House of Spies

by Daniel Silva

  “You’re lying to me, aren’t you, Mohammad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s he going?”

  “Who?”

  “Saladin.”

  “Paradise,” said Bakkar. “I’m going to paradise.”

  “I rather doubt that, actually,” said Keller.

  Then he placed the gun to Bakkar’s forehead and pulled the trigger one last time.

  Of the five dead men in the center court of the camp, only Mohammad Bakkar was in possession of a mobile phone. A Samsung Galaxy, it was in the front pocket of his trousers, with the SIM card and battery removed. Keller reassembled the device and powered it on while Mikhail and Natalie tended to Olivia. There were no vehicles left in the camp—Saladin, in his desperate attempt to escape, had taken all four—which meant they had no choice but to walk out of the desert. They took only what they could carry easily. Warm clothing, phones, passports, wallets, and two Kalashnikovs with fully loaded magazines. They didn’t bother trying to find a torch among the camp’s supplies. There was moon enough to light their path.

  They left the camp at five minutes past eleven o’clock local time and headed due west into a sea of sand. Keller walked at the front of the line, followed by the two women and lastly by Mikhail. In Keller’s right hand was Mohammad Bakkar’s mobile phone. He checked the status of the battery. Twelve percent.

  “Shit,” he said. “Anyone have a charger?”

  Even Olivia managed to laugh.

  In Casablanca, Gabriel and Yaakov Rossman took quiet stock of what remained of the operation. Its wreckage lay scattered across the desert of southern Morocco, from the Algerian border to the dunes of Erg Chebbi. Two Toyota Land Cruisers were smoldering ruins, a third lay damaged on its side. And a fourth—the one presumably carrying a wounded Saladin, a Saladin who looked as though he might require emergency medical treatment—had last been seen speeding northwest toward the Middle Atlas Mountains. Jean-Luc Martel, a prominent if deeply corrupt French businessman, lay dead at a remote camp, along with Mohammad Bakkar, Morocco’s largest hashish producer, and four of his men. Bakkar’s mobile phone was now in the possession of a British intelligence officer. The battery meter read ten percent and falling fast.

  “Other than that,” said Gabriel, “it all went exactly according to plan.”

  “Saladin would be dead if the Americans had picked the right car.”

  Gabriel said nothing.

  “You’re not thinking about—”

  “Of course I am.”

  Gabriel looked down at the computer screen. On it was a map of southern Morocco. Two blue lights were moving eastward across the desert from Khamlia; a single red light was moving slowly westward. They were approximately two miles apart.

  “In a few minutes,” said Yaakov, “the southeastern corner of Morocco is going to be crawling with soldiers and gendarmes. It won’t take them long to find a couple of burning Toyotas and a camp full of dead bodies. And then all hell is going to break loose.”

  “It already has.”

  “Which is why you need to order the team to dump those weapons and make for the bolt-hole at Agadir. With a bit of luck, they’ll arrive before dawn and we’ll pull them out right away. If not, they’ll lie low in a beach hotel and leave after dark tomorrow night.”

  “That’s the safe play.”

  “Actually, there’s nothing safe about it.”

  “And us?” asked Gabriel.

  “The gendarmes will be blocking roads all over the country soon. Better to stay here tonight and leave by plane in the morning. We’ll fly to Paris or London and then catch a flight back to Ben Gurion.”

  “What about Saladin?”

  “He can see to his own travel arrangements.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  On the computer screen the blue lights had reached the red light, and after a moment all three were moving westward across the desert toward the village of Khamlia.

  “What are you going to tell them?” asked Yaakov.

  Gabriel rapidly typed out the message and clicked send. It was four words in length.

  plug in the phone . . .

  61

  The Sahara, Morocco

  They had no means for a secure upload—not in the cellular dead zone of the southern desert—so they searched the Samsung the old-fashioned way, call by call, text by text, Internet history. Natalie, the team’s most fluent speaker and reader of Arabic, handled the device itself while Keller relayed the data to the Casablanca command post over the satellite phone. They were sitting in the backseat of the Nissan Pathfinder, with Dina behind the wheel and Eli Lavon serving as her navigator and spotter. Mikhail was in the Jeep Cherokee with Olivia.

  “How is she?” asked Gabriel.

  “About as well as you would expect. We need to get her out of here. Tonight, if possible.”

  “I’m working on it. Now give me the next number.”

  It appeared Mohammad Bakkar had not had the Samsung long. The first incoming call listed in the directory was the previous evening at 7:19 p.m. The time corresponded to the call that Jean-Luc Martel had received while sitting with Keller in the bar of the Palais Faraj in Fez. So, too, did the number. It seemed that the man who had called Martel to arrange the meeting at the camp in the desert had immediately called Mohammad Bakkar to say the meeting was on. Bakkar had then placed a call of his own, at 7:21.

  “Give me that number,” said Gabriel.

  Keller recited it.

  “Read it again.”

  Keller did.

  “That’s Nazir Bensaïd.”

  Bensaïd was the Moroccan jihadist and ISIS member who had followed Martel and the team from Casablanca to Fez, and from Fez into the Middle Atlas Mountains.

