Red Banner: Michael Thorne, #2

By Alex Lukeman

Michael Thorne meets with a French spy to talk about a nuclear warhead floating around on the black market. It's an easy assignment, right up to the moment someone tries to kill him. He survives, but there are complications. The trail of the bomb leads to Serbia and the dark memory of Srebrenica.

During a fleet exercise on the China Sea, the flagship of the Chinese Navy is torpedoed and sunk with all hands. It looks like she was attacked by a submarine from Taiwan. But what if it wasn't Taiwan? If they didn't do it, who did? Who wants to start a war? Thorne is posted to Taipei, where things aren't always what they appear to be.

The Chinese want revenge for the loss of their ship. They're ready to invade Taiwan and plan a first strike on America if Washington comes to the island's aid. As the world nears the point of no return, Thorne may be the only hope to prevent nuclear Armageddon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Lukeman
• Release date: Dec 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223624219

Alex Lukeman

Alex Lukeman writes action/adventure thrillers featuring a covert intelligence unit called the PROJECT and is the author of the award-winning Amazon best seller, The Tesla Secret. Alex is a former Marine and psychotherapist and uses his experience of the military and human nature to inform his work. He likes riding old, fast motorcycles and playing guitar, usually not at the same time. You can email him at [e-mail]. He loves hearing from readers and promises he will get back to you.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Morning sun struck the water of the old quarry, turning the surface sudden gold. Michael Thorne picked up a rock and tossed it in, watching the ripples spread until they disappeared. The quarry had been abandoned and forgotten long ago, shut down at the end of the Civil War. There was something about gazing at the dark waters that helped him sort out the racket in his mind. He came here whenever the inner demons got too loud to ignore. They were the price he paid for what he did for a living.

Thorne was a spy. It wasn’t an exact job description, but it was close enough to get him killed if he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The last ten years of his life had been spent working for the Agency.

When he’d first started he’d been high with the thrill of acceptance into the secret world. It hadn’t taken long for that to wear off. The secret world wasn’t much different from the rest of the world. It was just dirtier, meaner, and a lot more hazardous to your health. If there was a song that described how he was feeling these days, it was probably The Thrill Is Gone.

He’d become a spook because he believed in what America stood for and wanted to protect it. Looking back over the years, if what he’d done had made any difference, he couldn’t see it. But what else was he going to do? In a world spiraling out of control, civilian life looked more senseless than ever. He still held onto a shred of hope that what he did justified his existence.

The sun was up. It was time to go to work. He fired up the Jeep and headed for Langley. Virginia was beautiful this time of year, the fall foliage ablaze with color. He swerved for a schizophrenic squirrel and wondered what devilment the intelligence gods had in store for him today. The thought was gone as quickly as it came.  

It was probably just as well.

Chapter 2

Director Rebecca Kramer was career CIA. Her features were as sharp as the creases in the business suits she habitually wore to work. Years at Langley had given her an encyclopedic knowledge of the murky world of intelligence. Kramer had been appointed by a president who wanted Langley on his side. It remained to be seen if the expectation of loyalty was realistic.

Sensing dangers lurking in the shadows was something Kramer did well. One of her responsibilities was to read through the daily threat analysis that showed up on her desk every morning and decide which of those threats required a closer look. It was one of the many challenges of her job. Challenges held the implicit threat of failure, which was why she kept a bottle of Irish whiskey in the bottom drawer of her desk, right next to the Maalox.

Each day the analysts at Langley searched through mountains of data for signs of unfriendly intentions toward the United States. There was never a lack of those. The trick was to pick out the ones that mattered.  

The analysts were happiest when hard evidence backed up their conclusions. Evidence like satellite pictures of a new military installation, or the latest domestic production figures from a hostile nation. They worked with scraps and bits of unrelated information gleaned from all over the world. Some of it came from human sources, some from printed articles and academic journals. Some came from friendly intelligence agencies. Often the only thing the gnomes buried in analysis had to work with was supposition and rumor. Whatever they discovered got boiled down into the daily brief.

Kramer finished reading and set the brief down on her desk, carefully aligning the pages. She pushed a button on her intercom.

Kelly. Get Carlson and Olmstead in here, please.

Right away, Director.

