An Excerpt from The Rare Earth Exchange by Bernard Besson

We are delighted to welcome author Bernard Besson to Omnimystery News today.

Bernard's second title in his Larivière Espionage Thriller series is The Rare Earth Exchange (Le French Book; June 2016 trade paperback and ebook formats) and we are pleased to feature an excerpt from it, courtesy of the publisher.

— ♦ —

SUNDAY

THE PLANE'S ANTIVIRUS PROGRAM FROZE THE download for thirty seconds and then authorized installation. The computer software on the Airbus A340 was as secure as the technology protecting nuclear power plants and the Élysée Palace, the official residence of the president of France.
  "Air France operations are reporting fog," the copilot said as he entered an access code. "I just downloaded an updated CAT3 landing procedure."
  The pilot was completing the approach briefing, checking minimum safe altitude, pattern entry, flap settings, headwinds, and crosswinds.
  "Control, Air France 912 from Kuala Lumpur."
  "Pass your message."
  "How's the fog over Orly?"
  "Not a cloud in the sky."
  It took the pilot a half second to register the contradicting information. Then he shifted into emergency mode, reviewing the instruments and looking for anomalies. The copilot was already putting in a call to Air France operations.
  "Why did you send a fog procedure when the skies are clear?" Tension filled the cockpit in the silence that followed. At last, someone responded.
  "No one here sent you anything."
  The pilot transmitted a recording of the earlier conversation and waited, his anxiety rising, for operations to give its verdict.
  "That wasn't us. Looks like the information system and on-board communications box have been hacked."
  "The antivirus didn't pick up anything," the pilot said. He turned to the copilot. "Do a cockpit check."
  The pilot called in the head flight attendant. "I want a thorough cabin check — all the doors, bathrooms, baggage holds, the kitchen, and the emergency chutes. Inspect everything that's operated by the information system. Don't alarm the passengers. If anyone asks, tell them it's routine."
  "What am I looking for?"
  "Anything unusual. We could have downloaded a virus."
  "I'm on it."
  The pilot looked back at the copilot. "What's our status?"
  "I checked the engines, the fuel supply, the electricals, and the AC. Everything seems ne."
  "Call headquarters and ask them if they can upload something to track down this virus and destroy it."
  "Yes, sir."
  The pilot flipped the switch that allowed him to speak to the 213 passengers.
  "This is Captain Charles Meillan speaking. We're approaching our final descent to Paris-Orly. We'll be touching down in six minutes. It's twenty-six degrees Celsius on the ground with clear skies."
  

Alexandre, I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."
  The priest dripped holy water on the forehead of Victoire Augagneur and John Spencer Larivière's child as sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows painted the interior of the church in vibrant hues.
  John's Franco-American family was occupying the pews on the left, while Victoire's small Franco-Cambodian tribe — survivors of the Khmer Rouge genocide — was on the right.
  Alexandre would never know the family members who'd been bludgeoned to death in the rice fields by child soldiers ordered to reform the bourgeoisie.
  "You may take your pictures," the priest said before moving on to his third baptism of the day.
  John's cousins from New Jersey and Victoire's handful of blood relatives crowded around the beaming couple and their baby, ordering the parents to smile this way and that for the cameras.
  For two days, both families had been staying at their home, between the Rue Deparcieux and the Rue Fermat in the fourteenth arrondissement of Paris. The home, actually two connected buildings, was large enough to accommodate a dozen guests. It also served as the headquarters of Fermatown, a private intelligence agency run by John, Victoire, and Luc Masseron.
  Luc walked up the altar to fulfill his duties. He proudly signed the papers proving his godfatherly commitment. He was even a little teary.
  Once outside the church, John reminded their guests that they had a reservation for lunch at La Bélière, the restaurant at the corner of their street. He ambled over to his wife, who was cooing at the baby they had tried so long to have. The infant had given Victoire her wings and him a new vitality.
  The sky over Montparnasse was silvery blue, with the chalky traces of jet planes. The party headed toward the restaurant, crossing the boulevard and strolling by the string of theaters along the car-free Rue de la Gaîté as if nothing had changed in recent years, as if climate change hadn't accelerated and geopolitical upheaval weren't destabilizing the balance of powers.
  

Captain Charles Meillan and his copilot, their eyes glued to the instruments on their control panel, listened to the flight attendant's report as she leaned between their two seats.
  "I didn't find anything."
  "Thanks, Cathy," Meillan said. "Join the others now. We're going to land."
  When she left, the two men did a quick assessment. Headquarters had sent an emergency antivirus. But the director of security had warned that the virus could be a Trojan horse.
  "The engines are turning like clocks," Meillan said. "All that's left is the landing gear."
  Without its wheels, the Airbus would land on its belly. Its guts would be shredded, and the plane would erupt in flames. How many would perish?
  Meillan thought about his wife and his new home on Lac des Settons. With sweaty hands, he gripped the manual control. He'd do it without the computers. It was early, but if there was a problem, they could regain altitude.
  "Now!"