  “Bakkar called someone else a few minutes after that,” said Keller.

  “What’s the number?”

  Keller relayed it to him.

  “Does it appear anywhere else?”

  Keller put the question to Natalie, who quickly searched the directories. Bakkar had placed another call to the number at 5:17 that afternoon. He had received one at 5:23.

  Keller relayed the information to Gabriel.

  “Who do you suppose that is?”

  “The guest of honor?”

  Gabriel severed the connection and raised Adrian Carter at Langley over the secure link.

  “Where’s Nazir Bensaïd?” he asked.

  “His phone is back in Fez. Whether Nazir is still attached to it is unclear.”

  Gabriel then gave Carter the number Mohammad Bakkar had called three times—once the previous day at 7:21 p.m., and twice that afternoon, before the meeting in the desert.

  “Any idea who it belongs to?” asked Carter.

  “If I had to guess,” said Gabriel, “it’s Saladin.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “Directory assistance.”

  “Why didn’t we think of that? I’ll give it to the NSA. In the meantime,” said Carter, “tell your team not to lose that phone.”

  Twenty minutes after they passed the encampment of Berber nomads, Mohammad Bakkar’s phone reconnected to Morocco’s cellular network. It received no old texts or voice mails, and no new communication of any kind. Keller passed the news along to Gabriel and then asked for instructions. Gabriel ordered them to follow the N13 north to the village of Rissani, at the edge of the Tafilalt Oasis. Once there, they were to switch to the N12 and make their way westward to Agadir.

  “I assume Saladin will be waiting for us when we arrive?”

  “Doubtful,” said Gabriel.

  “So why are we going there?”

  “Because Agadir is a lot nicer than the Temara interrogation center.”

  “What about the guns?”

  “Dump them in the desert. In all likelihood, you’re going to run into roadblocks.”

  “And if we do?”

  “Improvise.”

  The connection went dead.

  “Wh
at were his instructions?” asked Eli Lavon.

  “He wants us to improvise.”

  “What about the weapons?”

  “He thinks we should hang on to them,” said Keller. “Just in case.”

  It was after midnight by the time they reached the village of Khamlia. As Dina turned north on the N13, a pair of helicopters thundered overhead on an easterly course.

  “Could be a routine patrol,” said Keller.

  “Could be,” said Eli Lavon skeptically.

  The Kalashnikov that Keller had taken from the camp was hidden in a duffel bag in the rear storage compartment; the Berretta was at the small of his back. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the headlamps of the Jeep Cherokee, trailing about a hundred yards behind. He wondered how Olivia would fare during a prolonged interrogation by Moroccan gendarmes. Not well, he reckoned.

  Turning around, he saw flashing emergency lights approaching them at speed. The vehicles sped past in a blur.

  “That didn’t look good,” said Lavon. “Are you sure Gabriel doesn’t want us to dump the guns?”

  Keller didn’t answer. He was staring at Mohammad Bakkar’s phone, which was vibrating in his hand. It was an incoming text message, Arabic script, from the same number Bakkar had called that afternoon. Keller held up the device for Natalie to see. Her eyes widened as she read.

  “What does it say?” asked Keller.

  “He wants to know if we’re dead.”

  “Really? I wonder who that could be from.”

  Keller picked up the satphone and started to dial, but stopped when he saw a gendarme standing in the middle of the highway, a traffic torch in his hand.

  “What should I do?” asked Dina.

  “By all means,” said Keller, “you should stop.”

  Dina eased to the side of the road and braked to a halt. Behind her, Yossi Gavish did the same in the Jeep Cherokee.

  “What should I tell them?” asked Dina.

  “Improvise,” suggested Keller.

  “What happens if they don’t believe me?”

  Keller looked down at the message on Mohammad Bakkar’s phone.

  “If they don’t believe you,” he said, “they die.”

  62

  Rissani, Morocco

  Dina spoke to the gendarme in German, very quickly, and with fear in her voice. She said that she and her friends had been camping in the desert, that there had been explosions of some sort, and gunfire. Fearful for their lives, they had fled the camp with only the clothes on their backs.

  “In French, Madame. Please, in French.”

  “I don’t speak French,” answered Dina in German.

  “English?”

  “Yes, I speak English.”

  But it was so heavily accented she might as well have still been speaking German. Frustrated, the gendarme checked her passport while his partner circled the vehicle slowly. The beam of his torch lingered for a moment on Keller’s face, long enough for Keller to consider reaching for the Beretta. Finally, the gendarme moved to the back of the SUV and rapped a knuckle on the glass.

  “Open it,” he said in Arabic, but his partner overruled him. He returned Dina’s passport and asked where they were planning to go next. And when Dina answered in German, he waved her forward with his red-tipped torch. The Jeep Cherokee, too.

  Keller handed Bakkar’s phone to Natalie. “Answer him.”

  “What should I say?”

  “Tell him we’re dead, of course.”

  “But—”

  “Hurry,” Keller interjected. “We’ve kept him waiting long enough.”

  Natalie sent a one-word reply: aiwa. It was the Arabic word for “yes.” Instantly, the person at the other end of the exchange began working on a reply. It appeared a few seconds later. One word, Arabic script.

