Direct Action

by John Weisman

  There, in the Audi’s headlights, was Hamzi’s Mercedes. The Moroccan’s car was trapped in a pincer by two dark-colored late-model sedans with Paris license plates. Behind the Mercedes were a pair of motorcycles. As Reuven pulled up, Tom could see the motorcycle riders. They wore black leather and visored helmets that covered their faces. The drivers, dressed in dark jeans and leather jackets, had balaclavas. All four were armed: two pointed long, dark semiautomatic pistols at the Mercedes. The other pair held miniature submachine guns with suppressors fixed onto their stubby barrels.

  The Mercedes had stalled out. Inside, the Moroccan was looking wildly around, screaming into what was obviously a useless cell phone.

  “Goddamnit—what are they waiting for, the Messiah?” The Israeli slammed to a screeching stop, smashed his palm into the dash and extinguished the headlights, jumped out of the car, and ran to the door of the Mercedes.

  With a gloved hand he smashed the window, reached inside, switched the car’s lights off, yanked the door open, jerked Hamzi out onto the street, pulled the cell phone out of the Moroccan’s hand, body-slammed him onto the ground, and dropped onto his back. Hamzi’s thick-framed glasses skittered across the macadam.

  For an instant, Hamzi froze. Then he must have realized he was struggling for his life, and he tried to roll out of Reuven’s grasp. But Reuven wasn’t going anywhere. Tom could sense the man’s desperation as he bucked and kicked.

  Reuven must have caught sight of Tom because suddenly he whirled, looked back toward the Audi, and shouted, “Go-go-go!”

  Tom heard. But he couldn’t move. Everything was wrong. The snatch wasn’t going according to plan. Not even close. He and Reuven were scheduled to take control of Hamzi in Bagnolet. Not here. Not so close to Boissons Maghreb.

  The Moroccan screamed. Reuven grabbed Hamzi by the hair and yanked his head backward. He twisted the Moroccan’s neck. Hamzi struggled even more wildly. He kicked and screamed and tried to pull himself off the ground. Reuven smashed the side of the Moroccan’s head into the pavement and Hamzi crumpled. He still struggled, but the fight had gone out of him.

  Finally, the others piled on. The subgun-toting motorcycle riders slung their weapons and held Hamzi down. Another assaulter clapped a gloved hand over the Moroccan’s mouth. The second balaclava wearer handed Reuven a large black canvas satchel. The Israeli unzipped the bag and rummaged through until he found what he was looking for: a small leather case. He opened the case, extracted a syringe-looking device, pulled the needle protector off, and plunged the syrette right through Hamzi’s overcoat into the man’s hip.

  The Moroccan went limp. Reuven stood up. He replaced the syringe in its case and dropped the case into the satchel. He looked at one of the leather-clad figures and pointed at his submachine gun. It, too, was placed in the bag.

  Then Reuven produced a roll of tape and bound Hamzi’s legs together at the ankles. The Moroccan’s arms were also quickly pinioned. Then Reuven grabbed Hamzi under his arms and dragged him back to the Mercedes. Reuven let Hamzi’s body slip to the ground. He opened the Mercedes’ rear door and, with the help of one of the black-clad men, pulled the Moroccan onto the rear seat. The black satchel was tossed in next. Finally, Hamzi’s body was covered with a dark blanket that one of the black-clad figures handed to Reuven. Someone handed Hamzi’s glasses to the Israeli, who dropped them into the breast pocket of his coveralls.

  Tom still sat transfixed. Dumbstruck. The whole sequence hadn’t taken more than half a minute. They’d rehearsed this. They’d had to.

  That was when Reuven looked over to where he was sitting frozen in the passenger seat of the Audi. “Why in God’s name are you sitting like a statue?” he shouted at Tom in Arabic. “Remember what I told you? Get the hell out of here.”

  Reuven flicked his cell phone open, punched a number, and spoke rapid Hebrew. Then he whistled once sharply and circled an index finger in the air next to his head. The four others jumped on the bikes, wheelied, and sped off into the night.

  Only Reuven and Tom remained. Reuven slid behind the wheel of the Mercedes and slammed the door shut. He looked back. “Damnit, Tom—”

  “I’m going.” Tom pulled himself out of the Audi, went around the hood of the car, dropped into the driver’s seat, adjusted it, snapped the door shut, and slammed the car into gear. His head was spinning. These weren’t Algerians. Gangbangers. Drug enforcers. The whole thing was too slick, too professional. Corsicans, maybe. Who knew who they were. Who knew what the hell was going on.

