The Copernicus Conspiracy

By John M. Lavery

In an international thriller that ranges from the quiet streets of Georgetown to the tumult of Tokyo and from Riyadh to Paris, a series of unexplained deaths, leads John Dundas, a publisher with the celebrated Copernicus League, to wonder if the League, with journalists scattered worldwide, might be perfect cover for a team of undercover assassins.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kurokawa Publishing
• Release date: Oct 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9780989915410

Book preview

PART ONE -

The Arabian

Assignment

1

-THE DESERT BEYOND RIYADH

The lizard darted across the sand until near the brink of a dune—it stopped. Its legs and tail extended, the reptile seemed oblivious to the scorching heat. The only sound was the whisper of wind-driven sand. Then, without warning, the silence suddenly erupted as a dark shape hurtled from the sky, plummeting toward the surface. In an instant, the thunderous sound was gone—and the lizard had vanished.

The black-and-white biplane that had plunged toward the desert was now soaring upward into an otherwise empty sky. In the open cockpit the pilot did his best to ignore the heat and glaring light as he watched the altimeter needle trace its way around the dial. Normally, air rushing past the windscreen would have brought Pieter Schwarz a measure of relief—but not today.

Schwarz held the Christen Eagle in a steady upward arc until at the top of his loop he became momentarily weightless. As the pressure eased on his seat belt and shoulder harness he craned back, straining to find the horizon. Then, blood rushing to his head, Schwarz neutralized the controls and felt the plane begin to drop.

As a photographer with Journal, the magazine of the venerable Washington-based Copernicus League, there were few places he hadn’t been. At one time or another, assignments had taken him from the barren expanse of Antarctica to the sweltering torment of the Amazon, and across much of Africa, Asia and Europe—virtually everywhere.

Barreling back toward the surface, Schwarz lined up on a four-thousand-foot strand of concrete. Leveling out just high enough to clear his wingtips, he flipped the Eagle onto its back and came roaring along the runway.

Among those who knew Pieter Schwarz, there was general agreement that he was an unrelenting perfectionist. Situations in which he had less than complete control made him uneasy. Even before taking off, he knew that the extreme temperature would make the air unpredictable and that getting back on the runway in one piece might call for almost as much luck as skill. And he never counted on luck.

Much of what Schwarz did required razor-sharp reflexes and total composure. His photography for example: an instant too soon, or too late, and the image wasn’t there. He had known people, not necessarily pilots or photographers, who had paid dearly for a moment’s hesitation or lapse in judgment.

As the far end of the runway came rushing toward him, Schwarz noted two underground hangars to his left. A gleaming white Learjet extended from the open doors of one. A Cobra attack helicopter stood in the shadows of the other. Close by were three Mercedes limousines, their dark windows effectively concealing any passengers within. But Schwarz’s attention was focused on something else—a solitary white-clad figure. The temperature on the glaring surface of the runway easily topped 115 degrees Fahrenheit. Yet Prince Muhammad al Hussein, the dark-haired young man sporting a rakish flight suit, stood motionless, following Schwarz’s every move. His eyes masked by mirror-lensed sunglasses, he seemed unaffected by the grueling conditions.

During a previous inverted pass, in a heart-stopping moment caused by an invisible eddy of turbulence, pilot and plane had nearly made contact with the runway. For an instant, Schwarz thought he’d bought the farm.

With the Eagle still inverted, he blinked sweat from his eyes and eased forward on the stick. The biplane began to climb. Once clear of the runway, he half-rolled the Eagle and continued climbing as he waited for his heart rate to drop.

For his final maneuver, he circled back toward the strip and put the Eagle into another steep dive. As he approached the limousines parked on the apron near the hangars, Schwarz pulled back on the stick.

Climbing vertically, he began a series of inside snap rolls from which he soon sent the biplane tumbling end over end, back toward the desert, in what pilots call a Lomcevak, a Czech reference to a drunkard’s wobbly gait.

Moments later, satisfied with his performance, Schwarz settled the Eagle onto the runway. Leaning out into the prop wash, he taxied toward the prince until he cut the engine and brought the plane to an instant stop. Only when he had pushed back his goggles and was releasing his seat belt and shoulder harness did Muhammad al Hussein approach.

After pulling himself from the cockpit, Schwarz dropped to the runway, where the prince smiled and extended his hand. That was impressive.

While he shook the hand of the Saudi prince, Schwarz noted how quickly the royal entourage emerged from their air-conditioned limousines to gather around the young man who, barring an assassin’s bomb or bullet, would one day rule this oil-rich kingdom.

