by Ward Larsen
Slaton considered the window in front. She checked it regularly. If he had the Covert in hand, he could set up shop across the street and finish things cleanly. As it was, it would take at least an hour to retrieve the rifle from across town and get in position. Where might she go in the meantime? A hospital, perhaps, if her injuries were life-threatening. She could leave to seek help from a friend, or even make a rash attempt to depart Paris. No, Slaton decided, he had her cornered now. He couldn’t lose that advantage.
As he stood with his back against the thin wall that separated him from a killer, the woman’s face was replaced by two others: out of nowhere he thought of Christine and Davy. Slaton closed his eyes. What the hell am I doing here? This is not my battle. In the silence of the hallway, his thoughts seemed to recalibrate, like a slate wiped clean. A new option came to mind—a plan more strategic than tactical in nature.
He moved silently to the stairs and stepped quickly down. He crossed the street once more, and took up a vantage point in the recessed entrance of a nameless rooming house. He pulled out his phone and placed a call.
* * *
Talia answered right away. “I saw what happened in Paris, David. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Before she could get out another word, he said, “I need to talk to Anton right away.”
Sixty seconds later Bloch was conferenced in on the call. Judging from the amount of static, Slaton guessed they were at different locations. He said, “Are you following what happened in Paris thirty minutes ago?”
“Yes,” replied Bloch, “in a general way.”
“Good. I want you to send two katsas from the embassy right away.” Slaton gave the Monceau address.
“David, nothing has changed. Whatever is occurring there, Mossad cannot be part of—”
“Everything has changed! Tell the director I’ve tracked down the assailant responsible for this latest attack. I’m standing outside her safe house as we speak.”
“What are your intentions?” Bloch asked guardedly.
“Not what they were five minutes ago. You, Nurin, and I need to talk. When he hears what I have to say, he will want to get involved.”
Bloch went silent.
“Anton, at the very least I’ve got a known terrorist cornered. It’s a street address that would be worth a lot to the French right now. Nurin will understand the value of that—just as you would have when you were in charge. All I’m asking for is a surveillance team to take over the watch.”
“All right, I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’ll be in touch after the surveillance team arrives.”
Bloch began to ask something else. Slaton ended the call.
* * *
Media outlets swarmed over the scene at Le Quinze. The latest battlefield in France’s undeclared war was quickly cordoned off, but distant video shots of the shattered dining area, bathed in rolling flashes of blue light, dominated television and smartphone screens across Europe.
Within the hour, the French minister of the interior, Jacques Roland, delivered an unprepared and emotional statement from a sidewalk near the on-site command center. In terse words he confirmed that DGSI director Claude Michelis had been gunned down in broad daylight, an obvious assassination. Another senior officer of the agency, the much-decorated Zavier Baland, had helped beat back the attack by returning fire and, according to several eyewitnesses, wounding the assailant.
Roland went on to vow that the cowardly attack would only backfire in the end. He assured the world that DGSI would spare no effort in finding the perpetrator, and hinted obliquely that France would be compelled to orchestrate strikes against any terrorist organization held responsible, and in the usual disproportionate manner. The death of the much-respected director would not go unanswered.
When Roland backed away from the microphone, the loudest question shouted was, “Who will take the place of Director Michelis?”
To that the minister looked into the sea of lights and cameras, and mouthed a one-word answer. Tomorrow.
TWENTY-NINE
The Mossad team from the embassy, a man and a woman, arrived thirty minutes later. Her name was Neumann, his Feld, and Slaton led them to a bicycle rack around the corner from the building in question.
There the katsas arranged themselves not in a triangle with Slaton, but three abreast on the sidewalk. It was a nuance that an untrained would never have noticed, but to Slaton spoke volumes. They had put him on the right, and Feld on the opposite side. If anything went wrong, Slaton had a 270-degree field of fire. Feld held down the same on the opposite side, and their arcs intersected for complete coverage. It had nothing to do with anyone’s marksmanship, nor who was in charge, but was simply a practical intersection of geometry and common sense. The kind of precaution that cost nothing, and once in a career might save someone’s life.
“There hasn’t been any change since I got here,” Slaton said. From where they stood all three could see the face of the building in question. Slaton pointed out the particular third-floor window. He otherwise didn’t tell them how to do their job. After some deliberation, he gave them the number he’d been using to contact Talia and Bloch. “If something comes up, don’t call the embassy and don’t call me—only this number.”
“All right,” said Neumann, who was acting as spokesperson. “Can you tell us who we’re watching?”
“I don’t have a name. It’s a woman, and as far as I know she’s alone. The good news is, I don’t think she’s going anywhere.”
“The bad news?”
“She’s dangerous, definitely armed, and wounded.”
The two Mossad officers exchanged a glance.
“I think you can expect an all-nighter,” Slaton added.
Without comment, Feld walked around the corner and disappeared. Neumann smiled amiably for the sake of anyone who might be watching, and said, “Don’t know who you are, but you really screwed up my plans tonight.”
