by Brad Taylor
They walked toward the entrance, and she said, “How are we going to play this?”
“You do all the talking. Bury him with the evidence, but give him an out. Get him to play ball as if he’s helping. Give him a Get Out of Jail Free card. If it seems futile, and he’s not budging, just tell me to step in.”
They passed through the outdoor tables, reaching the door for the inside section. She pulled the handle and said, “Which means what?”
“It means I’ll go a little Pike on his ass. He’ll play. Remember, the end state isn’t us building some prosecutor’s case against him. It’s getting to the Syrian.”
She said, “Fine by me. This guy is kind of a creep. Never looks in my eyes.”
They entered a narrow corridor, the left crowded with pizza makers whirling dough or cooking pies. Farther in, the place opened up to a section of booths, two occupied, the others empty. Carly took the last one on the far side, near a hallway for the restrooms, putting her back to the wall. Knuckles slid in beside her, bringing out a grin.
She said, “You trying for something?”
He chuckled and said, “I’m not leaving my back to the door.”
She nodded, then looked at him, saying, “You’re not going to ask?”
A waitress brought menus, and, after she’d left, Knuckles said, “Look, I’m not going to lie, it hurt. I took a hit with the team laughing at me. Actually, laughing at you, which hurt even more, because I knew it wasn’t about capability or skill.” He dropped the menu he was reading and said, “It was your decision, and I’m good with it.”
She exhaled and said, “Thank you. That means a lot to me. You kept putting up so much pressure to do it, and I don’t think I was ever all in.”
Surprised, he said, “Why didn’t you say something?”
“I don’t know . . . Decoy . . . You . . . Pike . . . Jennifer . . . It was a lot of pressure. I just didn’t say anything. But I should have.”
He played with a napkin, then said, “Is that why you broke it off? Because I was pressuring you, and you didn’t want to do A and S?”
She hit his arm and said, “Oh, stop it. Don’t flatter yourself. It wasn’t that. The decision we made was the decision we made. I didn’t mean to imply something about our relationship. It is what it is, and I just like being a case officer more than some commando.”
He grinned, and she said, “Besides, I hear you’re boinking the secretary of state now. That didn’t take long.”
His mouth dropped open and she looked at the door to the restaurant, saying, “That’s him.”
* * *
—
Knuckles saw the man in the doorway and bit back a reply to what she’d said. A thin guy wearing baggy khakis and a knit polo, with expensive sunglasses on the crown of his head, Knuckles thought he looked like something out of a Miami Vice remake. He whispered, “Remember, I’m just security. You do the talking until you don’t want to talk anymore.”
Periwinkle slid into the booth opposite them, immediately saying, “Who’s this?”
Carly said, “Contract security. Just in case. Don’t worry, he’s cleared.”
Periwinkle said, “This isn’t Iraq. It’s Monte Carlo. Who is he?”
Carly deflected, snapping her fingers and saying, “Hey, my eyes are up here.”
Knuckles glanced at Periwinkle, and saw his face redden. He couldn’t believe it. The jerk had actually been looking at her breasts. At an official CIA personal meet. He wanted to wring Periwinkle’s neck immediately, but Carly’s tactic was masterful, setting the case officer on his heels for being an ass and shutting off any discussion of Knuckles’s status.
She continued the pressure, not letting Periwinkle recover, saying, “Look, this won’t take but a minute. We need you to set up a meeting with the Syrian we’re chasing.”
Periwinkle leaned back in the booth, saying, “What are you talking about?”
Carly pulled the photo out of the manila envelope, laid it on the table, and said, “This guy. Yasir al-Shami.”
He glanced at it, then said, “I told you before, I don’t know who he is.”
She pulled the transcript out, laid it on the table, and said, “Well, maybe he’s got a different name, but that’s the one he was using when you talked to him in Zurich.”
Knuckles watched him closely, and saw a tie in his left eye. He was the one.
Periwinkle picked up the sheet, read it, then said, “This isn’t me. You need to go back to wherever you got this for a new thread.”
