The Jericho Pact Read online

  I must ensure I am alone, he had written. Tonight. Late. Your hotel room.

  She balled it up with the receipts, and ordered coffee and pastry. It appeared she would get at least a small part of her wish: for the next several hours, she needed to play tourist.

  She smiled at the young woman who brought her food, all the while wondering if she might be too old or too rusty for what lay ahead.

  Berlin, Germany

  Renate and Margarite went to the train station together, although only Margarite was leaving. Renate still had leads to follow up in Berlin, but Margarite had decided to get in touch with one of her sources in Paris to see what he might have picked up.

  “You are confident of him?” Renate had asked at least three times, echoing Jefe’s concern.

  “Very. Will you please stop asking me that question, Renate? I know my job.”

  Renate had clamped her jaws shut. For some reason, the minute anyone expressed that kind of confidence, her doubts began to grow. “Be careful,” she finally said. “You know what is at stake.”

  Margarite didn’t bother to answer.

  The Hauptbahnhof, or Central Station, displayed many of the same earmarks of Germany’s other newer stations, although it was itself both the newest and biggest. As they ascended the escalator toward the east-west platforms, they rose into a glass-and-steel lattice covered tunnel, designed to maximize daylight and the surrounding view. Atop the southern tunnel, photovoltaic cells gathered power to support the station’s operations.

  Many Berliners weren’t very fond of the new station and called the tunnels the glass sausages. Renate didn’t blame them. The scourge of uniformity that came along with modernity threatened the charm of the past far too much.

  Suddenly Margarite murmured, “Merde.”

  Renate looked up from the top of the escalator and followed Margarite’s stare to the next platform over. It was crowded with people, and at first she thought only that it looked more like an afternoon commuter crowd than a midday group.

  But as she stepped off the escalator, the reality penetrated. Most of the women wore the hijab, the head scarf required by some Muslim sects. Some wore slacks or jeans, but many observed shari’a with long shapeless dresses, mostly black, a few colorful and exotic. They stood by themselves at one end of the platform, with the young children. Older boys and men stood at the other end, and around them all were suitcases. None, except the smallest children, looked happy about this state of affairs.

  “A removal train,” Renate murmured.

  “Oui.” Margarite stared openly.

  “It is an abomination,” Renate said.

  Margarite shook her head. “Perhaps. Perhaps it is only people doing what people do. It is so easy, after all, to simply pack the bad people away. You did it once before, and, sadly, it worked. Those who survived the camps fled Europe after.”

  “I didn’t do that,” Renate said, bristling. “I was not yet born.”

  “Your people,” Margarite said with her characteristic shrug. “Germans.”

  “And your people, and the rest of Europe, packed your Jews on those trains,” Renate replied.

  “But who built the camps?”

  “So am I to apologize for being German?” Renate snapped. “What do you want?”

  Margarite turned to her. “Yes. Apologize for being German. Even better, stop being German.”

  “I have nothing to apologize for, Margarite. I was not even born when the Holocaust happened!”

  “I am not talking about that,” Margarite said.

  “What, then?” Renate asked, puzzled. “Is my hair too blond? Are my eyes too blue? Do I mispronounce your holy French that terribly?”

  The Frenchwoman sighed, sitting on a bench and lighting a cigarette with trembling hands. Renate realized there was something more going on here. She drew a breath and sat beside Margarite, trying to calm her own anger. “Talk to me. What have I done to hurt you?”

  Margarite smiled wanly and shook her head. “You really have no idea, do you? You have not hurt me. You owe me no apology for who you are. You should apologize to Lawton. You should apologize to yourself.”

  “What do you—”

  “You asked,” Margarite said, cutting her off. “Now shut up and listen. Do you know why Jefe sent you to America to recruit Lawton?”

  “I was already in Guatemala, investigating the murder of the U.S. ambassador,” Renate said. “I was the closest agent to the scene.”

