by Blake Banner
It had struck me as complacent at the time, and right now, in retrospect, it struck me as dangerously complacent. The PLO and the IRA in the ’70s had also been an unlikely alliance between Catholics and Islamic jihadists, but it had been a very effective one. The imperative needs of the moment have a way of overcoming ideologies.
As to structural authority and decision-making, any decent administrator can adapt those to the needs of the moment. And both the Mexican cartels and the many jihadist groups had proved themselves to be nothing if not good administrators.
And now they were talking, right here in Paris. The billion-dollar question was, what the hell were they talking about?
There were other questions, too: were these meetings connected with Mohammed Ben-Amini? Or had the activity been spotted purely because Cobra had been on the lookout, watching the movements of the CIA?
And that brought me to what might, after all, be the most important question of all. Why were the Mexicans and the Yemenis meeting outside a CIA safe house?
And then again, if they were meeting outside the safe house, who was on the inside?
For a brief moment I had a flash of Sergeant Bradley just before we concluded an operation in Colombia. He’d looked at me and snarled, “Sometimes the simplest solution is to just shoot everybody.”
He’d been right that time. I wondered if that same philosophy would work this time, here in Paris.
I arrived at the hotel no wiser. I went up to my room and had a long, hot-cold-hot shower and changed my clothes. Then I went down to the bar and ordered a martini, dry. While the Australian in the burgundy waistcoat was shaking it, I called Mary. She answered on the first ring.
“Good evening, Tex.”
“We need to talk.”
“For once we agree on something.”
“Meet me at my hotel, in the bar. Come now.”
She might have protested at my tone. I didn’t know. I’d hung up. I had a bad smell in my nostrils. It was the putrid smell of corruption that spooks and politicians carry around with them.
She showed up a little more than half an hour later, when I was on my second martini. She was in a short black dress with a single string of pearls around her neck. I sat at the bar and watched her approach. If she knew how good she looked, she didn’t show it. She looked mad instead.
I said, “What’ll you have?”
She ignored me and spoke to the barman.
“Manhattan, bourbon.”
While he was mixing it she turned to me and stood very close. She pressed her index finger on my chest and smiled. It should have been a pleasant sight, but it wasn’t.
“Don’t presume to give me orders, Tex. And don’t ever hang up on me again. It is disrespectful, arrogant and vulgar.”
I offered her a sweet smile in return.
“Yeah, see, the problem is, I am disrespectful, arrogant and vulgar.”
She gave her head a small shake and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t explain. Just don’t do it.”
The barman placed her drink on the bar and I jerked my head toward a table in the corner.
“Let’s sit.”
She carried her drink over and I followed her. When we were sitting I sipped my drink and asked her:
“Ten years as an analyst or in the field?”
“Both. Why?”
“And now, working for Jane and Buddy, are you logistical support or…,” I labored the word, “…executive?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Logistical support. It takes a special kind of person to execute operations.”
“Does the Firm know you work for Buddy?”
“You already asked me that, and you’re getting on my nerves. What is this about?”
“How about you tell me?”
“How about you cut the crap, cowboy? I am this close,” she held up her forefinger and thumb to show me how close, “to walking out of here and calling in an abort code.”
I nodded, wondering if that wasn’t the right course of action anyway. “You want to explain to me what a Mexican diplomatic car was doing picking up a Yemeni from a CIA safe house? A safe house where our target was supposed to be?”
She went a pasty shade of pale. “What are you talking about?”
“I figure you spoke to your team who are watching the apartment, right?” She nodded. “Where are they, in the hotel at the end of the road?” She didn’t say anything, but her eyes told me that was where they were. “They told you a well-dressed guy with a mustache got out of a dark Audi and went in.” She nodded. “Then they told you he came out, talking on his cell, and a moment later the same car came back, two guys got out, one looked European, the other was an Arab. They spoke for a moment, shook hands, got in the car and drove away. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“Well the two Arabs were not Afghan, but probably Yemeni, and the third guy was not European but Mexican. And what your sharp-eyed observers failed to see was that the car was from the Mexican Embassy. Now that scenario might fit into the nightmares of any member of the national security forces. Where it doesn’t fit is in a safe house run by the Central Intelligence Agency. So, as that is an agency you are in bed with, perhaps you’d like to explain.”
Her face flushed. “I am not ‘in bed’ with them! I consult for them!”
I leaned forward, feeling the anger building in my belly.
“Don’t bother to explain the difference. Just tell me, what is going on?”
Her eyes were bright and her cheeks red. “I-don’t-know!”
My gut told me she was telling the truth. My brain told me my gut was a schmuck. I told them both to agree to a truce until she was wearing something less distracting.
“Opinion?”
She took a deep breath and flopped back in her chair.
“My opinion? My opinion is that teams need to cooperate. And if you want this team to be successful, you are going to need to rethink your approach. As far as I am concerned this operation is compromised, partly because of the new evidence that has emerged, and partly because of your rhinoceros approach to everything. You have been hostile and on the attack since we met today and frankly, walking down the Rue de Naples like that today, talking on the phone, was just plain stupid. I’m sorry. I don’t like working with you, and I will not work with you if you continue to work this way.”
