The Paris Diversion

by Chris Pavone

  And if she can’t? Well then, that conclusion is inescapable, the sort she wouldn’t even need to explain to her younger kid, who’d recently dubbed himself Incompetent Ninja. Like a superhero, but the opposite. “Because, Mommy, I like being a ninja, but I’m not good at it.” Ben executed a wild leg kick and karate chop. “I am! Incompetent!! Ninja!!!”

  These things are obvious, if you can manage to do what little kids can: suspend your pride, and see yourself clearly.

  * * *

  It was a few years ago when Kate saw clearly what she wanted, at a once-in-a-lifetime moment when she was in a position to get it. She cut a deal with her ex-mentor Hayden Grey, the CIA’s chief of Western Europe. She’d hand over to Hayden the bulk of Dexter’s stolen fortune, and also facilitate a recorded admission of guilt by the mastermind of the conspiracy, who happened to be an ex-FBI agent. Hayden looked forward to the impending scandal with uncharacteristic glee; the animosity between the Agency and the Bureau was apparently a strong motivator.

  What Kate wanted from Hayden in return was two things: immunity for Dexter, and a job for herself. She wanted to be a spy again.

  Hayden obliged. He used the 24 million untraceable euros to establish the Paris Substation, a clandestine, agile little outfit whose day-to-day Kate would manage. The fieldwork would be done by freelancers—informants, sources, criminals. The mandate would be the types of extra-curricular activities that the Agency didn’t want on their books, or in their meetings, in their reports, their congressional oversight. These were not traditional intelligence-gathering operations, but rather active measures—supporting, undermining, influencing. Sometimes illegal, or close to it: the gray areas of character assassination and scandal manufacture, of destabilizing enemies and propping up friends, the illicit business of interfering in the internal affairs of sovereign governments.

  First Kate hired a Paris fixer who could find the strays—plumber, electrician, cat burglar—that you always need. Then a cadre of techs who could hack into police departments, newsrooms, corporate e-mail servers. Bribable low-level officials in customs, in immigration, in tax authorities, people who could be paid modestly to part with modest information, the kind of data Kate could use to extract more meaningful disclosures, an infinite ladder of trading up, each extorted secret building upon another, an edifice of shame.

  The irony was not lost on Kate: she had traded her husband’s secret criminal enterprise for her own.

  This work involved frequent travel for Kate, usually for same-day meetings, away and back between breakfast and dinner, the TGV to Brussels, a shuttle to Frankfurt, the Eurostar to London. Sometimes an overnight, a week here and there for a cleanup in Capri, or a Basque crisis in San Sebastián, or an extortion of a German industrialist on holiday in Mallorca, as German industrialists do.

  She was effective at running her network of journalists, bloggers, influencers, as well as drug dealers, thieves, prostitutes, and cops, plus diplomats and soldiers, maître d’s and concierges and bartenders and shopkeepers; it’s surprising how much you can learn from the eagle-eyed owner of a well-sited bodega. All these assets, the fabric that holds society together, recruited so Kate could identify weaknesses and exploit them, manipulating reality to one that’s a more hospitable environment for the security of the USA and the health of its global corporations, its banks, its exported culture, Coca-Cola, ExxonMobil, the films of Steven Spielberg.

  Kate had been thrilled to return to this work, to this world. She got the Paris Substation up and running quickly, ahead of her own self-imposed schedule. Everything was working just fine.

  Until Copenhagen.

  * * *

  Kate’s first clue that something was wrong was that Hayden handed her a gun. She’d thought this op was supposed to be a simple stakeout, and there’s nothing more boring than a stakeout. Until it isn’t.

  “What’s going on here?” She examined the weapon, the type of locally procured, untraceable gun that means not only that you’re expecting trouble, but also more trouble for solving the trouble.

  “Kate, I need to explain what steps you’ll take, in the event of my, um, indisposition.”

  “I know the protocols, Hayden. Why are we talking about this?”

  He gestured at the building across the street, their operation. He swept his arm: all of this, he was saying. Anything. “Things happen, Kate, you know what the ifs are. If ever I turn up, um, dead. If I’m missing for more than a few days. Or a week. Use your judgment.”

  Hayden had never before broached the subject of succession plans, and he’d never imposed a weapon upon her. She was worried.

  “You’ll go to this address.”

  He scribbled something that she read quickly, then closed her eyes, repeated the address to herself, invented a mnemonic, and repeated that a couple of times too. Then it was done. The Paris address was now, as Jake had been taught to say in math, a known fact.

  “It’s a travel bureau, not far from your office. You’ll see any available representative, and say you’re Kathy Anderson, wife of me, Harry Anderson.” Hayden took out a cigarette lighter, set the paper afire, dropped it to the floor. “You’re collecting my itinerary. The first time, there won’t be anything. You’ll ask the rep to check with her supervisor. She will. Then she’ll assure you that no, there’s nothing waiting for Monsieur Anderson. You’ll leave a phone number—a burner—in case something appears. Sooner or later, it will.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know, Kate. A day? A month?” He handed the binoculars back to her. “Looks like another visitor.”

