by Ward Larsen
His phone rang.
“I need to know more about the deal,” Nurin said breathlessly. “Baland wants us to give him Malika, but what exactly is he offering in return?”
“To begin, we get first crack at Uday. He told Baland he’s on his way south, toward the Golan Heights. The extraction will be up to us.”
“Golan?” Nurin remarked. “That is an unusual departure point from Syria.”
“Which is why it might be a smart play. I suspect he chose the southern route based on insider knowledge. The caliphate controls only a fraction of the territory it once did. He of all people would know the weaknesses in the perimeter. It’s good for us because we can bring him directly into Israel. Uday has done some groundwork for this escape. Before leaving Raqqa, he claims to have sabotaged the caliphate’s internal networks: command and control nodes, communications lines. That’s going to create a lot of confusion.”
“Once the leadership there realizes what he’s done, they’ll do anything to stop him.”
“I’m sure they will,” Slaton said. “Whoever takes possession of this database will have more information about ISIS than ISIS itself.”
“What is the timetable?”
“Uday is supposed to contact Baland tomorrow to finalize the details of his exfiltration.”
Nurin, ever the negotiator, said, “And if we agree to pull him out? What is our payback?”
“Two things. To begin, Baland insists that both Uday and the database, assuming it exists, must be delivered to him.”
Nurin protested, “Why would we assume such a risk only to—”
“There’s more,” Slaton interrupted, doing an about-face on the quiet street to avoid a busy intersection. “He allows that Mossad can copy the data. For many years now Israel has been perfectly happy to sit back and watch Hezbollah, Levant Front, Assad, and the rest beat one another to a pulp. But even if Israel doesn’t engage ISIS directly, the value of this database to her allies would be incalculable. The goodwill potential with the Americans alone could put relations in good stead for years.”
“Everything you say is true,” Nurin responded. “But how can we be sure this list even exists?”
“You can’t. But then, what are you really risking? If the database is real, you get a copy and then pass it on to Baland. France will have a list of terrorists to sweep up that will keep them busy for months. If it doesn’t exist, you’ll have the chief information officer of the Islamic State to interview for a day.”
Nurin didn’t respond right away, but Slaton could almost hear the directorial wheels turning. He finally said, “Does Baland really believe he can extract himself from this mess he’s found himself in?”
“If you put yourself in his position—it might be worth a shot. Malika is his biggest threat. If we give her to him, and if Uday can be safely retrieved with his information—I think the incoming director of DGSI might have a chance. Better yet, if he does survive, he’ll owe a tremendous debt to Mossad.”
The silence on the phone told Slaton he’d convinced Nurin. Now he had to convince himself. “But there is one problem,” he added.
“What?” Nurin asked.
“Baland’s second request—he wants me to bring Uday in. I extract him from Syria and accompany him back to France.”
“Why you?”
It was a question Slaton had already asked himself. “I don’t know. And I don’t like it.”
“I can understand your suspicion. You killed the man’s brother, and now he wants to put you in harm’s way.”
“That’s pretty much how I see it.”
“Then I must know … are you a volunteer for this mission?”
Once again, it was something Slaton had been debating. A police car approached along the narrow street, its tires hissing over asphalt wet from recent showers. The car never slowed, and the sound dissipated behind him.
On his long flight from the Pacific, Slaton had considered a great many scenarios, wondering what might lie ahead. Rescuing AWOL Islamic State leaders from Syria had not been among them. Christine would tell him to drop the whole affair and come home, if an Antares catamaran in the South Seas could be referred to as such. In the end, Slaton relented. The information Uday claimed to be carrying could deal a crushing blow to ISIS. Which meant it could save thousands of lives. His hands were tied every bit as much as Director Nurin’s. Not for the first time, Slaton found himself dragged into someone else’s battle—but a battle he could not avoid in good conscience.
“Arrange for a jet,” Slaton said. “I’ll be at Le Bourget within the hour.”
* * *
When the call ended on the Tel Aviv end, Nurin looked at Bloch, who’d been listening in. He said, “How many ways can this all go wrong?”
“I can think of at least a dozen.”
Nurin sent the phone he’d been using spinning across a table. “This is all your fault, Anton.”
“If you like.”
“Unfortunately, the potential positives far outweigh the risks. There was no choice.”
“None at all. How will you convince the foreign minister to not call his French counterpart?”
“I’ll have to go over his head.”
“Yes,” Bloch agreed, “I suppose it’s the only way.” He then changed course. “Slaton is going to need support.”
“He’ll have it.”
“Have you heard anything more from Gaza?”
“You mean our search for evidence to support this mad idea that Baland and Ali Samir are twins?”
Bloch nodded.
“We’ve only had half a day, but we were able to locate the mother. She lives with her sister and is suffering from advanced dementia. Approaching her would be awkward, to say the least, and I doubt she could tell us much. We looked through the official records for the period, such as they are, but there was nothing useful. Given what we know so far … I’d have to say Baland’s story is plausible. Malika is Ali Samir’s daughter. Baland grew up in France, and he’s being blackmailed because of the connection. It all fits perfectly.”
Bloch remained silent.
