Assassin's Code

by Ward Larsen

  That would be utterly devastating.

  An increasingly conflicted Baland flicked through the bound pages like a battlefield commander going through a casualty list. Having personally commissioned the study at Malika’s insistence, he’d done his best to slow-roll its completion, making at least three changes to his original request. Baland had tried to buy time, hoping for some escape from his situation before the report was delivered. Now, with the document in hand, there seemed little recourse. He would have to send it on to Raqqa.

  He imagined redacting select pages, or even entire chapters. That was no more than fantasy, really. Or was it? Baland checked his watch. He had two hours to work with before the delivery. Much of that would be needed to requisition a car, drive to a point near the dead-drop location, then generate a way to be alone without alarming his security detail. He could never sanitize the report in that amount of time. But what if I only deliver part of it? he wondered. Malika and her ISIS minders would be furious, complicating things further.

  As if that was possible.

  Baland decided it might work. He could deliver what they wanted, but in piecemeal fashion, a few choice sections to begin. Enough to convince them of the value of his information. But then he would take a new tack, perhaps demand money for the rest. Yes, he thought, they’ll understand that. He could haggle over a price for days, even weeks. Malika would threaten him, of course, but her handlers in Raqqa would be smitten by the value of his information. They would tell her to tread carefully. In the end, Baland would earn just a little more time. Time to find an escape hatch from his fast-sinking life.

  He flicked through the report, wondering which sections to extract. As a senior officer, he would never be challenged about what was going home in his leather attaché. He was leafing through idly when an addendum near the back caught his eye. It had been one of his added requests, an afterthought … or so he told himself. Now those thirty-odd pages struck a long-buried chord of interest. He pulled them free from the binder, then added the table of contents from the front. That would whet their appetites, he thought. A terrorist’s shopping list.

  The removed sections went discreetly into his attaché. Forty pages lighter, the binder was little changed in bulk or appearance. Another speaker arrived at the podium, a liaison from the interior minister’s office here to advocate the synergies of interdepartmental cooperation. The very word “bureaucracy” was sourced in French, and it was alive and well in the fortress of Levallois-Perret, and so too, Baland presumed, in the other seats of power: the nearby Ministry of Defense, and the National Gendarmerie on Rue Saint-Didier. The strike in Grenoble had been a seminal moment, standing out among attacks of recent years. It had afflicted the psyche of France herself, and police agencies and counterterrorism forces were responding with predictable myopia. Everyone was sidetracked looking over their collective shoulders for another radiological strike.

  Everyone except Zavier Baland, who knew that the next string of attacks, in which he was unassailably complicit, would be very different indeed.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Malika made the pickup at a little-used dead-drop location, a soon-to-be-insolvent used book store whose out-of-print volumes collected more dust than customers. Behind a gap in a certain shelf she was surprised to find a thick envelope instead of a digital drive. She made one minor purchase, a yellow-edged study on Charles de Gaulle, and cursed Baland all the way back to her apartment. On arriving she slammed General de Gaulle into the trash bin and removed a sheaf of papers from the envelope.

  She shuffled through and found forty pages—two extracted sections, it appeared, of a much larger dossier. Malika slapped the unbound pile onto the table. What is he playing at now? Not only had Baland partially fulfilled his mandate, he had done so in the most cumbersome way possible. Malika would be forced to photograph everything, page by page, then transmit the images to Raqqa. She glanced at the clock on the wall. 10:43. There was no way she could do it all now.

  She had far more important things to tend to.

  * * *

  Uday walked hurriedly through a souk, one of the malleable marketplaces that rose each morning amid Raqqa’s sandstone squares. He’d spent two hours behind his keyboard, and the heaviness that had enveloped him was gone, replaced by something new—urgency.

  The scene all around him was a desperate one. Downtrodden vendors stood by their carts more out of habit than hope. Gone were the bread and spice stalls that had been here only a few years ago. The scent of fried pastries was missing for lack of any way to cook them. An old man sat listlessly on an empty crate that had probably once held chickens. Next to him, tellingly, was the one enterprise on the square that was doing a brisk business—a cart that held all manner of military uniforms. There was no common denominator—desert camo ensembles were interspersed with black special-ops vests, and even a handful of jungle-green patterns had found their way into the mix, albeit at a substantial discount. Uday thought it a perfect representation of the economics of war, displayed on one listing, donkey-driven wagon.

  For all the chaos around him, he felt increasingly disengaged from his surroundings. Like the market, his mood had altered, and he was sure it would never be the same again. Dread, anxiety, a compulsion to protect. Uday didn’t know the exact moment, but at some point in recent weeks his obsession with jihad had been supplanted by something far more influential. He was hopelessly in love with Sarah.

  Because of it, he saw a terrible choice looming.

  He paused at a flower stall, thinking it an enigma that after so many years of war people still bought and sold flowers. The stand was run by a smiling teenage girl, and without considering what bombed-out garden they might have come from, Uday pointed to a bouquet that caught his eye. The girl happily pulled the bunch free, and he watched her pluck a few dead leaves from the arrangement.

