by Ward Larsen
“We saw something strange,” she said. “There’s dim background light in the apartment, but we’ve started to see occasional strobes … maybe one every minute for the last five minutes.”
“Like the flash of a camera?” asked the heavy voice from Israel.
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Is it ongoing?”
After a pause, the katsa said, “Yes, I just saw another one.”
“Have you detected anyone else in the place?”
“Can’t say for sure without equipment to look through the walls. But if I were to guess, I’d say no. It’s just the woman.”
“All right. Keep watching. And we definitely need to know if she leaves.”
“If she does, do we follow her?”
A hesitation. “I don’t think she has anywhere to go. But yes, if she leaves, stay with her. And be ready—this may be a long night.”
THIRTY-ONE
Uday walked purposefully through a maze of darkened buildings. He had received his instructions from an agitated Chadeh two hours earlier: Drop everything and find out what had happened in Paris that afternoon. In particular, the council wanted to know if Malika was involved.
Uday had immediately tried to contact her, but got no response. That hand tied behind his back, he did his best to research things, all along wondering why Chadeh was so concerned. Was he worried that their link to Argu had been compromised? Could the late Director Michelis have possibly been Argu? No, Uday thought dismissively. The notion that ISIS might have the director of DGSI in their pocket was unimaginable. Whatever the crisis was, he would learn soon enough.
The building chosen for the meeting had once been a primary school. No child had set foot in the place for years, yet the playground remained intact, and children were encouraged to use it during daylight hours to maintain the image. The school’s largest room had seen varied uses over the course of “liberation.” For two months it had served as a clinic, then a pullback on the western front caused the staff and patients to be summarily kicked out, and within twenty-four hours it was stocked from floor to ceiling with ammunition and explosives. Once the arsenal became depleted, and as the heathen Kurds came closer, the building was transformed into an ad hoc mess hall for fighters. Then the Kurds had been pushed back a bit, and the food moved closer to the front lines. Tonight, in a fleeting session, the school would find a new use: it would become the seat of the government itself.
Chadeh was waiting expectantly when Uday arrived.
“What news do you have from Paris?” asked the senior man impatiently. He was seated on an ornate carpet atop what looked like a small stage, the kind of platform from which children might present a school play. On the wall behind Chadeh were colorful flowers cut from construction paper, each bearing a child’s name. Above them all an outsized poster of the caliph, his finger raised in admonition, glowered down on everyone. Chadeh was bracketed by two men who Uday thought looked vaguely familiar. Had he been more of a politician within the organization, he would have asked for an introduction. As it was … the sooner he imparted what he knew, the sooner he could leave.
He said, “According to news reports, DGSI director Michelis has been shot dead by a female assailant. She also made an attempt on another high-ranking officer of the agency.”
“Which one?”
Uday checked his notes. “His name is Zavier Baland.”
“And Baland was not harmed?”
Uday hesitated only slightly. “No, he was untouched. Apparently he returned fire and wounded the attacker.”
“Could it have been Malika?”
“The national police have only released a general description. But based on that … yes, it could very well have been her. I tried to contact Malika, as you requested, but she’s not responding. If she was the attacker, then she’s injured … or possibly worse.” He watched an exchange of glances between the men on the carpet, then asked with an even voice, “May I ask why this is so important?”
After a hushed conversation, Chadeh said, “As you know, Malika has been running an agent named Argu for some time. She has never told us his identity, but we suspect it may be Zavier Baland … the man who shot her today.”
Uday cocked his head, trying to contain his astonishment. “I see. Yes, a relationship like that—it would increase the odds that she was involved.”
“There can be no doubt!” one of the other men said acidly.
“Do we have any idea why this has occurred?” Uday asked.
Chadeh frowned, a barely discernible expression amid his wild beard. “That is the question we have all been asking. Allowing that it was Malika, by every account she was the instigator of the attack. Yet she has been running Argu very successfully as an agent. It makes no sense that she would destroy such a valuable asset.” After a pause, he said reflectively, “I fear Baland’s actions make far more sense—he tried to kill the woman who coerced him into becoming an agent.”
Uday, who was not prone to thoughts of conspiracy, was surprised by what came to mind. “It is being suggested in news reports that Baland might succeed Michelis as director. As things stand, Michelis is dead, and you’re telling me that Argu is in our pocket. Aside from Malika being injured, is this not an ideal outcome?”
“What are you suggesting? That Malika and Baland conspired in this attack?”
Uday shrugged. “I think we should keep a favorable view. Methods aside, the result seems ideal. Baland is more a hero than ever, and his upward path is clear. The only complication I see involves Malika herself. She is in a perilous position. Assuming she survived, if she were to be captured by the French authorities … I dare say she knows enough to destroy Argu. Does she work with anyone else in France, any of our established cells who might render aid?”
“No. Malika only involves others when it suits her. She prefers to operate alone, and does as she wishes. The few times I have tried to steer her…” Chadeh left the rest unsaid, then unleashed a string of muttered expletives. “It is always the way with these insolent Palestinians!”