Lewis Carlson was Director of Operations, Jenna Olmstead the Deputy DO. If Operations was the heart of Langley, foreign intelligence was the blood it pumped. The mission of the massive bureaucracy that made up the Agency was to support the acquisition and interpretation of that intelligence. Lewis and Jenna were key players in what was arguably the biggest game in town.

Their offices were down the hall from Kramer’s, on the seventh floor of the old headquarters building. Tradition died hard at Langley. The people who ran Langley always had offices on the seventh floor. A minute after Kramer called, Carlson came in, followed by Jenna.

Lewis Carlson was never going to win any beauty contests. He was going bald, was overweight, and generally looked like he’d eaten something that didn’t agree with him. Kramer had never been able to decide if his sour expression was bad digestion or an indication of his inner nature.

Probably both, she thought.

Lewis, Jenna. Take a seat. Have you seen the morning threat analysis?

I was finishing it up when Kelly called, Carlson said.

Jenna nodded. I read it.

Jenna had recently turned forty. Scandinavian ancestry showed in her blonde hair and blue eyes. She was the first woman to become DDO, just as Kramer was the first woman director. Some people thought that gave Jenna an advantage. They didn’t understand that Rebecca Kramer was immune to the kinds of social interactions most people expected or took for granted.

You both saw the item from our source at DGSE. MAGINOT has never been wrong in the past. I want your thoughts about it.

The Direction Générale De La Sécurité Extérieure was France’s equivalent of the CIA. MAGINOT was a high ranking mole buried in their organization. The French were unaware of that fact. If they ever found out, it would cause serious problems. There was an unwritten rule that you didn’t spy on a friendly intelligence agency. Kramer didn’t give two shits about unwritten rules. 

Relations between DGSE and CIA were generally friendly. That didn’t mean they shared everything. Knowledge was power, and rivalries in the secret world ran long and deep. Common sense suggested that concealing important information from your allies was a dumb move, but common sense wasn’t the engine that ran the world’s intelligence agencies. The French were notorious for keeping things close if they thought it would embarrass them, or make them look bad. In this case, they thought a Russian nuclear warhead had been smuggled into the country. 

With the collapse of the USSR, an unknown number of Soviet warheads had gone missing in the chaos following the breakup. A nuke was every terrorist’s wet dream. It wasn’t the first time one had turned up on the black market, but it was the first time one had surfaced in Western Europe.

If there really is one of those old nukes floating around over there, it has to be found, Carlson said.

You have a real talent for stating the obvious, Jenna said.

It’s a little early for smartass remarks.

Of course it has to be found, Lewis. The question is, how do we go about it? Do we offer assistance to the French? We’re not supposed to know about it, or they would have told us.

Offering assistance would jeopardize our source, Kramer said. I don’t want them to know we’re looking into this.

Do we know what kind of warhead it is? Carlson asked.

No, not at this time.

How concerned are they about this? 

It’s rated highest priority. They’re worried.

I’ll never understand them, Jenna said. Why keep this a secret from us? We’re supposed to be allies, aren’t we? A loose nuke is a big deal, whether it’s in France or anywhere else.

An inferiority complex. Bragging rights. Who the hell knows with them? Lewis said.

Bragging rights won’t do them much good if someone sets it off in the middle of Paris.

They’re too proud to ask for help, Kramer said. Sometimes I think it’s part of their DNA.

Pride goeth..., Lewis said. Serve them right if a bomb does go off.

Kramer sighed. I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.

If we can’t get what we need from them up front, we have to do it behind their backs, Jenna said.

I’m open to suggestions.

Send someone over there to sniff around and see what he can find out. Someone experienced. Have him meet with MAGINOT and find out what’s not in the brief. That could save a lot of wasted effort.

Lewis? What do you think?

Jenna’s right. Since the French are being uncooperative, we need to put boots on the ground.

Who would you send?

Carlson rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

Much as I hate to say it, Thorne is the best choice for something like this.

You think he’s ready? He hasn’t been the same since he came back from Russia.

I like him for this. It’s an easy mission. Go in, talk to the source, find out what he can. It will ease him back into harness.

Jenna, you know him better than anyone. What do you think?

Kramer’s leadership style would have gotten a nod of approval from Machiavelli. She knew Jenna had been sleeping with Thorne before he’d gone to Russia. The comment was a reminder that Jenna’s private life was an open book.

Fuck her, Jenna thought.

