by Ward Larsen
No answer.
Baland produced a slight smile. “Since you called me Ali just now, I know who you think I am—Ali Samir. And so you are wondering how a terrorist hunted down by Israel, many years ago now, has been reborn as a senior officer at DGSI.” He shifted slightly in his seat to have a better view to his right, never taking his eyes off Slaton. “A searching mind might even imagine that you were the hunter on that fateful day.”
Finally a reaction, the eyes regarding him with something distant. Perhaps a remembrance of my face through a telescopic sight? he wondered.
“I’ll neither confirm nor deny that.”
Baland nodded. “Of course. Any other answer would have given me doubt. So I know who you are. Therefore, I will return the favor. I am not Ali Samir,” he said, adding a pause to give emphasis to his next words. “I am his identical twin brother.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Slaton’s attention faltered on the critical word. Twin.
Of all the possibilities, this was one he’d never considered. It did, however, answer the most vexing question: How could a man he killed fifteen years ago still be alive? Unfortunately, Baland’s solution, in equal measure bewildering and elegant, sent a tide of new questions streaming into his head.
“Identical twin?” Slaton repeated. “How did you end up here?”
Baland’s reply seemed measured. “It was really quite simple, although over the years I have often asked myself that same question. My brother and I were born in Gaza. My mother was Algerian, but had family in France. Gaza was as difficult a place then as it is today. When my mother learned she was pregnant, she told my father she didn’t want to raise a family there. He eventually agreed, and they began legal maneuvers to emigrate, applying for French citizenship. The process went favorably, and approval seemed imminent. As they prepared to leave, an unexpected complication arose. Keep in mind—at that time in Gaza there was no such thing as prenatal ultrasounds. I’ve been told my mother never even saw an obstetrician.”
“No one was expecting twins.”
“Precisely. When my brother and I were born early, as often happens with multiple births, the problems began. It required alterations to the emigration process. Paperwork had to be rerun, and that took time.”
The waiter interrupted to take their drink orders. Baland ordered sparkling water, Slaton coffee. As soon as he was gone, Slaton asked, “When was this?”
Baland’s gaze drifted over the room. “I was born in 1977.”
“Gaza was still under Israeli military authority.”
“Yes. The situation in the Sinai would soon be settled by the Egypt-Israel Peace Treaty, but Gaza was left as ever—a loosely administered territory. When the emigration paperwork finally came through there were mistakes. Approval was granted to leave, but only one child was included. With those papers in hand, my parents decided to send me ahead to France while they sorted through the rest—my aunt, a French citizen, came and took me to Lyon. Two weeks later everything changed. The Israelis undertook a mission against what they called a terrorist stronghold. An errant rocket struck my parents’ bedroom. They were both killed instantly.” Baland paused. “Errant,” he repeated. “That was the word used in the official press release.”
“And your brother?”
“He was in a different room and survived the explosion unscathed. Ali was taken in by my father’s side of the family. After that…” Baland hesitated. “Honestly, you probably know more about him than I do. As far as I know, no serious attempt was ever made to reunite the two of us, in either France or Gaza. There were a few letters back and forth, an occasional phone call. But in the end, everyone simply carried on with what was. Days became weeks, and weeks became a lifetime. I suppose you could say I sit before you today as a product of that never-ending conflict. A victim of fate, as they say.”
“Or perhaps a beneficiary.”
Baland nodded reflectively. “I have always wondered why I was the one sent ahead. Every day I think about how different things might have been.”
“So you’ve been in France your entire life?”
“Since I was eight weeks old. After my parents were killed, when it was clear I wouldn’t go back, my aunt filed paperwork for my citizenship. She decided it would be simpler to claim me as her own child. No questions were raised, and from that point I became a Frenchman in every way. Aside from being the product of parents I never knew, it was all quite legitimate.”
