The Thin Black Line

by Simon Gervais

“So far everything is going according to schedule,” said Zima, sucking in her breath as she watched the Arab male get up from his table and throw a bill down beside his half-empty glass. He walked away in the direction of the train station.

  She got up from her chair and apologized to the waiter, who was headed her way to take her order.

  “I think I saw someone who’s on the list,” she continued cautiously.

  The voice on the other end of the line suddenly sounded much more alert. “Are we talking about the same list, Joanne?”

  They were both referring to the list that the CIA, CSIS, Mossad, and MI-6 kept at their headquarters with the names of the most sought after terrorists. Every agent had to know the names and the physical descriptions of these high-value targets.

  “Yes.” Zima lowered her voice. “I believe I saw Mohammad Alavi. The same guy General Richard Claudel mentioned in his phone call before killing himself.”

  “Listen to me carefully. What I want you to do is follow him while I contact Ottawa for more precise directives,” the voice continued. “But don’t get too close, because if this really is who you say, he’s extremely dangerous.”

  “I know. I’ll be careful.”

  ―

  There was no way Mike could have followed Mohammad Alavi from Antibes to Cerbère all by himself. There were just too many variables to guarantee success. Based on the briefing Mike had given Mapother after his sighting of Alavi, the IMSI director had given his asset the go-ahead to conduct surveillance on Alavi and confirmed Support Six availability.

  Support Six had determined where Alavi was headed. Using a parabolic microphone, they’d been able to capture Alavi’s request to purchase a bus ticket to Cerbère, a small village close to the Spanish’s border. Mike had followed with the BMW while Support Six used their modified Mercedes Sprinter van. A few kilometers before reaching Cerbère, Mike passed the Mercedes van in order to arrive first at his destination. Once in town, all the people in the streets had allowed him to track Alavi without much difficulty.

  Mike noticed Alavi looking at his watch one more time. Is he waiting for someone? That would make sense. Cerbère is probably a transition point for him. Someone will give him his next instructions. If I’m right about this, I should probably back off a little because somebody’s likely to conduct surveillance on him.

  “Mike from Support Six.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “For your information, we’re deployed about three hundred meters southeast of your location on Rue Francois Arago.”

  “Got it.”

  “If you decide to snatch him, we’re ready.”

  Mike had thought about grabbing Alavi but had come to the conclusion they were better off waiting for him to make contact.

  “If I decide to choose this option, I’ll give you as much notice as I can, but it won’t be our primary solution,” replied Mike. “Target just stopped walking. He’s looking at a restaurant’s menu.”

  Mike, who was following Alavi from the other side of the street, stopped walking as well. He counted to twenty before glancing over. The terrorist was now walking to a table accompanied by a server.

  “He stopped at a restaurant. I can’t stay immobile forever,” said Mike. “I’m walking back north and will try to find a vantage point where I can keep an eye on him.”

  “There’s another restaurant just north of you called Le café de la plage,” offered Support Six. “You should have a visual on the target from there.”

  The restaurant in question had a huge terrace with blue parasols. He walked to it and selected a table offering him great views of his target. Mike didn’t know how long he was going to stay, so he only ordered coffee and a newspaper. He hadn’t the chance to get much sleep in the last two days, and he was physically and emotionally exhausted. He was missing Lisa dearly. Mapother had told him he had sent a team to conduct an exfiltration. Mike shook his head, still not believing what Lisa had done at the Nice airport. Why didn’t she wait for him? These kinds of takedowns have a better chance of success when conducted by two people. She knew that! She not only risked her life, she risked a lot of bystander’s lives.

  Stop thinking like that, Mike, he ordered himself. You know damn well why she did this. And you would have done the same if you’d been in her shoes. Just be grateful she’s still alive.

  Massaging his temples, Mike hoped the coffee would do him some good.

