Chapter Four

The shuttle bounced through turbulence and jostled the wound in Pierre Renard’s shoulder. A salmon fisher’s wife had bandaged his wound so that he could delay professional attention until he could find a private physician.

He studied the passenger beside him. Thick eyebrows cast shadows across the eyes of Yvgeni Kuznetsov, a wealthy Russian exporter. A scar cut through pockmarks on Kuznetsov’s cheek.

“Fortunately,” Renard said, “the pain in my wound keeps me awake. Lord knows that you’re not providing lively companionship.”

“I attended to your safety after you led my friend to his death,” Kuznetsov said.

“Chernokov accepted the risks.”

“You seduced a desperate but good man to his death.”

Fumbling for his Marlboros, Renard realized that he was wearing Kuznetsov’s clothes. The beige dress shirt and tweed blazer held no cigarettes to calm him, but he was relieved to feel his lighter, his wallet, and his encrypted cell phone.

“Then why are you helping me?” he asked.

“Chernokov asked me to prepare an evacuation in case your plan failed. He made me swear to take you or Ivanovich to the States in case he did not survive. I am carrying out the last wishes of the friend you killed.”

“I assume he paid you well?” Renard asked.

Kuznetsov folded his copy of Fortune.

“I will use my connections to assist you through Customs,” the Russian said. “After that, my obligation ends. If I see you in Russia again, I will see that you are strangled by your own intestines.”

 

*

Outside Anchorage International, Renard called his Parisian office in the 5^th Arondissement, southwest of the Pont Neuf. As his cell phone rang, he envisioned Marie Broyer, his assistant and lover.

Marie’s image teased his mind. Her brown hair fell in waves to rounded breasts. The pastel dresses she preferred highlighted her narrow waist and shapely hips. High cheekbones and petulant lips complemented a striking face.

Her beauty, refinement, and reliability made the thirty-five-year-old Sorbonne-educated doctor of languages irresistible to Renard.

“Hello, Verincourt Enterprises,” she said in French.

Her throaty voice revealed that he had awoken her.

“It’s me,” he said. “We’re encrypted. Speak freely.”

“It’s good to hear your voice,” Marie said. “I was worried.”

A cab stopped curbside, and a uniformed attendant opened the door. Renard shook his head, shifted his phone to his other ear, and walked away.

“I hear automobile tires,” Marie said. “You’re not where I expected you to be.”

“The operation was a failure,” he said. “I’m lucky to have escaped with my life. The others are dead.”

While he let Marie absorb the news, Renard used his free hand to maneuver a Marlboro to his lips. He sparked flame from his Zippo lighter and inhaled the tobacco taste.

“Dead? How?”

“The Russian Army. A Chinese mole must have infiltrated the Taiwanese Defense Ministry and informed the Russians. I suspect one of the Minister’s deputies, but I will find out for myself when I return to Taipei.”

“You were nearly killed, and now you want to return to Taipei? Foolhardy. The Taiwanese are perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. Come home.”

Renard was exhausted and in pain. He lowered the phone and vented his frustration to the Alaskan cold.

“Damn it, woman. How many times have we been through this? I must arm Taiwan to reset the balance. I was blinded by greed and pride and spent the last ten years arming the wrong side. I must set this straight.”

He returned the phone to his ear.

“You were mumbling,” she said.

“I was just...lamenting. All this time invested into an operation, and to have it fail like this.”

“You must feel terrible,” she said.

“Those men I lost yesterday - they were my recruits, but they had become like friends. Ivanovich had no family, but I must see to...”

A sour taste filled his mouth. Blaming the cigarette, he tossed it to the pavement and fumbled through his blazer for a new one.

“...the Chernokov widow and orphans.”

“How are you taking this all?” she asked.

Renard inhaled and watched smoke from his fresh cigarette twist in the gray sky.

“How do you expect me to take it? When I commanded a submarine, I had my tactical steps mapped out better than my adversary. In every arms deal I’ve brokered, I’ve known my client’s military needs better than he. But betrayal? Dead colleagues? I’ve never been caught so off my guard. I must start over with nothing.”

“Start over?” she asked. “You expect to stumble across another opportunity to acquire nuclear weapons?”

“I have moles in intelligence agencies, contacts in the weapons community, and a strong client relationship with the Taiwanese Minister of Defense. It will take time, but I will arm Taiwan.”

“I admire your determination and optimism,” she said.

Renard ignored Marie’s assessment and shifted his thoughts to moving forward.

“One of our wireless phones is lying on Chernokov’s corpse. We need to erase Verincourt Enterprises and all aliases and records associated with it. I trust you know what to do.”