I studied her face while she spoke, and after she’d gone silent I kept observing her, looking for a tell, any small sign that she was acting or lying. I didn’t see one, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
I said, “I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“I apologize, unreservedly. I guess I’m used to working with soldiers, under very different conditions. Men who kill other men for a job tend not to be very sensitive.”
She took a deep breath, went to say something but took a sip of her Manhattan instead. When she’d swallowed and licked her lips with the tip of a very pink tongue, she spoke, looking at her glass instead of me.
“People tend to think of the Firm as a bunch of evil, ruthless, unprincipled gangsters. It was like that once.” Now she looked up at me. “And I don’t doubt it still has its fair share of power-hungry Machiavellis. But most of us are just fairly normal people with a high IQ, who want to serve our country.”
“Noted. I am…” I paused for emphasis. “I am very reluctant to walk away from this job. I am more convinced than ever that Ben-Amini is not here. But I am also very keen to know who is here, in that apartment. I want to know what the Firm’s game is, and above all I want to know what these Yemeni guys in three thousand-dollar suits are talking about with Mexican diplomats.”
She nodded. “Agreed, as long as you stop busting my…” She paused and smiled. “…ovaries.”
I smiled. It wasn’t entirely false. I figured it was even odds that she was telling the truth.
“OK, Mary Brown, what do you say we go and have a nice meal?”
She dropped her left eyelid and winked, which made
me feel odd, and said, “All right, Tex Miller, I know a cozy little place on the Rue de Naples. How does that sound?”
I arched an eyebrow at her. “It sounds almost as good as you look.”
Her face told me that, for now at least, the mission was saved.
Chapter Ten
The waitress left with our orders. Mary Brown, by candlelight, sipped her second Manhattan of the evening. I made an effort to ignore how good she looked doing it and said:
“So, opinions?”
She picked the cherry out of her drink and chewed it. I noticed her nails were very red, and matched her lips.
“Al-Qaeda is far from finished. They have thrived during years of lawless anarchy in Yemen and made a stronghold there. And with the virtual collapse of ISIS and the death of Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, they and their affiliated groups are capitalizing on the power vacuum that’s been left behind—in Syria and Iraq. Since Bin Laden’s death…,” she paused, gazing out the window, shaking her head, “far from collapsing, al-Qaeda has been reinventing itself. They have actually gained ground in most of the Muslim world, in parts of Africa, Syria and, like I said, in Yemen.”
“You think these Yemenis might be al-Qaeda?”
“We have very little to go on, but I’ve had my eye on al-Qaeda for a long time. They have survived for more than three decades, largely because of their ability to innovate and refine their tactical techniques and procedures. They are very focused, and they learn as an organization.” She shrugged. “At first glance it looks like what we are seeing here is some innovative thinking.”
I frowned. “Like what?”
She stuck out her bottom lip, like that made it easier to think. “Let’s come back to that in a minute. Let’s look for a moment at the bigger picture. We are pulling virtually all our troops out of Afghanistan, and what we leave behind there is yet another huge power vacuum…”
“Ready for al-Qaeda to exploit.”
“Exactly. Now, what al-Qaeda has over all the other jihadist organizations is that it is largely backed and funded by powerful members of the Saudi elite. That means they don’t just have lots of money, they also have almost a hundred years of experience learning to play political power games with the West and manipulate our governments and our politicians. This is an important point that should not be underestimated—the brains in the shadows behind al-Qaeda have been to Oxford and Cambridge, Yale and Harvard, and most important of all, to Sandhurst and West Point. They know how we think, and they have powerful friends in high places.”
I nodded, staring at the growing darkness outside the window.
“So, if ideologically and structurally, ISIS would be incapable of forming an alliance of convenience with Sinaloa, al-Qaeda would have no such problems.” I frowned again. “But for what purpose?” Yet, even as I uttered the words, I knew the answer.
She gave a small shrug. “I’m talking off the top of my head here, but Afghanistan is famous for two things, right…?”
“The Taliban and white poppies. Opium.”
“It seems to me that right there al-Qaeda and Sinaloa have an interest in common, if not necessarily a common interest.”
“So what are we saying, that Sinaloa and al-Qaeda are negotiating some kind of deal involving Afghan poppies?”
She stared at me for a long time, then gave her head a small shake.
“No. I’m saying that that is one, more or less obvious interpretation of what we saw today. Another is that it was the Mexican guy’s birthday and they happen to be friends.”
“Sure, but that still leaves unanswered what the hell they were doing at the apartment.”
“We don’t know that he was at the apartment. We only know he was at the apartment block. This is Paris. He might have a mistress there. Hell, he might live there.”
I shook my head. “Not with that suit he doesn’t.”
The waitress brought us some smoked salmon and little bits of toast, and a bottle of white wine in an ice bucket. When she’d left I asked Mary, “When can we expect an ID on these guys?”