  Uday found himself watching her, and noticed that she occasionally glanced up at the sky. This was a relatively new phenomenon, albeit one with little practical value—the drones were virtually invisible, and fighter-bombers rarely heard or seen before their loads struck home. Even so, like small animals who’d seen too many of their brethren taken by hawks, the survivors invariably found their eyes drawn skyward.

  She handed over the bouquet of yellow and red blooms. Uday had no idea what they were. He had never been a man bent to passion, and held little enthusiasm for long walks or lingering dinners. The only time anyone had ever put his name and the word “inspired” in the same sentence, it had involved a coding algorithm. Still, in recent weeks he’d begun to see things in a new light—one whose spectrum at the moment involved yellow and red.

  He reached into his pocket for money, but recoiled as if by electric shock when he realized he’d dipped into the wrong one. Uday switched to the other side and retrieved a U.S. twenty-dollar bill—the caliphate’s fantasy of its own currency had never gained traction. He handed it to the smiling girl behind the cart and didn’t wait for his change.

  He elbowed through the crowds, trying not to crush the flowers, and on turning the final corner Uday saw his building in the distance. Sarah was on the front steps, using a broom to beat a small rug. Last week he might have felt relief at the sight of her. Today it brought only apprehension. She didn’t notice him right away, and he paused to watch her in her chore. Even fully covered, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

  Soon they were inside together, and he presented the flowers. Sarah lifted her niqab and he saw a beaming smile. Uday exchanged the flowers for an enthusiastic kiss, and he watched her fill an old plastic bottle with water and begin to insert the flowers. She placed them one by one, delicately and with an occasional turn. When she looked at him again Uday forced a smile, but one that left the rest of his face untouched.

  “What is wrong?” she asked, walking over and taking his hand. She was beginning to sense his moods.

  He collapsed onto their old couch and she sat down beside him.

  �
��Things are happening so quickly,” he said.

  Her hands went to his shoulders, and she began squeezing knotted muscles. He felt the tension drain away. “When I first became involved with the movement it seemed virtuous, a struggle that would affirm my beliefs. I thought I could use my expertise to help the caliphate grow, to help common people return to the ways of the Prophet. But now…” His words trailed off. “Now I see these leaders for what they are—common men who contort Islam for their own selfish interests. They order others to sacrifice while they bicker about who gets the best villas and vehicles, who deserves the most protection. I hear whisperings that some are even hiding money, saving for the day when everyone must disappear. But the most troubling thing of all”—he turned to look at her—“is that I am in love with my Christian slave. It is strictly forbidden, yet how can what I feel for you be wrong?”

  “It’s not wrong, Aziz. No more than what I feel for you.”

  “Our leaders demand strict interpretation of Sharia law. I use my skills to upload videos of beheadings and crucifixions. I can’t remember the last time we discussed giving food to the poor, or putting old women in houses. We once did those things. The misery our movement has caused, most of it imparted upon fellow Muslims—I don’t see how it can be right.”

  He looked at her as if searching for answers.

  “If you are expecting me to denounce them, to tell you how much I hate the Daesh—I won’t do it. They killed my father and brother, and my poor mother suffers. But I forgive them, Aziz. That is how I keep my own faith, and without it I am nothing.”

  “So you would never rise against them?”

  She looked at him questioningly. “If you are asking whether I could raise a hand to harm them—no, not even the caliph himself. But I would sacrifice anything to end the suffering.”

  “Suffering,” he said. “There will soon be much more of that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He sighed. “I learned yesterday that new strikes are being planned against France. The council are blind—they tell one another that God is on our side, and scheme to lash out at the West like children throwing stones at a pack of wild dogs. Sooner or later, the dogs will turn. But these new attacks—I think there might be a way to stop them.”

  She looked at him with a confluence of emotions he couldn’t read. Pride? Fear? She took his hand, and said, “The choices you make are between you and God, Aziz. No one else can tell you what to do.”

  “Actually,” he said, reaching into his pocket for what would save them, “I have already made my decision. But I had to hear yours.…”

  * * *

  Claude Michelis was leaving his final meeting of the day when his phone vibrated with a message. It was from Zavier Baland.

  Running late. Can we make lunch 1:30 instead of 1:00?

  Michelis sent a reply to say that was fine, and got an immediate response.

  Thanks, Chief. I’ll call Henri and have him hold our table.

  The director sighed and looked at his watch. It was twelve thirty. He hoped it didn’t go any later. He was getting hungry.

  Michelis’ reply did not, in fact, ever reach Baland. For reasons he would never understand, his message terminated in a luxury condominium in Tel Aviv. Zavier Baland was equally unaware of the hijacked thread. He, however, would realize something had gone very wrong within sixty seconds of arriving at Le Quinze.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Le Quinze was bustling on the lunch rush, and Baland found the ever-solicitous Henri presiding behind his maître d’s podium.