  “Merde!” Margarite said. “Any of us could have been in the States as quickly as you could from Guatemala. No. Jefe chose you because you are the best. He knew it. I knew it. Everyone at Office 119 knew it.”

  “So I should apologize for being good at my job?”

  “Oui! You should! You are so damn good at being German that you’ve forgotten to be human. You terrify us, Renate. You are brilliant, skilled, utterly dedicated and utterly ruthless. Whatever else the bastards in Frankfurt did, they turned a woman into a machine. No, not even a machine. A predator, brutally efficient and remorseless. A predator that feeds on evil. But you can eat only so much evil before it consumes you, Renate. And somewhere, lost in what you have become, is a woman who cannot or will not see what makes the rest of us ache when we look at you.

  “You need to love, Renate, and to be loved. You cannot go on forever living on hate and anger and revenge, or they will consume you. You are the perfect stereotype of a German: dutiful, logical and efficient. You could be more than that, but you crush the rest of you as ruthlessly as you crush your prey. If you do not let it up soon, if you do not let it breathe soon, you will have nothing left of the woman you were. And then you will be no better than the prey you hunt.”

  Renate felt the words cut through to her core and fought the urge to cry. “Damn you, Margarite.”

  Margarite put a hand on hers. “I am sorry, mon amie. But I must care for my friend, non? When you get Lawton out of jail, and you will, take some time with him. The rest of us can chase the bad guys for a few days. Be a woman again, Renate. Before it’s too late.”

  They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Margarite rose. “My train is here. Au revoir, mon amie. I will see you in Rome.”

  After Margarite’s train pulled out, Renate headed for the escalator. She glanced again toward the crowd on the next platform and saw that their train was just arriving. Moving with heavy reluctance, they began to lift their suitcases.

  But just then a squad of Polizei, uniformed but not armed, appeared and moved through the crowd. The Muslims looked confused at first, some still moving their suitcases onto the trains, until the Polizei began to take the suitcases off. Renate wondered if they were now being stripped of the last of their belongings and walked over to one of the policemen.

  “Was ist passiert?” she asked. What’s happening.

  “The Muslim Protection Laws are suspended,” he replied.

  “Chancellor Müller has seen the light?” Renate asked.

  “Nein,” the officer said, smiling. “Bürgermeister Kohl.”

  The mayor of Berlin had chosen to defy the federal government, the officer explained. There would be no more removals in this city.

  Renate nodded, whispering “danke” to the heavens before helping the Muslims to retrieve their luggage. Perhaps the tide was turning. Perhaps there was hope.

  Rome, Italy

  “You are a physician, yes?” Ahmed asked.

  Hassan ibn Hassan nodded. “I am. Or I was.”

  “You still are,” Ahmed said. “We have need of a physician, especially in the…Shi’a district.”

  Hassan visibly seethed. “Shi’a district? Are we now segregated from within as well as from without?”

  “Please,” Ahmed said, holding up a hand. “Trust that I do understand your anger. This tarh l is an abomination that must end soon. And I believe Shi’a are just as Muslim as Sunni.”

  “I suppose I should say thank you?” Hassan asked, anger still dripping from his
words.

  Ahmed shook his head. “No, you should not. That your inclusion in the family of Islam is even in question is a shame on my brother Sunni.”

  “We agree on one thing, at least,” Hassan said. “Yet still you have established a Shi’a district.”

  “I have,” Ahmed said, nodding. “We have not that many Shi’a families here. I thought—perhaps in error—that you would be more comfortable living together…having a neighborhood that is yours alone. If I am wrong in that, I apologize.”

  Finally Hassan’s face seemed to soften. “No. I can understand your decision. And yes, with all that has happened, perhaps it is better we have a neighborhood of our own. So…you need a doctor.”

  “Yes,” Ahmed said. “We have only two for the entire district. They are overworked. You will be busy.”

  “What about my son?” Hassan asked. “Ali is eighteen, and he…needs to be busy, too. Otherwise I fear he may fall in with the wrong crowd. It has…happened before.”

