Masquerade (50 page)

They were all watching her now.

“Yes,” she said, “that would have to be.” She looked up at them. “The Prime Minister, the governor of the Banque de France, and the French finance minister have been reprogrammed to make a joint announcement some time tomorrow that France will devalue the franc twenty percent!”

“Good God!” O'Keefe looked in shock. “And they have the power to do it!”

“Jesus.” George turned from his post at the window. “The bastards!”

“Not a good time to be in France or Europe, I'd say,” his wife, Elaine, observed quietly.

Sarah continued, “I can just see Louise Dupuy. She's another Je Suis Chez Moi patron, and I'll bet she'll be on TV all day tomorrow interviewing Bremner-programmed business people and economists who support the move. There'll be other important civic and government leaders from the spa who'll rally around, and France will be on a course of economic disaster—”

“And while Europe rocks, Hughes gets out with his billions,” O'Keefe growled. “His resignation is probably all typed up, ready to be dropped into the mail on Monday. And you can bet he's got some fabulous hideout set up and waiting—”

“Unless we stop him,” Sarah said.

“It's after five o'clock already,” Asher said impatiently. “The Carnivore, Liz, or someone else comes in at eight—”

“Wait a minute.” Jack O'Keefe frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Sarah told him about meeting Quill, the attack by Bremner's people, and Quill's death.

The old spymaster chuckled. “You think the Carnivore's actually dead? Has anybody reported the body? No, he's survived so long because he knows more tricks than anyone!” His grin grew sly. “Except for me, of course.”

“Good thing we're on the same team then, Jack,” Sarah said. “But it doesn't matter at this point if the Carnivore's alive or dead. Someone's coming in, even if it's only Liz.”

“We've got less than three hours,” Asher reminded them.
“There's damn little time. If we're going to stop Bremner, we better make some plans.”

“No one at Langley or in the States would believe us,” Sarah decided.

O'Keefe crossed to his desk. “I think I can get to the French President. He has the authority to stop all this. I have an old friend on his staff.” He opened a thick black address book and reached for his telephone.

“It's Sunday, Jack,” Elaine reminded him. “And August.”

“Oh, hell, yes. Everyone's probably out of the city.” He looked up another number and dialed. “Andre? Jack O'Keefe. Listen, I have to talk to the President. It's a matter of life and—! There has to be a way. Dammit, it's urgent! What?” He listened, his foot tapping. “No. Okay, sure. Never mind.”

He hung up. “The President's incommunicado. A top-level ‘retreat' at some industrialist's fishing lodge in the Pyrénées. No doubt another one of Levine's clients. And according to Andre, quite a bit of the government is there, too. Unreachable. He thinks it's an odd coincidence.”

The telephone rang. Everyone jumped. Nerves were growing raw in the old tower room.

Jack picked up the phone. “Good work,
compadre
. Gracias.” He hung up. “I sent Arlene Debo a message last night suggesting she might want to check whether Hughes had really dumped the Carnivore, as per the President's orders. Now she's landed at the Languedoc, pissed as hell. She'll give Hughes the devil. Maybe he'll have a stroke and we can all walk away clean.”

“Arlene's at least a good diversion,” said Asher.

Sarah had been standing quietly, looking out at the forest. Now she said, “Why is the Carnivore dangerous to G
RANDEUR
? We know what he can do to Sterling-O'Keefe. But how can he sabotage Hughes tomorrow?”

O'Keefe's cool eyes appraised her. “I've been wondering about that, too. There's only one thing it could be. Do you recall how Vincent Vauban got to be Prime Minister?”

Asher said, “Didn't something happen to his major rival?”

“He died,” Sarah recalled. “Only a few weeks before last
spring's election, the leading candidate for Prime Minister died suddenly, and Vincent Vauban was his logical replacement.”

“Exactly.” Jack drained his glass of Chimay. “The rival was Phillipe Paquin, victim of an unexpected heart attack during a volleyball game on the beach at Cannes. Only it wasn't a heart attack. He was assassinated by a new gas derivative of Rauwolfia serpentina.”

