by Ward Larsen
Her finger began the subtle pressure on the trigger. The man was moving at a casual walking pace, and so she added a small leading correction. More pressure, her finger on the cool metal. The noise from the street below seemed to disappear. Her breathing paused. Then, in the instant before the expected recoil, her view was obliterated.
She pulled back from the scope and saw an aqua-and-white city bus drawing to a stop, its bulky frame ruining her line of sight to the path. She let loose a venomous string of hushed expletives. There was nothing to do but wait. She tried to predict where her target would reappear. After what seemed an interminable pause, the bus finally pulled away. Seeing no one with her naked eye, she used the scope to scan the path until it disappeared beneath a canopy of trees. She saw no one. Her chance was gone.
Malika muttered in Arabic and began breaking down her weapon. She tried to tell herself it might be for the best. She hadn’t been completely sure. Ninety-five percent, at best. Yet if it was the kidon, might he be reaching for his own weapon at that moment? Perhaps he would be stymied by some similar roadblock. Or he might only be laying the groundwork for tomorrow or the next day. Wasn’t that how a professional would go about it?
So many questions.
At that moment, however, Malika was certain of two things. The man she had just seen was an operator. And he was following Zavier Baland.
NINETEEN
Slaton heard the rattle of a bus behind him as he tracked his target into the park. He followed Baland around a long fountain, and then down a tiered garden that stepped toward the river. Baland made no apparent attempt at countersurveillance, and at the river he turned left, aiming, Slaton was sure, for the Pont de Levallois. DGSI headquarters was not yet in sight, but Slaton knew where it was, and the bridge became a necessary funnel. Another opportunity noted.
It all went as expected, and Baland disappeared ten minutes later into the concrete-and-glass fortress that was 84 Rue de Villiers. Slaton continued walking south. He pulled out his phone, and after a turn toward the river placed a call. Talia answered immediately.
“I found him right where we thought he would be.”
“That was fast,” she said. “What do you think? Could it actually be Samir?”
“It’s him.”
There was a pause on the Tel Aviv end, then she said, “All right. I should inform Anton before you act.”
“I’m not sure I’m going to act.”
“What do you mean?”
“None of this feels right to me, Talia. Who’s responsible for my being here? Who sent those men and the information on the drive?”
“If you’ve really found Samir, and he’s working at DGSI … what difference does it make?”
“Every difference in the world.” Slaton reached the Seine and turned along the Left Bank. “I think this is a setup against me. But it’s possible Samir is being targeted as well.”
“Who would want that?”
“In my case, there must be a hundred suspects. Samir’s list is probably longer. The problem is cross-referencing the two—I can’t imagine who would come after both of us.”
“So what will you do?”
Slaton told her.
“David … you can’t be serious.”
A moment of silence told her he was. He said, “You can inform Anton, but I don’t want any interference.”
“I’ll make sure he understands.”
“Have there been any changes to Baland’s personal calendar for the next two days? When we last spoke he was set for a one-on-one lunch with the DGSI director tomorrow at a place called Le Quinze.”
“Yes, his calendar still shows it.”
“Good. If there are any changes, let me know right away. But assuming things remain the same, I want you to tell Anton to send me the things we discussed.” For thirty seconds Slaton provided detailed instructions—the address of the hotel in which he was staying, and the precise schedule and means of a transfer. Then he asked her a technical question.
“Baland’s phone?” she said. “Yes, I think I can manage that.”
Slaton explained exactly what he wanted done, then said, “Thanks, Talia. Send me an update tomorrow morning. I’ll call when I’m finished and let you know how it went.”
“What if I don’t hear from you?”
“In that case … you’ll know how it went.”
* * *
Uday’s impure thought came while Sarah was washing the dishes after lunch. She was wearing a full robe—such pretenses were necessary for a man in his position—yet inside their home her head was uncovered, leaving her long raven hair flowing freely over her back. The robe left much to the imagination, yet even through the dense fabric he discerned the familiar lines of her slim figure, and saw her graceful movement as she set clean plates on the counter. Never had he taken such pleasure in simply watching a woman perform a chore.
Uday could take it no longer.
“Woman!” he bellowed. “Come here.… I have need of you!”
She froze for an instant, then turned and looked at him, her face the same blank mask he’d seen on the day she was delivered to him by a squad of Chadeh’s minions. Sarah obeyed. A shuffle of hesitant steps brought her across the room as if floating on air. Uday couldn’t take his eyes off her. She stopped short of where he stood, next to the mattress that lay on the floor. Her head fell bowed in supplication, the translucent olive eyes he knew so well pointed at the ground. She spoke in the girlish voice that so weakened him. “How can I please you?”
There was a long pause before she raised her eyes to meet his. Then Sarah lunged at him and tackled him onto the bed. She pushed Uday onto his back, straddled him, and began pounding her fists on his chest. “You are such a bastard!” she tried to say through her laughter.
He made a halfhearted attempt to deflect her blows. “You must show more respect to a man of my exalted position! I am the Bastard in Chief of Daesh Information.”
Her assault paused. “Well, here is some information, O high and mighty one … you will get nothing until you are nice!”
