And this morning was worse than normal—whatever that was, anymore.
“. . .and that wraps up what we’ve learned from Berlin,” one of her analysts concluded. “The Germans are moving cautiously—doing their best to navigate the delicate political balance while investigating the attack—but they haven’t gotten far.”
“Merci, Henri,” she said, acknowledging the analyst with a nod as she glanced around the room from her position at the head of the conference table. “And what read are we getting from local authorities on yesterday afternoon’s incident in Liège?”
She’d checked for messages from Armand just moments before coming into this meeting. Nothing. They’d heard exactly nothing from LYSANDER since his last communication with his handler the previous morning.
It was an ominous silence.
“That continues to be. . .problematic,” one of the female analysts responded. “For more than a few reasons, not the least of which the reality that we knew the dead man.”
“Knew?” Brunet asked, knowing that she had to be careful here. No one else in this room was read in on LYSANDER, or the operation in Molenbeek. She hadn’t exaggerated to Vukovic—this was a tightly compartmentalized operation.
“The dead man was Said bin Muhammad Lahcen, a forty-four-year-old French citizen—of Algerian extraction,” the woman added. “And a known arms trafficker with ties to the Islamic State. We’d had him under surveillance, in coordination with the Belgians, for months—were hoping that he might lead us to someone of more importance.”
“And now he’s been eliminated,” Brunet said flatly. Eliminated seemed the most. . .anesthetized way of putting it. She’d seen the pictures. The man had been butchered. At least half a dozen stab wounds to the lower chest and stomach—his throat gashed open.
An attack made chilling by its brutal savagery. It might not have been an uncommon sight in the Middle East, but. . .this was Europe. Just on the other side of their very own border.
And their asset had, most likely, been involved.
A nod from the woman. “With him dead, our task of identifying his suppliers just became that much harder. We’re starting from the beginning, all over again.”
“If we’d had him under surveillance,” Brunet asked, a steely glint entering her eyes, “do we know why he was there on the Outremeuse yesterday afternoon?”
“We have an idea,” the analyst replied, shuffling through her papers, “courtesy of a memo from the Belgians an hour ago. Apparently, Lahcen was contacted yesterday by this young man, a student at Universite Libre de Bruxelles.”
She passed a photo down the table to Brunet, clearly printed off the Internet. “Marwan Abdellaoui, 25, also of Algerian extraction. Also a French citizen.”
Brunet picked it up, the dark eyes of the young man staring back at her from the paper. A strange chill running down her spine.
“The conversation between the two was guarded, but we believe that Abdellaoui was seeking to acquire weapons from Lahcen.”
No doubt. Brunet took a deep breath, focusing her attention on the analyst. “Do the Belgians have any leads on Abdellaoui’s location?”
“Non. Not that they’ve shared.”
6:32 A.M.
The apartment building
Sint-Jans-Molenbeek
Belgium
Destruction. Dark eyes glinted from beneath the black balaclava ski mask as the man looked around him at the remains of the flat—the door taken off its hinges, shattered by the impact of a ram. A hot, burnt smell still hanging thick in the air.
Sergeant Benoît Renier stooped down, the stock of his Heckler & Koch MP-5 still pressed against his shoulder, retrieving the casing of the stun grenade from where it lay on the scorched carpet. Handing it back to the officer behind him.
The unit patch on the shoulder of his uniform visible as he did so–an image of Diana, the divine huntress, against a field of blue.
The emblem of the Directie van de speciale eenheden, the former Group Diane, the tactical arm of the Belgian Federal Police.
A fitting symbol for hunters.
Hunters without their quarry this morning, Renier realized, looking once more around the empty flat, the images of their targets–a pair of second-generation Moroccan immigrants known to the Belgian police as Yassin and Reza Harrak–flashing across his mind.
They were brothers, reportedly. Known associates of Marwan Abdellaoui, the principal “person of interest” in the investigation now swirling around the Outremeuse murder.
Suspected terrorists, in other words. Because that was what you sent Group Diane in for.
Renier plucked his radio off his belt with his free hand, bringing it up to his lips as he keyed the mike. “This was a dry hole,” he announced quietly. “They’re not here—haven’t been here for hours, at least.”
With luck, the other elements had known better success. . .
8:39 A.M. British Summer Time
Thames House
London
He was still in the wilderness, Phillip Greer mused, gazing at the folder before him—retrieved just hours before from the Registry. The complete jacket on Dmitri Pavlovich Litvinov, every scrap of information they’d obtained on him back in the day. Back when they had first recruited him in Vienna.
Still in the wilderness, and going deeper with each passing step, he feared—mirrors casting a thousand reflections about him, distorting reality. MacCallum’s warning, still ringing in his ears.
Litvinov’s request was reasonable enough. . .but was it? Or was it a ploy? Had he doubled on them—sold out to his employers in the hopes that the sins of his past would be forgiven him?
Surely Dmitri wasn’t that stupid. But desperate men did stupid things.
And discerning the truth was going to require taking risks. More specifically, was going to require someone else to take risks.
“Please, Mr. Roth, have a seat,” he announced, glancing up as the door opened, admitting a short, stocky black man in jeans and a black polo, the overhead light glistening off his shaved scalp. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
He turned his attention back to the folder as the man took his seat, going over the details of the psychological profile. Litvinov had been characterized as a fundamentally loyal individual, a man whose loyalty had been betrayed by his superiors. So to whom was he loyal now?
“You’ve just returned to duty this past week, is that correct?” Greer asked, lifting his head to meet Darren Roth’s eyes across his desk. “After a two-month suspension stemming from. . .actions surrounding the attempt on the life of Her Majesty.”
“That’s correct, sir,” Roth responded, his voice even, professional. His bearing still that of the Royal Marine warrant officer he had been, in a previous life. Only a brief flicker of emotion in his dark eyes betrayed his discomfort with the question. With being here, in the office of the head of the Service’s counter-intelligence branch.
“How did you feel about that?”
“What do you mean, sir?” There was a wary edge to the question. Roth was no man’s fool.
Greer shrugged, spreading his hands. “I’ve read the file. You did your duty as you saw it. You helped save the life of the Queen, when no one else could aid her. And you were very nearly sacked over it. It seems. . .ungrateful, wouldn’t you say?”
Roth shook his head, looking briefly away from him. “I don’t know what you’re driving at, sir. Yes, I helped rescue Her Majesty in the middle of the attack on Balmoral—but in so doing, I went against protocol, allowed myself to be co-opted by a foreign intelligence officer. The result was the death of a man we had sought to take into custody.”
“The Shaikh?”
“Yes, sir. My suspension was nothing if not justified, given the attendant circumstances.”
Ever the soldier, the CI officer thought, suppressing a smile with an effort. Adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “That’s a commendable spirit, Mr. Roth. Still, you can understand how someone u
nacquainted with your outlook, someone from a foreign intelligence service, perhaps, could view you as. . .a vulnerable target for a recruitment.”
Roth’s eyes flashed, a barely audible curse escaping his lips. “Sir, I assure you that–”
“You can save your assurances, Mr. Roth. You’re not under suspicion. In fact, that’s exactly how I want you to be viewed. Because you are going to become an asset for Russian intelligence, here in London. And this,” he said, picking up Litvinov’s folder and passing it over, “is the man who will recruit you.”
9:39 A.M.
Reims, France
“Do you really believe that Marwan betrayed us?”
It was a question he had been expecting for hours, Harry thought, the morning sun shining down on both men as they made their way through the streets of the ancient French city toward an Internet café not far from the hostel.
He glanced over at Driss, his eyes veiled by the tint of his sunglasses. Hidden.
“I don’t know what to believe,” he replied, unsure why he had chosen to profess uncertainty. It did him small good for Marwan to remain in play. But he was committed now. “I know that I discovered the wire on Lahcen. Whether Marwan knew he was a tool of the Zionists. . .only Allah knows.”
The young man shook his head. “It is so hard to believe. If it was a sting—how did we get away? Why weren’t they there, waiting to arrest us?”
“Because we weren’t where they expected us to be,” Harry responded calmly, turning to face his companion, his hand on the café’s door. Watching the light dawn in his eyes.
“You mean, the island. You knew. . .”
A nod. “I suspected.”
10:03 A.M.
A hotel room
Paris, France
It was the fourth time he had read the news story, the latest reporting out of Liège, but somehow it still didn’t feel real. He had spoken to him only a day and a half before, a few hours after his flight from Germany had landed. And now. . .
The man closed the lid of his laptop, taking a deep breath as he ran a hand through the stubble of his close-cropped hair.
Knowing he had to collect himself.
Adjust himself to the new reality, to the uncertainties that came along with it. Find a way to yet manipulate this situation to his advantage.
This is what he was trained for—all those long months he’d spent in Michurinsky Prospekt, so many years ago. Training for this.
But before he could move forward, he would need to contact his superiors. Apprise them of. . .developments.
He stood and moved over to the bed, opening his suitcase and retrieving the satellite phone stored in one of its internal compartments.
The sun struck him full in the face as he walked out onto the balcony of the hotel, briefly gazing out over Paris—the Eiffel Tower visible in the distance—before turning back to face the side of the hotel.
One could never tell who might be watching. And most intelligence services employed lip readers.
He powered the phone on, waiting a long moment before dialing a number from memory.
Another moment, then two—the familiar tone of an encryption sequence engaging. The line was secure.
And then, finally a voice. “You were instructed to use this number only in the event of an emergency, Grigoriy Stepanovich. I trust this qualifies as one.”
“It does,” the man replied, taking a deep breath. “The man I was sent to contact is. . .dead.”
10:07 A.M.
The Internet café
Reims, France
“Police Raids in Brussels Net Suspects”, the website headline read, confirming his expectations. The fruits of the chaos he had sown the previous day.
Dragon’s teeth, springing up armed men.
Harry lifted his eyes from the computer screen before him, glancing carefully around the small, cramped room, toward the door of the café.
A pair of French teens were crammed into the station beside him—one looking over the other’s shoulder as they played some kind of on-line game. Across from him, he could see the harried face of a woman in her early fifties, chewing nervously on a fingernail as she browsed.
No one was visibly paying attention to him—or to Driss, positioned a few computers away.
With any luck, it would stay that way.
He ran a hand over the scruff of his beard, working to mask his relief at the headline. If the Belgian news reports were correct, then the Molenbeek cell had been gutted in an early morning series of raids by police tactical units. No names were being published at this time, but he knew the locations all too well. They had known where to go.
Harry shook his head. That was, in itself, problematic. It might simply mean that they had all already been on the radar of the Belgian police. Or. . .
He could scarce bring himself to finish the thought. It might mean that his accusations had come far closer to the mark than he could have dreamed. That Marwan really was a plant—that the man he had killed. . .no.
He closed his eyes, the chatter of the teenagers beside him fading away as he blanked it all out, remembering the look in the arms trafficker’s eyes. The passion with which he had spoken of the jihad—of the shattered dreams of the caliphate. There was no way that had been faked.
And yet even as he thought it, he knew he was lying to himself. He had been able to fake it, had been able to live this lie for weeks now. Thinking that no one else could do so was an absurd conceit.
What if he had stabbed an undercover officer?
He glanced down at his hands as if expecting to see them covered once more in blood—his fist clenching and unclenching spasmodically.
Wanting to run from the café, never to return. But he had to see this through. To the end.
Not much further now.
11:07 A.M.
Parc du Cinquentenaire
Brussels, Belgium
The calls had begun the previous afternoon, late, and they hadn’t stopped coming. Godard. Gauthier. Brunet herself, even. Desperate inquiries bordering on panic, demands for answers.
Answers he didn’t have, Armand Césaire thought, staring up the massive arch above him as he approached, dark hands shoved into the pockets of his worn jeans. Remembering his own words to Brunet—the warning he had given only days before.
“If LYSANDER is compromised because we forced him to push too hard, too fast. . .”
And now, everything had gone dark, just as he’d feared.
He’d been to the arch twice since the first call, each time looking for some signal, some. . .sign of life. Nothing.
There was no pleasure to be found in being right, not under these circumstances. He could still remember that last night before LYSANDER had gone under, dining together with the younger officer in a quiet Paris restaurant—going over their plans one final time.
He’d known the stakes. They both had. But he’d shown no misgivings, no hesitation that night—his decision already made, long before. He’d volunteered for this mission, knowing the realities of what must be done to safeguard their country.
And now he was gone—perhaps dead, for all they knew. This operation, spinning far out of their control. Beyond their ability to—Armand’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt, his eyes focusing on a single, rude line of chalk scratched against the base of the arch, waist-high. Yellow chalk.
The agreed-upon signal for emergency contact.
Armand turned on heel, nearly bumping into a Belgian woman pushing a stroller as he walked rapidly away from the arch, digging his mobile phone from his pocket and dialing a number from memory. Listening impatiently as it rang. Come on. . .
It was picked up on the fifth ring, a familiar voice answering. LYSANDER.
“Are you all right?” Armand spat out, overcome by a mixture of anxiety and relief. His own responsibility for the young man’s safety, a heavy burden, weighing him down.
“We need to meet,” LYSANDER responded, the stress only too audible in the young man�
��s voice. “At the old place. A half hour.”
11:13 A.M.
Reims, France
“How could they have known?” Harry looked over to see the young man shaking his head as they exited the Internet café together, walking down the busy French street.
“They had to have been watching us,” he replied, his eyes scanning the street—the cars passing by. Wondering if what he was saying was true. What it meant if it was. Could they have seen his face? “They are always watching the faithful, you know that. You’ve experienced it. The suspicion, the hostility.”
Driss nodded, his eyes betraying his understanding of an experience far too common for young Muslims in Belgium. An experience even Harry couldn’t deny, however much he might want to. “What now?”
What indeed? It was so easy to lose oneself in these moments—to forget that one’s true sympathies lay far more with the hunters than the hunted.
If only there were a way for himself to escape their nets.
“Right now,” he responded, putting a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, “we go to ground and wait. Reza knows how to contact us once it is safe.”
Reza. Had he gotten clear in time? He had to hope that he had taken the warning seriously—that he had left the city without delay.
If he hadn’t. . .he shook his head, disturbed by his own concern. Why had he even warned Reza?
He knew the reason he had given himself, before placing the call the previous night.
But was it a lie?
11:39 A.M.
Clinique St. Jean
Boulevard du Jardin Botanique
Brussels
The lights were turned down in the hospital room, the sunlight coming through the shades at one end of the room casting strange shadows over the worn, jaundiced face of the woman who lay in the bed—the yellowish cast of her skin somehow darker now than ever before.
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