“Maybe tonight,” she said and stuffed a piece of toast and salmon in her mouth. “Maybe never.”
My scowl told her to explain.
“If they’re not in the system, they can’t be recognized, Tex.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Why?” She laughed and stuffed another piece of salmon and toast into her mouth. “It’s your name, isn’t it?”
“Is Mary Brown yours?”
“Sure.”
“Well Tex Miller isn’t mine. I spent almost ten years of my adult life in special forces and tracked Mohammed Ben-Amini right across southern Afghanistan, all without having to lie about my name…”
She became serious. “This is a very different game.”
“Is it?” I smiled on one side of my face, where it looked ironic, and quoted: “Fearlessness is better than a faint heart for any man who puts his nose out of doors. The length of my life and the day of my death were fated long ago.”
“That’s cheerful. What is it?”
“An early form of Existentialism. It’s from Skirnir’s Journey, an early Viking poem. I think it is cheerful. If the day of your death is already fated, what’s the point in worrying? My name is Harry, Harry Bauer.”
Her eyes went wide. “You shouldn’t tell me that. Bower, like a tree?”
I shook my head. “The name is all I know of my father. It’s English, probably originally Saxon, related to the word ‘neighbor.’”
She chewed her last piece of toast and salmon and sipped her wine while watching me. “My goodness,” she said at last. “It is human.”
The waitress took away our plates and while she was bringing my steak and Mary’s swordfish, Mary’s phone pinged.
She read it without expression and when the waitress had gone she glanced at me.
“The agents have gone. This team has been watching twenty-four seven for the last two weeks. They are certain the only people in there right now are two Afghans and, we assume, Ben-Amini.”
I nodded once and signaled the waitress. She scuttled over, smiling.
“Give me a glass of the house red, will you?”
She went away to get it and Mary, who’d been watching me and frowning, said, “Did you hear me?”
“Sure.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“First I’m going to finish my steak.” I leaned back and let the smiling, scuttling waitress place a glass of red wine in front of me. When she’d gone I went on. “Then I’m going to go up to the apartment while you wait for me. If Ben-Amini is there I will kill all three of them. If he isn’t, I’ll kill one of the bodyguards in such a way it will convince the other to tell me where he is. When he does that, I’ll kill him too.”
She kept staring while I ate my steak. Sometimes I stared back while I chewed. Eventually she said, “My God, what are you?”
“What did you expect? It’s my job. I get paid to do this. And you…,” I pointed at her with my steak knife, “you get paid to provide the logistical support. My hands are as clean as yours, Mary Brown. How clean are your hands?”
I turned my attention back to my steak and spoke to the plate.
“You should talk. Keep staring at me like that and you’ll start drawing attention to us.”
“I…” She looked away at the window, at the ghosts of the streetlamps and the fleeting shapes of passersby. “I never met anybody who was... Who was like that.”
I glanced at her, a little surprised. Then smiled down at the last piece of steak as I cut it in half.
“You are a brilliant analyst, am I right? Buddy recruited you straight from your desk. This is your first venture into the field.”
“Yes.”
“In at the deep end. Eat your swordfish.” I signaled the waitress. I’d already checked on the door that afternoon, so I knew the answer before I asked. “Do you accept American Express?”
Like many places in Europe th
ey didn’t. She looked apologetic. “Visa, Mastercard…”
I smiled. “No problem. ATM?” I made a gesture like I was sticking a card in a wall. She burbled in French, pointing down the road. I nodded and glanced laughing at Mary, who had gone the color of old wax. I said, “Translate, darling.”
She blinked a few times. “Down the road, on the right, a hundred meters, yards, Crédit Agricole.”
“Thanks.” I stood and paused, smiling at the waitress, and faltered in French, “Comme Schwarzenegger, je reviendrai!” She giggled nervously and I grinned at Mary. “Like Schwarzenegger, I’ll be back.”
She goggled at me like she’d slipped into Alice in Wonderland meets Elm Street, and I left while the going was good.
I hunched into my shoulders and walked quickly down the street toward number twelve. When I got there I took my Swiss Army knife from my pocket and rammed it hard into the lock, then turned and let myself in.
The lobby was dark. There was no porter and no desk, just a bank of mailboxes on the wall highlighted by the diffused streetlight. The floor was tiled and at the far end there was an old, concertina-style elevator. On the left was an elegant staircase with a wooden bannister. I took the stairs and sprinted up them three at a time. The safe house was on the sixth floor and by the time I got there I was breathing hard, struggling to do it quietly.
There were two apartments. The one I wanted was apartment A. The nearest. I took a moment to catch my breath, then stepped silently to the door and listened carefully. I could just make out the rise and fall of the TV. People never read anymore. If people read more, fewer of them would get shot.
I pulled the Maxim 9 from my waistband and blew out the lock, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The light in the hall was out. I could make out a corridor on my right with a couple of black oblongs that were half-closed doors. Ahead was a blank wall and on the left was another door. This one had a luminous rim and from it came the sound of Arabic TV, and two voices talking over the television.