Uday bucked his hips and Sarah fell to the other side of the bed. He rolled on top of her in a reversal, and was about to start tickling her when he heard a gasp. He went still, and saw a twist of pain in her expression. He immediately rolled away. “I’m sorry, darling—did I hurt you?”
She forged her grimace into a smile, then touched her right forearm. “No, it wasn’t you. It’s only my arm—it still hurts a bit. I’m sure it will pass.”
The thugs who’d delivered her had been rough, injuring her right arm, and even months afterward it bothered her. The day after her arrival it had been severely bruised, but she’d refused to see a doctor—a luxury few could imagine these days.
“I wish you would let me track that man down. I could have him brought before a court and—”
“No, Aziz, you mustn’t! It would only bring suspicion. I want nothing to jeopardize what we have.”
He touched her arm gently, in the way a sculptor might touch his favorite work.
“There, you see?” she said. “You can be nice.” It was no longer her girlish voice, but that of the confident woman who’d burst into his life like a second sun.
“You have taken my heart,” he said.
“No, not taken. You gave it to me, Aziz. And for that I thank God every day.”
He smiled, not considering for a moment that she was referring to a God different from his own. Uday still prayed occasionally, as did she. But when they were together religion was irrelevant; they were like fish from different depths who wanted only to revel in the same sea.
It had begun two months ago, Chadeh’s goons delivering her on a cold and rain-swept night. She’d been taken as a spoil of war, a slave from a dwindling Christian neighborhood. They’d marched her into his house by the elbows and forced her onto her knees in front of him. They asked if she was acceptable, and he’d looked down and seen her beaten figure the first time. She was clad from h
ead to toe that night, her burqa sodden and dirty as though she’d been dragged through the mud. In those first moments he had seen neither her face nor her body, only a hunched and filthy form that was curiously still. Not knowing what to do, Uday had thanked the men and told them he was glad to have her. They seemed disappointed, and only later did he realize why—they had hoped he would reject Chadeh’s gift, leaving Sarah to them.
Uday sent the men away, but even after they were gone Sarah remained motionless. When his hand touched her elbow to help her rise, she jerked away in fear. Uday had retrieved a blanket, knelt in front of her, and wrapped it around her shoulders. Only then did he lift her veil for the first time. When he did, he was stunned by her beauty. Even more so by the defiance in her eyes. Then Uday had done what seemed the only decent thing—he smiled at Sarah. Her defiance softened ever so slightly.
He gave her hot tea that night, and watched her eat ravenously. He provided her a clean gown to wear and surrendered his bed, sleeping on the couch in his workroom. It continued that way for some time, Uday caring for her. Then, on the seventh day, she had dinner prepared when he arrived home after a long day at work. On the tenth she smiled at one of his feeble jokes. That same week they went outside together for the first time. Sarah followed him to the market, and afterward they stopped for tea. They talked for hours about everything except the war, until an officer of the Hisbah, the caliphate’s religious police, ordered Sarah to cover her eyes. She did so immediately, but a furious Uday told the man who he was dealing with and sent him packing. Even so, it was the last time Sarah had gone out in public.
So they carried on in their tiny house, and each day Uday fell more endeared with Sarah. He also became more frustrated with their situation. They agreed to live in the present—for now she was safe, and that was all that mattered. It was in the fifth week, after a wonderful lamb kebab and a pilfered bottle of wine, that Sarah had come to him late one night. She’d given herself to him willfully, even enthusiastically, and if there was ever any doubt it ended there. The two had become lovers in an increasingly despondent world.
Now they lay together languidly on the old mattress, limbs intertwined, talking with what seemed like an old familiarity. She kissed him and put her head on his chest, and he drank in the scent of jasmine in her hair.
“You were gone for so long today,” she said.
“A project at work is keeping me very busy.”
“What does it involve?”
He pushed up until he could see her eyes. “There … I knew all along you were a spy.”
She giggled and buried her face in his shirt. Jasmine again.
“It’s actually something I will tell you about,” he said. “But only when the time is right.”
“I don’t want to know anything about the Daesh!”
Uday opened his mouth, but then stifled the words that were rising. He wanted desperately to confide in Sarah—tell her his wild idea that might set them free. But it seemed only a fantasy. After a thoughtful moment, he asked, “You have told no one of our relationship?”
“Not even my mother … pray that she is still alive.”
“I’m sure she is fine. She must have made it to Jordan. At times I wish you were with her, but if they hadn’t detained you as you tried to leave the city … I would never have known you.”
She maneuvered beside him and kissed him on the lips. Soon they were breathing heavily, her hands fumbling as she unbuttoned his shirt. It all came to an abrupt end when someone pounded on the front door.
Sarah went rigid, and they both looked at the door. More pounding.
“Uday!”
“It’s all right,” he told her. “Go to the kitchen.”
She did, and he fastened a few of his shirt buttons on the way to the door. He opened it to find Anisa. “Uday, you must come quickly!”
“Why?”
Anisa looked past him toward the kitchen, but only for a moment. “I don’t know, but Chadeh is furious.”
