by Ward Larsen
“Nicely done,” he said.
“The Syrian side of the border goes mostly to desert, so we decided staying off-road was to our advantage. I figure these are good for a twenty-mile penetration. If the retrieval is deeper than that, we might have to revisit the concept.”
Each of the ATVs had two seats, and the tactical math did not escape Slaton. Four of them, two people to extract—even if one of the ATVs had a mechanical failure or was damaged, everyone had a seat. It was exactly how he would have planned it.
He asked, “Have our border patrols been alerted to this op?”
“No,” answered Bloch. “In order to maintain secrecy, we’ve decided to wait and see which sectors will be in play. We’ll notify only those checkpoints that have a need to know, and even then at the last minute. We’ve coordinated with the IDF to cancel any roving patrols scheduled for our crossing window. You’ll have drones overhead for the entire mission, and the operators are already busy logging the current positions of Syrian border units. There hasn’t been much activity in recent months. The Golan is a relatively quiet frontier compared to the rest of Syria, and the government has cut patrols to a bare minimum.”
“Tunnels?” Slaton asked. He knew Hezbollah had dug extensive networks along the border with Lebanon.
“None that we know of—and we probably would know.”
Tal came out of the house and called Aaron inside, leaving Bloch and Slaton alone near the shed.
“Okay,” said Slaton, “so all we need now is someone to rescue. Which means a call from Baland.”
“It would appear so. Hopefully our man Uday has made his way south.”
They began walking back to the house. Halfway there, Slaton paused on the dirt path, and said, “I’ll catch up with you in a minute.”
Bloch kept going without question.
Slaton turned a lazy half circle, sensing again what had struck him earlier. Familiarity. The hills and dry air, the brush of a night breeze across scrubland. Sweet nocturnal scents that would soon be beaten into submission by the sun. At his feet were clumps of weeds he’d seen before, some native species he remembered pulling from vegetable gardens long ago.
The land around him wasn’t the only bit of déjà vu. The shed, the house, the hard men he’d just met—that was a homecoming of another kind. Sometime in the next twenty-four hours he would be part of a special-ops team crossing a very unfriendly border. It wasn’t what had been on his radar when he’d left Palawan.
Or was it?
How many times had he put the old ways behind him, only to find himself drawn back in? At some point he had to wonder if it was a fundamental flaw in his character. Some magnetism to that ferrous life built on adrenaline and danger, even violence. No, he argued internally, I’m not setting out to kill anyone tomorrow. I’m here to rescue a man with information that might save lives. Even Christine would approve of that.
That was what he told himself. Again and again.
He looked into the still-lit shed. Near the combat-rigged ATVs he saw a toddler’s tricycle, a happy Red Rover with an oversized front wheel. Next to that, a plastic Hula-Hoop and a ball. In years past he would have viewed such objects as no more than visual clutter. Now, gladly, he understood their importance. Perhaps all too clearly. The incompatibility of his two existences, which he’d hoped would lessen over time, seemed more distinct than ever.
Slaton drew deeply on the sweet-scented air. He went to the shed, jerked the cord to turn out the light, and dragged the big door shut. By the time he reached the house his thoughts had recoupled. Get this done, and in twenty-four hours he could be on his way back to join his family. And the more time he spent with them, he reasoned, the more places like this would become a distant memory.
* * *
There were four guards at the checkpoint, and even in the wash of the headlights Uday could discern long beards and dusty clothing. All were clad in black, and each man carried a rifle, although not in a threatening manner. They stared at the oncoming Toyota SUV as if it had arrived from outer space.
“What should we do?” Faisal asked. His hand was on the gearshift lever, the engine idling.
“Be calm,” instructed Uday. “Put your hands where they can be seen, and let me do the talking.”
The Toyota came to a stop, and one of the men approached the driver’s-side window with a flashlight in hand. The beam paused at Faisal’s open window, then shifted to the backseat and bounced back and forth between Uday and Sarah. The soldier’s face was dirty and scarred, and a sudden smile put a set of rotted teeth on display.
“Welcome, and God be praised. We expected you earlier.”
Uday felt Sarah’s stare, but ignored it. “We were delayed. You have what we require?”
The guard waved, and two of his companions approached. One was struggling under the weight of two jerry cans, and based on the effort he was expending they were certainly full. The other man carried a wicker basket.
“Faisal,” said Uday, “unlock your petrol door.”
Faisal’s left hand went down to the floorboard, and they all heard a faint clunk as the fuel door opened. The man carrying the cans unscrewed the cap and began fueling the Toyota.
The second guard came to the window. He pulled an expensive-looking phone from the basket and handed it through to Uday. He then provided three large water bottles, followed by a package of flatbread and carved meat. “You have done well,” said Uday. “It will not be forgotten. Tell me your names, brother.”
The man who seemed to be in charge spouted off four names, and Uday looked at him intently as if trying to remember them.
The leader said, “We have heard nothing from headquarters since your message—that was many hours ago.”
“I know,” Uday replied. “The Americans have once again blocked our radio and phone networks.”
“One day the crusaders will set foot in our caliphate … then we will teach them something.”
“The end of days is imminent, God willing.”
“Is there anything else you need?”
“No,” Uday replied. “And don’t bother calling for instructions. The network won’t be available until well after daybreak. You and your men should stand down for the night, get some rest.”
“They will be most grateful.”