“That’s the whole point. Yasir—or however you know him—has passed what we believe is WMD material to a terrorist cell, and now he’s in the wind. We’ve lost him, but he wants to meet with you, and we want you to set that up.”
He balled up the paper and dropped it on the table, saying, “I don’t know him.”
Carly said, “David, we’re not here to turn this into a CIA shit storm about missing links to 9/11, but if this attack occurs, that’s exactly what will happen, and it won’t be just finger-pointing about being lazy or missing the dots. It’s going to be crossing into the accomplice range.”
He snarled, “You little shit, pretending to be a case officer, bouncing around Monte Carlo in a sundress. Do you know who I am? Who has my back on the seventh floor? Everyone. You’ll be lucky to get an assignment to the Congo after the cable I’m about to send.”
She crossed her arms under her breasts, and Knuckles saw Periwinkle’s eyes slip again, focused on something other than her face. Carly saw it as well, and looked at Knuckles, disgusted. She said, “I’m done. Your turn.”
Gladly.
Periwinkle had a flash of confusion on his face, and Knuckles said not a word. He reached across the table with both arms, grabbed the back of Periwinkle’s head by his hair, and bounced his face on the table. Periwinkle snapped upright, holding his nose and shouting, “What the fuck are you doing?”
The waitress came over, alarmed, and Knuckles said, “Nosebleed. Can we get some napkins?”
She nodded and scurried away. Periwinkle said, “You two fucks—”
Knuckles repeated the maneuver, snatching Periwinkle’s head and slamming it into the table again. Periwinkle screamed once more, then snorted blood. Knuckles said, “We can do this all night, but at the end, you’re going to set up that meeting.”
Through his hands, Periwinkle said, “Who are you? I saw you two hug. You’re no contract security.”
Knuckles leaned over, getting into his face. “Who I am is irrelevant. What I am is what you should be concerned with, because if that terrorist attack occurs, you won’t have to worry about interagency repercussions. I’ll fucking kill you.”
They locked eyes, and the waitress reappeared, dropping a sheaf of napkins on the table, glancing between them. Her voice trembling, her pencil vibrating from her shaking hand, she said, “I’m so sorry about the nosebleed. Can I get you guys anything?”
Knuckles kept his eyes on Periwinkle, saying, “I don’t think so. He’s going to need an ice pack. We’re probably leaving.”
She nodded, immensely relieved to hear they would be gone, then walked away, snatching looks back at them as she went. They sat in silence for a moment, then Periwinkle glanced at Carly. Knuckles snapped his fingers, saying, “Hey, my eyes are over here.”
Carly tried to hide a grin, and Periwinkle stuttered, “I might know how to find him. It might take some time. But maybe I can help.”
Knuckles relaxed, putting his elbows on the table. He said, “Good. That’s my boy. Get the fuck out of here and pack your bags. You’re going to Zurich. So you know, nobody knows about this but us right now. Nobody on your vaunted seventh floor knows you’ve withheld information. You send a cable, and you’ll open up your own shit storm.”
Periwinkle nodded, then staggered out of the restaurant, holding a napkin to his fac
e.
Carly exhaled, then said, “I think that went well.”
Knuckles knew it was sarcasm, but said, “Me too.” He looked at her and said, “Good to be working with you. I mean it.”
She smiled and said, “You too.” She pecked his cheek and said, “I mean it.”
He put a hand on her thigh, saying, “Well, as long as we’re waiting for him . . . what are you doing for dinner? We could get some room service.”
She felt the rub, raised her eyebrows, and said, “You’re kidding, right?”
He jerked his hand away, shamed, and said, “At least I was looking into your eyes.”
She laughed and said, “I’ll get dinner with you, but I’m not going to your room.”
He saw her eyes, and where there had once been fear and shame, there was now a bubbly life. He realized, in his own ham-handed way, he’d done something right.
He’d validated her choice.
He said, “I’d like that. I really would.”