Thank you, Your Highness. That’s very generous of you. But I must admit to being a bit rusty.

It had been six weeks since Alexander Crichton, editor of Journal, called Pieter Schwarz to his office to announce the Arabian assignment. Truth be told, Schwarz had no interest in returning to the Middle East, which he knew would matter little to Crichton.

Pieter, I have something for you. I know you’re not going to like it. But hear me out and you’ll see why you’re the perfect fit. By the time the meeting was over, Pieter Schwarz understood why he was bound for Saudi Arabia.

Since his arrival, Schwarz had been on the move constantly. He stayed in Riyadh just long enough to pay his respects to the royal family and a few others. Then he was off to the An Nafud, where he spent several days photographing the Bani Khalid Bedouins. After that Schwarz moved south, briefly following the remains of the Hejaz railway, the Ottoman supply link ravaged by T. E. Lawrence and his Arab raiders during the First World War. In contrast to the charred wreckage of modern battle tanks and helicopters, the remains of the Hejaz were an intriguing subject—a desert-scourged reminder of another time.

Near the end of his second day, Schwarz was crouched in the shadow of the rusting wreckage of an overturned locomotive. As twisted metal filled his viewfinder, Schwarz could all but hear gunfire and explosions, the sounds of long-ago death and destruction. Intent on his work, Schwarz was slow to notice the sound of an approaching helicopter.

He stopped shooting and waited.

A Cobra gunship swept low overhead and landed nearby. The rotor blades were still spinning when the pilot jumped from the cockpit and, ducking low, sprinted toward Schwarz. It was Prince Muhammad al Hussein. That night, out of earshot of the copilot, the prince and the journalist sat beside a small fire and talked. It was then the prince caught Schwarz by surprise.

Their campfire was made of wooden scraps from a ruined railroad car. The prince pulled out a scrap not yet burning and began drawing in the sand.

So Pieter, you spend a lot of time in Europe. What do you make of all that’s going on?

"If you mean the bombings and butchery . . . I’d say the Red Brigades and their killer cohorts are raving lunatics. Look what the bloody bastards did to Aldo Morro.

Call me paranoid, but that’s why I steer clear of mailboxes and telephone booths. And I don’t like slow-moving taxis and anonymous panel trucks either. I’ve no desire to end up a cadaver stuffed in the back of some clapped-out Renault.

Turning from the fire and gazing out at the darkness, the prince was slow to respond. Then I take it you don’t feel that your so-called radicals are actually waging war against political oppression?

Waging war against political oppression? I’m sorry, but you’ll have to explain to me how robbing banks and blowing up airliners have a place in any moral equation. Didn’t your father recently speak out against the escalation of international terrorism?

When the prince turned to face Schwarz, his words had an edge. At times, my father gets quite incensed about my political opinions. He feels that sending me to school in America was a mistake . . . and perhaps it was.

The next morning, at first light, the prince and his copilot were back in their helicopter and quickly gone. Soon after, Schwarz loaded up his Land Rover and set out for Mecca and the Mosque of al Haram. Three days later, Schwarz was on the move again, this time for the Rub’ al Khali, better known as the Empty Quarter. A sure test of Schwarz’s navigational skills: the Empty Quarter, a sea of endless sand and no water, was not a place to be lost. Schwarz had all but completed his lonely trek when one morning, at first light, the prince reappeared in his menacing gunship. Apparently Muhammad al Hussein took pleasure in catching the American journalist by surprise.

Several years earlier, after having earned an MBA at Harvard, the prince returned home and began assembling a team of engineers, mechanics and drivers that eventually became Peregrine Inter- national. With virtually unlimited resources, Prince Muhammad al Hussein had taken the world of Formula One motor racing by storm.

His success against the best teams in the world had been phenomenal. In just two seasons, the prince and his Falcon racers were winning Grand Prix events on every continent. But then the always-unstable Middle East flared up. Lebanon turned into a war zone; Beirut, the Paris of the Middle East, was in ruins and the PLO and Israel were at each other’s throats.

Eventually pressure from Riyadh left the prince with no choice but to withdraw from international competition. Though he would still fund the operation, Muhammad al Hussein quietly turned Pere- grine Racing over to his team manager and walked away.

2

-THE DESERT AIRSTRIP • PARIS

With plenty of fuel still in the plane, it was time for the prince to take to the air. But first Schwarz wanted a few pictures. Your Highness, much as I regret having to say this, it’s time I get back to being a journalist.