“Of course,” she said. “I will shift our operations to the business in Lyon.”

“Good. Once in Lyon, contact all my resources – moles, business colleagues, past clients, even old naval shipmates. Perhaps an opportunity has arisen while I was focused on my Russian warhead operation.”

“Warhead theft, you mean.”

“If you disapprove of my ways, then why do you stay with me?”

“Because I...you pay me well.”

Renard mustered as much compassion as he could spare.

“I know what you want from me,” he said. “But you know that I refuse to settle down until I close this deal with Taiwan, and my resolve is only stronger after coming so close.”

“Perhaps I can accelerate things,” she said.

“How?”

“You underestimate me,” Marie said. “While you were in the field, I maintained contact with several of your moles. I believe I may have found an opportunity.”

“You kept looking? I’m not sure if I should commend your diligence or reprimand your lack of faith in me.”

“Do neither,” she said. “I know that you will never be mine until you satisfy yourself that you’ve restructured the balance of power in the Pacific Ocean to your liking. Consider it a self-serving act of insurance.”

Excited, Renard stamped out his half-smoked Marlboro and lit a fresh one.

“Well?” he asked. “What opportunity?”

“Your CIA analyst mole has been busy. You must have impressed her on your last recruiting trip to the States. I imagine that she’s beautiful, is she not?”

“No, she’s hideous and weighs one hundred kilos if she weighs a gram,” he said. “That’s why it’s so easy. The money helps, too.”

“You’re a scoundrel.”

“What did she find?”

“One of her databanks indicated that an American naval officer was removed from the nuclear weapons stewardship program for emotional instability. There was a tip from an anonymous source that he had threatened the life of his commanding officer, but he was returned to full duty with a generic explanation. Removal is rare, and return to duty without a detailed list of reasons is abnormal.”

Renard’s mind cranked into motion.

“This hints of a buried truth – possibly an ugly one,” he said. “Do you know what weapons he oversees?”

“He’s stationed on a Trident Missile submarine.”

“Excellent,” he said. “The U.S. Navy pushes nuclear responsibility much farther down the chain of command than their other branches. I want you to make contact with the officer.”

“Me? What would you have me do?”

“Investigate his condition,” Renard said. “If he’s emotionally unstable, there’s a reason for it. I want you to find out what it is.”

“Why should I do it?” Marie asked.

“He’s young, is he not?”

“Wait.”

Renard heard Marie flipping through her notes and thought of her handwriting. When she was happy her handwriting flowed with long strokes and wide curves, but when she felt used, her writing became robotic.

“He’s twenty-six,” she said.

“Still a walking hormone,” Renard said. “Unlike Chernokov, he’s taking in a respectable salary. I’m sure that I will ultimately need money to recruit him, but if he’s emotionally frustrated, initial contact needs to target his weakness. For a man his age that means sex.”

“You would have me mount him and grind at his loins until he screams out his darkest secrets?”

“The illusion of sex will suffice,” he said. “You have your sex appeal, your charm, and your wit. Approach him, convince him you care about him, and extract a little honesty from the man. He will find you attractive, and being nearly a decade older, you will represent maternal concern to his subconscious. He will confide in you.”

“And if the illusion of sex fails?”

Renard chuckled.

“Modern submarine fleets are staffed by men of strong mind and will, not necessarily of strong body. Chances are that I would end up pitying you if the illusion fails, but I expect you to extract the information any way you can.”

“Do you really think you can use him to get your hands on American nuclear weapons?” she asked.

“You doubted I could use Chernokov to get to Russian weapons,” he said, “and I almost had them in my damned hands. I know how to create possibilities.”

“Okay,” Marie said. “I will serve as your whore, but if he happens to be gorgeous, you will have no right to an iota of jealousy if I must sleep with him.”

The line went dead.

 

*

The next morning, Renard took a plane from Anchorage to San Francisco International. Then he took a taxi to a four-star hotel where he had reserved a room for weeks. An apprehensive woman opened the suite’s door.

Renard said nothing. His arrival three weeks early without a Russian officer beside him conveyed the news that Chernokov’s widow feared. She grabbed his arms and dug her fingers into his skin. Her thumbnail grated his bullet wound, and he accepted the pain as his penance.

“He loved you. He died bravely. I’m sorry,” he said in crude Russian.

The woman collapsed and wailed.

Renard reached into his breast pocket and lowered a piece of paper with a name and number on it.

“This man will advise you about your money.”

She spat her anger too quickly for Renard to comprehend, but he read the hatred in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he retreated. When he was alone, he vowed – not for the first time – to create no more widows.