  And then Tom realized exactly what the hell was going on.

  Because Reuven had told him, “Control is everything, especially when you’re working false flag or through an access agent.” And like some frigging greenhorn he’d nodded dumbly and said, “Gotcha, Reuven.”

  This was a false-flag op, all right. A goddamn Mossad false-flag op. Reuven was in control. Hadn’t Shahram been trained by Israelis? They’d no doubt recruited him years ago. And Reuven? His portfolio in Paris had included Iran. Tom’s mind flashed back to Herzlyia. The retired Shin Bet man Amos Aricha had known Ben Said was formulating the new explosive in small batches. Only Shahram had known that factoid.

  Reuven had known about Ben Said all along. He’d recruited Tom as the access agent. And if anything went wrong, 4627 were the patsies who’d take the fall. Tom slammed the steering wheel with such force that he bent it. “Reuven, you goddamn son of a bitch.”

  He stomped the brakes, threw the car into reverse, and backed up violently, smacking the rear bumper of the Audi into the Mercedes, jamming it into the intercept cars.

  He set the parking brake, jumped out, ran to the Mercedes, and pounded on the roof of the car with his fist. “Goddamnit, Reuven—open up.”

  Reuven swiveled around, threw the Mercedes into reverse, powered up the big sedan…and accelerated. The smell of burning rubber rose into the night air. But the Audi didn’t budge.

  “Goddamnit to hell, Reuven—” Tom’s pounding put a dimple, then a crease, in the roof of the German car. “Let me in or you go nowhere.”

  The Israeli lowered the passenger-side window. “Move the Audi, Tom.”

  “Then what?”

  The Israeli thought about it. “Then you can come with me.”

  “All the way?”

  Reuven scratched under his hairpiece. “To the end,” he finally said. “We’ll play it out together.” He looked at Tom and his voice softened just a bit. “You’ve earned it.”

  Tom pondered the offer. “Keys, Reuven.”

  The Israeli blinked. “What?”

  “Give me the keys first.”

  Reuven examined Tom’s face. Then he grimaced, and with a sigh pulled the keys out of the ignition and handed them to the American. “Happy now?”

  “No, I’m royally pissed—at me more than at you.” Tom shoved the keys in his pocket, strode back to the Audi, and moved it out of the way, handling the vehicle roughly. He turned off the ignition and was just about to lock the doors when Reuven exited the Mercedes.

  Tom pulled himself out of the Audi and went around to the opposite side of the car to put distance between himself and Reuven. He was both disappointed and disgusted with himself. He was as blind as Tenet’s CIA. He’d had no idea what the man’s actual intentions were. He’d relied on a liaison relationship and that relationship had screwed him. Tom stood, fists clenched, as the Israeli approached.

  Reuven reacted to Tom’s body language and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, boychik,” he said. “Since you’re coming with me, we’d better wipe this car down and get everything out of it. Then I’ll torch it.”

  “But the cops’ll track the registration.”

  “Not this one—unless they keep track of Audis stolen in Turkey.” He gestured toward Tom’s hands. “Believe me, there’s no records.” He paused. “When you get into Hamzi’s car, touch nothing, or use your handkerchief. You’re not wearing gloves and I’m not carrying an extra pair. I don’t think leaving fing
erprints or evidence is a good idea.”

  37

  10:19 P.M. Reuven collapsed onto the steering wheel of Hamzi’s Mercedes and wiped sweat off his face with a handkerchief. It was cold in the car because there was no driver’s-side front window. They’d brushed the broken glass off the seat and removed as much of it as they could, but there were still shards on the floor by Tom’s feet. Even in the chill, Reuven’s collar was wet with perspiration. It was the only outward sign of the stress he’d been under.

  They’d driven in silence for about eighteen minutes through northeast Paris, Reuven carefully observing all the traffic laws while Tom sat, arms crossed, fuming. At 10:17, they pulled up to a deserted garage just off the rue Simplon, about six blocks from the Gare du Nord.

  Reuven obviously had a remote device in his pocket because the big roll-up door raised as they cruised up the street and drove straight inside.

  The door descended behind them now, sealing them inside with an ominous thud that echoed inside the cavernous, empty space.

