The Thin Black Line

by Simon Gervais

  These thoughts were running through Zima’s mind as she crossed to the side of the street where her apartment building was located. She had chosen the one-bedroom apartment on Avenue Victor Hugo mostly because it was within a ten-minute walk from her office at the French gendarmerie headquarters on Rue Saint-Didier in Paris’s sixteenth district.

  That the apartment was located only a short distance from Place du Trocadero, where one could enjoy the best view of the Eiffel Tower and the Champ de Mars, had factored into her decision to take it. She had also grown quite fond of a small bakery a few steps down the street.

  She picked up some pastries and three café lattes on her way up to her second-floor walk-up. Ten minutes later, she, Leblanc, and Perrin were seated in her modest but comfortable living room full of funky second-hand furniture and framed theater posters. To any outside observer, Marise Martin looked the part of a promising woman in her thirties who had just landed her first serious job.

  For twenty minutes, the three secret operatives ate flaky chocolate croissants and listened to the director general of the French gendarmerie make a few phone calls. The sound coming out of the listening device was of particularly good quality.

  After a call to his wife, they heard someone knocking on the general’s office door.

  “This might be it,” Zima said. Leblanc and Perrin both took one last drag of their cigarettes before stubbing them out in the ashtray.

  “Sir, you wanted to see me?”

  Zima nodded to the others to confirm that she recognized the voice. General Claudel, she mouthed to them.

  “Yes, Richard. Please have a seat. Would you like to join me for a drink?” asked General Deniaud. They could hear a faint pouring of liquid into a glass.

  “No, sir. I need to keep my head clear to deal with this crisis,” Claudel said curtly.

  “Yes, of course. You’re right, my friend. I should do the same,” said General Deniaud.

  There was some clinking of glassware. Zima looked between Leblanc and Perrin and rolled her eyes.

  “Well,” started General Deniaud, “we have a hell of a mess on our hands.”

  “Agreed. Eight of our best men dead is definitely what I’d consider a mess.”

  “But you have to acknowledge that the decision to send in the GIGN was the right one. I was surprised when you didn’t support me in that assessment,” continued Deniaud. “I am well aware that I don’t have your experience when it comes to field operations, but I couldn’t see any alternative.”

  “Waiting until we had proper backup and air support would have been a good alternative,” argued General Claudel. “This operation has already blown up in our faces, and you know it!”

  “I disagree, Richard. My guess is that if we’d waited any longer, a nuclear device might have been detonated on French soil.”

  “I highly doubt it, sir.”

  “We’ll know for sure in a few days. I had a conversation with a GIGN officer, and he confirmed that his men found a number of curious documents inside the house.”

  “Really? Do we know what kind of information these documents contained?” asked General Claudel.

  “We’re not sure yet, but he thought they looked like official papers from the Ministry of the Interior. The French Ministry of the Interior,” Deniaud added.

  In a small two-story walk-up four blocks away, the three Canadian agents raised their eyebrows at one another.

  “Oh?”

  “He said he wanted to meet me in person to discuss his findings because some of the names associated with these documents were troublesome,” said Deniaud.

  “What did you tell him?” asked Claudel, sounding clearly uncomfortable.

  “I ordered him to send the originals to our forensics team and copies to our counterterrorism group and my office.”

  “And when did you ask him to do that?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “Shit!” exploded General Claudel with fire in his voice. “Couldn’t you just stay put and listen to me? Was that too much to ask of a goddamn fool like you?”

  The three CSIS agents looked at one another, suddenly aware that the situation in Deniaud’s office was spinning off its axis.

  Damn it, what’s happening? wondered Zima Bernbaum as a long silence ensued.

  Then came some shuffling, followed by the unmistakable sound of a pistol’s slide behind racked.

  “What’s with the gun, Richard?” came the eerily calm voice of Director General Deniaud.

  Zima knew that Deniaud kept his own firearm in a locked cabinet on the other side of the room. Unreachable.

  “You ungrateful son of a bitch,” hissed Claudel. “I put you in this job, even though you’re a colossal fuckup. I thought you’d at least follow my recommendations. Now you’ve screwed everything up.”

  Zima Bernbaum couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She had no doubt anymore. General Claudel, the deputy director of the gendarmerie, was a traitor and working with or for the Sheik.

  “For God’s sake, Richard, what are you doing?”

  Claudel ignored him and continued. “Now that I think of it, are you the one who sent agents to my house to retrieve my flash drives? Who did you give them to?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Richard.”

  “And you never will,” said Claudel a second later.

  The Canadian agents jumped in their seats as two gunshots came over their speakers. After a short pause, they could hear the distinct tones of numbers being punched into a cell phone.

  “This is the end of the road for me,” said Claudel. “Alavi and his associates didn’t destroy the correspondence.”

  Pause.

  “Of course. He’s already dead, and I’ll erase the memory of my phone and its SD card.”

  Another pause.

  “It might take a few days, but it will all lead them to me. You’re still safe.”

  This time the pause was longer and the reply came from a man begging for something. “Please don’t do this. I’ll do it. Just…just don’t hurt him okay? It was my fault. Not his.”

