by Ward Larsen
“I am going to drop my weapon,” Slaton said slowly in English.
Neither man responded, but he suspected they understood. Suspected they’d seen enough Hollywood movies.
With the greatest of care he sent the empty Beretta skittering along the deck toward the man near the door. Slaton dropped the damaged magazine and stood with his empty hands held harmlessly outward. He edged one step back, an almost imperceptible and wholly unthreatening movement. As he did so, he slid his right foot along the outer railing. The Beretta had come to rest halfway toward the big man. It was just short of the two-by-six plank Slaton had crossed earlier. Directly on top of a section of rust the size of an oven door. The big man traversed the plank carefully, his weapon level on Slaton. When he was one step away from the Beretta, and bending down to pick it up, Slaton discreetly hooked the toe of his right boot into the base of an old stanchion.
The floor failed as soon as the big man’s knee touched the deck, the section of rusted metal cracking under his weight like ice that was too thin. The fracture spread in an instant and swallowed the man. Slaton was already moving. He launched himself over the Esperanza’s starboard rail, pivoting on his right foot while gravity did the rest.
Bullets flew to the spot where he’d been a fraction of a second earlier, carrying out over the sea. Slaton went over the side, disappearing from sight. When the second man reached the rail, he probably expected to find a wounded adversary floundering in the sea. What he saw was a man hanging nearly upside down, one foot hooked into solid metal, and a hand gripping a loop on a climbing rope. In the other hand, a mere eight feet away, was a compact Glock 26.
Slaton never hesitated.
* * *
Clearing Esperanza for remaining threats took a tense fifteen minutes—Slaton reasoned the risk involved in doing so was preferable to a retreat over open water in a rubber boat. He also hoped to find something to explain who these men were.
There had been no survivors. The big man had ended up thirty feet below deck in what was once a cargo hold. In the beam of his flashlight Slaton saw the body crumpled over a spar, facedown in water. The others had suffered his marksmanship. All four men were cut from a disturbingly similar mold—dark complexions, black hair, and three had beards that were more or less groomed. He searched the habitable areas of the ship but found nothing to explain why four men of Middle Eastern extraction, at least two of whom spoke French, had traveled to the remote reaches of the Pacific to attack him.
His final chore was to search the bodies, or at least the three within reach. On the last man he’d taken, Slaton found his only clue. In the front trouser pocket, amid sticks of gum and a handful of hollow-point bullets, he discovered a memory stick. Intriguing as it was, the significance didn’t sink home until he held it to the beam of his flashlight.
What he saw was stunning.
He had come to Esperanza in search of a stranded fisherman. Smugglers would have been his second choice. In his hand was precisely what he’d hoped not to find. Indeed, what he feared the most. One word had been printed neatly on the flash drive’s plastic case.
SLATON.
SEVEN
The meeting began just before noon in the general director’s office of the northern Paris headquarters of DGSI, which, in a somber twist of fate, kept an address in the township of Levallois-Perret—a district that some years ago had been carelessly anointed a “twin city” to Molenbeek, Belgium, Europe’s well-documented incubator of Islamic terrorism.
Aside from Baland, in attendance were DGSI director Claude Michelis and Charlotte LeFevre, the head of DGSI’s intelligence technologies section. LeFevre was a serious blue-eyed woman whose pants and blouse were always stylish but never pressed, and whose blond hair was anchored firmly by gray roots—in Baland’s favorable interpretation, a woman who was trying to keep up appearances, but too hardworking to be consumed by it. She carried the meeting from the outset.
“The radioactive material used in Grenoble has been positively identified as americium-241. Americium is primarily an alpha-particle emitter, with some resulting gamma rays.”
“What threat does it pose?” the director asked.
“By some measures this isotope is more radioactive than weapons-grade plutonium, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. Alpha radiation doesn’t penetrate well. Americium is generally only dangerous to humans if inhaled or ingested. A few contaminated bolts lying in the street are virtually harmless. The other limitation is quantity. Measurements taken on-site suggest the blast contained less than a gram of the material. Put in common terms, I doubt anyone will suffer more than the equivalent of an extra few days of common background radiation.”
“So radiation is not a concern,” said the director.
“Radiation is always a concern. But this event could have been far worse.”
“Where did this americium come from?” asked Michelis.
“Smoke detectors,” replied Baland before the expert could answer.
“Yes,” said LeFevre, “that is the most likely source. Certain types of household smoke detectors contain trace amounts of americium-241—it’s used in conjunction with an ionization chamber, a method to recognize smoke. This type of detector has been banned in much of the E.U., but they’re commonly available in other countries.”
It was an all too common theme, Baland knew—deriving weapons from what was readily available. In the Paris attacks of 2015 the bombers had worn vests packed with TATP, a volatile explosive mixture that could be manufactured from hair dye and nail polish remover.
LeFevre continued, “The amount of material in a single smoke detector is minuscule, three-tenths of a microgram. Spent units can be safely discarded with household trash. Americium is a malleable metal, silver in color, and not soluble. In theory, you could swallow the source from a detector and it would pass right through your body.”