Sarah frowned, and Asher explained, “Rauwolfia serpentina is related to common tranquilizers and damn near undetectable. Inhaled or sprayed on the skin, it depresses the central nervous system and can kill in seconds, depending on the conditions.”

Sarah digested this information, but what really mattered was: “The Carnivore assassinated him? For Hughes Bremner?”

Jack nodded. “I was the go-between. I never knew why Hughes set up the hit, but now it makes sense: Vincent Vauban had accepted Dr. Levine's invitation to join Je Suis Chez Moi, but Phillipe Paquin probably hadn't. Paquin's ‘heart attack' is the most critical reason Hughes Bremner must eliminate the Carnivore. No one knows Paquin was assassinated. It's not in any Langley file. But it's the Carnivore's most recent kill, and the first he'll reveal. That's the way debriefings go, start with the latest and work backward chronologically.”

“Then that's the way we stop Bremner,” Sarah realized. “We save the Carnivore ourselves. If he's still alive.”

They were silent, nervous. The idea of going against Hughes Bremner, his army of CIA agents, and the MK-U
LTRA
program didn't thrill O'Keefe's
compadres
. They knew what Bremner could do. So did Sarah and Asher.

“It's me they're coming for, isn't it?” Sarah asked.

O'Keefe nodded. “I've never been able to pinpoint exactly why they need you so badly, but Gordon plans to grab you here and fly you to the Languedoc. Levine's going to put you on some drug called LP48. I didn't know why LP48 was significant, until you told us about Levine and MK-U
LTRA
.” He looked across the room. “Dirk, my boy?”

The man he called Dirk was no boy. Close to eighty, he was
of medium height and weight, and disarmingly ordinary looking. He limped forward, took a pillbox from his pocket, popped it open, and set it on O'Keefe's antique desk.

Inside were three gray tablets. “I made friends with a little fellow at Je Suis Chez Moi named Maurice Arl, The Mouse. I told him I was Interpol, that Levine was illegal, and I asked him to find out about M
ASQUERADE
. He didn't discover much more than we already knew, except that Levine was rushing to prepare a new drug for a ‘client' he expected to arrive soon. I asked for more details, but Maurice and the young woman he was lusting after ended up dead yesterday before they could get back to me.”

“Chantelle Joyeaux,” Sarah said. In a flash, she saw the woman's body in the Cadillac's trunk, the terrible death wound on her chest, and the body of a small man with a similar chest wound being fitted in beside her.

“Was that her name?” Dirk seemed to inscribe it on some memorial in his mind. “All I ended up with was the name of the drug—LP48—and these pills Maurice said would block its effects. It seems Levine always prepares an antidote in case anything goes wrong with his clients.”

“It wouldn't do to have someone famous die in their hands,” O'Keefe said in disgust. “Set back the whole operation.”

Sarah took the pillbox. “It blocks the drug Levine's going to use on me?”

“Yes, Sarah,” O'Keefe told her quietly.

“No!” Asher hurried from the tower window and grabbed her arms. He looked grimly into her eyes. “It's too damn dangerous! Once you're in the Languedoc, we won't be able to get to you. What happens if the antidote doesn't work? If you think they'll let you live afterward, you're nuts!”

Sarah took his hands and smiled. “We don't have much choice, darling. We don't know where the coming-in's going to be, so we can't stake it out beforehand. We don't know exactly how Bremner plans to use me. All we know is that he needs me a lot. This is our only way to reach Bremner, preserve the Carnivore's information, and stop G
RANDEUR
from shattering Europe.”

“No!” His grip was like steel on her hands. “I won't—”

Her eyes hardened. “Bremner and his gang stole my memory, my identity, and my life. They stole
me
. For money! They robbed me of everything that makes me a person, just to eliminate a threat to the enjoyment of their millions, and I'm not going to let them get away with it!”

“But—”

“Chief!” George was staring out his tower window, his glass halfway to his lips. “They're here. In the woods!”

Asher hurried to his side. “I don't see anything.”

“They're there. Believe me.”

Jack O'Keefe sat on the edge of his antique desk and swung a leg. “You have a better plan, Asher?”

Sarah said, “Europe's got enough problems without economic anarchy, darling. There's no one who can stop Bremner in time except us.”