  The three agents could now hear someone knocking on the general’s office door, asking if everything was okay. But before anyone could come in, they heard one final gunshot and then the clatter of someone crashing on the floor.

  ―

  CSIS field agents did not have the same financial and technological means as their American and British counterparts, but they compensated for their lack of resources by using creativity in the field. The fact that they generally didn’t have to check in with their superiors before making every little decision didn’t hurt, either.

  “We need to get out of France,” said the agent known as Étienne Perrin after they’d heard the sole gunshot come over the speakers. His real name was Scott Bailey, and he was the senior CSIS agent in France.

  “What about the listening device? Shouldn’t we try to retrieve it?” asked Zima.

  “No. That’s the reason why we need to get out. The French will find it soon enough, and they’ll trace it back to you in no time,” replied Bailey. He looked between the two agents, then continued. “Use your secondary exit protocols. That is an official order. I’ll meet you at our rendezvous in Athens in three days at sunset. Make sure you don’t leave anything behind.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Antibes, France

  Mohammad Alavi was still alive, and that disappointed him. It meant that his brothers in arms had failed to detonate the nuclear device. Had they been successful, the building where he was presently hiding would have been decimated, along with the rest of the town.

  His organization had spent a considerable fortune to prepare this mission. He wasn’t even sure if the Sheik had the financial resources to make another attempt. They’d had to pay a lot of money to convince General Claudel to act
as a conduit for the plutonium they had purchased from corrupt elements within the Ministry of Energy. Plus, the Sheik had paid a fortune for the services of three Russian scientists tasked with putting all the components together. The fact that Omar Al-Nashwan, the Sheik’s right-hand man, had been sent to kill the Russians involved and retrieve the money wasn’t lost on him either. His organization was in dire need of cash.

  Once Alavi killed the DCRI agent, he had been afraid that his description might be sent out to all the French bus and train stations as well as the airports. So instead of trying to run the risk of being captured, he had decided to seek refuge in an apartment building that his men had chosen in case of emergency. It was located on Cours Massena, and Alavi had thought it would be the perfect spot to spend his final minutes on earth in quiet prayer to Allah.

  The building was directly across the street from where he had killed the DCRI agent on Rue de la Tourraque. He’d made his way to a second-floor apartment and put his ear to the first door leading onto the staircase. From what he was able to hear, he guessed that the two elderly people living there were home. Not a problem. He would kill them.

  He knocked, and an older gentleman cracked the door open a few inches. That was all the space Mohammad Alavi needed. Placing his foot in the door, Alavi shoved hard with his right shoulder. The force was enough to break the door’s ancient security chain. The old man, who was probably in his late eighties, was thrown to the floor. The look on his face was one of naked surprise.

  Moving inside rapidly, Alavi fell on top of the old man in a rush. Using the weight of his body to pin his victim to the floor, Alavi stifled his elderly victim’s cries for help with his left hand. His right hand smoothly retrieved a fixed blade from a gray sheath at the small of his back. Before the old man understood his peril, Alavi’s four-inch blade penetrated his wobbly neck just under the jawbone. With one strong twist and pull, Alavi severed the man’s jugular.

  The terrorist slowly rose to his feet, making sure not to step in the growing pool of blood, and replaced the knife in its sheath. He sensed that someone else was inside the apartment. He took the MAS G1 pistol from his jacket pocket and began to carefully search the small rooms. Holding his firearm close to his chest, he gently pushed the bedroom door open with a squeak.

  “Jean?” a weak elderly woman’s voice questioned.

  He stepped inside the small bedroom, finding that the open door provided the only light into the room. The queen-size bed was less than two strides away. The room smelled of cheap shampoo and night creams.

  Calmly, Alavi walked up to the confused woman and stabbed her directly in the heart. Then he cut her throat for good measure.

  Satisfied that the apartment was now clear of any threats, Alavi walked back to the kitchen, where the old man’s blood was already congealing in a big sticky pool. He couldn’t pray to Allah amid this filth. Instead, he fixed himself a turkey sandwich, then took in his surroundings for the first time. Not a bad place to die, he decided.

  ―

  Mike was about to pull the plug. He checked his wristwatch and groaned. For close to ten hours he’d been keeping his eyes on the front door of the building across the street. It had been a long day, and he had promised Anna Caprini he was going to call back. He had told her he’d found a lead inside the terrorists’ safe house but hadn’t revealed what it was. He was afraid Mapother would have insisted on Support Six’s presence to cover him. Mike didn’t want that. Since the takedown, enough police were swarming around the neighborhood, and he was not about to draw unwanted attention to himself. The folder he had found contained only one page of white paper on which an address had been written. With no phone number, no apartment number, no e-mail address, and no other information that could lead to who actually owned the place, Mike had been tempted to turn over the sheet to the gendarmerie if not for the French words Location en cas d’urgence, meaning Emergency location that had been written down in red on the folder. Using his smartphone to search the address, Mike found out the location was only a few blocks away from the terrorists’ safe house.