TWENTY
Slaton watched the man from the window of his room, and decided he was quite good. He arrived in a nondescript Fiat, either dark blue or black—it was hard to say in the midwinter gloom. He might have been a katsa, a case officer, from the embassy. If Mossad was being particularly cautious, which they probably were, the man might even be unofficial. Whoever he was, he had sent Slaton a text to announce his impending arrival. In a minor stroke of bad luck, all the parking spots in front of the small Courbevoie hotel were occupied. He’d dealt with it well, continuing around the block without the slightest hesitation. On his third lap an ideal spot opened up when a delivery truck pulled away.
From the third-floor window, Slaton watched the man get out. He was dressed precisely in accordance with the instructions sent through Talia: denim pants, dark gray jacket, brown shoes. He was the correct height and build, and while his hair was perhaps a shade too dark, it was cut to the perfect length. A very fresh haircut, Slaton reckoned.
The driver paused on the curb, and casually locked the Fiat’s doors using his key fob. After the usual chirp and double flash of the parking lights, he set out in the general direction of the hotel entrance. At that point the man fell out of view from Slaton’s perspective, his location a mystery aside from one point of certainty—he had not passed under the big green awning to enter the hotel.
Slaton was in the lobby sixty seconds later, where he allowed a passing glance in the wall-length mirror: denim pants, dark gray jacket, brown shoes. He walked outside, went straight to the car, and held out an empty hand as he approached. The Fiat chirped on cue. Slaton opened the small trunk, pulled out a common black roller bag, then dropped the lid shut. He again mimed using a fob, and the car magically locked. He turned back toward the hotel, and on his way to the entrance could not help venturing a guess as to where the driver was holed up. Slaton registered three possibilities: a dark alcove in the building next door, a convenience store window across the street, and a nearby alley. The Mossad man might be hidden in any of them.
Slaton pretended to pocket his keys, then retraced his steps through the lobby and up the stairs to the third floor. He was back in his room three minutes after leaving. He put the suitcase on the bed, unzipped it, and threw back the lid to find a heavy plastic case, sided by a second package encased in bubble wrap. He opened the case and found the component parts of an Arctic Warfare Covert. He assembled the gun and performed a thorough inspection. Satisfied, he broke the weapon back down and reseated each piece into its respective foam notch. Slaton went back to the window and, without so much as a glance outside, he pulled the floral-print drapes closed on one side.
He went back to the plastic case, which had just fit in the roller bag, and set it next to the room’s couch. The couch concealed a small fold-out bed, and Slaton pulled off the cushions and partially lifted the folding frame of the bed. This exposed a cavity backing to the wall, into which he placed the case containing the rifle. It was a tight fit, but when everything was put back together, the gun case was completely invisible. The deception would never hold against a committed search, but Slaton had no reason to expect one. More to the point, he was sure the housekeeper would not stumble across it in the course of her daily cleaning. Just to be sure, he used a bathroom towel to dust the floor on either side of the couch, and made sure there was no trash along the floorboards behind it.
Slaton took the second package from the roller bag and removed bubble wrap to reveal a Glock 17 and two spare magazines. He checked the weapon and found the action smooth. He seated a magazine, jacked a round into the chamber, and set the gun on the nightstand. The empty roller bag went quite naturally into the closet next to his tan Mossad-issued suitcase.
Satisfied, he went to the window and looked down at the street. It had been ten minutes. The Fiat was long gone.
* * *
Sitting at the tiny table in her flat in Monceau, Malika read the order to provide Argu with a backup phone. She frowned as she might have for
an eviction notice. Until now Baland had been exclusively under her control, and the idea of potentially cutting herself out did not sit well. Still, if she were in Chadeh’s position, she would have done the same thing.
Her relationship with the Islamic State had not been born of the usual motivation, which was to say blind religious subservience. She and the caliphate were bound by something nearer an arranged marriage, forced together by circumstances out of either’s control, and with the potential for either mutual harmony or ruin.
It had begun five years ago, on the day a rough-edged and dirty teenage girl had departed the hopelessness of Gaza for the only society on earth of greater dysfunction—the wreckage of Syria. Malika hadn’t told anyone she was going, including the busy recruiters of ISIS. She had simply traveled alone to the Turkish border, and from there walked south.
The caliphate happily accepted yet another refugee from the back-firing Arab Spring. She was screened by an ISIS officer in the remains of a shattered villa. He asked her if she was a good Muslim, and Malika said that she was. He asked her if she wanted to marry a fighter, and she said that she did. At that point Malika made her one and only request. She would acquiesce to becoming a bride on one condition—she wanted to marry a sniper. The man processing Malika had looked at her oddly, and she expanded that she wanted to marry the man who had killed the most infidels. It was a highly unusual request, but colored in a certain hue of fanaticism. The ISIS recruiter had liked that.
So it was, within two weeks of entering Syria, Malika was wed to a killer. His name was Arwan, 120 pounds of bone and sinew who could hold a gun with the steadiness of a vise, and who was reputed to have sixty-five kills to his credit. He said he was twenty-one, but Malika suspected he was younger than she was, eighteen at best. Yet what he lacked in physical presence, he made up for with an intensity the likes of which Malika had never seen.