  “Good afternoon, Monsieur Baland. Your table is waiting and your guest has already arrived.”

  “Thank you.”

  Baland followed Henri through a maze of partitions that was clearly designed to enhance privacy—the reason, along with the food, that the restaurant had risen in popularity with actors, statesmen, and, perhaps most tellingly, a recent influx of wealthy Russian mobsters.

  Turning the final corner, Baland was surprised to see someone other than Michelis at his usual white-linened corner table. “I’m sorry,” he said, leaning toward Henri, “but I was expecting Director Michelis.”

  Henri half turned and gave Baland the same look he might have if he’d just been told Bastille Day had been canceled. “But monsieur, I was told very distinctly that—”

  “It’s all right,” interrupted the man at the table in English. “Monsieur Baland doesn’t recognize me, but we are in fact old acquaintances.”

  Baland locked eyes with the man, whose hands were out of sight under the table, and saw a slight nod toward the opposing chair. “Yes,” he said hesitantly, keeping with English, “it’s all right, Henri.”

  A relieved Henri disappeared, and Baland settled cautiously into the chair and took stock of the man across from him. He appeared rather tall, and wore a casual jacket and collared shirt. He looked fit and tan, and a pair of unusual gray eyes were keenly active.

  “Do you know who I am?” the man asked.

  “I have no idea,” Baland lied. The photograph Malika had given him was still in his pocket.

  “Really? Either way, I’ll have to ask you to keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “Will you not extend me the same courtesy?”

  Surprisingly, the assassin did, his hands appearing on the white tablecloth. His eyes drilled Baland, and he nodded as if some great internal question had been answered. “How did you do it?” the man finally asked.

  “Do what?” replied Baland.

  “Escape Gaza. Settle unnoticed in France.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about. If—”

  “Please, Ali. Let’s not waste time.”

  Baland played his next facial expression with the greatest of care. Gradual understanding, as if old points of fact were connecting. “All right. You have made a mistake, but I think an understandable one.”

  “Which is?”

  “I won’t explain without knowing who I am dealing with.”

  “You’re dealing with someone who will gladly kill you for one wrong answer.”

  * * *

  Malika preferred rooftops for many reasons. Elevation was always an advantage, particularly in urban areas, where steep angles removed traffic and pedestrians from lines of fire. It also allowed a raptor’s view of the surrounding streets and buildings, giving maximum awareness of possible threats and escapes. Today, unfortunately, the rooftop was not her friend.

  Her mistake had been arriving late, shortly after noon. She’d wasted too much time in her flat dealing with Baland’s partial dossier. She had tried taking photographs of the pages using a proper camera, but had trouble getting acceptable images without a flash. She’d reverted to her phone with mixed results. The test image she’d launched to Raqqa had come back unsent, and for twenty minutes Malika fussed with the phone’s settings and resolution controls before successfully transferring a page. Then she had looked at the clock.

  She’d arrived at Le Quinze in a rush, but then spent twenty minutes maneuvering onto the roof without being seen. There she’d assembled her weapon of choice, a Remington CSR sniper rifle. Also contained in her three-foot-long cardboard box, the label of which suggested a lighting fixture, was an H&K UMP, a compact semiautomatic in case close work became necessary.

  Once in place, Malika had immediately begun watching the entrance of Le Quinze. She would normally have taken time to study the surrounding area. Just as with the rubble warrens of Mosul and Ramadi, angles should have been figured and escape routes mapped. The weather was taking a noticeable turn for the worse—heavy skies held the promise of rain, and the midday light seemed more akin to dusk. The wind was picking up as well, and she wished she’d been able to make estimates of where gusts accelerated between buildings and where eddies seemed to fall.

  There hadn’t been time for any of that.

  Baland’s car had arrived right on schedule, at one o’clock, and in those critical moments Malika’s watchfulness had
gone into overdrive. She’d held her breath as he crossed twenty feet of open ground to reach the restaurant’s door, her weapon searching, her finger poised. She was positioned classically as a countersniper—high above the presumed target and looking outward for an assassin. With Baland acting as bait, she had scanned every window across the street, stepped her eyes to each car parked along the curb. Malika waited for the Israeli to appear, confident that if he did, she would see something. A glint, a muzzle flash, even the telltale barrel.

  It had now been five minutes since Baland passed through the door. Still nothing had happened. Had she been wrong about Slaton coming here? Might he be nearby, waiting for Baland to come back outside? She decided the answer to both questions was no. He was here, somewhere. But he had found another way.

  Which meant the rooftop was a mistake. It was entirely the wrong place to be.

  * * *

  Baland did not flinch, but neither did the man across the table. The gunmetal-gray eyes seemed almost aqueous, enveloping the entire room at once. Baland too was taking in as much as he could. His back was not quite squared to the entrance, and in the periphery, over his right shoulder, he could see people coming and going.

  He narrowed his gaze, and said, “I think you might be Israeli—is that it?”