  Reuven opened his door and rolled out onto the concrete. “Quick, Tom. Help me pull him out—but touch nothing except Hamzi.”

  “He called you, didn’t he? Before he called me.” The two of them eased Hamzi’s inert form onto the ground.

  “Pull off his coat and toss it in the car.”

  “He called you, goddamnit. Shahram. He was your agent.”

  “Not now, not now.” Reuven yanked the black satchel out of the Mercedes. “On the front wall, Tom—lights. Just at the left-hand side of the door. Turn them on.”

  “Wasn’t he, Reuven?” Tom held fast. “Tell me.”

  The Israeli gave Tom a long, forlorn stare. “Not my agent,” he said. “It was closer to a peer relationship—we shared information. Kaplan, my old boss at Gelilot, was his instructor in the 1960s. Kaplan introduced us. I never formally recruited Shahram. But we dealt with one another for twenty years. Almost twenty-one.”

  “He contacted you. He had to. Because you told Amos Aricha about Ben Said’s explosives—how he made them in small batches.”

  “Amos is a bigmouth.” The Israeli sighed. “Shahram called right after he’d come from your embassy—he realized he’d been targeted. He couldn’t talk on the open line, of course. But he said just enough to make me very anxious for him. I told him to call you.”

  “Oh God.” Tom heaved a huge groan. He made his way across the smooth concrete and found the switch. He flipped it up and two sodium work lights came on, flooding the garage interior with sallow, greenish yellow light. Tom stood by the door, welcoming the draft chilling his ankles. He felt dizzy, light-headed, nauseated. Circles within circles. Jeezus H. Keerist. What if, what if, what if…

  Tom’s mind muddle was interrupted by Reuven’s voice. “Tom—come help me.” Reuven had rolled Hamzi onto his chest. “Here.” The Israeli slit the Moroccan’s bonds. “First, we take his jacket off.”

  Tom complied on autopilot. “How long will he be out?”

  “Depends. If he has a weak heart, forever. If not, maybe six, seven hours.”

  “You never intended to interrogate him.”

  “Not true, boychik. But the majority of the interrogation will be done…elsewhere.” They shifted Hamzi’s position. Reuven looked down at the inert Moroccan with disdain. “This guy needs to go on a diet.” He was right: moving Hamzi around was like trying to manipulate a sack of potatoes.

  They struggled with the Moroccan’s arms. Tom pulled on a sleeve and heard the sound of ripping cloth.

  “Careful, boychik,” Reuven said. “We’re going to need these clothes.”

  “Sorry.” Tom adjusted his grip. Finally, they eased Hamzi out of his suit coat.

  Reuven took it and began a methodical search. He checked each of the pockets carefully. One held a gold and tortoiseshell enamel Dupont lighter. Reuven opened the top and flicked it on to make sure it worked. Then he removed the fill plug to make sure nothing was concealed inside. The lighter went onto the floor. There was a glasses case in Hamzi’s breast pocket. That, too, was scrutinized without results. Then Reuven turned the suit coat inside out. He worked his hands up and down the sleeves inch by inch, his fingers probing for secret compartments or foreign materials sewn into the lining. He ran his hands around the shoulder pads. “Nothing.”

  He looked over at Tom, who was watching. “Pull off his shoes.”

  Tom eased the brown loafers off Hamzi’s feet. Reuven dropped the suit coat to the floor, undid the Moroccan’s belt, and began to pull Hamzi’s trousers off.

  “Check the soles and heels. See if anything is stored there.”

  Tom ran his finger around the edge of the thin sole on the right shoe. There was nothing untoward about the shoe’s construction. He checked the shank. It was flexible. He played with the heel. It was attached solidly. He repeated his actions with the left shoe. “Nothing.”

  “Check the lining.”

  “What are we looking for?” Tom held the shoe up to the light and peered inside. It looked normal. He examined the right shoe. “Nothing, Reuven.”

  “Stuff. Anything. Everything.” The Israeli went over Hamzi’s belt inch by inch. He found nothing. The belt was dropped onto the floor and Reuven started unfastening Hamzi’s trousers. “Pull the linings out of his shoes.”

  Tom used his fingernail to peel the faux leather back from the heel, then stripped the lining away from the last. The damn thing was cemented securely, and it took Tom some effort, but he finally removed it. There was nothing underneath. No secret compartment, no writing. He picked up the left shoe and began again.