Slaton leaned back in his chair to consider Baland’s story. It was like something from a classic novel. Twin sons divided at birth into diametrically opposed circumstances. And how different their outcomes had been. All the same, there was more to be explained. “In the last few days I’ve researched your background. Your rise through the ranks has been remarkable, and you have a curious ability to envision the enemy’s next move. It’s almost as if you have some kind of … how should I say it … insider information?”
Baland was about to reply when his face went ashen. His eyes pinned on something to his right.
“What is it?” Slaton asked.
Baland stuttered, then said, “There is a woman, over my right shoulder—” It was the last word he got out before the shooting began.
* * *
Slaton spotted her right away. Four tables away, moving quickly—a thick-set young woman in a brown parka. She had a machine pistol, possibly a UMP, tucked tight against her ribs. It was rising in their direction.
Slaton’s Glock was available beneath the table—he’d had no idea what to expect from Baland—but he would be dead before he could get it clear and raised into a firing position. He dove to his right as shots came in a fusillade, rounds thundering in as he crashed into an empty table. Slaton reached up and pulled the heavy table over for cover.
The room around him went to madness: sprawling patrons, the clatter of china and silverware hitting the floor. He arced his gun in the direction of the threat, but before he could get a bead, another string of rounds laced into the wall just over his head. Slaton curled his hand around the table, and sprayed fire in the general direction of the woman, keeping his aim high to avert unintended casualties.
The UMP was on full automatic now. Splinters flew from the table in front of him, plaster from the wall behind. Frozen in place, and with the assailant closing in, Slaton prepared to make his stand. He would have one second, maybe less, to acquire the woman and put her down. He set his legs, and was one heartbeat from moving when the report of a third weapon intervened. To his right he saw Baland returning fire from a crouched position.
Then, as quickly as it had all begun, the assault paused. Slaton leapt up, the Glock’s barrel searching. There was no sign of the woman, but he saw a splatter of blood on the fabric-covered wall she’d been near. He scanned for other threats, his eyes and barrel sweeping in unison like a radar. He saw nothing to raise an alarm. Then he noticed Baland. The DGSI man had lowered his gun and was staring at Slaton. Which made no tactical sense whatsoever.
Two more shots rang out, muted and distant. The woman’s gun, but outside now. In a room paralyzed by fear, Slaton was the first to move. He scrambled to his feet and rushed for the back door. He hit the alley behind the restaurant and immediately turned right—he already knew a left turn would lead to a dead end.
He pocketed his gun at the top of the alley, never slowing as he rounded the corner onto Rue de Clichy. There were no telltale disturbances—no blood on the sidewalk, no shocked passersby looking over their shoulders or backed against walls. Slaton sprinted onward.
He saw his objective fifty meters away: the Place de Clichy Métro station. He flew under the ornate wrought-iron entrance and quick-stepped down the stairs, his eyes reaching ahead. At the mezzanine level he rounded a bastion and arrived at the ticket stile. The crowds were modest, and he used an already-purchased day pass to sail through. Arrows on the wall indicated a split—one platform for the east-west number 2 line, another for the north-south 13. He could see a port
ion of the eastbound platform, but couldn’t tell if a train was present.
A mother hurried past, a young boy following.
There was no time for contemplation. He turned toward the eastbound platform and found a train waiting. By the time he reached the first car the platform was empty. Everyone had boarded and departure was imminent. He didn’t see the shooter. Had she already gotten on? It was no more than pure conjecture. A matter of instincts and odds. The door of the car in front of him began to close. Slaton jammed his shoulder in the gap and pushed aboard.
His lungs were heaving, and as the train pulled away his eyes stepped over each rider in the car—sorting faces and body types, whatever was in view. None were the assailant. He never bothered to reference the map near the car’s ceiling—the next station was Rome, then Villiers. Slaton had three stops beyond that committed to memory. The car accelerated. The Rome station would appear through the windows in three and a half minutes. He leaned back against a partition and caught his breath, wondering if he’d guessed right.