The man to Chadeh’s right whispered something in his ear, and the chief of the Emni nodded. “You make a good point.” He locked his gaze on Uday. “As God will have it, we may or may not be able to reach Malika. As you say, there is a chance she will be captured by the police. We must establish a method of contacting Argu directly.”
Uday could barely contain himself. “Actually, I only recently instructed Malika to do precisely that … it seemed a wise precaution. She has given Argu a single-use phone in case of emergency.”
For the first time ever, Uday was sure he saw Chadeh smile. “God be praised! Once again, you prove yourself worthy, Aziz.”
Uday said nothing. A reaction probably mistaken for humbleness.
“The time to use it is upon us. You can call Argu directly?”
“Yes—although I doubt he will answer. He surely keeps the phone in a secure place. We will have to wait for him to return our call—it could be a matter of hours, even days.”
“Very well. If we don’t hear from Malika by tomorrow morning, you must try to reach Argu. We need to hear his version of events, and establish a more permanent method of contact. Be sure he understands his position. He has long been in Malika’s grasp, but that control may be lost. You must convince him we have detailed records of the intelligence he has provided—enough that there can be no escape.”
Knowing the state of the caliphate’s recordkeeping, Uday doubted this was true. Indeed, Argu’s very identity remained a matter of some speculation.
“Also,” Chadeh continued, “if Malika has survived, order Argu to do what he can to keep her from being arrested. It would be in everyone’s best interest.”
“Of course,” said Uday.
The three men across from him engaged in a whispered discussion, leaving Uday to his private thoughts. In an increasingly common exercise, he tried to push them away. Across the room he heard snippets about God’s will and pra
yer, what seemed compulsory expressions when these men met. There might have been a time, very long ago, when it was authentic. Cursed by a Western education, Uday recognized the group before him all too well from his studies of history. These were men whose true faith had lapsed and mutated, ending in self-aggrandizement. Men who’d become gods unto themselves.
Chadeh dismissed him, and Uday walked outside.
The desert air was like freedom itself. The muscles in his back and neck were clenched, only in part from sitting behind a keyboard all day. As he struck out toward the mosque he referred to as his office, the seditious thoughts invaded again. They were recurring with greater frequency, building each day, planks added to a fast-rising lifeboat that would carry only two people—him and Sarah.
The latest revelation only served as fuel: He and Malika had together been the conduit for all communications with Argu. Now, with Malika at least temporarily out of the picture, Uday was alone. For what might be a very brief window, he was the Islamic State’s sole link to its most important agent. A man who was clearly being blackmailed for information. And a man who would soon be the most important law-enforcement officer in the Republic of France.
THIRTY-TWO
“I don’t like this,” grumbled Mossad director Raymond Nurin. “I don’t like any of it.”
The debate between Anton Bloch and his successor was a long and spirited one. Nurin had made the crosstown trip to the condo where Bloch and Talia were set up, and with the cool Mediterranean night as a backdrop, the two men diverted their conversation to the balcony. For her part, Talia was happy to adjourn to the communications room.
It was not an overstatement to say that the future of Franco-Israeli relations was at stake. The French had suffered yet another terrorist attack today, and a former Mossad assassin who had inserted himself into things, with Mossad’s knowledge if not their endorsement, had apparently tracked the perpetrator to a room in Monceau. For Nurin it was a veritable minefield.
“How sure is Slaton that it’s really the attacker in this apartment?” he asked.
“Not one hundred percent,” Bloch allowed, “but very close to it.”
“Have either of the embassy katsas seen her since taking up watch?”
“They’ve spotted a woman at the window twice, but they have no reference from which to make an ID. Slaton is the only one who’s had a good look at her.”
Nurin put both hands on the balcony rail, one of them holding a half-spent cigarette. This was a new vice, as far as Bloch knew, and he wrote it off as a response to the stress of the job. He’d never taken up the habit himself, and it seemed a victory of sorts.
A gust of wind swept in from the sea as Nurin asked, “Do we have any idea who she is?”
“None at all. I made a few discreet inquiries, and I’m convinced the French don’t know either. There’s speculation it could be the woman from the Grenoble attack, but it’s nothing more than that.”
“And now it appears she’s using a flash to take pictures?”
“It’s been ongoing for the last hour, strobes that are spaced as if she was photographing … something.”
“Documents.”
“Most likely.”
“She’s transmitting them.”
Bloch nearly smiled. The two men were quite different physically—Nurin being the human equivalent of a blank sheet of paper—yet their minds seemed to process in parallel. Maybe it comes with the job, he thought, before saying, “I had a word with Talia about that. She confirmed that to intercept the images would be technically feasible. We could be talking about a landline, Wi-Fi, or a cell signal, but any of those can be captured. The problem is, this woman has been at it for hours.”
“Most of her work is already done,” Nurin said, completing the thought.
“In all probability. As you know, intercepting signals is a considerable commitment of time and hardware—not the kind of thing we can put together on a moment’s notice, particularly on foreign soil.”
“So she killed Michelis, tried to kill his successor, then goes back to her safe house, apparently wounded, and begins photographing and sending documents?”