“You make it sound harmless.”
“Not at all. The explosion in Grenoble generated particles that will ride on the air. If these particles are inhaled, they can establish in the lungs and emit radiation continuously, leading to cell aberrations and cancer.”
“All right,” said Michelis. “How hard will it be to clean up this disaster?”
“I think we’ll make quick work of it. A few blocks of Grenoble will be closed for a month, perhaps two. Mind you, the cleanup will not be absolute—we’ll be finding minute pockets of contamination for years to come. But then, I think we can agree that direct injuries from radiation was never the point.”
“As a method of terror,” Baland concurred, “the damage is complete. Every news report leads with a picture of cleanup crews in full protective gear, and every headline is backed by the radiation symbol. Hospitals in Grenoble are overwhelmed, tourism will disappear at the height of ski season, and radiation film badges will become the latest must-have accessory.”
The director nodded, and said, “We’ve already responded to over two hundred reports of suspicious individuals and packages across France in which radiation was mentioned. All have proved baseless, yet this surge of fear has stretched our resources to the breaking point.”
Baland said, “The national police will have to deal with it. Here at DGSI our duty is to ask what comes next. I’ve been in meetings all morning, and there is no intelligence to suggest a follow-on attack. But then, we didn’t see this one coming. We’ve had too many minor distractions—raiding rooming houses, monitoring gun sales, tracking the movement of suspicious characters. The introduction of nuclear material, even at a low level, is a clear graduation of hostilities.”
Michelis said, “ISIS has claimed this attack. I spoke with the president a few hours ago, and he has ordered retaliatory airstrikes. Not that it will make any difference. The problem is what it has always been: Each bomb dropped on a hideout in Raqqa gives them ten new recruits in Saint-Denis. We’ve been keeping watch lists for years, adding to them exponentially, but we can’t keep up. There is simply no way to know which of
these Arab cutthroats among us are a danger and which are good citizens. I don’t see why…” Michelis’ voice trailed off. “I’m sorry, Zavier, I shouldn’t have said it that way.”
LeFevre looked at Baland, who said, “It’s all right. I’ve been known to use worse terms myself. And what you say is true—if we had some way to identify the terrorist element in our midst and intervene, the president would be less inclined to launch air attacks in the Middle East. That, in turn, might dampen the swell of outraged young men. The entire cycle of violence could run in reverse, perhaps even giving way to peace.”
“Let’s move on,” Michelis said. “Have any of the attackers been identified?”
“Not yet, but all appear to be of Mediterranean extraction,” LeFevre said, using the new agency term. Ten years ago France’s large population of immigrants had sourced largely from North Africa, places like Algeria and Tunisia. The exodus from the war in Syria had forced a broadening.
“Has there been anything new on this car in which the body was found?” the director asked.
LeFevre said, “It’s definitely the car that delivered the bomber. We’re going over it now for DNA samples and fingerprints. The CCTV video is grainy, but we think the individual at large is a female. We also discerned something interesting in the footage. We can easily see the bomber get out of the car and begin to walk away. Then he returned to the passenger-side window, and this woman can be seen reaching into his jacket pocket. Our analysts believe she was activating the switch on his vest.”
“Why on earth would she do that?” the director asked.
“Because she didn’t trust him to do it,” Baland interjected. He had already studied the video thoroughly and reached the same conclusion.
“Most likely,” agreed LeFevre. “A cold move on any number of levels.”
“It suggests to me that she also dispatched the driver,” said Baland. He got no arguments. “Our lone survivor appears to be one very ruthless woman.”
LeFevre said, “We’re guessing she switched to a different vehicle. If that’s the case, she could be anywhere in France by now. The Swiss and Italian borders are also very near.”
With the worst of the news dispensed, everyone agreed to keep looking. Michelis dismissed LeFevre, and once she was gone he turned circumspect and said to Baland, “That was good work in Grenoble, recognizing the chance of a radiological hazard. Going forward we should embed radiological testing in our standard attack response.”
Baland waved his hand dismissively. “It has long been on our list. We simply don’t have the right equipment at first-responder level.”
“One more thing to squeeze out of our budget.”
There was a time when Baland would have been surprised by that comment. On reaching the middle ranks in the force, he’d begun to see how preoccupied senior officers were with budgetary issues. He supposed it was the way of things. One step above them in the hierarchy were politicians who viewed law enforcement as nothing more than a cost index. Curiously, as Baland himself reached the higher echelons, he felt a surprising urge to not point out such shortcomings. Advancement had its price.
He said, “I fear the scope of these attacks will continue to escalate.”
“More radiological agents?” Michelis asked.
“Perhaps. Or something new … biological, chemical. This strike in Grenoble was a simple cell—six individuals. There are thousands of potential jihadists on our watch lists. Even if only a handful go active, it could mean dozens of attacks in the works. Each small in its own right, but collectively … it’s death by a thousand cuts. I fear we will soon be in the same spiral Israel has found itself in. Policemen on every bus, checkpoints, teaching suspicion to our children.”
Michelis nodded. “Where do you think the survivor from this Grenoble cell has gone?”
