by Blake Banner
“I’m parked around the corner, Rue Balzac. We’ll take my car.” We started walking. She walked slow and kept stopping to look in windows. As we rounded the corner into the narrow shade of Balzac she said, “I should talk to Buddy and Jane about you. You’re about as subtle as a rhinoceros, and if you don’t control your impatience, you’re going to get us both killed.”
I didn’t answer and we made our way to a cream SEAT Ibiza parked at a meter outside a hotel that was also called Balzac. Balzac was obviously the thing here. The lights bleeped on the car and she climbed in behind the wheel. I got in the other side and we took off, negotiating the narrow, one-way systems around the center of the city, heading ever east. After a moment she glanced at me.
“The car has been scanned for bugs. We can talk freely here.”
I studied her a moment. She’d lost the smile and the flirty voice. I said:
“What makes you think Ben-Amini is in Paris?”
She sighed. “Are you serious?”
I suppressed a hot flush of irritation. “Yeah, I’m serious. What is the precise intel you have that makes you think he’s here?”
“Bill Hartmann took him into custody a month ago.”
“Give or take.”
“Try not to interrupt, Tex. We know for a fact that he was taken first to Bagram, where he was held in solitary confinement for his own protection.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because it’s a matter of official record.” I grunted and she went on. “From Bagram airbase he was flown on a USAAF plane, in the custody of the Central Intelligence Agency, to Langley AFB and then, allegedly, driven to CIA HQ. But the fact is that after he arrived at Bagram airbase, nobody besides Bill Hartmann’s team set eyes on him. And after his alleged arrival in Virginia, there is no trace of him in the States.”
I shrugged. “Isn’t that to be expected?”
“No. Up to a point, but the intelligence community is always buzzing with rumors. Some of them deliberately planted, some leaked, some are just speculation based on extrapolation and deduction. The trick is to be able to tell one from the other. Bottom line is, if something is going down in Washington, Quantico or Langley, somebody will know about it and talk about it to somebody else. That is the nature of intelligence. The fact that there was absolutely nothing being said, either in DC or Virginia, was of itself odd.”
She fell silent while she navigated the Arc de Triomphe and turned north up the Avenue de Wagram.
“Now,” she said, as she settled into the flow of the traffic, “what you probably don’t know is that Paris is the Firm’s second largest operational base.”
My face told her I was surprised. “Why Paris?”
“Because Paris, not Brussels or Berlin, is the heart of Europe. Germany is volatile and unpredictable, and it hangs there between the East and the West. Culturally they are unstable. Hell, look at their recent history, the Kaiser, the third Reich, then the Soviet Union, the wall. But France has always been the big prize, and its great virtues are that it is politically very stable, and culturally very…” She hesitated while she thought. “…accommodating. Look at the way they just walked out of Paris and left it to the Germans rather than have the place bombed. Look at how they will always negotiate with terrorists. They make a lot of noise and bluster, but when the chips are down, they will always accommodate you. So, in exchange for certain favors, Paris allows the CIA to run its European operational base from here.”
“I assumed that would be London.”
She shook her head. “That would be duplicating the work. We share with MI6 and MI5.”
“We?”
She glanced at me. “I still consult for the Agency.”
“Do they know you work for Cobra?”
“That’s none of your beeswax, Tex. Anyway, the point is, Cobra’s operatives in Paris began to pick up chatter that the Firm had a guest here in Paris. Buddy sent me over with a small team a couple of weeks ago and we spotted a couple of Bill Hartmann’s men and a few of Ben-Amini’s boys too, who went missing from Afghanistan after he was taken by Hartmann.”
I was quiet for a while, watching the graceful avenue slip by, with its rows of trees and elegant buildings. We were now on the Boulevard de Courcelles, passing the Parc Monceau on our right. Eventually I said:
“But you haven’t actually seen him.”
“No. We haven’t seen him in person. But I wouldn’t expect to, and the word is he’s here. And his men and Hartmann’s men are here.”