  Knowing one of the terrorists had escaped, Mike had decided to roll the dice and parked his BMW on a street perpendicular to Cours Massena. The darkened windows of the BMW allowed him to keep his eyes on the door while remaining inconspicuous. Looking at his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes, Mike was ready to acknowledge defeat when he spotted an Arab male exiting the apartment building. Adrenaline filled his veins when he recognized the man he had made eye contact with earlier in the day. He had not the slightest trace of doubt. It was Mohammad Alavi.

  ―

  Eleven hours after the nuclear device had failed to detonate, Alavi knew he had to think of an escape plan. Maybe he should travel along the coast to Spain? He certainly couldn’t remain in the little apartment in Antibes. First of all, he didn’t want to risk the chance of having the elderly couple’s relatives inquiring about their whereabouts. And second, their bodies were starting to smell.

  He looked out the windows to see what was going on outside but failed to notice any type of surveillance. If anyone other than the policeman he had killed knew he’d gotten away, they were probably thinking he was far away. The main problem he had was that the borders would be hard to cross now. Alavi wondered what he was going to do. He needed help. Luckily, he knew exactly whom to call.

  ―

  Mike’s first impulse was to shoot Mohammad Alavi on sight. It would be good riddance, and nobody would blame him for taking the life of a wanted terrorist. But as good as Alavi was at building bombs and creating havoc, Mike suspected he hadn’t planned all this by himself. He hadn’t been the brain behind the attacks. Somebody was telling him what to do and when to do it. Taking Alavi out would only create a temporary setback for the network that had orchestrated the hits, and it would kill any chance he might have to gain more information about his father. He had to choose the harder option. He would follow Alavi to his leader and capture them. All of them.

  It was time to call IMSI back. He would need their support after all.

  CHAPTER 34

  Cannes, France

  The French authorities still had not reopened the Nice airport, so the Gulfstream landed at Cannes-Mandelieu Airport, located just west of Cannes. A member of the Directorate-General of Customs and Indirect Taxes, or DGCIT, quickly boarded the private jet and stamped Jonathan Sanchez’s passport. The DGCIT was the French version of the US Immigration and Customs Enforcement, the US Customs and Border Protection, combined with the US Coast Guard. It was charged with preventing smuggling, surveying borders, and investigating counterfeit money, among other things.

  Nice-Mandelieu was the second largest airport on the French Riviera, mostly used by chartered private jet companies and celebrities visiting the area. The hills surrounding Cannes made it next to impossible for larger carriers to land, and that had allowed the airport to remain attractive for a certain clientele that wanted more privacy. Its customer service was renowned for its excellence, so it was no surprise when the Gulfstream was rapidly refueled and rolled into a discreet hangar not far from the main terminal.

  A silver Mercedes sedan transported Sanchez to the main terminal. He made his way to the VIP lounge, where Jasmine Carson was waiting for him.

  Holy cow! A tall brunette with a ponytail. Why can’t IMSI hire ugly women so I can focus on my job?

  Carson was seated in a modern green armchair sipping a cup of coffee she had bought on her way to the airport. She got up when she saw her colleague.

  “Dr. Jonathan Reznik, I presume?” asked Carson, using Sanchez’s cover name, even though she knew the answer.

  Beautiful voice, too.

  “Yes, that’s correct. I’m from the American Medical Life Insurance Company. I was told I would be met by a State Department official,” answered Sanchez, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening.

  “Glad to me
et you, Dr. Reznik,” said IMSI’s Support Five team leader. “I’m Jasmine Carson from the American embassy. I’ll help you get access to your patient, but we’ll have to hurry. I assume you have no luggage?”

  “No luggage, and the plane is ready to take off at ten minutes’ notice,” explained Sanchez.

  “Great. In that case, please follow me.”

  With an ass like yours, it will be my pleasure.

  Once outside the busy VIP lounge, Jasmine Carson took one last gulp of her coffee, then threw the extra-large plastic cup into a white garbage can. Sanchez followed her outside the terminal, where a black late-model BMW 7 series was waiting for them. Jasmine opened the back door for Sanchez and said, “Sandwiches and coffee are in the basket behind the driver’s seat.”

  Sanchez nodded his thanks as he cautiously climbed into the luxurious backseat of the BMW. The long flight hadn’t been kind to his left leg. He stretched it methodically and felt the benefits right away.

  “What’s wrong with your leg?” Carson asked as she sat at the back of the BMW with him.

  “A 7.62 in the left knee,” he replied positioning his cane in between him and Carson.

  “Ouch! You’re lucky to walk.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I tell myself every morning when I wake up.”

  “Nice woodwork,” she said examining the cane, her hand gliding over it. “Where did you get it?”

  “I made it,” Sanchez replied. “I crafted it myself while I was in rehab.”

  “You have capable hands—” Carson said before stopping herself. But it was too late.

  “Like you wouldn’t believe, Mrs. Carson.”

  “It’s Miss Carson actually,” she replied amused.

  Sanchez grinned. Is this what they call love at first sight?