  Mike sighed as Alavi got up from his table and walked away from the restaurant. Mike left a few euros to cover the cost of the coffee he wouldn’t drink and advised Support Six of the new development.

  “Alavi’s on the move. Southbound on Maréchal Joffre. He’s walking faster.”

  Shit. That’s a great move. Countersurveillance 101. Mike had practiced the same technique with his wife more than once. To work properly, this stop-and-go method needed at least two operatives. The objective was to get the rabbit—the person being followed—in a position where the people conducting surveillance couldn’t miss him. The trick was to stay put long enough to force the surveillance team to readjust their position so they wouldn’t remain conspicuous. The operative conducting countersurveillance would then position himself to watch the area surrounding the rabbit. The next time the rabbit moved, he would do so faster than before, usually resulting in confusion among the surveillance team.

  Mike fought the urge to pick up the pace and swore at the fact that he didn’t have a bigger team. Damn it! I’m going to lose him! Mike’s eyes were moving fast behind his sunglasses. He was convinced someone was looking after Alavi’s back.

  “Support Six, you might have to set up a safety net,” said Mike. “I’m about to lose him.”

  “Copy. Where do you want us?”

  Mike was about to reply when he saw Zima Bernbaum getting up from a table. Are you fucking kidding me? What is she doing here? It can’t be a coincidence. Oh, my God, she’s after Alavi.

  “Mike, where do you want us?”

  “Sorry, Support Six, stay in position. I say again, stay in position.”

  “Copy.”

  If Zima was following Alavi, he could follow Zima. Was she by herself, or did an entire team of agents surround her? He doubted Zima was by herself, but he didn’t think the team was huge either. He was going to give her lots of room to maneuver.

  “Support Six, there’s another team in play. An ex-colleague of mine just popped up.”

  “Canadian?”

  “Unless she changed allegiance,” replied Mike. “Contact headquarters and let them know Zima Bernbaum is in Cerbère.”

  What are you up to, Zima?

  CHAPTER 36

  Mohammad Alavi’s heartbeat was pounding in his ears—a sensation he didn’t usually experience. He thought he had covered his tracks well enough to smuggle himself out of France unseen. Apparently he hadn’t.

  Back in Antibes, before he’d left the elderly couple’s apartment, Alavi had concluded that his best course of action was to contact Omar Al-Nashwan. He would know what he should do. After all, Al-Nashwan was, among many other things, the Sheik’s eyes and ears in the field.

  Their phone conversation had passed without Al-Nashwan condemning Alavi’s failed mission. Perhaps he planned to deliver the Sheik’s wrath later, in person. Either way, Al-Nashwan had suggested that Alavi exit France through Cerbère.

  Alavi still wasn’t sure if he was being lured to his death, but one way or the other, he would accept his fate with dignity. He couldn’t run away from the Sheik’s hangman.

  But now he wasn’t so sure that he would see the end of the day. The woman on the next terrace over had looked at him longer than she should have, then had taken out her cell phone and made a call. Not attractive enough to draw the attention of ladies, Alavi knew right away that she was watching him for another reason. Instinct told him to start moving. Had she seen his ha
ndgun? No, it was well concealed. Was she with the French police? That was a possibility, but he doubted it. If the French already knew where he was, they wouldn’t hesitate to take him down.

  The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that the lady was an emissary of Al-Nashwan. His instructions had been clear. He was to go to the Cerbère train station and buy a one-way ticket to Barcelona. He would be met on the train while en route to his destination.

  Maybe the woman is only reporting my arrival, thought Alavi. He was hoping that was the case. But if that was so, then why was she now following him? There was only one way to find out.

  He would try to shake her off. It wouldn’t be easy—the village was small, with no subway system or supermarkets in which he could easily disappear. No, he decided, if she has any kind of training, I won’t be able to lose her. If he was going to learn what she wanted from him, he would have to confront her.

  The thought brought a smile to his face.

