Don Pendleton - Hostile Dawn

Given her stature, it seemed incongruent for Renais to saddle herself with a chore as mundane and secretarial as going down a phone list to confirm attendance at a forthcoming conference. But the import of the gathering she would be presiding over was such that the woman felt it was better to handle the calls herself than to entrust them to some hireling. And, too, there was the need for absolute discretion. The Frazier Group’s very existence was a zealously guarded secret, and the organization’s success and effectiveness over the years was as much a tribute to its clandestine nature as the collective sway its membership exerted over world events.

Renais slowly nibbled the baguette as she returned to her desk. There was a portable wet bar next to the desk, and she used tongs to place cubes from an ice bucket into a small cocktail glass before half filling it with anisette from a hand-blown glass decanter. The milky liqueur would further help to settle her stomach.

Sitting back down, the Frenchwoman glanced over her list to determine who she would call next. There were five more individuals left to contact: World Bank President Anthony Robin; Scotland Yard’s Inspector Bip Hartson; NATO Armed Forces Commander Helmut Marschan; Australian real-estate baroness Veronica Court-Lyle; and Jude Cartier, France’s minister of finance. It was a disparate group, to be sure, representative of the Frazier Group’s diverse overall membership. The diversity was by design. Kotch Wellmeyer, the outspoken major league baseball owner who was among the organization’s founders, had perhaps best summed up the organization’s philosophy—and recruitment philosophy—when he’d declared, “If we want to keep Western Civilization from being taken down by the upstarts of the world, we better damn well make sure we cover all the bases.”

After some reflection, Renais decided it didn’t much matter which order she made the calls in, as long as she saved Cartier for last. The finance minister had just flown back to Paris from an economic summit in Madrid. Renais already knew Cartier would be attending the conference. Contacting the politician would serve another purpose. Renais would give Cartier a chance to reach his flat and unwind, then call him to suggest they get together for drinks. Most likely he would invite her to his place, located across the river three blocks from the Eiffel Tower. She would take him up on the invitation, offer token resistance to his romantic advances, then finally “give in” to his supposedly irresistible charm. They would share a few hours of passion and Renais would make a point to extend the afterglow throughout the week. At the conference, she would do what she could to discreetly help Cartier bend the universe to his will, taking care not to ask for any immediate favors in return. There would be no need to call in markers until the end of the year, when she was ready to make her move on Media François. By then, Renais was sure she’d have Cartier wrapped around her little finger and ready to help her finesse the transaction through a gauntlet of antitrust regulations.

Neither Anthony Robin nor Bip Hartson answered their cell phones when Renais tried to reach them, but Helmut Marschan picked up on the second ring. The German officer confirmed that he would be attending the conference, then pressed Renais regarding the meeting’s agenda.

“I want to be sure that I have the floor early on to discuss this whole nuclear situation in Iran,” Marschan said.

“I thought Iran was only firing up centrifuges as an alternative power source,” Renais replied.

“You know that’s a lie,” the general retorted, clearly unaware that Renais was being facetious. “They’re ramping up a covert nuclear program and if the IAEC doesn’t find proof, it’ll only be because Iran’s trundled their weapons-related equipment out of the country.”

“The ‘pipeline’ to Lebanon,” Renais said. “Yes, I’ve heard about that whole rumor.”

“I think we’re past rumors,” Marschan insisted. “If there wasn’t concern about that pipeline coming to light, Hamas wouldn’t have tried to kidnap that reporter.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Renais asked. “Lebanon, Iran and Hamas mentioned all in the same sentence? That’s a reach, don’t you think?”

“I might’ve thought that a few months ago,” Marschan countered. “Hell, maybe even a few weeks ago. But from what I’ve been able to find out about this article that Ferris reporter is working on, there’s collusion going on. It needs to be addressed.”

“I agree with you that it bears looking into,” Renais told the German. “And at the conference I’ll do what I can to give you some priority in putting it on the table.”

“It should be our first order of business!” Marschan insisted. “If that rabble in the Middle East is teaming up against us, we’ll have a crisis on our hands.”

“If you throw wild dogs together they don’t instantly become a pack,” Renais countered skeptically. “They’ll go after each other’s throats before they turn on anyone else.”

“Maybe,” the German replied. “Then again, maybe this has been going on for a while behind everyone’s backs. Maybe they’ve worked out their differences enough to act in unison.”

“If that’s the case, we’ll handle them,” Renais assured the NATO strategist. “Trust me, if the Frazier Group puts its mind to it, we can squash anyone who stands in our way, and we won’t need help doing it.”

Bekaa Valley, Lebanon

David McCarter tightened his parachute harness as he stared out at the thick clouds that obscured his view of the tall mountains flanking the Bekaa Valley. The sun had gone down several hours earlier and the Phoenix Force commander knew that the blackened, overcast skies would aid with their insertion into enemy territory. He and the others were in the cargo bay of a converted DC-10 bearing the emblem of a prominent international delivery carrier. In fact, the plane was one of several owned and operated by the CIA throughout the Middle East. Phoenix Force had secured use of the jet care of Albert Fisk, the operations officer they’d delivered hardcopy intel to following their wrap-up of the Hamas kidnapping incident in Damascus.

Fisk’s offer had come with the small price of allowing two Company agents to accompany McCarter’s men on their assignment. With Gary Manning temporarily out of action, McCarter had decided there was little to lose in taking on the extra manpower. After all, according to the most recent satellite camera images reviewed by Stony Man’s cyberteam back in Virginia, there were an estimated two dozen recruits holed up at the Hezbollah training camp Phoenix Force would be targeting.

“Ready, mates?” the London-born warrior called out to his colleagues.

Rafael Encizo and Calvin James both nodded. T. J. Hawkins, who’d just pried open the lid of a tuba-size leather carrying case, glanced up at McCarter and said, “Give me just another minute.”

One of the CIA agents was up in the cockpit. The other, a gaunt, horse-faced Bostonian named Roger Combs, was crouched next to Hawkins. He checked over his thumb-size digital spy camera, then slipped it into the shirt pocket of his camo fatigues as he glanced inside Hawkins’s carrying case, puzzled by the sight of something that looked like a high-tech tool case sandwiched between a garbage can lid and a wide-wheeled skateboard.

“What the hell is that?” Combs wondered.

Hawkins lifted out the contraption, which was far lighter than it appeared. “TCD-100,” he said.

“That doesn’t help me.”

“Tunnel Combat Device,” the youngest Phoenix Force member explained. “It’s a prototype cooked up by our weaponsmith back in the States.”