  Kate raised her binoculars. “The same pizza guy as yesterday.”

  “Yes. He should get a different drug dealer, one who delivers something else. Sushi, maybe. Falafel. The guy’s going to have a cardiac arrest any second. Keel over.”

  Kate put down the glasses. “Then what?”

  “Then? I guess we’ll call an ambulance; it’s dialing 112, I think. Is that right?”

  Kate shrugged. She didn’t know how to dial emergency services in Copenhagen, and she couldn’t fathom why Hayden would.

  “Or maybe it would be better if we let him die? Then someone else will be forced to show up, and things will clarify?”

  She never ceased to be amazed at Hayden’s ability to find distorted angles, which is probably what made him such a successful spymaster. “No, Hayden, I mean: what will happen when I eventually get this call?”

  “You’ll probably be summoned to a meet.”

  “Probably?”

  “Again, Kate, it’s hard to say.”

  “Why not the standard protocols?”

  “Listen.” He turned to face Kate, held her eye for a few seconds. “It’s time for me to level with you, Kate. This operation—me, you, your team—we don’t, technically, report into Langley. In any way, shape, or form.”

  She was too surprised to respond.

  “Actually, that’s not all true: I of course do report to Langley.”

  “But I don’t?”

  “Your whole substation, Kate, is our little secret, yours and mine. We operate completely outside CIA’s chain of command. Our orders don’t even come from Langley.”

  “Then where?”

  “The other side of the Potomac.”

  Kate’s mind raced through the possibilities. Secretary of state…of defense…national security advisor…

  “Are you going to tell me?”

  Vice president…

  He shook his head. “Sorry.”

  President.

  “It’s called the Travelers International Booking Service, and it’s affiliated with the American magazine called The Travelers. That’s where you’ll go for assignments.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not.”

  “It’s a real magazine, right? I’ve
heard of it. I’ve read it.”

  “It even wins awards, I’m told.”

  “And is it a real travel agency?”

  “Yes. The agency is part of the parent company’s revenue stream. Or a profit center.” He shrugged. “Whatever they call it.”

  “And the whole thing is an Agency front?”

  “The whole thing? No, that’s not how fronts work, Kate, you know that. The travel agency is a legitimate business, affiliated with a legitimate magazine, which is a division of a legitimate American conglomerate. But behind the front, it’s also a couple of other things. One is a clandestine courier service, and that’s primarily what you’ll be using it for.”

  “How?”

  “Every other week, you’ll call in, ask if there are any tickets for me.” Hayden didn’t need to tell Kate to use pay phones in assorted neighborhoods, to call at different hours on different days, to avoid any pattern, any suggestion of routine. “If the answer is yes, go there yourself. Collect the envelope, like anyone else picking up travel documents. There may be other clients around, you always need to be behaving as if you’re one of them.”

  “Does the staff know?”

  “No, not the people in the agency; those people are just travel agents.”

  “So what’s in these envelopes?”

  “The names of targets, encrypted using the Berlin code. Usually no other information or instruction. It’s completely at our discretion to figure out exactly how, and when. If there’s any required timeframe, that too will be obvious. The reasons will also make themselves obvious, once you start looking.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as an upcoming election. Or a diplomatic summit. A trade deal. But other than the name, there will be no incoming information. And outgoing from you, also nothing. You won’t provide any updates, ever. If your operation is successful, the necessary reporting will come through other avenues within the Agency, and from the press. Briefs will make their way to the right people. You don’t need to worry about reporting successes.”

  “I’m assuming I also don’t need to report failures?”

  “You see, Kate? I’ve always known you’re a genius.”

  “And no specifics about the mission?”

  “It’s always the same: ruin the target. Discredited. Fired. Arrested.”

  “Killed?”

  Hayden shrugged.

  She understood: whatever it took. “And what’s the other thing Travelers does?”

  Hayden turned back to Kate, and gave her a big smile. “You’re going to love this.”

  * * *

  “Hi Dex,” she says.

  “Kate? Everything all right?” It has been only a few minutes since they parted.

  “No. There’s apparently a suicide bomber at the Louvre. A guy wearing a vest.”

  “My God.”

  “Dex, you’re planning to stay home all day, right?”

  “Well, I still need to go find that Lego. But I guess not if the city blows up.”

  “Not funny, Dexter.”

  “You’re right. Sorry.”

  “Listen: please answer any calls, from any phone number, even if you don’t recognize it. It might be me calling from another line, or school, or a teacher calling from a mobile, or another parent.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “I don’t think we should do it right now, but we should be prepared to get the kids.”

  “And what are you going to do?”

  What should Kate say? She wonders where Dexter imagines her office is. Maybe the embassy? Or the American Club? Someplace easily identifiable as American, flag flying out front, a fleet of black Escalades?

  “I have work to do.”

  “Work?”

  She doesn’t elaborate.

  “You’re kind of scaring me, Kate. What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know, Dex. But first the bomb threat at the train station, and now…” She trails off, pursuing a line of conjecture that she doesn’t want to share.

  “Should I be worried?” he asks.

  “Well, yeah. At least a little.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m not sure exactly.”