  ―

  Zima Bernbaum was now convinced that her prey was whom she had originally thought—Mohammad Alavi, a terrorist involved in a series of attacks that had caused mayhem around the world. He was believed to be a key player in the Sheik’s terror organization, and Zima was sure he had played a role in the assassination of the energy minister. Capturing him alive would represent a major victory for CSIS, its allies at the CIA, and for her. She clenched her teeth as she thought about her two friends, Lisa and Mike, whose family was slaughtered by fanatics just like Alavi.

  I won’t rest until these bastards are all dead or captured. The house and husband will wait.

  As ruthless as these types of terrorists were, they were no match for trained interrogators who had the chance to spend some time with them.

  Once she was sure that Alavi wouldn’t double back toward her, Zima complied with Bailey’s orders and began to follow the man responsible for so many murders. She knew how perilous her task was, and she wished for that handgun. Trailing Mohammad Alavi by fifty meters, she made sure that she kept a visual shield between them. A young couple in their mid-twenties was unknowingly giving the Canadian operative some cover. Other pedestrians were also in her line of sight but were walking at a different pace and moving in and out of her buffer zone.

  Instead of continuing on Rue Maréchal Joffre, Alavi took a slight left and walked about seventy-five meters before making another left on Rue des Douaniers. Unfortunately, the lovely young couple who was providing Zima cover continued toward Rue du Riberal, and she then realized that she would have to give Alavi a lot more room to maneuver.

  Trailing a target alone was never easy. Police and intelligence services around the world usually employed half a dozen agents to follow a single target. More often than not, the target had to be abandoned in order to avoid tipping him off. However, in this case, Zima wasn’t so sure. She didn’t think losing such a target would be a good idea. Looking at her watch, she saw that it was time to call her contact back for directives on what needed to be done.

  It was answered on the first ring. “Zima?”

  “Yes, it’s me. Were you able to contact Ottawa?”

  “Yes. We have to take him.”

  “How?” was all she asked.

  “If we can bring him in alive, we do it. If we can’t, he dies in the street.”

  “Understood.”

  “Some helpers are on the way, but they won’t reach you for another three hours. You’re on your own, Zima. Tell me your location at this very moment.” Bailey’s voice on the other end of the line was reassuring.

  “He’s still walking westbound on Rue des Douaniers. He’s a hundred feet in front of me, but the pedestrian traffic is light on this street.” She tensed as her target deftly fished something from his jacket pocket, then relaxed when she realized that it was only a cell phone. “He’s making a call now. He’s dressed in a pair of blue jeans, a white long-sleeve shirt, white sneakers, and he’s wearing aviator sunglasses. He’s about six feet tall, with a dark complexion, black hair, and a beard.”

  “All right, Zima,” came the calm voice. “I know exactly—”

  “He just made a right,” Zima interrupted. She tried to read the street sign thirty meters away, but the sun had already settled behind the horizon. “Damn it! I can’t see the name of the street. I have to go. Stay close to your phone.”

  She returned her phone to her pocket and quickened her pace to catch up to Alavi. She couldn’t lose him. She forced herself to think of a plan to take him down. She would play the nice tourist asking for directions before subduing him. The best way would be to confront him head on. As soon as she regained visual contact with her target, she’d run on a parallel street to pass him before positioning herself in front of him.

  She could feel the adrenaline pumping through her veins. It helped her focus on her objective. She visualized how the operation would go down. Her mind’s eye saw her successfully neutralizing Alavi, then stealing a car to make her escape to a safe house in Spain, where she would wait for her backup team to arrive.

  She was so confident in how it would all go down that Zima forgot the number one rule of all espionage operations: expect the unexpected. As she turned onto Rue Mozart, she sensed rather than saw the movement directly to her right.