It was the quickest and most anonymous way to get clear of Le Quinze. Slaton knew because he himself had already run that decision matrix. Cabs, buses, moving on foot—all had drawbacks. He eyed the door that led to the forward cars, but decided against moving. There were too many people here, too much that could go wrong. The safe play was to monitor the platforms at successive stops. If she was on the train, she wouldn’t stay for long. Two stops, three at the most. The police weren’t fools—they would make the same assumptions he had. They would send alerts to down-line stations, review CCTV footage.
Slaton, however, had a head start on the police. If she was here, he would find her. And if he found her he would get answers. Most prominent: Who else wanted Zavier Baland dead? He edged toward the door and waited for the train to slow. He was beginning to catch his breath.
It would be an hour before Slaton discovered the rest of what had happened. Before he learned what he would have encountered had he gone out the front door of Le Quinze: DGSI director Claude Michelis splayed on the gray sidewalk, his lifeless eyes staring up at a snow-heavy sky.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Malika lurched into her flat cursing under her breath. She dropped her gun on the kitchen table and went straight to the bathroom. In front of the mirror she gingerly pulled her right arm through the sleeve of her coat. Blood covered the shirtsleeve underneath, and she removed that next. It was a new adventure in pain.
“Bastard!” she muttered. What was Baland thinking?
She’d never been seriously injured in any operation. Malika had stepped on nails in a warehouse along the Euphrates, and fallen through a rotted roof in Haditha. She’d a spent nearly a year in the worst killing fields on earth and come through virtually unscathed. Only to be shot in a Michelin Star restaurant in Paris!
Her shock kept spiraling, the physical and psychological trauma combining into something greater than their sum. The hand of her injured arm trembled, and two fingers had gone numb. Would that pass when the swelling receded? Or was it a handicap she would have to deal with for the rest of her life? She tried to raise her arm to the light for a better look, and a bolt of lightning seemed to strike her shoulder.
She slapped her good hand on the tiled wall.
For twenty minutes she did her best to clean the wound at the sink. Eventually, she could make out the bullet’s path—not a clean entry and exit wound, but a ragged tear in the flesh at the top of her outer arm. She tried to take solace that the bullet hadn’t struck anything vital, no bones shattered or arteries clipped. She at least wished it had been the other man who’d gotten the better of her, a trained assassin. That she might have expected. But it had been Baland—she’d seen it with her own eyes.
It seemed a blur at the time, but now she tried to replay the engagement. She had gotten off a full magazine, that much she knew. Had any of her rounds hit the Israeli? He’d lunged for cover at the outset, but apeared uninjured when she got a clean look at him half hidden behind an overturned table. Then, amazingly, in the moment when she was settling her sight and pulling the trigger, Baland had opened up on her. She’d been hit by his first shot, and it sent her reeling, altering the odds instantly. There had been no choice but to run.
She turned on her phone long enough to check for messages. There was nothing from Baland. She sure as hell was going to leave one. They’d agreed he would carry a gun, which was normal for a counterterrorism officer. They had guessed correctly that Slaton would make his attempt at Le Quinze, although being seated at Baland’s table was hardly the stealthy approach they’d expected. The plan had been for Malika to take Slaton first, then Michelis if possible. Somewhere in the melee, Baland was to have sent a few poorly aimed shots in her direction.
Their fluid plan had disintegrated quickly. Malika realized that Slaton was inside the restaurant, and Michelis, her secondary target, had not yet arrived. She’d done her best, but the kidon spotted her seconds too soon and found cover. How had it all gone so wrong? Thankfully, there had been one stroke of luck at the end—she’d nearly run over Michelis on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Two quick taps on the trigger, and utter failure gave way to half a victory.
She began to think more positively. Things had gone wildly afield, but Michelis was dead and she had not been captured. Or worse. She turned her phone back off, then went to the room’s only window and fingered aside the curtain. She saw nothing suspicious on the street below. Of course there was only one option: She had to keep out of sight and let the coming storm pass. She had just gunned down the director of DGSI and, as far as the French knew, also tried to kill his heir apparent.