Schwarz was about to retrieve his gear from one of the limos when someone approached and handed him his camera bag. As he was fitting a lens to one of his camera bodies, Schwarz turned to the prince. Would you mind if someone made a shot of the two of us—a memento of our day shared in the Eagle?

A photograph? Certainly, why not?

As Schwarz turned he discovered he was being closely watched. The prince smiled. Pieter Schwarz, may I introduce Prince Khalid bin Aziz? My cousin.

Perhaps I can be of help.

Accepting the offer of royal assistance, Schwarz smiled and handed over his camera.

The prince and Schwarz stood next to the Christen Eagle while Khalid bin Aziz clicked off several exposures. Then Prince Muhammad al Hussein promptly climbed into the biplane. With his camera bag slung over one shoulder, Schwarz moved closer and began shooting. The prince had fastened his seat belt and shoulder harness and was just putting on a fabric helmet when Schwarz lowered his camera and poked into his bag.

By the way, you might want these. A pair of aviator’s goggles dangled from Schwarz’s outstretched hand. Forgot them when I went up and regretted it. The dark lenses should help.

Tinted goggles. Good idea. A quick flip sent a pair of royal goggles sailing in Schwarz’s direction. Why don’t you hang onto those for me.

Schwarz caught the clear-lensed goggles with one hand and slipped them into his camera bag just as the prince called, Clear! and the plane’s engine coughed, backfired once and burst into life. With a quick backward step Schwarz scarcely avoided being hit by the tail section as Muhammad al Hussein gunned the Eagle and taxied away.

Schwarz could feel perspiration extending the dark patches already formed on his khaki shirt by the harness and seat back of the Eagle.

However, Schwarz was not alone in his discomfort. Muhammad al Hussein’s entourage had left the comfort of their air-conditioned limousines and assembled to watch the prince from the scorching runway.

Schwarz raised his camera and began panning from face to face, quickly recording a rogues’ gallery of reluctant observers.

The prince was now at the far end of the strip. Reaching back into his bag, Schwarz took out a camera body with a motor drive and quickly fitted a telephoto lens. Through the viewfinder, the biplane seemed to shimmer as it swung around and momentarily held position. Muhammad al Hussein checked the runway, then slid Schwarz’s dark goggles over his eyes. Almost immediately the sound of the engine rose and the Eagle began to accelerate.

Standing beside Schwarz, Khalid bin Aziz turned as the biplane cleared the runway. His Highness is quite an accomplished pilot.

So I hear.

Without responding, Khalid bin Aziz watched as his cousin swept around in a knife-edged turn and roared back in a slow roll as precise as any Schwarz had done.

Schwarz’s day had not begun well. He’d hoped to be out at the strip by daybreak when the light and conditions for flying would have been optimal. But the prince was delayed. After nearly an hour of waiting and with the temperature steadily rising, Schwarz was growing impatient. At this rate, His Royal Highness might just get one of us killed.

With camera poised, Schwarz stood in the middle of the runway, watching the onrushing Eagle quickly fill his viewfinder. The roar of the biplane’s engine drowned out the sound of the Nikon’s shutter. Lowering his camera, Schwarz turned and walked back toward Khalid bin Aziz. I understand the prince did his share of piloting while Peregrine was competing.

Overhead, the Eagle glistened against the desert haze. Shielding his face with an outstretched hand, Khalid bin Aziz watched another maneuver. Then, he gestured toward one of the buried hangars.

His Highness did virtually all of the flying. As you see, his Learjet still carries the Peregrine emblem. During the season they were constantly on the move, shuttling parts and personnel everywhere from their base outside Rotterdam.

Khalid bin Aziz turned to Schwarz. Don’t I recall seeing several racing photos in one of your stories on Germany? Or was it Spain?

Schwarz tracked the biplane as it dropped out of a loop. Germany, the Nürburgring and probably Belgium—Zolder. Mario Andretti won them both. Schwarz had stopped making exposures. I’ve always been fascinated by Grand Prix drivers. They’re much like bullfighters. Glancing at Khalid bin Aziz, he wondered what the dynamics within the Saudi royal family would be, were anything unfortunate ever to happen to Prince al Hussein. Blood sports attract the most interesting people, wouldn’t you say?

Khalid bin Aziz watched as Schwarz resumed tracking the biplane. So it would seem.