I stared out of the side window, wondering why I was so sure he wasn’t. We came to the Place de la Bataille de Stalingrad and turned south. I sighed and shook my head.
“He’s in LA.”
She rolled her eyes and sighed. “OK, let me turn your question back on you. What makes you think Al-Amini is in Los Angeles?”
“Because the Firm wants you to believe he’s in Paris. What use is he to them in Paris? They don’t want to share whatever intel they get from him with Europe. France isn’t a target for the Taliban. London is, but getting into the UK is so easy they don’t need a base in France. They can make a base in the UK itself. Hell, they catch them over there and then they let them out on parole. If you told me Hartmann had Ben-Amini in London I might buy it. But Paris makes no sense. They want him in the States, to hand, where they can debrief him a stone’s throw from Virginia and prime him for whatever they want. He’s in LA.”
She shook her head. “You used a lot of words, Tex, but you didn’t say anything. The smoke is where the fire is. Hartmann’s men are here, Ben-Amini’s men are here. Mohammed Ben-Amini is here.”
“I guess we’ll find out when I kill him.”
We didn’t speak again till we came to the Porte de Vincennes roundabout. She followed it to the left down the Avenue de Paris and after a little over half a mile she turned right down Rue des Vignerons and left into Franklin Roosevelt Avenue.
“Franklin Roosevelt? Seriously?”
“What can I tell you?” She pulled up outside an apartment block with wooden doors that had glass panels and a number “20” over the top. The block was six stories plus what Europeans call the ground floor. It was painted white and had small balconies with balustrades. She killed the engine and looked at me. “They like to think of themselves as international. They also have a Winston Churchill Avenue.”
She opened the car door and stuck her left leg out.
“Come on, Tex, let me give you your Hershey Bar.”
Chapter Nine
Her apartment was on the sixth floor with views to the south of rooftops and forested parkland beyond, and to the east, the massive presence of the Chateau Vincennes. The apartment wasn’t big, just one bedroom, but the living room was spacious and light, with comfortable, minimalist furnishings, parquet floors and leather couches. She pointed me to an oak sideboard and said, “You want to fix a couple of drinks while I get your toys?”
I made two martinis dry and she came in with a large sports bag in her hands. I handed her her drink and she gave me the bag. I sat with it on my lap and unzipped it. Inside were two small cases. I took them out and snapped the catches. Inside one was the Sig Sauer P226 TacOps, with two extended magazines and two boxes of 9mm rounds. It was clean, new and in good working order.
The other contained the Maxim 9, the integrally suppressed handgun. It was chunky, but easier to holster and carry than a handgun with a screw-on suppressor. I checked it over and set about loading the magazines for both guns. She sat and watched me.
“I’ll take you to the Au Bois D’Acacia tonight. It’s…,” she shook her head and made a face, “I don’t know, fifty yards tops from the safe house where we believe Amini is being held.”
“OK, we’ll drive past it on the way, looking for somewhere to park. Let me get a look at it.” I sipped the martini. “How many people does he have with him at any one time?”
“His two boys from Afghanistan, and during the day a couple of agents from the Firm.”
>
“Do you have a floor plan of the apartment?”
“No.”
“You have a team watching them now?”
“Of course. Twenty-four seven.”
“OK, tell them to inform you the moment the CIA agents leave the apartment tonight.”
“Just like that?”
I smiled. “What? You want me to connect with my inner ninja first?”
“Don’t be an asshole all the time, Tex. You need to recon the place, make a plan, run it by Control, clear it with the colonel…”
“And start formulating a new plan because by the time HQ are through following procedure Ben-Amini will be back in Kabul, or Islamabad, or Hawaii, drinking Copacabanas! Forget it. Do you have any intel on his movements, their movements or the apartment itself that you haven’t given me?”
“No.”