  “What does it say?” asked Keller.

  “Alhamdulillah. It means—”

  “Thanks be to God.”

  “More or less.”

  “What it really means,” said Keller, “is that we’ve got him.”

  “Or someone close to him.”

  “Good enough.”

  Keller rang Gabriel on the satellite phone and told him what had just transpired.

  “You might have checked with me before sending that message.”

  “I didn’t have time.”

  “Keep him talking.”

  “How?”

  “Ask if he’s hurt.”

  Keller told Natalie to send the message. A minute passed before the Samsung pinged with the reply.

  “He’s hurt,” she said.

  “Ask him if the others were killed in the drone strike,” said Gabriel.

  “You’re pushing it,” said Keller.

  “Send the message, damn it.”

  Natalie did. The reply was instant.

  “Many of the brothers were killed,” she read.

  “Ask him how many brothers are with him.”

  Natalie typed out the message and sent it.

  “Two,” she said a moment later.

  “Are they hurt?”

  Another exchange of messages.

  “No.”

  “Does he need a doctor?”

  “Easy,” cautioned Keller.

  “Send it,” snapped Gabriel.

  The wait for a response was nearly two minutes.

  “Yes,” said Natalie. “He needs one.”

  There was another silence on the line.

  “We need to know where he’s going,” Gabriel said at last.

  “Track the phone,” replied Keller.

  “If he turns it off, we’ll lose him. You have to ask him.”

  Natalie typed out the message and sent it. The reply was vague.

  al riad. The house.

  “We need more than that,” said Gabriel.

  “You can’t ask him which house.”

  “Tell him you’re sending Nazir to look after him until the doctor arrives.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” said Keller.

  “Send it.”

  Natalie did. Then she composed a second message and sent it to Nazir Bensaïd’s number. They had to wait five long minutes for their answer.

  “We’ve got him!” said Natalie. “He’s on his way.”

  Keller brought the satphone to his ear. “You still want us to go to Agadir?”

  “Not all of you,” answered Gabriel.

  “Too bad about those guns.”

  “Any chance you can find them?”

  “Yeah,” said Keller. “I think I know where to look.”

  The next call to arrive at the Casablanca command post was from Adrian Carter.

  “We had his phone for three or four minutes, but he went off the air again.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “How?”

  “He was talking to us.”

  “What?”

  Gabriel explained.

  “Any idea where the house is?”

  “I didn’t think it was a good idea to ask him. Besides, we have Nazir Bensaïd to show us the way.”

  “He’s already on the move,” said Carter.

  “Where is he?”

  “Leaving Fez and heading back to the Middle Atlas.”

  “Where he will tend to a wounded Saladin,” said Gabriel, “until a doctor arrives.”

  “Are you thinking about making a house call?”

  “Office style.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll be on your own.”

  “Any chance we can borrow one of those drones for surveillance?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “When’s your next satellite pass?”

  Carter shouted the question to the officers gathered in the Black Hole. The answer came back a moment later.

  “We’ll have a bird over eastern Morocco at four a.m.”

  “Enjoy the show,” said Gabriel.

  “You’re not thinking about going up there, are you?”

  “I’m not leaving here without him
, Adrian.”

  “It’s the first part of that sentence that concerns me.”

  Gabriel rang off without another word and looked at Yaakov.

  “We need to clean this place up and get moving.”

  Yaakov stood stock-still.

  “You disagree with my decision?”

  “No. It’s just—”

  “You’re not worried about the damn jinns, are you?”

  “We’re not supposed to make noise at night.”

  Gabriel closed his laptop. “So we’ll leave quietly. It’s better that way.”

  Five minutes later the Moroccan armed forces and security services went on their highest state of alert. Nevertheless, in the confusion, they failed to take note of two small but significant movements of personnel and equipment. The first occurred on the outskirts of the village of Rissani, where a Jeep Cherokee and a Nissan Pathfinder paused briefly in the night at the intersection of two desert highways. There ensued a one-for-one exchange of passengers, a small bookish man for a tall lanky one. Then the vehicles went their separate ways. The Jeep Cherokee headed west toward the sea; the Nissan, north toward the base of the Atlas Mountains. The passengers of the Cherokee knew what awaited them, but those riding in the Nissan were headed toward a more uncertain fate. They had in their possession two Beretta pistols, two Kalashnikov assault rifles, passports, credit cards, cash, cellular phones, and a satellite phone. More important, they had a phone that had been used briefly by Morocco’s most prominent hashish producer. A phone, they hoped, that would lead them to Saladin.

  The second movement took place some four hundred miles to the northwest in Casablanca, where two men slipped from a faded old villa, quietly, so as not to awaken the demons within, and loaded their bags into a rented Peugeot sedan. They drove along the empty boulevards of the old colonial section, past the tattered Art Nouveau buildings, and the modern apartment blocks of the newly rich, and the Bidonvilles of the wretchedly poor, until finally they reached the motorway. The younger of the two men handled the driving; the older passed the time by loading and reloading his Beretta pistol. He had no business being there, it was true. He was the chief now, and a chief had to know his place. Still, there was a first for everything.