“You think otherwise,” Nurin suggested.
“Not necessarily. The facts as we know them fit well. On the other hand, I think we should make every effort to get to the bottom of it.”
“What do you suggest?”
“If there is any useful information, it might not be in Gaza. I think there is one place we haven’t looked.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
That France could not track down a lone female assassin in Paris was an embarrassment to the gendarmerie, a flash point for elected officials, and a source of consternation to the media. On receiving one text message from an unknown number, containing a simple street address, Baland found himself in a position to earn the admiration of them all.
As acting director of DGSI, he had considerable latitude in planning the raid on the flat in Monceau. For a target already proved to be dangerous, the standard response would have been to call in a highly trained tactical team from the national gendarmerie. That, however, would cede control of the outcome, something Baland could not allow. If his judgment was later questioned, he would say time was of the essence, and that they were dealing with but a lone female terrorist.
He commandeered a squad of six well-armed DGSI men, a unit gearing up for an unrelated raid on a Saint-Ouen drug den, and in two unmarked vans they sped through the night toward Monceau. They parked a block away, well out of sight, and Baland ordered his team to wait while he rendezvoused with the lead Mossad officer behind the walls of an adjacent building. The woman had been expecting him, and she assured DGSI’s senior officer that the place had been quiet since early evening. Baland thanked her for her help, then asked her to withdraw her surveillance unit.
He dispatched two members of his own squad to reconnoiter the building. They reached the same conclusions the Israelis had. There were two ways into the apartment: the main entrance in front, and a laddered fire escape i
n back that spanned all three floors. Baland separated one man and ordered him to stand watch at the fire escape, then disappointed him further by seizing his Heckler & Koch UMP submachine gun in exchange for his own more limited 9mm Sig Sauer.
Baland led the raiding party to the third-floor hallway, and when everyone agreed they had identified the right room, the team listened for a full two minutes. Hearing nothing, he signaled the go-ahead, and a man dressed in body armor came forward with a battering ram.
Baland was first through the breach, UMP at the ready. The tension of the moment was quick-lived, and not a shot was fired. The reasons were all too obvious, yet as a matter of procedure the flat was cleared. Within sixty seconds everyone stood at ease with their weapons at their sides. The worn furniture around them and tattered carpet under their feet went completely unnoticed, as did a vaguely sour smell that seemed infused into the air.
With his team beside him, Baland stood dumbfounded, looking helplessly at a ladder in the middle of the room. Eight feet above, at the top-floor unit’s ceiling, he saw the cutout frame of a skylight. Or at least where a skylight had once been. The plastic dome had been neatly removed, leaving Baland staring helplessly at a star-filled night sky.
* * *
The Israeli Air Force flies hundreds of jets, and the country’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs keeps a small airline of its own. Unfortunately, none of those aircraft were in Paris on that cold February night, so when Slaton arrived at Le Bourget Airport it was with instructions to proceed to a fixed-base operator on the east side of the airfield where a chartered Gulfstream was waiting.
The required formalities were undertaken in the flight department lounge. Slaton showed his forged passport to a young woman who’d been expecting him, signed two cursory documents, and without further ritual was led through a set of doors. Fifty yards of red carpet runner later he ascended the stairs of a sleek business jet. Every facet of the experience was smooth and well-practiced, and thirteen minutes after arriving at the FBO, Slaton was airborne. He sat alone in an oversized leather chair, six others going empty around him. Aside from two pilots on the flight deck, there was but one other person on board, a pleasant flight attendant who showed a keen interest in his wine preference.
It all required a mental shifting of gears, but that was something Slaton had grown accustomed to over the years. How many times had he surveilled a bomber’s den by day, then spent an evening tipping cocktails with diplomats on an embassy terrace? Mirroring his thoughts of two days ago, he wished there were some way to share these better moments with Christine and Davy.
“A Bordeaux perhaps?” the young woman asked, interrupting his musings.
It took no more than a smile, and the stemware on the teak table beside him came half full.
“How long is the flight to Tel Aviv?” he asked
“Three hours and fifty-two minutes,” replied the flight attendant, who was certainly French, and who’d introduced herself as Nicolette.
“That’s very precise.”
“Our clientele generally appreciate attention to detail.”
“I assure you, none more than I do.”
Ten minutes later Nicolette delivered a worthy Chateaubriand to go with his Bordeaux. She made an attempt at conversation, but he clearly had a lot on his mind, and she tactfully retreated behind the curtain of her galley. Slaton put the steak under his knife thinking about Aziz Uday and Zavier Baland and ISIS databases, but by the time he was done, with the lights of the Côte d’Azur passing beneath the wing, he had pushed it all aside. Nicolette removed his empty plate, and he looked down at the void that was the Mediterranean.
Slaton wondered what the best season was for cruising these waters. Fall, he guessed, after the human tide of August had receded, but before the Scandinavians came running from winter. October, perhaps. Eight months from now. He conjured a map in his mind and plotted a tentative passage from the Philippines. A run through the Malacca Strait, to begin, then across the southern Bay of Bengal. A watchful approach through the Red Sea and Suez Canal. Then, finally … the sleepy Mediterranean in all its warmth and red-tiled charm.