“All measures of conjecture,” Bloch allowed, “but yes, that seems to be the case. The question is, what do we do about it?”
“Can there be any question?”
“No, I suppose not. We have to tell the French what we know … by whatever means reflects most kindly upon us.”
“And therein lies the problem.”
“Agreed,” said Bloch. “How can we explain that one of our retired assassins just happened to be having lunch with Baland when the shooting broke out, and that he followed this attacker to her safe house?”
“We could tell them where she is without any explanation.”
“And they’ll raid the place,” Bloch said. “But tomorrow, or perhaps the next day—”
Nurin’s eyes went skyward. “They’ll want to know where our information came from. Without a good answer, Mossad falls under suspicion.”
“And not without cause. We did know Slaton was going after Baland, and…” Bloch hesitated. “I should tell you there was a small measure of assistance.”
“Assistance?”
Bloch saw no need to mention the phone or the cash he’d given Slaton, which seemed inconsequential. But his more serious transgression had to be confessed. “Slaton said he might require a weapon or two. I have an old contact who works out of the Paris office.”
Nurin’s head sank low, until it looked like he was inspecting the rail. “You arranged weapons for him without my consent?”
“Yes.”
“And they were delivered using embassy assets?”
“I can assure you it was done discreetly, and the weapons are entirely untraceable.”
The director dropped the butt of his cigarette and put a toe to it. He pushed out a long sigh that drifted from the ninth-floor balcony into the night sky. “Is that all?”
“I think it’s enough.”
“Where is Slaton now?”
“He said he was going to try to reach Baland.”
“Reach? As in—”
“Talk to him,” assured Bloch.
“Why does that not infuse me with confidence?” Nurin replied snarkily, his lips looking as if they’d bit into a lemon. “Slaton has put us in a terrible position.”
“Has he? I think he’s done us a great service. The incoming director of DGSI is the secret twin of a long-thought-dispatched and very violent terrorist. I see a great deal of potential in that.”
“And a great deal of risk,” Nurin countered.
“I admit, it’s a difficult call.” Bloch pivoted to go back inside. “I’m glad it’s not mine to make.”
* * *
The large man named Didier was attentive as he stood on the sidewalk in front of Zavier Baland’s home. He did not return nods to passersby, and watched every car that came up the street, although there was little traffic at this hour. It never escaped his notice when lights came on in the windows across the street, or when raised voices broke the silence, nor was he distracted by the smell of fresh bread from the house behind him. Having been on duty for three hours, he remained alert, disciplined, and kept his eyes moving in a full 360-degree swing. On this night, as it turned out, that wasn’t quite enough.
He heard it before he saw the source—a high-pitched whirring noise that reminded him of the robotic vacuum cleaner he’d given his wife for Christmas. The sound was definitely getting louder, closer, yet in spite of his alertness, he saw nothing on the friendly sidewalks around him. Then he looked up, and there was a flash of movement before something struck him on the head.
Didier recoiled, and his hand went instinctively to his sidearm. Everything settled, and he saw what had hit him. It was hovering at eye level only a few feet away. He knew perfectly well what he was looking at—they’d had no end of briefings on the things.
“One, Three,” he said into his microphone. Didier was
part of a four-man surveillance team. There was one man in the alley behind Baland’s house, and the two senior officers were in a white-paneled van fifty meters up the street, staying warm while they monitored the feeds from a pair of cameras.
“Go ahead, Three,” said the team leader.
“I’ve got a—” Didier’s words were cut off when the tiny craft jerked to one side. Having had enough, he took a quick step forward and swatted it out of the air like a huge mosquito. It tumbled to the pavement in a clatter of lightweight mechanization, ending near one of Zavier Baland’s wintering rosebushes. “I’ve got a drone,” he finished. “The damned thing hit me.”
“Is it a threat?”
Didier looked at it. The drone was the size of a Frisbee, and probably weighed less than a can of soda. He knew that far bigger models were available, large enough to carry cameras, fireworks, even riot-inducing banners. Some could ostensibly be modified to carry handguns or small explosive charges, although nobody had crossed that line yet in France. The techs in the office loved their what-if scenarios.
“No, there’s no threat. It’s a really small one—probably a kid somewhere.” Didier scanned the sidewalks and nearby windows for a teen with a controller in his hands. The only person in sight was an old woman walking a schnauzer. The propellers on the drone had gone still, but a tiny green light shone brightly in the center. His training kicked in, and he looked up and down the street, then at the house behind him, thinking, What better distraction? He saw nothing suspicious.
“I’ll come take a look,” said the team leader over the comm link.
Two houses away the back door of the unmarked van swung open, and an athletic man jumped out. He came next to Didier and looked down at the drone.
“Looks harmless enough.”
“The damned thing hit me,” Didier said a second time. He rubbed the spot on his scalp where it had made contact, but felt no marks.
The leader went closer and poked the drone with the toe of his boot. When he did, both men saw what they hadn’t before: Attached to the underside by a metal clip was a folded piece of paper. They exchanged a look, and the leader removed the paper. Holding it by its edges, he carefully unfolded it. In the wash of a streetlight both men saw a message in handwritten English: