“A light came on on the second floor,” she heard Pellerin say.
“He’s probably spending the night here,” said Zima. Knowing her colleagues outside would wonder why she’d know that, she added, “I’ll brief you guys later, but I think this is the general’s lover.”
After a moment, Xavier’s voice came over: “We’ll let you know when he turns off the light.”
Through her mind’s eye, Zima could see Claudel’s friend brushing his teeth, using the toilet, and putting on his pajamas. After what seemed like an eternity, Xavier let her know the light had been turned off. From that moment, she waited an hour before contacting Pellerin and Leblanc.
“There’s been no noise for the last hour or so,” she said. “Have you seen anything?”
“Negative,” Pellerin said.
“Me neither,” Leblanc said.
“Okay. I’m mobile again,” Zima said, coming out of the pantry, careful to close the door behind her without making it creak.
She walked to the study and immediately started to look for an atlas. General Claudel’s study wasn’t large, but the number of books in his built-in shelves was impressive. From novels to college research papers, there must have been at least three thousand manuscripts. Fortunately for her, Claudel was tidy and the books were neatly placed in alphabetical order on the shelves. She took her small flashlight out of her backpack and screwed on a red filter. She found four large books on the last shelf. They fit the profile she was looking for, so she took them out and placed them on the floor. She opened the first one and went through all the pages carefully. She looked for any pages that might have been inserted in between already existing pages, but nothing came out. She looked for words that had been circled or notes that had been added to the bottom of a page. Nothing. She did the same for the second and third atlases. There was only one atlas left, and she knew she was running out of time. Xavier Leblanc and Étienne Pellerin had been standing watch for hours now, and the longer they remained in the neighborhood, the better chance somebody would notice they didn’t belong. She opened the cover of the last atlas and proceeded as she had for the other three. Nothing grabbed her attention until she reached the twentieth page. Skillfully cut inside the book was a space six inches long by seven inches wide with a depth of less than three inches. Six flash drives were located inside.
Zima swallowed hard. She had found the mother lode.
Now what? She wasn’t equipped to copy the drives on the spot. They were probably secured, and any attempts to tamper with them without the right tools might cause a loss of data. On the other hand, she couldn’t simply take them. They would be discovered missing as soon as the general returned. His visitor had left him a message telling him explicitly that he had a last-minute message.
She had no time to mull over her decision. On impulse she pocketed the six drives. They needed to know what was on them.
―
Zima was pleased with the work they’d accomplished the previous night. She’d exited Claudel’s residence through the front door, and Pellerin had escorted her to her car. Leblanc had kept watch on the house for an extra hour. “Just to make sure,” he had said.
She told Pellerin where she’d found the drives and had briefed him on the conversation she overheard between the man and the general.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they were lovers,” Zima added with a smile.
“We’ll find out soon enough who he is. Xavier took a few night shots with his camera when he climbed out of the taxi.”
Zima hoped it wouldn’t be too long before the analysts went through the drives and assessed the data she’d collected from Claudel’s computer. She had a feeling something big was coming their way. They needed to be ready.
CHAPTER 22
Nice, France
He couldn’t help it. He was sweating profusely, and his eyes stung from the salt. He kept sponging his forehead with the dirty rag Mohammad Alavi had found under the passenger’s seat of the gray Opel van they were riding in. His confidence was fast eroding, and he suspected it was because he’d shaved his beard the same morning. He knew he had to cleanse himself before entering paradise, but he’d never thought it would make him feel less of a man. His virility had been his beard. Now that it was gone, so was his self-confidence.
“Everything will be fine, Rukanah,” Mohammad Alavi said from the front passenger seat. “Allah will guide you, His hand will escort you, and you will be successful because of him.”
Rukanah knew his cell commander was right. He was doing Allah’s will. Soon he’d be entering the Promised Land with seventy-two virgins waiting for him. That thought gave him courage. He knew what he had to do. He had memorized the face of the man he had to kill. He would be triumphant.
“Two minutes,” Alavi said to him. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, I’m ready.”
Alavi studied him for a few moments. “How many stages do you have to accomplish?”
“There are three phases in the operation.”
Alavi nodded. “Very well. Explain them to me.”
Rukanah collected his thoughts before answering. “First step is to place the secondary device, preferably in a place where there is no obstruction.”
“Second?” Alavi asked, showing him the picture of their target.
“I will kill this man,” Rukanah said, his bleak eyes fixated on the photograph.
“Tell me how, Rukanah. How will you kill the Canadian energy minister?”
“I’ll shoot him as many times as I can,” he replied feeling his confidence growing.
“And third?”
Rukanah beamed from ear to ear. “Then I’ll enter paradise.”
―
As the gray Opel made a right from avenue Thiers into the Nice train station’s loading lane, Rukanah noticed Alavi giving new instructions to the driver.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Alavi made eye contact with him through the rearview mirror.
“Nothing to worry about.”
“Why are there so many people outside the train station?” asked Rukanah, undeterred.
This time Alavi turned fully around in his seat to look at him. “I think the press conference is being held outside.”
Alavi was right. The press conference where Canadian energy minister Arthur Green and his French counterpart, Alain Fosset, were to reveal a new eco-friendly transportation initiative had been moved outdoors. The beautiful weather had played a major role in the decision, as it was thought the opportunity to take gorgeous pictures would play well with the numerous media in attendance.
The gray Opel slowly drove past the elevated podium where the two politicians were going to make their announcement. Rukanah took it all in and decided that by moving the press conference outside, Allah had shown his hand. Too bad he was going to miss the second explosion. He wished he could see the slaughter.
As the Opel van came to a stop, Alavi put on a baseball cap and exited the vehicle. He opened the sliding door and placed both his hands on Rakunah’s shoulders.
“It’s now your turn to do your part. Do not disappoint him,” said Alavi. “We’re counting on you to create the breach that will allow us to strike at the heart of Satan.”
Rakunah felt the pressure but decided he wouldn’t let Allah or Mohamad Alavi down. “Count on me. Allah has given me all the strength I need.”
He took several deep breaths before climbing out of his seat and stole a last glance at the Opel as it departed. Standing on the sidewalk right in front of the main entrance of the train station, Rakunah willed himself not to look down at the heavy dark blue bag he was holding in his left hand. It contained the exact same things his black backpack held, minus the pistol Alavi had given him earlier in the day.
To say he was a good shot would have been false. Yet he’d been taught how to handle the
pistol in a way that would allow him to hit his intended target. But that’s only in stage two, he reminded himself. What he had to do now was to find the perfect location where he could hide the secondary explosive.
Looking at this watch, he realized the press conference was about to start. He had to get moving. He crossed the street and joined a group of people who were waiting for the next city bus. He scanned his surroundings, trying to locate the ideal spot.
There.
A garbage can.
That was ideal. Or maybe not. What if a homeless person decided to look inside? He would take the blue bag away. Worse, what if he opened it and found the explosives? Authorities might be alerted before Rakunah had the chance to detonate them. Too risky. He had to find another location.
What would Alavi do? Rakunah remembered Alavi was a strong believer that sometimes hiding in plain sight was the best option. What about the palm trees a little farther west? He walked to their location fifty meters away. The three palm trees towered over a small patch of grass at the end of the off-loading lane close to where the bus and regular lanes of traffic joined together.
Perfect.
Rakunah semi-concealed the bag under the flowers that had been planted around the palm trees’ bases. He was just standing up when he heard the crowd gathered around the elevated platform, clapping. The French politician had taken his place behind the podium and was about to start the press conference. Still no sight of the Canadian energy minister. Rakunah could feel his heart rate climbing. Where was he? They were supposed to make a joint announcement. What was going on?
Rakunah walked toward the crowd, seeking an elevated position that had a better view. Suddenly, the crowd started clapping again, and Rakunah saw him. The Canadian energy minister. The man he was about to kill. Unconsciously, he started praying while at the same time bringing his backpack forward. He unzipped it just enough to allow his hand to envelop the grip of the loaded pistol. With his hand still in the backpack and his eyes glued on Arthur Green, who was now speaking into the microphone, Rakunah pushed his way through the mob of people surrounding the platform.
He was within ten meters of the minister when he felt movement behind him. Instinct made him turn around, and what he saw frightened him. Two men wearing identical business suits were about to reach him. Police. Bodyguards. Whatever. It didn’t matter. He had to act now. He whipped the pistol out of the backpack and up toward the minister in one fluid movement. To his dismay, by the time he pulled the trigger, a third man dressed like the other two had stepped in front of Arthur Green. The first two bullets hit the man in the right leg, and he collapsed on the platform. The third round hit the minister in his chest. Then all went black as Rakunah was shot numerous times in the back.
―
Through a pair of binoculars, Mohammad Alavi had followed Rakunah’s progress from the top of an apartment building two blocks away. All had gone according to plan until Rakunah had developed tunnel vision, focusing on the minister. What a fool. How many times had he repeated to his trainees not to look at their target for too long? Alavi had thought the game was over before it had even started. But once again, the stupidity of the French police had surprised him. Even though Rakunah had managed to broadcast that he was a would-be assassin, the French had been incapable of bringing him down before he had shot a bodyguard and Arthur Green.
Now it was Alavi’s turn to crash the party. Holding down the number one on his cell phone, he activated the trigger mechanism of the bomb inside Rakunah’s backpack. He had conceived it himself, using Goma-2 ECO high explosives. Employing the same methods favored by the Basque separatist organization ETA during the 1980s and 1990s, Alavi had packed twenty pounds of explosives and added three pounds of nails and screws around it as shrapnel.
The explosion was powerful enough that the apartment building shook under him. To let the debris settle, Alavi counted to ten before bringing the binoculars to his eyes. The sight was everything he had wished for. Death and devastation. And his work wasn’t over. He had one more surprise for them.
―
Alavi opened the passenger door of the Opel van and instructed the driver to get under way. The driver immediately started the engine and engaged the transmission. Joining the nearest lane of traffic, the Opel was almost hit by a police car driving in the opposite direction.
Nevertheless, the atmosphere in the van was euphoric. The driver and the remaining bomber, Abbud Raashid, had heard the explosion and couldn’t wait for Alavi to give them the details.
“Is he dead?” asked Raashid. “Was Rakunah successful?”
Alavi, who was trying to monitor the police frequency, was annoyed at Raashid but didn’t dare show it. After all, Raashid was shortly going to join Rakunah in paradise. A few encouraging words could go a long way toward cementing his resolve.
“Yes, Rakunah did very well,” said Alavi. “He’s with Allah now, enjoying the fruits of his labor.”
Alavi spent the next few minutes taking notes while he listened to his police scanner. He didn’t speak French fluently, but he knew enough to understand what was going on. Numerous police and fire vehicles had arrived at the scene of the explosion. Alavi presumed the paramedics had done the same.
It was time.
He powered off his scanner and turned on the radio. He changed frequencies until he found a station covering the Nice train station attack. He then flipped open the same cell phone he had used earlier, but this time he pressed and held down the number two. Thirty seconds later, he heard the news anchor scream.
Allah was great.
CHAPTER 23
New York City
Sipping on a glass of California chardonnay, comfortably seated at a table in his favorite New York restaurant, Charles Mapother was contemplating what to do with Jonathan Sanchez. He had brought him to IMSI not only because of his high intellect and deduction power, but also because Sanchez was the best operator he’d ever known. The bullet that had shattered his left knee might have finished his career in the field, but Sanchez’s operational planning skills were still the best. Delta had trained him well.
Still, not everything was perfect. Walking with a limp or not, Sanchez’s good looks brought him a lot of attention from the female crowd. And that wasn’t a good thing for his line of work. Just now, the head waitress had left her phone number on Sanchez’s white linen tablecloth.
And I’m well aware of the flirting between him and Anna at the office.
Mapother needed to evaluate Sanchez’s emotional state to decide if he was ready to be entrusted with more responsibilities at IMSI, especially to help Anna Caprini in her duties. Once Mike and Lisa finished their training, IMSI’s total number of assets in the field would be eight, and that was more than one person could handle. Sanchez could be the perfect handler for IMSI’s new husband-and-wife team. To help him finalize his decision, Mapother had invited Sanchez for lunch to discuss his readiness at length.
Their appetizers had just arrived when Mapother’s phone started vibrating in his jacket pocket. He apologized to Sanchez before taking the call.
“Mapother speaking.”
“Sir, we have a situation in France that warrants your full attention,” Anna Caprini said.
“What is it?” Mapother asked.
“Arthur Green, the Canadian energy minister, has been assassinated in Nice.”
Mapother closed his eyes and forced himself to take two deep breaths. He could feel Sanchez’s gaze upon him.
“How?” he asked.
“A bomb exploded at the Nice train station, where he was giving a speech about a new transport initiative.”
“Damn it!”
“I’m sending all the intel we’ve got to your mobile desktop, and I already advised Sam Turner to bring your ride around.”
“Thank you, Anna,” Mapother said ending the call.
“What is it?”
Sanchez asked.
“The Canadian energy minister has been killed in an explosion at the Nice train station. I’m afraid we’ll need to cut our lunch short and head back to HQ.”
“Of course,” Sanchez said. “What about Mike and Lisa—aren’t they in Italy finishing up their training?”
His reminder made him smile. “You’re right. They’re stationed in Ventimiglia, less than five kilometers from the French border. They could be in Nice within two hours.”
“Do you think they’re ready?” Sanchez asked.
“They’re as ready as they’ll ever be,” Mapother answered, reaching once again for his phone.
CHAPTER 24
Ventimiglia, Italy
Mike and Lisa Walton’s eight weeks of training had been mentally and physically exhausting. The days started at six in the morning and never ended before ten at night. Language training in the morning for both of them was followed by an intensive hand-to-hand combat session for Mike in the afternoon while Lisa headed to the firing range to polish her shooting skills. Krav Maga fighting was new to Mike, but he had learned rapidly. Already being a black belt in Brazilian jujitsu had helped, but having an instructor to student ratio of two to one was the key to his quick learning.
Experts previously working for the CIA, the FBI, and the US Army, as well as professionals from private enterprises, were called in to lecture, teach, and train the two future IMSI operatives. While the experts weren’t told the whole truth as to whom their two students really were or why they were receiving such in-depth training, they had their orders and were paid more than enough not to ask any questions.
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