Eight months.
Slaton reclined in the chair, and minutes later was sound asleep. It was not a consequence of the heavy meal or the wine, nor even the high cabin altitude. By resting now, he was preparing for the next day—a day, he was sure, that would put him in far less civilized conditions.
* * *
Anisa took control in the besieged Raqqa mosque that same night. Her first orders reflected a slight inversion of Chadeh’s instructions. They had to get a functional communications network up and running. Only when that was done could frontline units be instructed to search for Aziz Uday.
The first application to regain usefulness was an old version of FireChat, a wireless mesh network that required no internet connections. The messaging system was cumbersome and slow, and had gone unused for months, which was probably why it had been left untouched in the system-wide meltdown—what she increasingly saw as an act of sabotage by Uday.
Unfortunately, FireChat did not reach beyond Raqqa. If Uday had indeed run, he was likely farther afield. Anisa decided to employ one of their little-used high-power radios from the tallest rooftop in town. The German-made units were reliable, but came with one serious drawback—they acted like an electronic beacon to the eavesdroppers in the sky.
For a time Anisa was happy she’d been put in charge of things, but that sense of empowerment ebbed when Chadeh arrived and began watching her every move. The caliphate’s military chief was still seething, and he paced from one workstation to another—helpless to act himself, and not realizing the distraction his glowering presence was creating. Even less helpful were the four men dressed in black he’d brought along, all heavily armed and standing by the door.
And so it was, when the first useful information arrived, Anisa felt a massive wave of relief. A technician at the back of the room—a woman, she noted proudly—announced, “I have a message from the checkpoint near Suluk! They say Uday was seen running through the village. A squad is searching for him now.”
Chadeh ordered superfluously, “Tell them to find him! Stop at nothing!” He rushed to his security detail and whispered sharp instructions. Two of the men disappeared, sprinting out the door. Anisa was sure they’d been told to round up a battalion and join the hunt in Suluk, which was north of Raqqa near the dangerous Turkish border.
Everyone waited nervously for the next ten minutes, at which point another technician said, “I have another sighting.…” A long pause, then, “It’s in Hajin.”
This brought pause. Hajin was east, almost to the old Iraqi border.
A confused Chadeh hovered behind the young man. “One of them must be mistaken,” he said. This time he shouted his orders for everyone to hear, and one of the guards at the door ran off, having been dispatched to assemble a squad and get to Hajin as quickly as possible.
Anisa fired off a message to Suluk asking for an update. Strangely, she got a reply almost immediately. SEARCH STILL IN PROGRESS.
For fifteen minutes everyone waited. Then a third sighting was reported, this by an oil field security detachment outside Dayr az Zawr. Chadeh looked at the lone guard remaining at the door. He did not send the man running. Every spare soldier in Raqqa was already en route to the first two sightings.
Anisa felt an uneasy squirm in her gut. She sent a request for updates to both Suluk and Hajin. The replies were immediate and identical. SEARCH STILL IN PROGRESS.
Her innards went to full-blown seizure. Uday … he has done this. She sat frozen in place, a burqa-clad statue, as she wondered how to tell Chadeh they were busy chasing ghosts.
THIRTY-NINE
Uday and Sarah were, at that moment, in the backseat of his brother Faisal’s road-beaten Toyota Land Cruiser. The SUV had once been registered as a cab, in a time when people had money in their pockets and places to go, and Faisal kept his lighted taxi sign in the trunk and an expired p
ermit sticker in the window on the odd chance he could make a few dollars. The license plate had expired too, but it was one of the few positives of living in Syria these days that things like vehicle registrations and licenses were universally ignored.
The roads south of Raqqa were in abysmal condition: a lack of upkeep, heavy military convoys, and the odd roadside bomb had conspired to turn remote highways into ribbons of black rubble. The Toyota’s headlights bounced an uneven path through the pitch-black desert. They’d advanced ninety miles in four hours, which Faisal claimed as a victory, and were now pressing deep into the lawless expanses of what had once been the Homs Governorate of Syria. On the far horizon Uday saw a group of small buildings, a few with windows glowing dimly from whatever fuel sources remained: oil lamps, generators, candles.
Faisal slowed further as the road degraded to little more than a camel path through the desert. The chassis groaned on every pothole, and he muttered complaints about the damage being done to his longtime means of employment. Uday was silently pleased. His rushed research had so far proved accurate—they’d not encountered a single checkpoint since leaving Raqqa.
“What is that?” Sarah asked, pointing ahead.
Everyone went rigid as two massive shadows materialized out of the night. They were just off the roadbed fifty yards ahead, twin mechanical goliaths. Soon the figures resolved in the headlights, and they all stared at the bizarre sight—in the middle of the open desert, a pair of huge bulldozers.
“At least they are working on the roads,” said Faisal.
“No,” Uday said, having the benefit of insider knowledge. He remembered requisitioning parts for these very machines—and he knew precisely why they were here. “The caliphate does not use such equipment to build. Remember, we are near Palmyra.”
Palmyra. There was no need to say more.