Is he the best choice? Jenna said. Probably. He doesn’t have a problem with the French and he’s fluent in the language. Has he gotten over what happened in Russia? I don’t know. Lewis is right, it should be an easy mission. It’s a good way to get him back on task.

All right. Tell Thorne what he needs to know and set it up.

I’ll need MAGINOT’s file.

I’ll get it over to you, Lewis said.

Back in her office a few moments later, Jenna poured a cup of coffee and sat down at her desk.

You knew you were going to have to deal with this.

Jenna was Thorne’s immediate boss. Before Thorne’s last mission they’d started sleeping together. Things had been going well between them. She’d even begun to think it might turn into something permanent. She’d let her guard down, let herself become vulnerable. Then he’d gone to Russia and gotten involved with the Russian woman he was handling.

Asshole.

Up until now she’d been avoiding him, except in her role as his boss. She’d pushed away her feelings, told herself they would never have amounted to anything. She’d decided her only choice was to keep things professional between them. Well, she was about to have another opportunity to do that. So why did she feel like running away?

Chapter 3

Thorne paused outside Jenna’s office. Ever since he’d come back from his last assignment, things between them had been awkward as hell.

Here we go.

He knocked on her door.

Come.

The door closed behind him. Jenna was writing something. She put down her pen and looked up.

How are you, Michael?

There was no warmth in her voice. It surprised him, how much that bothered him.

I’m all right. How about you?

Take a seat. We have a mission for you.

Where am I going?

France. Specifically, Paris. We have a reliable source in the DGSE. He’s told us the French think there’s a nuke on the black market.

She pushed a folder labeled MAGINOT across her desk.

This is what you need to know about the source. Take your time reading it. It can’t leave this room. Kramer wants you to contact him and find out what he hasn’t told us. We want to know if this is a genuine threat or not.

Thorne opened the folder. It contained two typewritten pages and a photograph of a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a wispy mustache, wearing gold rimmed classes. He wasn’t smiling.

Henri Bouchard worked as a senior analyst in the Action Division, the French equivalent of Langley’s Directorate of Operations. The Action Division was responsible for covert operations and internal security. It explained why Bouchard would know about a possible nuke in play.

Thorne read through the file and set it down on Jenna’s desk. It was all he required. He had a near photographic memory.

Does MAGINOT know I’m coming?

Not yet. He will by the time you get there.

How do I make contact?

He’ll contact you.

Jenna passed a thick manila envelope to him.

Passport, cash, plane tickets, reservations at a three-star hotel. You leave tomorrow. This time around, you’re a tourist, nothing complicated. Your legend is inside the envelope. We don’t want the French to know we’re poaching on their territory. Make sure they don’t see you meet with MAGINOT. If you think it’s necessary, you are authorized to follow up on whatever he tells you. Make sure you keep us informed. 

Jenna...

That’s all.

Jenna looked down at her desk and began writing.

That’s clear enough, he thought.

Chapter 4

Thorne’s passport was in the name of Daniel McArthur. The picture showed a dark haired man with a face a little hard around the edges. It was the kind of face that made some women take a second look. Lines of tension around the eyes made him look older than he was. He was supposed to be a professor of Indo-European languages at Brown University. If anyone bothered to check, they’d find him listed on the school faculty. Thorne didn’t think anyone would. If they did, they’d be told Professor McArthur was currently on sabbatical.

The easiest way to get to Paris was to fly into Orly, but he wanted to avoid upgraded facial recognition software installed at the airport. There wasn’t any point in letting the French know he was in their territory unless he had to. Instead, he booked a British Airways flight to Heathrow. At Heathrow, he took a long taxi ride to Dover and got on the ferry to Calais. Once in France, he rented a midsize car and followed signs to the A1. Four hours later, he reached the outskirts of Paris.

His hotel was in the Bastille district, not far from the ancient fortress. During the French Revolution, the street in front of the hotel had been paved with cobblestones and lined with mobs jeering at the condemned as they were carted to the guillotine. The cobblestones and mobs were gone, replaced by asphalt and tourists. Cafés and chic shops lined both sides of the street.

It was early evening when he checked in. There were no messages waiting. He took a creaking elevator to his room on the third floor. The room was small, typical of second-class European hotels. There was space for a bed, a chair, a tiny desk with a phone. A window looked out on an alley and a wall. The bathroom was functional, which was all that could be said about it. Thorne didn’t mind. The room was luxury compared to a lot of places he’d been.