“Sorry. But believe me when I say, I’ve been there.”
“I’m guessing you have.”
They talked for another minute, Slaton describing the inside of the building, as far as he knew it, and taking a few more happy barbs. Then Neumann leaned in and kissed him, first on one cheek, then the other—a French custom virtually mandatory for two friends parting on a residential street in the eighth arrondissement. She walked away jauntily and disappeared around the corner. Slaton went the other way.
He was half a block away when he turned back and looked over the scene. From where he stood neither katsa was in sight. His attention was drawn to another building, the one directly across the street from where their suspect was holed up. On appearances that block of apartments was a virtual mirror image of the one they were watching. His eyes held each window from the second floor up, and casually roamed the roofline. He studied angles and lines of sight from a number of those points to the window presently under surveillance. It hadn’t come to that—not yet—but he always liked to be prepared. After a minute, he still saw no sign of the two Mossad officers.
Slaton turned away and set out for his room in Courbevoie.
* * *
Slaton considered moving to a different hotel, but with no reason to believe his location had been compromised, he decided that the risks in moving—to include carrying a sniper rifle in a roller bag over Paris streets that were teeming with police—far outweighed any benefits.
From his rented bed he turned on the television and followed the coverage of the latest attack. A massive search for a lone female assailant had so far turned up nothing. Slaton happily saw no indication that he was being sought for questioning—he had been sitting next to Baland, who according to news reports was one of the assassin’s two presumptive targets. The other, of course, was DGSI director Michelis, who’d been shot dead outside the restaurant.
Here Slaton saw further warning flags.
He replayed everything in his mind. Baland’s incredible admission of being Ali Samir
’s twin, then his cool reaction to the attack. Moments before the woman appeared, Slaton remembered suggesting to Baland that his foresight in intelligence matters had verged on prophecy, implying rather obviously that he had a source. Baland had been considering a reply to that very question when he’d astutely picked out the shooter.
Slaton tapped a finger thoughtfully on the remote control in his hand. Finally, he pressed the mute button, turned on his phone, and placed the expected call to Tel Aviv. Talia answered on the first ring.
“Is the surveillance team in place?” she asked.
“Yes, they’re in position. Convey my thanks to the director for making that happen.”
Another three-way conference began when Bloch said, “Nurin allowed that much, but he is not happy with the risks you are taking.”
“Neither am I. When he finds out what I learned, though, I suspect he’ll run a new cost-benefit analysis.” Slaton covered his entire meeting with Baland, all the way to its inglorious end.
Bloch’s first remark was predictable. “Ali Samir had an identical twin?”
“It answers a lot of questions.”
“It also means Baland is not the traitor we thought.”
“Quite possibly—which makes me glad I didn’t shoot first and ask questions later.”
“What was your impression of him?”
“Initially he seemed surprised to see me, but once he realized who I was he didn’t seem overly concerned. It was almost as if he was expecting me.”
“Am I to take that as an accusation against Mossad?” said Bloch. “I can assure you, David, no one but the director, Talia, and me, knew of your plans.”
“No, that’s not what I’m suggesting. Talia, have there been any changes to his schedule in the last twenty-four hours?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve been watching closely. Baland canceled three appointments today. The only one he kept outside the DGSI building was Le Quinze. It seems fortuitous, does it not?”
“Very much so. And I see other curiosities.”
“Such as?” Bloch queried.
“So far I’m not being mentioned in the news reports of this attack. Baland knows who I am. Does it make sense that I show up for lunch, threaten him, and when all hell breaks loose he doesn’t even try to bring me in for questioning?”
“A valid point,” said Bloch. “What purpose could he have for keeping you in the shadows?”
“I don’t know. It’s not a stretch to say that Baland might have saved not only his own life, but mine as well. He spotted the attacker before I did, then wounded her before I could get off an accurate shot.”
Silence ran until Bloch said, “I will try to convince Nurin to look into this. If Samir did have a twin, as Baland says, then perhaps we can verify it.”
“How? You won’t find hospital records for that era in Gaza. Chances are, he was delivered by a midwife in his mother’s bedroom.”
“True. But there might be other ways.”
“All right, do what you can.”
“What will you do now?” Talia asked.
“I think Baland and I should pick up our conversation where it left off.”
“How could you get near him? He’ll have an armada of security.”
“I’m guessing he’d be willing to meet me again—it’s just a matter of arranging it with discretion.”
“Any ideas?”
“I’ll think of something on the fly.”
“All right,” said Bloch, “but remember—”
“I know,” Slaton cut in, “keep Mossad out of it.”
Talia filled the ensuing silence. “There’s one other thing we should consider.”
“What’s that?” Slaton asked.
“Director Michelis has been killed, and Baland is being credited with beating back the attack and wounding the assailant. Very soon, France will have to name a new leader of its counterterrorism force. I think we can safely say who it’s going to be.”
