds and adding milk and sugar.

It was an immediate success, and coffee almost immediately became a part of cultured society in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. And spread from there around the world.

Dr. Lorimer waddled past the line of travelers at the kiosk, shaking his head in disgust. And now the Americans are bringing it, as if they invented it, like Coca-Cola, to the world? Spreading American culture? Good G.o.d! Outrageous! And now the Americans are bringing it, as if they invented it, like Coca-Cola, to the world? Spreading American culture? Good G.o.d! Outrageous!

Dr. Jean-Paul Lorimer no longer thought of himself as an American. For the past twenty-two years, he had been a career professional employee of the United Nations, with the personal rank of minister for the past five.

His t.i.tle was chief, European directorate of interagency coordination. It had its headquarters in Paris, and thus he had lived there nearly a quarter-century. He had purchased an apartment several years ago on Rue Monsieur in the VII Arrondiss.e.m.e.nt and planned-when the time was right-to buy a little house somewhere on the Cote d'Azur. He hadn't even considered, until recently, ever returning to the United States to live.

Dr. Lorimer's blue, gold-stamped United Nations diplomatic pa.s.sport saw him waved quickly past the immigration officer on duty.

He got in the taxi line, watched as the driver put his small, take-aboard suitcase into the trunk of a Mercedes, got in the back and told the driver, in German, to take him to an address on Cobenzlga.s.se.

Lorimer had mixed feelings, most of them bad, about Vienna, starting with the fact that it was difficult to get here from Paris by air. There was no direct service. One had to go to either London or Brussels first to catch a plane. Today, because he had to get here as quickly as possible, he'd come via London. An extra hour and a half of travel time that got him here two hours earlier than going through Brussels would have.

There was the train, of course, The Mozart, The Mozart, but that took forever. Whenever he could, Lorimer dispatched one of his people to deal with things in Vienna. but that took forever. Whenever he could, Lorimer dispatched one of his people to deal with things in Vienna.

It was a beautiful city, of course. Lorimer thought of it as the capital city of a nonexistent empire. But it was very expensive-not that that mattered to him anymore-and there was a certain racist ambience. There was practically none of that in Paris, which was one of the reasons Lorimer loved France generally and Paris in particular.

He changed his line of thought from the unpleasant to the pleasant. While there was nothing at all wrong with the women in Paris, a little variety was always pleasant. You could have a buxom blond from Poland or Russia here in Vienna, and that wasn't always the case in Paris.

Jean-Paul Lorimer had never married. When he'd been working his way up, there just hadn't been the time or the money, and when he reached a position where he could afford to marry, there still hadn't been the time.

There had been a film about ten years ago in which the actor Michael Caine had played a senior diplomat who similarly simply didn't have the time to take a wife, and had found his s.e.xual release with top-notch hookers. Jean-Paul reluctantly had identified with Caine's character.

The apartment Lorimer was going to was the Viennese pied-a-terre of Henri Douchon, a Lebanese business a.s.sociate. Henri, as Lorimer, was of Negroid ancestry-with some Arab, of course, but a black-skinned man, taller and more slender-who also had never married and who enjoyed buxom blond women.

Henri also liked lithe blond young men-that sort of thing was common in the Middle East-but he sensed that Jean-Paul was made uncomfortable in that ambience, and ran them off from the apartment when Jean-Paul was in town, replacing them with the buxom blond Poles or whatever they both liked. Sometimes four or even six of them.

I might as well enjoy myself; G.o.d only knows what will happen tomorrow.

There was no response to the doorbell of the apartment when Jean-Paul rang it.

Henri had not answered his phone, either, when Jean-Paul called that morning from Paris to tell him he was coming. He had called from one of the directorate's phones-not his-so the call couldn't be traced to him, and he hadn't left a message on the answering machine, either, for the same reason.

But he knew Henri was in town because when he was not, he unplugged his telephone, which caused the number to "ring" forever without activating the answering machine.

Jean-Paul waited exactly ninety seconds-timing it with his Omega chronometer as he looked back onto Cobenzlga.s.se, the cobblestone street that he knew led up the hill to the position where Field Marshal Radetsky had his headquarters when the Turks were at the gates of Vienna-before putting his key in the lock.

There was no telling what Henri might be doing, and might be unwilling to immediately interrupt. It was simply good manners to give him ninety seconds.

When he pushed the door open, he could hear music-Bartok, Jean-Paul decided-which suggested Henri was at home.

"Henri," he called. "C'est moi, Jean-Paul!" Jean-Paul!"

There was no answer.

As he walked into the apartment, there was an odor he could not immediately identify. The door from the sitting room to Henri's bedroom was open. The bed was mussed but empty.

Jean-Paul found Henri in the small office, which Henri somewhat vainly called the study.

He was sitting in the leather-upholstered, high-back desk chair. His arms were tied to the arms with leather belts. He was naked. His throat had been cut-cut through almost to the point of decapitation.

His hairy, somewhat flabby chest was blood-soaked, and blood had run down from his mouth over his chin.

There was a b.l.o.o.d.y kitchen knife on the desk, and a b.l.o.o.d.y pair of pliers. Jean-Paul was made uncomfortable by the sight, of course, but he was never anywhere close to panic or nausea or anything like that.