“Then you tell me what more reconnoitering I can do than finding out when the CIA have left. If you can’t provide me with the floor plan of the apartment, I may as well go in tonight. Correct me where I am wrong.”
“Geez, you’re a pain in the ass!”
“You told me they leave in the evening. You told me his two boys stay with him. Am I wrong?”
“No.”
“What am I going to learn by watching the apartment another week when you’ve already been watching it for two weeks?”
“Nothing! But the colonel wants plans submitted before we take action!”
“We are not going to take action. I am.”
“Tonight…”
“Maybe. We go have dinner. Your team lets us know when the agents leave. If we’re sure it’s just him and his boys there, I’ll go take a look.”
“You’ll need backup.”
“Yeah, I could use backup. But what I don’t need is to be carrying someone who’s going to need looking after and will probably get me shot. I’d rather do it alone.”
“You are one disagreeable son of a bitch.”
“I’m sorry. I promise to be nicer after the job is done. Maybe you can take me to the Louvre and explain Fauvism to me.”
“Go screw yourself.”
I smiled. “Pick me up at eight? We’ll have a cocktail before dinner.”
“Was there anything else, Tex?”
I drained my drink and stood. “Yeah, stop calling me Tex.”
“What should I call you?” She gave a small laugh. “How about Dick?”
“Funny.”
She was still laughing as I closed the door and made my way down in the elevator.
I took a stroll to the Avenue de Paris and hailed a cab. I told him to take me to the Au Bois D’Acacia, on the Rue de Constantinople. I had to tell him three times because he pretended he couldn’t understand my American accent. I wrote it down for him and then he understood.
When we got there it was gone two PM. I sat outside and ordered a steak and fries and a glass of house red. From where I sat I had a reasonably good view of number twelve, where the safe house was located. I took my time over the steak and fries, had a second glass of wine with a cheeseboard and then a coffee and a cognac. It took about two hours, and by the end of it there was no sign of any activity at the apartment.
At four PM I paid my bill and left. I strolled down slowly, toward number twelve, making like I was checking the messages on my phone. When I was twenty yards away, a dark Audi turned into the street and double parked with his hazards on in front of the entrance to the block. I stopped, staring at the screen of my cell. A guy got out of the passenger side. He was tall, olive skinned, with balding hair and a black mustache. He was wearing an expensive, single-breasted charcoal gray suit with a tie. He walked around the hood and went inside the building. The Audi took off.
I called Mary and walked very slowly toward number twelve. The phone rang twice and she answered.
“Be very brief.”
I laughed. “Hey, sugar. Listen, I was thinking, maybe you should talk to your friends about that photograph.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Exactly. I think it would look gorgeous on our wall. I’d say call them right away and see who’s been in. You might be surprised.”
“Where are you? Did you go to Rue de Naples?”
“You just know that has to be a great big yes, sweet cheeks.”
“That was very unwise. You are a damned liability!”
“I love you very much too, darling, but try to stay focused. Will you call them for me? See if they have the photo and get back to me?”
A loud sigh. “Are you telling me somebody unexpected entered the building?”
“How do you manage to be right all the time?”
“I’ll get back to you.”
“I adore you too, sweetie-pie.”
She hung up.
After an agonizingly slow walk I got to the intersection with the Rue de Rocher and spent a long time staring in the window of a shop that sold beds and sofas. I didn’t pay much attention to the beds or the sofas, I was looking at the reflection of the street behind me in the glass. After about ten minutes, which is a very long time to be staring in a shop window, the shop assistant came out and stood in the doorway, staring at me. I smiled at him and walked slowly back up Naples, toward the Hotel Napoli on the corner, looking at my phone again. It rang and I stopped to answer it.
“Hey pumpkin.”
“He’s new. They got photographs. They haven’t seen him before. They’ve sent them back to HQ for facial recognition.”
“Oh that is good news. Because you know the origin is simply not the same.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Remind me, where was the item from?”
“Afghanistan?”
“Exactly! You are a wonder! But, sweetheart, this one is not!”