“Except you, you mean,” Asher said bitterly. He looked at Jack O'Keefe. “How do we get her out alive?”

“We do our best,” O'Keefe replied steadily.

Chapter 58

As Arlene Debo's chopper touched down on the Languedoc's helipad, Hughes Bremner ducked and ran toward it. He'd seen Gordon and his people off to collect Sarah Walker just minutes before, and he expected their return at about six o'clock. Allan Levine had already arrived and was making arrangements. At eight o'clock, the coming-in would begin with the appearance of the real Liz Sansborough.

Everything seemed to be happening at once, and Bremner felt time speeding much too fast. Yet he had it all under control—all but the most unpredictable element:

The director of Central Intelligence herself, Arlene Debo.

Bremner swung open the helicopter's door. The blades whipped overhead, and his hair rose with the gale. Impeccably dressed as usual in an expensive business suit, Arlene Debo stepped down, lowered her gray head, and hurried toward the elevator. The pilot handed Bremner her heavy briefcase.

Bremner strode after her, his patrician face appropriately solemn.

“Hughes!” Arlene's ample chest heaved as she waited at the elevator. “The President's going to have your ass on a platter! You'd better have one hell of a good explanation—”

“The situation's changed, Arlene.” He pushed the elevator button. “Good thing you're here. The Carnivore claims Phillipe Paquin was murdered. You remember, he was the front-runner for Prime Minister. Vauban was his challenger. The Carnivore
says he can tell us the group that did it. They're an exceptionally dangerous cabal, so extreme they've also put out a contract on Vauban himself. I think we'd better bring the Carnivore in and find out what the hell he knows, before the Prime Minister of France is assassinated!”

As the elevator door opened, he watched shock turn to worry on her round face. They stepped inside, and he considered his options. The most extreme would be her death. But killing her would focus extraordinary attention on Languedoc personnel, which could endanger G
RANDEUR
. After tomorrow, there would be far too much on France's, Europe's, and the United States' collective mind to notice the sudden retirement of one career CIA man.

“Hughes! You'd better have some damn compelling evidence to back up your allegations!”

On the château's front drive, Sarah and Asher bid Red Jack O'Keefe a swift good-bye. The old spymaster was back in costume and in character, trembling as if in the beginning stages of another Alzheimer's episode. He gave them a wink as they jumped onto the big BMW motorcycle.

Sarah surveyed the front lawns and distant forest, but she saw nothing. Asher stomped the starter. Just as the cycle rolled forward, bullets exploded its tires. Black rubber shredded up before their eyes. The heavy motorcycle shuddered and toppled.

Instantly they shoulder-rolled to the ground and yanked out their weapons. As more bullets whistled past, they scrambled behind the downed bike. On the steps the bald “butler” hustled a confused Jack O'Keefe inside the château. The massive door with the huge iron hinges slammed.

“Where are they?” Asher's dark eyes were black points of fury.

“Can't tell. We'd better make it look good.”

They waited for a pause in the hail of bullets. Then they ran around the side of the château and toward the garage. Vehicles
would be stored there. Gordon would expect them to try to escape.

As they ran, bullets peppered the drive. None even came near them.

“Oh, my God,” Sarah breathed.

From the beeches and poplars that surrounded the château's parklike grounds emerged a dozen armed men and women. They were running, too, converging on Sarah and Asher. In the distance, a helicopter chopped toward them from the direction of Paris.

Asher and Sarah put on a burst of speed and closed in on the potential safety of the garage. The helicopter flew directly over the château and hovered above them. A bullhorn bellowed: “Walker! Flores! Stop! Raise your hands. You won't be hurt!”

“They're taking no chance we'll get away this time.” Asher yanked open the side door of the garage.

Sarah jumped first into the gloom, Walther ready.

“Ah, Sarah. How nice to see you again. You, too, Asher.” Gordon smiled a sinister, hate-filled smile.

He and the woman who had been with him at the Denver airport stood seven feet inside the door, Berettas trained and ready to fire. They were positioned at least ten feet apart. No way could Sarah spin off to the side or hope to shoot both before one got her or Asher. But if Sarah was going to go, she'd like to leave Gordon with a souvenir.