  Except this time the lining peeled back easily. It had been secured with rubber cement. And on the back side was a small yellow Post-it, on which were written numerals in Arabic:—30679.

  “Reuven!” Tom held the lining up. “Safe combination?”

  “Doubt it.” The Israeli was examining the contents of Hamzi’s wallet. “He’d know his safe combination by heart. I think it’s the punch code for the safe house. Ben Said’s a professional. He’d change the code weekly at a minimum—probably daily when he’s around.”

  “And he’s around.”

  Reuven jerked his thumb at the trunk of Hamzi’s car. “What do you think?”

  Tom started to answer, but the big garage door jerked upward noisily. “Reuven?”

  “Reinforcements.” Even so, the Israeli moved behind the Mercedes and Tom noticed that he’d picked up the black satchel and thrown it over his shoulder, and that his hand was inside the bag—probably holding the submachine gun.

  A graphite-gray Citroën saloon with opaquely tinted windows eased into the garage. The heavy door dropped as soon as the car cleared the threshold.

  Tom squinted, trying to see through the dark glass. The driver was uniformed—a chauffeur. Then he saw Salah pull himself out of the front seat of the car.

  The Israeli smiled—obviously delighted—when he saw Tom. He gestured graciously with his good arm. “Salaam wallahkum, Tom,” he said in Arabic. “I am glad Reuven brought you. As it is written in the Koran, ‘God will bless the true believers.’”

  Tom didn’t feel like a true anything.

  “Salah,” he said. “What’s this all about?”

  “Tawil balak—give it time.” The little man rushed past him and scampered behind the Mercedes, where he drew Reuven off to the side.

  The trunk of the Citroën popped open. Then Salah’s driver stepped out of the big car. It was Milo. “Good evening,” he said to Tom.

  Milo removed his chauffeur’s cap and laid it on top of the dash. “You will excuse me?”

  The Corsican walked to the rear, extracted a big screwdriver and two white-and-black diplomatic license plates from the trunk, exchanged the car’s plates, and dropped the old ones into a garbage container. He pulled a pair of heavyweight black nylon satchels out of the Citroën’s trunk and set them on the garage floor. Then he walked to where Salah and Reuven were speaking and interrupted them long enoug
h to ask a quick question.

  Tom saw Reuven nod and toss Milo something from the bag that still hung from his shoulder. Then Milo went over to where Hamzi lay, rebound the Moroccan’s arms and legs, taped his mouth, then flipped him up onto his shoulder, carried him to the Citroën, eased him into the vehicle’s trunk, slammed the lid shut, and double-locked it.

  Tom watched as Milo retrieved his chauffeur’s cap. “Where’s he going? Back to our warehouse?”

  “For a few hours,” Salah said. “Your boss wants to know about several matters. And there are a few loose ends we’d like to tie up on our end.”

  “And then?”

  “And then? We’ll drop him off at the Moroccan embassy. The Mukhabarat will want to talk to Monsieur Hamzi, even though he hasn’t been to Morocco in years himself. We’ve alerted them to his…connections.”

  “Rabat.” Milo smiled. “King Mohamad—he pay good, you know, right, Reuven?”

  Tom was listening just hard enough to hear the sound of the second shoe dropping. He looked at Salah, then at Reuven, then back at Salah. “You’re retired, aren’t you?”

  “Sometimes,” Salah said obliquely. “I work on contract basis for my old employers. Sometimes Reuven and I and some others do projects together. Like your 4627 Company.” He smiled slyly at Tom’s reaction. “What—you think CIA is the only agency that has to farm out what it can’t do itself?”

  Reuven walked up. “Money, money, money is all these guys ever talk about. Nothing but the bottom line.” He tapped Milo’s chest. “Did you find me one?”

  Milo said, “Yes, but there’s no time to make it work.”

  “Just put it in,” Reuven said. “It doesn’t have to move.”

  “It? What?” Tom looked at Milo, confused.

  “New window,” Reuven said, jerking a thumb at Hamzi’s Mercedes as Milo put on a pair of work gloves and eased a curved piece of auto glass out of the rear of the Citroën. “Car needs a new window.”

  The Israeli looked at Tom. “Salah brought you a change of clothes,” he said, switching into English. “And something for your head. But before that, we have to deal with the olive barrels. I don’t want to risk the explosive falling into the wrong hands.”