“How can you be sure?”
“Trust me. I know. And right now I really wish you were here, darling, to see all the wonderful things that Paris has to offer…”
As I said it, I was watching the same guy I’d seen earlier step out of the building. He was talking on the phone, looking up and down the street. I strolled slowly closer, speaking like I was totally involved in my conversation, but listening carefully to what he was saying.
I said, “I haven’t seen the Eiffel Tower yet, but that is next on my list. And, the more I hear of what people are saying, the more convinced I am of what I told you just now. Anyhow, honey-bunny, you should go talk to your friends again. I can’t wait for dinner.”
I hung up. What I had heard from the guy in the gray suit had got my mind spinning. But now the Audi was back and the guy in the suit was putting his phone away. The back passenger doors opened and two men got out. One was Arabic. I could tell from his look and from his speech, which I was overhearing as I sent an email to myself with the registration number of the car on it. He was clean-shaven and wore a dark blue suit.
The other guy was blond, tanned and well dressed, but he was speaking in Spanish to the guy in the blue suit. And the guy in the blue suit was translating to the man with the mustache. They all shook hands and got back in the car, which took off toward the Golden Triangle. I searched for a cab, planning to follow the Audi, but there wasn’t one to be seen anywhere.
I thought for a moment of going up and kicking the door down, but all I would achieve with that would be either to get shot, arrested or both. So I headed back toward my hotel and on the way I called the brigadier.
“Bauer, how are you getting on?”
“I’ll tell you tonight, sir. Meantime, I need a Paris license plate run. Can you do that?”
“It’ll take a while, but yes, we can do that.”
I read him the number. There was silence on the other end. I said, “What is it?”
“That number, I don’t need to run it. The letters CD tell you it’s a diplomatic plate. It belongs to the Mexican Embassy.”
I stopped dead, then sighed and ran my fingers through my hair. “Mexico?” I sighed again. “There were tw
o guys. One of them was speaking Spanish. The second guy was translating into Arabic for a third who I believe had been up at the apartment with Amini. But sir?”
“What is it?”
“The Arabs. They were not speaking Dari or Pashto. They were not Afghan. They were speaking a very formal, stilted form of Arabic. I’d swear it was Yemeni.”
“Yemeni?”
“I’m no expert, but I know enough Arabic to know that it wasn’t Afghan and it wasn’t Iraqi. I’m pretty sure they were from Yemen. Mexicans, Yemeni and Afghans… The Firm is playing a very deep game here, sir.”
“Yes, what are your plans?”
“Off the record?”
He gave a quiet laugh. “Off the record.”
“I’m going to wait till the agents have gone tonight. Then I’m going to go in and do my job.”
“I’m sorry, Bauer. The connection failed there for a moment and I didn’t hear you. Still, I mustn’t keep you. Keep me posted.”
“He’s not here, sir. He’s in LA.”
“Call me later. Let me know how you get on.”
I hung up and made my way back to the hotel. It was a forty-five-minute walk and I used the time to try and think. I had come here expecting to find an Afghan Arab. Instead I had found two extremely well-dressed Yemeni Arabs and a Mexican, in an Audi belonging to the Mexican Embassy.
It had long been accepted in the defense community that any kind of alliance between Islamic jihadists and Mexican cartels was unlikely in the extreme. I had studied the possibility at one time, when it had emerged as a nightmare scenario among war games experts at the Pentagon. But it was eventually laid to rest and the general view was summed up in a report commissioned by the JCS:
“An analysis and comparison of the organizational structures and overall strategies employed toward the United States and the West in general, plus an analysis of group identity, ideology and structural authority and decision-making systems, shows stark differences between these two groups—not least that jihadists are, by definition, Islamic and the Mexican cartels are overwhelmingly Catholic. With these differences in mind, and placed in the context of what makes cooperative relationships work in the private sector, cooperation between these two groups emerges as profoundly unlikely.”