The bed sagged when he sat on it. 

The phone rang.

Oui?

You have a message, Monsieur. Would you like me to bring it to your room?

No, thank you. I’ll come down.

At the desk, the clerk handed Thorne a sealed envelope addressed to Professor McArthur. He walked outside and opened it.

2000 hrs. Madito. 12 Rue de Candie.

It was unsigned.

It was twenty minutes to eight. He hailed a cab.

Madito was a restaurant with a corner entrance and two large windows. He recognized Bouchard in the back, sipping from a glass of red wine. Thorne went in. The restaurant was crowded, loud with conversation. The air smelled of food and wine and made his stomach growl. A waiter approached.

I’m sorry sir, there are no tables available.

I’m meeting my friend. He’s sitting over there.

Thorne spoke fluent French. Anyone listening would think he was from one of the northern regions.

Bouchard rose as Thorne approached.

Daniel, he said. It’s good to see you again.

And you as well, Henri.

One of the hard and fast rules of the trade was to blend in, to look natural. They were old friends meeting over dinner. Out in the open. Nothing to see.

The food is good here, Bouchard said. The chef specializes in Middle Eastern cuisine. A glass of wine? It’s house wine, but not bad.

Sounds good.

Bouchard poured a glass from the carafe on his table.

How was your trip?

Long. But I can’t complain.

As you can see, it’s quite noisy here. We can talk freely.

Bouchard seemed at ease, relaxed. Thorne figured the Frenchman could relax enough for the two of them.

What did they tell you? Thorne asked.

Not much. Only that you would like to speak with me.

Thorne sampled his wine. Bouchard was right, it wasn’t bad.

Shall we order something?

Why don’t I order for both of us? I come here often.

Please.

Bouchard signaled the waiter. After a brief discussion, he ordered. They waited until the waiter had gone.

What would you like to know? Bouchard said.

Is there anything new since we last heard from you?

Rumors persist that the item in question is for sale. A figure of two million of your dollars has been floated.

That’s serious money.

Any buyers for this will be serious people.

"You don’t have anything else?

We think it’s an RDS9 warhead, taken from a Soviet sub base in the Crimea. There was a lot of confusion there when things broke up. Several of those went missing. The Russians claim they’re all accounted for, but they’re lying.

Tell me about it.

The RDS9 was designed to fit on a Russian type T5 torpedo. If that’s what we’re dealing with, the yield is between 5 and 10 kilotons.

Shit, Thorne said.

Indeed. It was superseded in the early sixties by a more powerful payload of up to 20 kilotons.

So if it’s an RDS9, it’s more than sixty years old.

That’s right. That adds in the factor of possible deterioration.

You mean it might not work.

Or it might be unstable.

You’re a real optimist, Thorne said.

I don’t think a buyer could use it as originally configured, Bouchard said. It would be difficult to detonate. It’s more likely they’d want the plutonium core for their own purposes.

A dirty bomb?

Or something worse. If they have the technical expertise.

The food came. Bouchard had ordered the same thing for each of them, skewers of grilled chicken with sides of dipping sauce and grilled vegetables.

"This is Shish Tawouk, Bouchard said. Chicken marinated in yogurt and spices, then grilled. The sauce is called ‘toum.’ It’s a sort of garlic aioli. Dip the pieces of chicken in it."

He demonstrated. Thorne followed suit and took a bite.

Not bad. In fact, pretty good. Reminds me of something my stepmother used to make.

The lamb dishes are also very good here.

You seem knowledgeable about Middle Eastern food, Thorne said.

A large part of my childhood was spent in Algeria. Then Morocco and Jordan. My father was an official with the Ministry for Foreign Affairs.

That must be a useful background in your job.

It has been helpful in understanding why so many people hate us.

For a while they concentrated on the food.

Are you following up on any leads? Thorne asked. Or perhaps I should ask if you have any leads.

You must understand that everything is uncertain regarding this. We have attempted to track down every rumor to its source, but it is like, what you say, a needle in a hay field.

Haystack, Thorne said. Needle in a haystack, not field.

Whatever. What bothers me is that I sense a fading sense of urgency on the part of my superiors.

I thought this was a high priority for your agency.

"It was at first. However, this has changed. There are always rumors of terrorist activity. France has been inundated with immigrants, many from Islamic countries. Many do not like us. There are threats of obvious substance that take precedence. It’s a question of time