Overhead, Muhammad al Hussein had just started into another maneuver when he broke off and flew across the runway. Through his telephoto lens, Schwarz watched as the prince lifted the tinted goggles and rubbed at his eyes.

Crouching on the runway, Schwarz pulled open his camera bag and grabbed another camera body. While he was switching to a longer lens, he glanced at his watch. Muhammad al Hussein had been airborne for nearly eight minutes.

A beat later, the prince was back into his routine. With its wings dead level, the Eagle came rushing along the runway and was directly overhead when it pulled into a precisely vertical climb. Approaching three hundred feet, the biplane slowed, seemed to hover momentarily in midair, then kicked over and dove straight down in a well-executed hammerhead stall.

Frame by frame, Schwarz captured Muhammad al Hussein’s descent. It was near perfect. At least until he began to pull out. The Eagle was low. So low that it nearly struck the runway. Then, though still far too low, the prince appeared to recover.

Yet something was still wrong. The Saudis were quick to respond to the biplane’s gyrations as they crouched beside their limousines or fell to the runway. Only Schwarz and Khalid bin Aziz actually saw the Eagle slip to one side and begin to pull up. But the move was a split second late. The biplane grazed the rooftop of one of the limousines and, as part of the lower left wing broke away, the Eagle pitched onto its side. As the doomed aircraft flashed by, Schwarz captured an image of Muhammad al Hussein slumped forward in the cockpit.

Few of the prince’s retainers actually looked up in time to see the disintegrating airplane cartwheel across the apron and collide with the Peregrine Learjet. Still shooting, Schwarz watched as His Highness Muhammad al Hussein vanished in a billow of flame and dense black smoke.

Three days after the death of the Saudi prince, Pieter Schwarz was enjoying Paris. Even in summer, the city was a welcome relief from the desert. Strolling beneath the trees that lined the garden of the Palais Royal, Schwarz was shooting routine people pictures: an old woman feeding pigeons, a smiling couple in flowing African dress, a nursemaid with two little girls. Farther along the path he passed a heavyset gray-haired man sitting on a bench, reading what appeared to be a day-old copy of Le Monde.

At the far end of the gallery, Schwarz turned, raised his camera and looked back through a telephoto lens as a modishly dressed young man paused and spoke to the grizzled oldster with the newspaper. He could have been his grandson.

They made an intriguing tableau. Schwarz clicked off several frames as the gray-haired man apparently listened to his young friend. From time to time, he would nod at whatever was being said.

Finally, the old man pushed up from his bench and smiled as he handed the younger man his newspaper. Then, with a backward wave, he ambled off in the direction of the Cour d’Honneur.

A day earlier, Schwarz had called the League office, but Alexander Crichton was in a meeting. Schwarz left word that he’d be leaving Paris possibly the next day. Schwarz knew that Crichton would be eager to hear his report and see the Saudi film.

That evening, at a small bistro not far from the Seine, Schwarz enjoyed a quiet meal. As he lingered over the last of a modest Bordeaux, Schwarz could sense that the winding-down had begun.

It was always the same, especially after assignments where the possibility of exposure, or worse, had been exceptionally high. Schwarz became hypersensitive to sound and motion. Generally it lasted just a day or two, but sometimes longer. Eventually though, the lingering effects would disappear. By the time Schwarz returned to Washington, the Saudi story would be just another entry in a long list of credits, and Muhammad al Hussein—merely an arrogant young man who ran out of luck.

3

-PARIS

On the Île de la Cité, Notre Dame was a magnificent limestone web of towers and flying buttresses, vaulted arches and brilliant rose windows. No matter where Schwarz found himself, sooner or later it seemed, he was confronted by holy places: cathedrals, mosques, synagogues or shrines.

In April 1944, Pieter Schwarz had been a schoolboy living outside London with his mother and sister, Rachel. One day after school, Pieter and a friend wandered off to go scavenging along the railroad tracks near the woods. It was springtime: perfect for train watching. Yet when the boys heard the harsh pulsating sound approaching, they knew straight away it wasn’t a train. Instead of looking along the tracks, they peered up through the branches of the trees and listened as the engine of the V-1 buzz bomb suddenly stuttered out and the dark shape began its deadly descent.

Even before the explosion, Pieter was racing for home. Though his view was obscured when the bomb went off, he knew what to expect. Pieter had seen the results of other raids: the charred remains of the house in which the postman and his wife had perished, the wreckage of the movie theater that had miraculously been closed when hit, the row of small shops all destroyed by fire. Now, as he rounded the corner of the narrow road where he lived, he could smell the smoke and see flames reaching above the rooftops. Gasping for breath, Pieter silently prayed, Please God, don’t let it be ours. But he soon discovered that, on that day, God had other business.