  Ahmed nodded. This was a request he faced far too often. Many Muslim youth, disenchanted by their treatment in Europe over the past years, had largely abandoned school and work for lives of “activism.” Much of the time, that had translated into the kind of violence that had given Islam a bad name. It wasn’t enough to hold back his Saif operatives. There was a generation of disgruntled youth waiting for a spark, and the tarh l was a ready excuse.

  “I will find work for Ali, I promise,” Ahmed said. He lifted a hand toward the door. “In the meantime, allow me to show you our clinic. It is a bit…primitive…but we have petitioned the government for more equipment and a wider array of medicines.”

  “So this is what we have come to,” Hassan said. “We are reduced to begging for basic human rights.”

  Ahmed nodded, his heart tearing. “Yes, my friend. At least for a time. But let us make the best of what we have at hand, no?”

  As he led Hassan to the clinic, Ahmed looked around him. Already, young boys and men were standing idle, with too few skills and too little motivation to be productive. He could feel the anger building. It was not a matter of whether this neighborhood would explode.

  It was simply a matter of when.

  Paris, France

  Jules Soult crumpled the sheet of paper and hurled it across the room, startling the aide who had brought it. At least the man had the good sense to back out of the room.

  Merde! The mayor of Berlin had chosen, on his own, to defy the removal laws of Germany. Germany, Germany, always Germany. The bane of his existence.

  He picked up the telephone and stabbed in numbers, feeling the pain in his fingertip, a pain that helped him to focus his righteous rage.

  “This is President Soult,” he said when the phone was answered. “Put me through to Chancellor Müller at once.”

  “The Chancellor is in conference,” the woman said.

  “Then get him out of conference!” Soult said. “This is an issue of European security. Do it now.”

  Two minutes later, Müller was on the phone. “What is it, Monsieur Soult?”

  “I am calling about the situation in Berlin,” Soult said. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Federal lawyers are reviewing the situation now,” Müller said. “It seems we may have drafted the Muslim Protection Laws in such a way that local officials have some leeway in implementation. As of now, I am led to believe that the Bürgermeister is acting within his lawful authority.”

  “Then change the laws!” Soult said.

  “We are discussing whether that may be necessary.”

  “It is necessary,” Soult said. “Don’t forget, Germany is an EU country. You are bound by EU laws.”

  “Do not lecture me, Herr President,” Müller said. “I am well aware of my responsibilities regarding the European Union. I am also aware of my responsibilities to Germany. Have no doubt as to which I give precedence.”

  “It had better be the Union.”

  The phone was silent for a moment before Müller spoke. “I will see to my office, Herr President. I would suggest that you see to yours. I am sure you have heard that one of your security agents was killed here. Witnesses say it was he who threw the firebomb that began the riot outside our Centrum Judiciaum.”

  “That is rubbish,” Soult said. “The witnesses lie.”

  “Perhaps,” Müller said. “Perhaps not. That will be for our courts to decide. But if it is even possible that the witnesses are correct, your own organization has some…bad apples, no?”

  “I will look into it,” Soult said, shaking his head. “And you fix this problem in Berlin.”

  “We will both address the problems we see,” Müller said. “Au revoir.”

  Soult hung up the phone, not even remotely mollified. So this was how Müller viewed loyalty? Was it not Soult who had secured the Chancellorship for him? How dare he?

  The removal was working well in the rest of Europe. Ordinary citizens craving security could be made to follow almost any law, especially when that law appeared to exempt them and their loved ones. All over the continent, people were helping in the containment of what some now called “the Muslim menace.” And because the violence was indeed abating in many places, some commentators—especially those whose pay was supplemented by Soult’s agents—were pointing to Soult as the man who had saved Europe.

  Until this morning, he could scarcely believe how well the plan was working. Then one stubborn Berliner took it upon himself to make decisions, and it appeared that Müller would let it stand. What if other German officials decided to follow the path of Berlin’s mayor? Would Müller put his foot down, or would he allow Germany to rebuff the European Union and its lawful edicts?