He had spent a good deal of time, as he worked his way up in the United Nations, in places like the Congo, and had grown accustomed to the sight and smell of mutilated bodies.

He looked again at the body and at the desk and concluded that before they'd cut his throat, they had torn out two fingernails and then-probably later-half a dozen of his teeth. The torso and upper thighs had also been slashed in many places, probably with the knife.

I knew something like this would probably happen, but not this soon. I thought at the minimum we would have another two weeks or so.

Did anyone see me come in?

No.

I gave the cabdriver the address of a house six up Cobenzlga.s.se from this one, and made sure that he saw me walking up the walk to it before he drove off.

Is there anything incriminating in the apartment?

Probably after what they did to him, there is nothing of interest or value left.

And it doesn't matter, anyway. It's time for me to go.

The only question seems to be whether they will be waiting for me in Paris.

It is possible this is only a warning to me.

But certainly, I can't operate on that a.s.sumption.

Dr. Jean-Paul Lorimer walked calmly out of the study, reclaimed his carry-on suitcase where he'd left it when coming in, paused thoughtfully a moment, then took the key to the apartment from his pocket and laid it on the table by the door.

Then he walked out of the apartment and onto Cobenzlga.s.se, dragging his suitcase behind him. He walked down the hill to the streetcar loop, and when one came, got on it.

When the streetcar reached the Vienna Opera on Karnter Ring, he got off and then boarded a streetcar that carried him to the Vienna West railroad station on Mariahilferstra.s.se.

He bought a ticket for a private single room on train EN 262, charging it to his United Nations Platinum American Express card.

Then, seeing that he had enough time before the train would leave for Paris's Gare de l'Est at eight thirty-four, he walked out of the station, found a coffeehouse and ordered a double coffee mit Schlagobers mit Schlagobers and took a copy of the and took a copy of the Wiener Kurier Wiener Kurier from the rack to read while he drank his coffee. from the rack to read while he drank his coffee.

[TWO].

7, Rue Monsieur Paris VII, France 1205 13 July 2005

Dr. Jean-Paul Lorimer took a last sad look around his apartment. He knew he was going to miss so many of his things-and not only the exquisite antiques he had been able to afford in recent years-but there was simply nothing that could be done about it.

He also had second thoughts about leaving nearly seven thousand euros in the safe. Seven thousand euros was right at eight thousand U.S. dollars. But leaving just about everything-including money in the safe-would almost certainly confuse, at least for a while, anyone looking for him.

And it wasn't as if he would be going to Shangri-La without adequate financial resources. Spread more or less equally between the Banco Central, the Banco CO-FAC, the Banco de Credito, and the Banco Hipotecario were sixteen million dollars, more money than Jean-Paul could have imagined having ten years before.

And in Shangri-La, there was both a luxury apartment overlooking a white sand beach of the Atlantic Ocean and, a hundred or so miles farther north, in San Jose, an isolated two-thousand-hectare estancia estancia on which cattle were being profitably raised. on which cattle were being profitably raised.

All of the property and bank accounts were in the name of Jean-Paul Bertrand, whose Lebanese pa.s.sport, issued by the Lebanese foreign ministry, carried Jean-Paul Lorimer's photograph and thumbprint. Getting the pa.s.sport had cost a fortune, but it was now obvious that it was money well spent.

Jean-Paul was taking with him only two medium-sized suitcases, plus the take-aboard suitcase he'd had with him in Vienna. Spread between the three was one hundred thousand U.S. dollars in neat little packs of five thousand dollars each. It was more or less concealed in shoes, socks, inner suit jacket pockets, and so on. He had already steeled himself to throwing away the cash if it developed he could not travel to Shangri-La without pa.s.sing through a luggage inspection.

He also had five thousand dollars-in five packets of a thousand each-in various pockets of his suit and four pa.s.sports, all bearing his likeness, but none of them issued by any government.

Jean-Paul had some trouble with the two suitcases and the carry-aboard until he managed to flag down a taxi, but after that things went smoothly.

From Charles de Gaulle International, he flew on Royal Air Maroc as Omar del Danti, a Moroccan national, to Mohamed V International in Casablanca. Two hours later, he boarded, as Maurice LeLand, a French national, an Air France flight to Dakar's Yoff International Airport in Senegal. Still as LeLand, at nine-thirty that night he boarded the Al Italia flight to So Paolo, Brazil. There he boarded a twin-turboprop aircraft belonging to Nordeste Linhas Aereas, a Brazilian regional airline, and flew to Santa Maria.

In Santa Maria, after calling his estancia manager, he got on an enormous intercity bus-nicer, he thought, than any Greyhound he'd ever been on. There was a television screen for each seat; a cold buffet; and even some rather nice, if generic, red wine-and rode it for about two hundred miles to Jaguarao, a farming town straddling the Brazil-Uruguay border.

Ricardo, his estancia manager, was waiting for him there with a Toyota Land Cruiser. They had a gla.s.s of a much better red, a local merlot, in a decent if somewhat primitive restaurant, and then drove out of town. Which also meant into Uruguay. If there was some sort of pa.s.sport control on either side of the border, Dr. Lorimer didn't see it. Two hours later, the Land Cruiser turned off a well-maintained gravel road and pa.s.sed under a wrought-iron sign reading SHANGRI-LA.