When several neighbors and a volunteer constable saw Pieter approaching, they stopped him. After struggling to free himself, he finally gave up. While the adults did their best to comfort him, he looked down the block and watched as firefighters tried to stop the spread of flames that raged where his house and two others should have been. Two women took Pieter and left him in the care of the widow of an Anglican chaplain who had gone missing on the beaches of Dunkirk.

That was the day that he lost his mother and his sister. And that was the day that Pieter Schwarz stopped being a believer—stopped believing in anything. Why bother?

It wasn’t long before all the arrangements had been made and he found himself aboard a ship crowded with other children headed for America.

Life in the Bronx proved lonely. Still, over time, he began to adapt to his new surroundings. Yet nothing would ever quell the memory of the day a buzz bomb fell from the sky and changed his life forever . . .

Leaning against a worn stone railing, Schwarz listened to the night sounds of Paris and watched as a brightly lit Bateau Mouche, one of the ever-popular tour boats that ply the Seine, passed beneath the Pont de l’Archevêché. When the boat was finally out of sight, he turned and slowly walked away.

It took three attempts, but eventually he found a kiosk with a working telephone. He dialed a number and counted four rings before hanging up. He waited a moment and then redialed. On the first ring his call was answered. Schwarz kept the exchange brief.

I have something for you. Yes, within forty-eight hours. The dossier and payment are at the library. Bonne nuit.

4

-JEFFERSON PLACE, WASHINGTON, DC

With a backward kick, Schwarz shut the door and dropped his cases and camera bag to the floor. In a town house without elevators, a third-floor apartment has distinct disadvantages. At least most people felt that way. But not Schwarz. The three flights of stairs tended to discourage casual visitors and, as far as he was concerned, that was all to the good.

In the soft light filtering through closed Venetian blinds, he quietly made a room-to-room circuit of the apartment. Everything was as it should have been—undisturbed. The worn matchbox from Irene’s Hungaria, a long-defunct Tokyo restaurant, was still nestled against the back of a bottom desk drawer half-full of bank statements and old correspondence. In the bathroom, the door to the medicine cabinet was a finger width open. On the night table beside his bed, an Arena Stage ticket stub was still between pages 166 and 167 of an unread novel. There were others. Schwarz never left on an extended assignment without putting telltales in place. Some might consider this paranoia, but in his line of work it paid to be careful.

Schwarz lived just off Connecticut Avenue in an apartment that had the look of a salon. Photographs of famous people and exotic places lined the walls. In one corner a vintage Leica sat on a simple maple pedestal. From various locations, over time Schwarz had assembled a collection of museum-quality esoterica: everything from a small Cycladic ibex to assorted Moche bowls, clay figures and other pre-Columbian artifacts, objects no longer legal to collect. Yet the Leica was his true treasure. A gift from his uncle Kaleb, it was a cherished link with the past.

The overnight from Paris always left Schwarz groggy, and nothing would have pleased him more than a few hours’ sleep. But rest would have to wait. Schwarz had Alexander Crichton to attend to.

As the cab pulled away, he propelled himself and his battle-scarred camera bag straight for the front entrance of the Copernicus League. Had he taken enough time to look up, Schwarz might have spotted Alexander Crichton standing at the window of his ninth-floor office, observing his return.

Halfway up the steps, someone caught up to Schwarz. Well, look who’s back from somewhere. John Dundas, forty-eight-year-old head of the League’s book division, cast a quizzical look at him. So where was it this time? Any place of interest?

Schwarz managed a weary smile. I guess that depends on what you think of Paris. He glanced at Dundas and shook his head. Once I’ve checked in with Alex, it’s off to my place to settle back, check my mail and catch up on some much-needed sleep.

John Dundas held the door for Schwarz and then turned away. Well, let’s hope he doesn’t hit you with something new before you’ve even had time to unpack.

Over the years, Crichton had never had an assignment go wrong. There had been a close call or two, a few that turned out to be more violent than originally planned. But in the end all had succeeded. And yet, whenever he had people in the field, Crichton always experienced a certain anxiety until the mission had run its course. Fortunately, the Arabian assignment had gone well. So today, the typically reserved Crichton was in a surprisingly good mood.