  Soult began to suspect that, like Vögel before him, Müller was too German to be Chancellor of Germany. But he could not risk another assassination. Given enough dots, even frightened people would make connections. No, this was a time for public action.

  He picked up the telephone and dialed again. This time he did not encounter a rude secretary, for no French soldier would be so impertinent. In seconds, not minutes, he was through.

  “Colonel Vasquez,” Soult said. “We may need to activate contingency plans for Germany. What is the status of our negotiations with the French armed forces?”

  “They will be at our disposal if we have cause,” Vasquez said.

  “Fashion a cause,” Soult snapped. “Germany cannot be allowed to defy us.”

  20

  Béziers, France

  I t was nearly two in the morning when Steve Lorenzo finally tapped gently on the door of Miriam Anson’s hotel room. He had waited until late to leave his own lodgings so that it would be easier for Miguel to spot anyone who might be following him. Only when Miguel signaled the all-clear did Steve finally enter Miriam’s hotel and make his way up to her third-floor room.

  When she opened the door, he saw that she had not been sleeping. The bed was still made, and she still wore the touristy clothes she had had on earlier at the Place de la Madeleine.

  “Come in, Father,” she said with a warm smile. “It’s good to see you again.”

  He nodded silently and slipped past her into the room, taking a seat in what looked to be an antique armchair as she closed and locked the door. “I’m sorry,” he said when she joined him.

  Miriam arched an eyebrow. “What are you sorry for?”

  “For leaving you in Guatemala. I had no choice. I had to protect my flock, and we had to move quickly. More quickly than you could, given your wound. Still, I abandoned you. I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head. “Do you imagine that I’m angry with you about that? Father, you made sure I could get to safety and return to the United States. I knew why you did what you did. I would have done the same, in your situation.”

  He looked at her, searching for signs of deception and finding none. She put a hand on his arm and continued.

  “Father, you have nothing to apologize for. You are the only good thing t
hat happened to me in Guatemala. If not for you and the things you said to me there, I think I’d have gone crazy thinking about what I’d done. So no, you shouldn’t be sorry. I should be sorry that I didn’t let you know that before tonight.”

  In a world where it seemed that no one was truly what he or she appeared to be, Steve thought, Miriam Anson was the exception. He was proud that his country could find and recognize people like her: true diamonds in a bed of self-promoting, self-serving glass.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I am surprised to see you here, however. I would have been satisfied with an e-mail in response.”

  That,” she said, “wasn’t going to happen. Not once I found out who this man in Guatemala was working for.”

  Something in her tone made his stomach tighten. “Oh?”

  “He was a contractor, working for the European Union,” Miriam said. “It’s more complicated than that, but that’s the short version. He had served under Jules Soult, in the French army, and then went to work for a Spanish firm that Soult had hired to handle EU security.”

  As the news sank in, it felt as if the bottom fell out of Steve’s world. “Oh, my.”

  “Yes,” Miriam said. “Oh, my. Because that means Jules Soult has what you went to Guatemala to find.”

  Steve nodded. It made sense. The Guardians were right. Jules Soult had murdered Chancellor Vögel.

  And he had no way to prove it.

  Paris, France

  Margarite settled into a chair at a table outside Le Rive Gauche café and allowed her pores to soak up the gentle civilization of the Left Bank. Leafy trees lined the narrow street, the buildings whispered of elegance, and she could order a café au lait exactly the way she liked it. Every time she came home, she realized how much she missed Paris. There were other beautiful places on this earth, but none quite like this city.

  Certainly not Germany, she thought with a little shudder, and then scolded herself. She forced herself to acknowledge that she hadn’t really looked for beauty in Germany, in part because she visited only on business, and in part because of lingering resentments. Yet after the conversation with Renate at the train station in Berlin, and now having heard that several mayors had joined the mayor of Berlin in suspending the relocation laws, she was prepared to see Germany and Germans in a different light.