THIRTY
As both a participant in the recent mayhem and the overseer of the investigation into it, Baland knew the remainder of his day would be spent recounting his story. The first in line to hear it, no surprise, was Minister of the Interior Roland, who had abruptly ended a tête-à-tête with his British counterpart in response to the crisis. They met in Roland’s office.
“This is a terrible turn of events,” said a clearly shaken Roland. “Claude was a fine man.”
“I thought very highly of him,” Baland agreed.
“I don’t have to tell you, finding this attacker is our top priority. I’ve been told we’ve uncovered only one marginal clip from a camera in the Métro. Apparently her head was turned down at the critical moment. There’s been considerable internal speculation that this could be the same woman responsible for the bombing in Grenoble.”
“I’ve seen the clip,” said Baland. “The quality of the footage isn’t good in either case. It’s a neat and tidy concept, but in my mind no more than wishful thinking.”
“I suppose you’re right. Even so, I want your directorate to pursue every angle.”
Baland gave the minister a curious look. “You want my—”
Roland held up a hand. “Please, Zavier, don’t be coy.” He got up from his chair and lit a cigarette. Smoking was officially off-limits inside the headquarters building, but no one was going to challenge the minister in his own office. He moved tentatively behind his desk, and said, “Claude came to me only last week—in effect, he handed in his notice.”
Baland tried to look surprised, but in truth he’d sensed it for months—a weariness in Michelis, the vacant look in his eyes during staff meetings and the doodling in the margins of signed procurement requests. Perhaps it was the hopelessness of what he was being asked to do. “I hope you told him to reconsider,” he said, only realizing afterward how silly it sounded.
“Now … I wish I had. But honestly, I didn’t try to change his mind. I’ve felt for some time that DGSI is in need of new vigor, someone with fresh ideas. He put your name in for the job, Zavier. I’ll have to run it by the president, who isn’t bound by my recommendation, but there’s no one better. I think he’ll agree.”
“I’m honored,” said Baland. And he truly was.
“You can’t tell me you haven’t seen this coming. Aside from your stellar operational record … well, I can only be direct … you are a Frenchman with Algerian blood. You can mend fences in ways we’ve never had. I need that. France needs that. These troubles in the Arab world, thousands of miles away, are metastasizing into our society. We’ve got to put a stop to it, and you are uniquely qualified to take us in that direction. I assume you would accept the position if offered?”
“It would be my duty as a Frenchman.”
Roland smiled. “Very well. I will convey the word internally that you are today the interim chief of DGSI. It will take a few days to make things official. We should put together the usual change-of-command ceremony—I think Claude’s was on the terrace fronting the Place de la Concorde.”
Baland could only nod through his distraction.
Roland asked a few questions about the Le Quinze tragedy, and Baland might have answered them. Then, with a resolute grin, Roland ordered him back to work. Baland didn’t remember stepping onto the elevator, nor walking into the leaden afternoon outside the Interior Ministry.
He saw a car and two security men waiting at the curb—something he would have to endure from this point forward. The directorship had long been in the back of his mind, but its sudden arrival seemed disorienting. The question of how and when to tell Jacqueline the good news he sidestepped for the moment.
With his advancement imminent, there was a great deal to consider. He put aside Malika and her controllers in Raqqa, and also the French minister of the interior. In that moment, as he stepped across the broad sidewalk of Rue de Saussaies, one face dominated Baland’s thoughts: the kidon.
He slipped into the backseat of the car, and felt the smooth a
cceleration. At the first corner he cracked open the window and a cool breeze rushed inside. There were two unsmiling men in the front seat, and the one not driving glanced over his shoulder at the slightly open window. If he had security concerns, he kept them to himself.
Baland checked his phone and saw no messages from Malika, not that he would expect any on his government-issued line. There were, however, more than a dozen emails from the office. He slipped the phone back into his pocket without opening any of them. Baland felt increasingly caught between two worlds, and he desperately needed to reconcile that division. On one hand he was about to assume a great responsibility for the republic, a position he’d long viewed as the summit of his ambition. On the other he was funneling information to the very enemy he’d sworn to fight.
The enemy.
By the time the car pulled into the gated parking area at DGSI headquarters, Baland’s priorities had been well recalibrated. He opened the door, stepped over a puddle of slush on the curb, and strode into the building that would soon be his.
* * *
Darkness fell quickly, and in the deepening shadows the two Mossad katsas had settled into offset positions. They watched the window from widely different angles, and one had a view of the back of the building, which was the only other way out. They both noted the peculiarity at the same time.
“What was that?” the lead officer said quietly into her mic.
“I saw it too,” came the reply, “but I don’t know. I think that’s four times now.”
“I counted five.”
She decided it was a worthy development, and called the number she’d been given. A gravel-edged voice answered in Hebrew. Because it was a voice she’d never heard at the embassy, compounded by the slight delay in transmission, she reasoned she was talking to someone in Tel Aviv. The importance of their op advanced another notch on her mental ledger.