“She’s clearly in hiding, but who can say where. It is always easier to become lost in a big city. Paris would be my first guess, perhaps Lyon or Marseille. It won’t be easy to find her—we have one poor image, no identity information.”
“We’ve gone through these motions before. Step up the raids in the Muslim quarters, keep an eye on the mosques.” Michelis sighed heavily, then rose from his seat. He walked around his desk and escorted Baland to the door.
Before reaching it, he gripped his protégé’s elbow, and they paused side by side. “I should tell you something, Zavier. For five years I have sat behind this desk, and never has it seemed more heavy.”
Baland nodded. “These are trying days. But we will prevail.”
Michelis seemed to study him before saying, “You have a gift—an ability to see around corners, to visualize what will come next.”
“It’s not so hard. You simply have to put yourself in your enemy’s position. Force yourself to think as they do.”
Michelis nodded. “Whatever the trick, I want you to keep doing it.”
“Of course, sir. And thank you.”
When Baland was gone, Michelis started back toward his desk. Halfway across the room he paused at a decorative mirror. He did not like what he saw. He’d once cut a striking figure, but the piercing blue eyes now had bags beneath them, and the regal lines along his cheeks had deepened into channels. His wings of gray hair had thinned and gone to a white that was positively grandfatherly. The strain was showing, and the thought of another year or two dealing with the aftermath of mass shootings and dirty bombs was hardly revitalizing. As Michelis knew better than anyone in France, the struggle against fundamentalist Islam wouldn’t end if this crime could be solved, or for that matter the next one. At some point, more likely sooner than later, it would be time for him to pass the baton.
He turned away, sat tentatively behind his desk, and reflected on what his legacy might be. Would he be remembered as the director who let things get out of hand? Or the one who had laid the foundation of victory? At the very least, Michelis prided himself on being a good judge of character, of identifying men and women who could run an effective department. Now, with his career at a sunset, he was quite confident he’d found the right man to carry the battle forward.
EIGHT
“Ow!” Slaton looked down at the bloody needle.
“Don’t be a wuss,” Christine said as she tied off a suture.
Slaton had been called a great many things in his long career as a Mossad assassin. Never had he been called a “wuss.” He was lying naked on their bunk, his left hip high with towels draped across either side of the wound.
“How many stitches?” he asked.
“Only five—a mere scratch by your standards.” She applied an antibiotic to the wound and then a professional-grade bandage. Given the tenuousness of their circumstances—not to mention that she was a doctor and he a trained combat medic—they had agreed from the outset that Windsom’s medical locker would be stocked comprehensively. She slapped him on the butt to say she was done.
Slaton rotated onto his back, and pulled a sheet up to his waist. “Is that how you treat all your patients?”
“Only the ones who deserve it.”
She turned and began putting away supplies. His doctor was barefoot, her auburn hair askew, and she was wearing a set of loose pajamas. Windsom lurched on a wave, and she grabbed the side of a cabinet as a handhold.
They were already under way, six miles removed from their anchorage, and making five knots on a following swell with the autopilot engaged. After leaving Esperanza, Slaton had taken an indirect return route to Windsom. He bypassed two deserted islands, and gave wide berth to an anchored megayacht—countersurveillance, South Seas style.
Christine had been waiting for him on deck, and when he’d stepped aboard they both felt a wave of relief. A brief reception of kisses and clutching, however, ended abruptly when she saw the blood on his leg. He told her what had transpired, and they’d gotten under way immediately. Slaton pulled Windsom’s anchor under the light of a rising moon, and set a course to open water. Christine set up a sick bay.
&nbs
p; Davy, at least, had been asleep in his cabin, and they both knew he wouldn’t stir until morning. Cruising the oceans was like camping in the sense that circadian rhythms fell in tune with sunrise and sunset. Tonight they would violate that schedule. In three hours Windsom would approach busy shipping lanes, meaning someone would have to be on deck. A long night lost to watch shifts and adrenaline.
Christine met his gaze, and he tried to read her. Caring doctor? Angry wife? Protective mother? He saw a bit of them all.
“So there were four of them?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“And they attacked you without provocation.”
She hadn’t phrased it as a question, but he answered anyway. “Yes.”
“You don’t know who they were?”
“No idea.”
“Could they have been smugglers?”
“Definitely not.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”
“For one thing, they look Middle Eastern. And they spoke French, which isn’t exactly endemic in these waters.”
“You talked to them?”
“No, they were communicating with each other during … what happened.”
Thankfully, Christine didn’t ask him to recount the battle.
“And smugglers wouldn’t have had this,” he said. Slaton reached across the bunk to the bloody trousers she’d cut from his leg ten minutes ago. From a pocket he removed the memory stick and showed her what was written on it. He heard a subtle intake of air before she spoke, her tone strangely hollow.
“Your name.”
“My real name.”
She shut her eyes tightly. “This is all my fault.”
“How?”
“You were right,” she said. “It was a setup all along. The woman and her son on the playground. If I had just walked away—”
“No! You are in no way responsible for this.”
She looked at him searchingly.
“The way it worked out—it could have been worse.”
“How?”