  Meillan released the gear lock and examined the indicator lights. The landing gear engaged in a beautifully oiled and reassuring operation.
  "We got 'em!"
  Meillan nodded to his copilot. "We're on final approach for landing. Let traffic control know. What do you think the SOBs could do now to screw things up for us?"
  "I'd mess with the brakes," the copilot said.
  "Have control prepare the nets."
  They held their breath until the plane grazed the runway. All the braking systems responded perfectly. The two men high-fived each other and directed the aircraft toward the terminal.
  "Air France 912, Orly control. Taxi to gate 26. Way to nail that landing!"
  

At Paris Orly Airport, Pierre-André Noblecourt looked up from his travel bag and saw the red flashing lights of a fire truck and the yellow glow of a heavy-equipment vehicle. The two trucks were heading toward one of the runways. Several other vehicles, including a police car, soon followed. His scalp started tingling with sweat. He took off his baseball cap with the logo of the Olympique de Marseille soccer team but kept his sunglasses on.
  Pierre-André watched as the Air France Airbus taxied toward the gate. A phone call from one of his bodyguards served as a rude reminder that he was in the midst of performing one of the worst acting roles of his career. The final act had begun to unfold three days earlier, when he found the photos on his smartphone. Emma had sent them from Kuala Lumpur. The chess match and the clock capable of measuring time down to a thousand-billionth of a second had leaped out at him like wild cats, with more force than his political defeats and the so-called scandals that had marked his overextended career.
  "Did you have a safe trip, Mr. President?" It had been a year, six months, and six days since his term in office had ended, but as a former president of France, he would be called Mr. President for the remainder of his life. "The board shows that your flight has landed."
  "It was an excellent flight. Thank you." In fact, he had never been on that plane.
  A family walked by, and he lowered his head to avoid being recognized. The father was holding a small girl by the hand. Pierre-André thought of Béatrice. His granddaughter would be turning ten in three days and was growing up in a world he no longer understood. It was mostly because of her that, despite all his failures, he still aspired to be Europe's president — the continent's leader in a world that seemed to be spinning out of control.
  "Want us to wait for you in the gangway, as usual?" Pierre-André realized the ridiculousness of the situation. He quickly came up with a lie, as he had so many times before. He'd use his wife.
  "Georgette is on her way to the airport. Meet her in the terminal, and wait for me there. I'll be fine. Don't worry."
  Pierre-André ended the call and headed toward the arrival area. He paused by a window several feet from a crowd awaiting the flight's passengers and watched as the plane he should have been on approached the gate.
  Just as he was about to start walking again, it happened. The emergency-exit chutes shot out from the plane. Pierre-André saw a man throw himself through one of the doors. Other passengers followed, and cries of alarm rose from the crowd. The still-moving plane was dragging all of its chutes on the ground. This couldn't possibly be a drill. Something was terribly wrong.
  Then all hell broke loose. An orange ball of fire encircled the plane and hovered around it like a halo. In a matter of seconds, Flight 912 was merely a silhouette engulfed in flames. Men and women, many with children in their arms, streamed down the inflatable slides. A few tumbled down headfirst. Others were shrieking and ailing. Some had even caught fire. Seconds later, one of the chutes vanished in flames.
  The crowd inside the building instinctively backed away from the windows, now hot to the touch. As they watched in horror, the plane's wings seemed to melt, and each engine exploded. The plane drifted from its course and crashed into a Saudi Arabian Air Lines A340, which blew up, sending a great mass of debris into the sky. Trucks and fuel-supply vehicles on the tarmac went up in flames.
  In apocalyptic succession, one fire erupted after another. Three other planes burst into flames. A blast shattered the terminal windows. Seconds later the terminal itself was ablaze. Panicked, travelers, their friends and family members, con- cession workers, and all other airport and airline employees rushed toward the exits.
  Pierre-André joined the flood of people. Police and private security workers tried to impose order, but it was too much. Men and women in smoking clothes streamed by them, and soon those fleeing the building were stampeding over the bodies on the floor.
  His face blackened and sweaty, Pierre-André finally spotted his bodyguards, who, unbelievably, were making their way toward him. The sprinkler system, which had gone off as soon as the building caught fire, had soaked all of them.
  "Mr. President, how did you get off that plane?"
  "I was lucky. That's all. Let's get out of here."

— ♦ —

Photo provided courtesy of
Bernard Besson

Bernard Besson, who was born in Lyon, France, is a former top-level chief of staff of the French intelligence services, an eminent specialist in economic intelligence and Honorary General Controller of the French National Police. He was involved in dismantling Soviet spy rings in France and Western Europe when the USSR fell and has real inside knowledge from his work auditing intelligence services and the police. He currently lives in the fourteenth arrondissement of Paris, right down the street from his heroes.

— ♦ —

The Rare Earth Exchange by Bernard Besson

A John Spencer Larivière Espionage Thriller

Publisher: Le French Book

Panic strikes at the highest levels of the French government when the former president is found hanging from the rafters in his home right after a terrorist attack at the airport. Is it suicide or assassination?

Freelance operative John Spencer Larivière, his karate-trained partner Victoire, and their computer-genius sidekick Luc must find out what he was hiding. Quickly, the investigation turns into a globe-spanning confrontation in a world of high-frequency trading where manipulation and corruption reign. Larivière races against the clock to find out who is pulling the strings.

— The Rare Earth Exchange by Bernard Besson