45
Sayid exited onto the platform of the Gare de Nice–Ville station, disoriented. He looked left and right, wondering in which direction they should go. Bashir pointed left, and they walked to a broken escalator, pulling their bags up as they advanced.
Sayid said, “Of course the up escalator is broken. Perfect.”
Bashir said, “We’re lucky there is an escalator.”
Sayid laughed and said, “Why, exactly, is this a good thing? A broken escalator is the same as having none at all.”
Bashir said nothing, realizing Sayid had missed his point.
They’d had no trouble getting from Zurich to Nice, nobody checking any baggage, and only one conductor looking at Sayid strangely when she’d punched his ticket. Before leaving, Bashir had begged him once again to assume the dress of the infidel, but he had refused, saying that the kaffirs were too stupid to see the threat. And Bashir had to admit he’d been right. They had been allowed to continue straight into Nice.
They reached the top of the platform, Bashir read a sign, then led Sayid to a section of lockers, some big enough for full-size luggage, others smaller, built for carry-ons. He looked at a sheet, then advanced to a smaller locker, putting in the key given to him by Yasir. The door swung open, and he found a sheaf of papers, along with keys for an apartment. He smiled.
As much as they didn’t trust Yasir, he was proving true to his word. Bashir clenched the keys and said, “Let’s go.”
They exited the front of the old station, the eighteenth-century facade projecting a veneer of respectability that was probably true back then, but was wholly unearned in the modern day.
They looked at the expanse of pavement in front of the station, bustling with travelers, the road beyond full of traffic and bleating horns, and Bashir’s enthusiasm waned. Sayid said, “Take a cab? We have no idea where that apartment is.”
Bashir said, “No. Remember the cabdrivers in Damascus? They were snitches for the regime. It might be the same here. Let’s Uber. Get some kid here that won’t talk.”
“Uber is just as bad as a cab. Doesn’t matter who picks us up, it’s all on computer now. For all we know, France is monitoring that system.”
Bashir said, “Then we find someone. Someone that’s not either. If this is like every other city in Europe, there will be unregistered cabs. Someone who is illegal to begin with. That’s what we want.” He pointed, then said, “Someone like them.”
Sayid saw a clutch of unmarked cars with men leaning on hoods and smoking cigarettes, while others badgered the travelers exiting the station.
Bashir began walking toward them and someone shouted in Arabic, “You! You! Need a ride?”
Bashir turned to him and, in Arabic, said, “How do you know we speak the language?”
The man pointed at Sayid’s Berber jacket and said, “I just guessed. But I’m one of the faithful. Where would you like to go?”
They loaded the car, and Bashir gave him an address, picking a number at random along the shoreline. He wanted to be dropped off near where they were going to stay, but not on top of it. The driver plugged the address into his GPS, and they left the station.
Twenty minutes later, the car stopped on the famed Nice waterfront, adjacent to a public toilet. The driver said, “This is it? But there’s nothing here. Did you give me the right address?”
Embarrassed, Bashir told him that he had and exited, stepping out into the same space where another true believer had slaughtered eighty-six people in 2016. Celebrating Bastille Day, they had been mowed down by a truck, the vehicle grinding the revelers apart like a scythe, staining the promenade in blood. That had been wiped clean, all traces removed, and today most tourists had no idea about the attack, the promenade clogged with people enjoying the sunshine and the shore, unaware of the history.
Bashir watched the unregistered cab drive away, then surveyed the throngs of people flowing around them. He said, “It’s amazing they don’t learn. We attack, and they still come back, like roaches.”
Sayid said, “It takes a breaking point. A truck wasn’t it. But maybe we are.”
Bashir smiled and said, “Yes. Maybe we are.”
They began dragging their luggage into the old town, the road they were on narrowing into what appeared to be nothing more than an alley. Bashir kept checking his sheet of instructions, looking for a church. Eventually, he found it—an ornate cathedral with a bell tower, surrounded by outdoor cafés and gelato shops. He turned in a circle, then pointed down another alley.