Saudi security had kept a lid on events at the airstrip for several days. But eventually word got out and the media jumped on the story. The front page of the Washington Post proclaimed, Tragic Accident Takes Life of Saudi Prince. There was no mention of Schwarz or the League. The only photo was of the prince climbing into the cockpit of an F-15. As he gazed at the picture, Crichton smiled.

He had an aversion to hotshot fighter pilots. His brother, Harmon, had been one—before he bought it in Vietnam. Though their father twisted arms all over the Pentagon, the details of Harmon’s death were never clear. Official word was that his F-4 Phantom had been hit by a surface-to-air missile. Crichton had no interest in the details: all that mattered was that Harmon and his F-4 were scattered across some jungle-covered mountain, God only knew where.

As he was finishing a morning cup of coffee, another story in the Washington Post caught Crichton’s attention. On the fourth page of the first section, there was a photograph of a stout man with a short scruffy beard. The director of the Society for Advanced International Studies had been murdered in Paris by two gunmen as he stepped from the elevator of his apartment. French authorities had no leads on the identity of the killers.

Though the Saudi operation had ended in Paris, it had all begun in a private dining club in Georgetown. As he entered that evening, Crichton spotted his host sitting in a far corner of the quiet room. It was just the sort of place one might expect to find an old hand from the Agency. White haired with a well-trimmed mustache, he looked just like what he was, or had been. Everything fit seamlessly: old family, old money, an Ivy League education, well connected and quietly well known around Washington, especially Georgetown. He had gotten into the business during World War II, when America needed a few bright young men who were fluent in French or German and willing to don parachutes and jump into situations that carried no assurance of safe return. He lived in an old Federal-style mansion not far from Oak Hill Cemetery. His name was Carter Spencer and, true to form, he liked his Scotch served neat—no ice.

Alexander, come, have a seat. Spencer made no effort to stand but did extend his hand across the table. I’m glad you could make it.

Crichton was never quite sure how he felt about Spencer. Always warm and avuncular, on the surface at least, Spencer seemed like a member of the family. Carter, it’s been too long.

Once their meal had been served, the two men chatted about the League and the magazine and, this being Washington, the latest political rumblings. Eventually, Spencer adroitly shifted to something more serious. Alexander, a situation’s developed.

When Spencer called, Crichton had assumed there was more to the invitation than dinner. So tell me more.

Spencer reached into his inside jacket pocket, took out a white envelope and handed it across the table to Crichton. Read this later. It’s the full brief. But for the moment, this is the picture. Recently, one of my colleagues was told by sources within Saudi Intelligence about a rather troubling situation they have. If it’s not handled properly, it could get very messy. Once I was called in and learned the full story, I knew immediately this was a perfect assignment for one of your talented associates.

According to Spencer, a Saudi royal, Prince Muhammad al Hussein, having earned a degree in economics from Harvard, decided to continue his education in California. Soon after and quite inexplicably, the young prince became involved with a group of political radicals. These weren’t just Berkeley liberals. They were extremists with links to urban guerillas across Europe and Asia. People experienced in sabotaging airliners and assassinating public officials. For several years, the prince had run a Grand Prix racing team, which meant he had planes and people shuttling everywhere—a convenient means of transporting things that had nothing to do with racing: false documents, bundles of currency, arms, ammunition, even shipments of Semtex and C-4. Personnel changed constantly.

The prince’s principal contact for all of this was a man living in Paris, a Jordanian Jew with connections to a variety of radical groups. Sixty-seven years old, Henri Natal was small and thickset. He directed a center for graduate students seeking financial aid to continue their studies. Funding for the Society for Advanced International Studies came largely from the well-meaning yet oblivious religious community. More significantly, the Society was also a logistical center for terrorists from Ireland to Japan; its reach extended to Latin America, even the Middle East. French authorities struggled to differentiate between itinerant students and probable terrorists.

A detailed report by the king’s head of intelligence left no doubt about the outcome. The prince’s fate was sealed. Henri Natal’s termination was merely a footnote to the brief.

Spencer signaled the waiter and ordered an after-dinner brandy. You can see why I thought of you once we were contacted.

As Crichton looked across the table, his thoughts drifted back to when he and Harmon were young. Spencer never failed to appear at holiday times. Good spirited and always loaded down with presents, he’d been like Father Christmas.

____

When Pieter Schwarz walked into his office Crichton smiled. Pieter, welcome back! A handshake and thump on the shoulder surprised Schwarz, who was juggling a stack of green cardboard boxes with his camera bag slung over