  She had broken simple surveillance tradecraft by making her turn too close to the residential building instead of giving herself the chance to visually clear the way. Her right arm automatically went up in an attempt to block the blow that was about to land at the juncture of her neck and clavicle. Her hand-to-hand combat training paid off, as she successfully deflected Alavi’s blow. Her reflexes, honed through hundreds of hours of extreme conditioning, propelled her left hand straight toward Alavi’s abdomen.

  She knew she was fighting for her life.

  ―

  To Alavi’s surprise, the woman had blocked his strike, which was not intended to kill her, rather to leave her unconscious. But she wasn’t cooperating. Her left-handed punch to his solar plexus came as a shock, and he would have been knocked over by the powerful right-handed uppercut she followed up with if he hadn’t partially blocked it with his left forearm.

  Out of breath from the painful hit he had received, Alavi tried to reach for his pistol at the small of his back, but the female operative didn’t leave him enough time. She was on him, armed with a blade. Where had the knife come from? He hadn’t seen her draw it, and from the way she handled it, she knew how to use it. He didn’t know of any women who were trained that well in his organization. Clearly, his friend Al-Nashwan had told him the truth on the phone when he said that he hadn’t sent her.

  He easily blocked her first slash but understood a quarter of a second too late that it was only a feint as her opposite leg swept at his ankles. He fell hard on his side, unable to stop her kick that landed directly in his face, breaking his nose and sending tears to his eyes. He heard himself yelp in pain.

  ―

  As Alavi went down and Zima heard his bones break under the force of her kick, she saw a man from her past clearing the corner, making his way toward them with his firearm drawn.

  Mike Powell. That’s not possible, Zima thought, momentarily losing her focus in her surprise. For a trained fighter like Alavi, the pause was enough. Using all his remaining force, he pushed her off him and leaped to his feet. He was reaching for his gun when she heard the shot.

  ―

  Mike had heard the scream and ran toward the sound right up until he had to clear his corner. With his gun leveled at the high ready, he walked the last five meters. There was still enough light out for him to see that Zima had gained the upper hand against Alavi. The terrorist was now on his belly and was about to be disarmed. She had both his arms pinned behind his back as she squatted on top of him, effectively blocking any movement of his arms with her own thighs. Then she saw him.

  ―

 
The call he’d received from Mohammad Alavi a few minutes ago was unexpected. Alavi had been forbidden to establish contact prior to the agreed upon time the next morning. But Alavi’s voice, usually calm, was distraught. He explained that he believed he was being followed but was quite sure that the operative represented the French authorities. He had wondered aloud if the Sheik had decided to eliminate him and said that if that was the case, he was ready to accept his punishment—but that he didn’t want to play his game.

  Al-Nashwan had replied angrily that nobody from the Sheik’s organization wanted Alavi dead, and that he would take care of the problem. Like Mike, Omar Al-Nashwan had also elected to conduct countersurveillance. Admittedly, he’d only begun his operation upon Alavi’s arrival to Cerbère, but he hadn’t noticed anything suspicious. Either the team they were playing against was extremely good, or they’d just started following Alavi.

  After his colleague’s phone call, Al-Nashwan picked up the brown-haired broad tailing Alavi. He instructed Alavi to bring her to a specific location and take her down in an alley. Al-Nashwan, doubting that the female was operating alone, had cleverly positioned himself so he could eliminate any backups she would have coming to her rescue once Alavi subdued her.

  He’d been lucky that a parking space had been available for the small Peugeot he had stolen earlier in the day in Perpignan. The terrorist wasn’t surprised when he saw a man pulling a pistol out of a shoulder holster. He watched as the backup approached Rue Mozart with his weapon drawn. The man’s tradecraft was particularly good, noticed Al-Nashwan. And Alavi had been correct—even though he could see only the man’s back, this was no French agent.

  Al-Nashwan exited the car, making sure not to close the door of the vehicle behind him. He briskly walked toward where he knew the action would be, the rubber soles of his shoes ensuring his stealthy approach. Once he cleared the corner, he took in the sight before him in less than a second.