They wound through the narrow lane, Bashir glancing at numbers every few feet. Sayid followed him patiently, then Bashir cursed, looking at his sheet. He retraced his steps, eventually stopping and saying, “This should be it.”
They went up a small flight of stairs to a simple wooden door, and Bashir put in the key. It worked, causing them both to exhale.
They searched the flat, finding it empty. A one-bedroom place with a small kitchenette and a balcony off the bedroom, it didn’t take long to clear it. Sayid said, “So we have a place to stay. What now?”
Bashir said, “We left Switzerland early. The boat doesn’t show up for three days. So I guess we have three days to wait.”
“That’s not my question. Are we doing the original plan, or something else?”
Bashir said, “We can’t do anything without that boat. We can’t attack anyone in Syria until we get there.”
“Maybe we aren’t attacking in Syria. Contact the imam.”
46
Burning off time before his meeting, Yasir took a seat inside a large candy store just to the north of the bridge across the Reuss River, with Lake Lucerne in view across the plaza out front. He watched the tourists buying pounds of chocolate and other treats and wondered if it was worth the sky-high prices.
He was nervous. More nervous than he should have been, given his history. It was just another meet, like the hundreds he’d done in lands that were decidedly more dangerous—including his own. Maybe it was because he was so close to achieving his dream. Or maybe it was because he was walking into the arms of a CIA man who just a day and a half ago seemed not to care a whit about what he had to offer.
After making significant efforts to obscure his plans, leaving his hotel room with nothing more than the clothes on his back, he’d fled Zurich, traveling to Lucerne—a location he’d never been to before and had absolutely no reason to travel to now. It was a complete break from any known connections in Geneva and Zurich, and a city where he could settle for a bit, planning his next moves. On the first night in his hotel, Periwinkle had called, surprising Yasir, saying he’d been given a different assignment and was leaving Europe. If Yasir wanted to pass the information, they needed to meet immediately.
It had raised Yasir’s suspicions, but the money Periwinkle was offering was too much to pass up. Yasir had set the meeting location and time,
while Periwinkle had dictated Yasir’s route, saying he’d provide countersurveillance to ensure he was clean. It was an SOP that Yasir had habitually used when meeting his CIA contact, but this time it made him uneasy. In the past, he knew the CIA man was on his side. He wasn’t sure anymore.
Yasir checked his watch, then stood. He’d rehearsed his route this morning, wanting to make sure he knew precisely how long it would take. He needed to arrive at his selected site plus or minus thirty seconds from the meet time. Anything outside that envelope would cause Periwinkle to worry that something had gone wrong, and maybe he’d been compromised or interdicted en route. He couldn’t give Periwinkle any reason to be wary.
He tossed his coffee into the trash and threaded past the crowds buying candy, seeing an entire tour of Asians exiting a bus outside, a guide in front with a flag. He sank against the wall, thinking of the North Koreans. Surely they couldn’t stage something so bold, infiltrating an entire group on a tour bus, could they? He waited until the last one entered, checking each individual as they passed. Nobody paid him a bit of attention, and he began to feel foolish. He had taken great pains to vanish. There were no North Koreans in Lucerne.
When the final tourist entered, he exited through the open door, walking into the plaza fronting Lake Lucerne, the roundabout clogged with tour buses. He checked his watch, and saw he was running late.
He jogged toward the river, paralleling the shore of the lake on the avenue. He reached the intersection of the Reuss River and Lake Lucerne, and took a right, seeing the famed Chapel Bridge, the first segment of his designated route. Built in the fourteenth century, it was a covered pedestrian walkway made of wood that traversed the river—a choke point that would allow countersurveillance to identify anyone following him. Or allow someone to track his movements.
A necessary risk, if he wanted his payout.
He passed several tourists going the other way, with only an elderly couple taking an interest in him. He went by a souvenir stand built into the bridge, then exited on the far side. He paused, seeing nothing but a child kneeling next to a bench with a stick of chalk, doodling on the pavement.