  “Are there other bombs? Let me…Oh God, I’m now seeing this on TV. The courtyard has been evacuated, except for one guy. Yes, he’s definitely wearing a vest, and he’s also got a case. Kate, where exactly are you?”

  “On my way there.”

  “There? What the hell do you mean by that? Tell me you’re not going to the Louvre.”

  “Calm down, Dexter.”

  “Calm down? What do you think is in that case? The guy didn’t detonate immediately, when he was surrounded by victims. And now that the courtyard has been evacuated, what’s a bomb going to accomplish? Shatter the windows? Who gives a shit?”

  Dexter is right. If it were only a conventional explosive that was going to be detonated, it would make sense only in a big crowd, when there’s flesh to pierce, people to injure, maim, murder. But if all the people are gone, there’s no one left to kill except the bomber. So what’s the briefcase for?

  “But even the tiniest nuclear detonation? The radiation?”

  “There’s not really any such thing as a suitcase nuclear bomb,” Kate says. “Not one that fits in an actual suitcase.” It’s a halfhearted objection. She knows that it’s only a matter of semantics, and magnitude.

  “But a case like that could contain radioactive material. A dirty bomb.”

  A dirty bomb wouldn’t create the same type of blast, no mushroom cloud; downtown Paris wouldn’t be leveled. But it could produce plenty of long-term lethal radiation; for all intents and purposes, everything in the Louvre would be destroyed—the Rembrandts and Vermeers, Raphaels and Caravaggios, the artifacts from Greece, Rome, Egypt, the largest repository of art and artifacts in the world.

  And it would kill everyone within the primary blast zone, if not immediately from the explosion then within a matter of days from the radiation. Definitely Kate. Dexter too? And the children, are they far enough away to be spared? Every inch might count, when it comes to radiation. Every minute that you get farther away, every second, might save your life.

  “Or,” Dexter says.

  Or. Kate’s mind is catching up to other possibilities, worse even than nuclear radiation at the Louvre.

  “Biological,” Dexter continues.

  Worse for whom? she asks herself.

  “Chemical.”

  Worse for her. Worse for her family.

  She picks up her pace, breaks into a run, dodging among all the people who are fleeing in the other direction. Kate is the only one who is rushing toward the bomb.

  27

  PARIS. 10:26 A.M.

  It would be unthinkable, if there still were such a thing. But nothing is unthinkable, not anymore.

  There’s a suicide bomber at the Louvre.

  Kate pushes her way through the chaotic crowd in the plaza, most people still fleeing in terror but some inching forward in curiosity, or milling about in confusion, or inquiry, or simply hovering with smartphones aloft, citizen-reporters eager to document anything, even if it turns out to be their own demise.

  Police are securing a perimeter across all the access points—the passages through the palace’s ground level, the big open space of the Tuileries, the heavily trafficked two-way street that runs through the place du Carrousel, the wide sidewalks, the buses and trucks and abundant volume of pedestrians, a huge space to seal off, requiring a lot of personnel and vehicles, all still in the process of arriving.

  The grand U-shaped courtyard itself is relatively easy to secure, with its sole open facet already lined with fencing. Choke points have been closed, checkpoints established. No one in. No one out.

  A few uniformed officers are trying to reason
with hysterical people—my wife is inside, my grandparents—while also making sure that no one comes bursting through intent on who the hell knows, an accomplice, an unrelated psychopath. There’s no accounting for psychopaths.

  Kate finally elbows her way into a position where she can see—

  She gasps. She’s surprised at her reaction, like an amateur. She has never before seen anything like this. No one here has.

  What she sees: a man is standing all alone in the middle of the vast open space, looking tiny. He’s wearing a bulky vest, and a briefcase sits at his feet, the sort of luggage that in action-adventure films follows around the president of the United States, a shiny case lugged by a tall square-jawed man wearing a military uniform, a handsome extra with no speaking lines. The nuclear codes.

  In real-world non-POTUS life, this case is the sort of thing that can be outfitted with foam insets and thick padding and reinforced superstructure to prevent accidental damage or premature detonation, tidy packets of TNT or nitro or Semtex surrounded by ready-made shrapnel, construction screws or ball bearings, little bits of lethal.

  Yes, Dexter was right: that’s a suitcase bomb.

  * * *

  Is this an SOS situation?

  Kate’s cover isn’t compromised, her substation isn’t blown, her network isn’t being rounded up, there’s no high-visibility op imploding. Those are the valid reasons for her to send an SOS; those are the potential problems of hers that her superiors might be willing to help solve. Or at least be willing to hear about.

  Then again, she doesn’t know exactly who her superiors are, so it’s hard to tell.

  But someone blowing up the Louvre? That doesn’t present any immediate risk to Kate’s personnel or office or the CIA or the USA. It wouldn’t lay bare anyone’s diligently covered ass, wouldn’t cost anyone a job, a promotion. This attack is not the Agency’s failure of intelligence, not its problem to solve. Perhaps even the opposite: this attack could help further the CIA’s agenda, could advance a rationale for some action, a policy shift, a realignment of resources. Perhaps it’s an opportunity.