Malika had done her best to avoid cameras on her approach to Le Quinze, but these days it was impossible to spot them all. The one-bedroom flat she’d booked the usual way, through a vacation-rental website—false name used and payment wired in advance, no face-to-face contact whatsoever. She ventured outside only when necessary, and typically on the back side of the clock, hoping to avoid encounters with neighbors. As far as she knew, she’d succeeded. Altogether, Malika decided there was no safer place than where she stood right now. She had enough food for a week, two if she went on a diet. The biggest complication—Slaton had escaped.
She went to her suitcase, retrieved gauze and surgical tape—at least she’d had that much foresight—and did her best to bandage the wound. She was able to stop the bleeding, but it hurt like hell.
Once again, her thoughts drifted to the man the world knew as Zavier Baland. He would be at headquarters by now, overseeing the search for an unknown female assailant.
“Idiot!”
With nothing to do but wait, Malika went to a drawer in the kitchenette and retrieved the papers Baland had left at the dead drop that morning. He’d even managed to screw that up, offering only a fraction of what he should have delivered. She was slack-jawed by his audacity, and at first suspected he was angling for money. Now, however, Malika wondered if there might be something more.
She sat at the table gingerly, and her foul mood began to dissipate. She’d spent an hour this morning trying to transfer Baland’s information. Now, with more time, she studied the pages in detail. What she saw was a list of prospective targets—and not just any list. It was a detailed itemization of Jewish interests in France—synagogues, community centers, businesses—and the vulnerabilities of each to attack.
Chadeh and his bunch would be tantalized, which was certainly Baland’s intent. Yet she suspected the isolation of Jewish targets would be lost on the leaders of ISIS. They hated the Jews, to be sure, but no more than they hated the world’s Christians or Buddhists. Probably less than the apostate Shi’a of Persia. So what then was Baland’s game?
Malika set the papers down, then got up and wandered back to the window. She once again pulled back the curtain, and very carefully looked up and down the street.
* * *
Slaton saw little more than a silhouette, and it disappeared after only a few
seconds. It was all he needed. He had successfully tracked the woman from Le Quinze.
He’d caught a glimpse of her getting off the train at the third stop, Monceau. He had recognized the bulky coat she should have gotten rid of, and even understood why she still wore it—to conceal the UMP underneath. Definitely not a pro. She walked too quickly once she got outside, and he saw by her gait that she was injured. He’d followed her two blocks from the station, and watched her enter the building now before him.
Slaton had checked his watch the instant she’d gone inside. After ninety-eight seconds, a light snapped on in a third-floor window. Ten seconds more than he would have estimated for the third floor, but well within tolerances. And probably further confirmation that she was injured. Since then, he’d twice seen her pull back the curtain to peer out at a gray afternoon. That was another mistake, although Slaton didn’t dwell on it. Amateur or not, she was committed. That counted for a great deal.
In a shadowed alcove he switched to a full mag on his Glock, then walked far enough away to be out of sight from the flat’s lone window. The neighborhood was residential, and on midafternoon there were only a few other people in sight. Slaton crossed the street and fell in behind a middle-aged woman carrying a shopping bag. As she neared the entrance, he hoped she would turn inside, but she passed the portico without slowing. Seconds later he saw that it didn’t matter—the gate giving access to the stairwell was chained open.
He climbed quickly to the third floor, the Glock in hand. There was no one else in the narrow corridor, and he approached the only door that correlated to the geometry he’d seen from the street. Number 14. Slaton backed to the wall next to the door and listened. He heard a few noises from within: a chair scraping across a wooden floor, uneven footsteps. Then a stifled cough, female and husky. Definitely the right flat.
He studied the door: two and a half meters tall, one wide, probably solid-core, with a lock that looked reasonably stout and a frame of average strength. Because it was Paris, there was likely at least one secondary lock on the inside. Altogether, an arrangement that might give way to one well-placed kick. Or one that could take five or even ten. Under some circumstances, not a problem. Very problematic, however, when one was engaging a machine pistol with a handgun.