The man doing the refueling finished, and he carried away the empty cans.
The leader waved his hand, and one of his men mounted the truck on the left, started it, and backed out of the road to create a passage.
Uday said, “We must continue south from here, toward Nawa. Do you have any information on government patrols?”
“Nawa?” the man repeated.
“I cannot discuss specifics, but trust me when I say our mission is a vital one. You know this area, and anything you can do to aid our safe passage would be a great help.”
“The government has been busy elsewhere in recent weeks. Hezbollah are staying close to Damascus. Whatever you do, keep to the roads—the Bedouin have been getting nasty, but they rarely leave the desert. I suggest Route 110, then after Bawidan there is a rough road. It will take you southwest to Nawa. This time of year it should be in good condition—your vehicle will have no trouble.”
Uday thanked the man, and implied that Chadeh himself would be informed of his helpfulness. Faisal soon had them under way, the Toyota’s headlights once again bouncing aimlessly over tawny desert scrub.
“That was very clever,” Sarah remarked.
“Clever means nothing until we are safe.”
“Still … I am impressed.”
“Until a few hours ago I headed the Institution for Public Information. You know what they say—information is power.”
Uday looked down and regarded the phone they’d given him. It was a satellite device—probably the only one the unit had been issued. He turned it on to find the battery fully charged. They really had made an effort. He quickly obtained a signal, and after a deep breath, Uday began typing numbe
rs. His finger hesitated over the green send button. He realized it was the middle of the night in Paris. His finger slipped away.
As tempting as it was, the call could wait. Uday wanted Zavier Baland to be wide awake when the final arrangements were made.
FORTY-TWO
For the balance of that morning, Baland guided the hunt for Malika from his old office in DGSI headquarters—decorum had never been a strong suit, but even he realized it would be poor form to appropriate Michelis’ suite before his funeral played out. Because it was a small room, analysts cycled in two at a time. Presently he was facing a captain from the national gendarmerie, who was the forensics lead at the flat in Monceau, and a woman from his own command center.
“Do we have any fingerprints yet?” Baland asked the evidence man from behind a desk that seemed suddenly inadequate.
“More than we’d like,” said the captain. “At least twenty discrete sets.”
Baland raised an eyebrow.
“The place has been rented out weekly for the last year, so it’s not really surprising. Based on the condition of the prints, and the fact that one set consistently overlays others on high-use surfaces—things like tap handles and doorknobs—we think we’ve distinguished the ones that belong to our suspect.”
“Let me guess,” Baland ventured. “They don’t match anything in our databases?”
“I’m afraid not, which seems inconceivable when one considers that we have fingerprints on two hundred and ten million people. We’re not sure how this woman arrived in France, but it obviously wasn’t through any official point of entry.”
“Are you suggesting she’s not one of our homegrown insurrectionists?”
The captain, who exuded the manner of a typical Parisian, did not answer right away. Baland knew that a great number of his countrymen, even those in the law-enforcement community, still grappled with the idea that sons and daughters of the republic could be every bit as violent as the hordes of refugees who’d been flooding in.
“We will cover every possibility,” the man finally said, “including that she could be an undocumented resident of France. A DNA analysis is ongoing—we should have the results soon.”
Baland steepled his hands under his chin. “The very fact that she left hair and blood evidence behind tells me she’s confident we won’t find a match. All the same, keep at it.” His head turned inquiringly to the woman from the command center. The beaten look on her face told Baland all he needed to know, but as acting director he felt compelled to go through the motions.
She said, “We checked the rental documents for the flat, but it’s a stone wall—everything was done online using untraceable funds. In the field we’ve had the usual sightings, but all have so far proved to be false leads. I expect that will continue until we get a better photograph of our assailant. We’ve interviewed at least a hundred taxi drivers, and checked CCTV footage from every public transportation hub within two kilometers of the flat. The woman has simply disappeared.”
Baland nodded thoughtfully, then gave his analysts the best pep talk he could muster. At the end, he said, “And make sure everyone understands that new leads are to be sent straight to me.” The tone of these last words was nothing less than a warning, and having installed that in their minds, he sent the two back to their respective grindstones.
Alone in his office, Baland leaned back in his chair. He clasped his hands behind his neck, stared up at the ceiling, and wondered how the hell he was going to find Malika. The first idea that came to mind was something near fantasy: He could slip quietly out of the building, walk across town to the next scheduled dead drop, and leave her a message. It could actually work, assuming she was still mobile and willing to venture outside. He could tell her he was sabotaging the search for her, and insist on a meeting. Unfortunately, she was very likely harboring reservations at that moment, due in no small part to the fact that he’d shot her during their last meeting. On top of that, he himself was frozen in place. He’d already been forced to explain to the head of DGSI internal security why he’d slipped out of his house last night, giving the lame excuse of “a little fresh air” to gloss over the truth—that he’d ditched his protection detail in order to rendezvous with an assassin.
He regretted not pressing Malika in previous meetings about who she associated with in Paris. Certainly there were others in her orbit, evidenced by five bodies recovered from the Grenoble attack. Too late, Baland realized he should have deployed a DGSI team to track her quietly. He had long considered it, but always discarded the idea, fearful of how Malika would react if she spotted any kind of surveillance.
He pushed away his recriminations, knowing they were only a distraction. Malika could be anywhere in France right now, injured and angry. She knew enough about Baland to ruin him.
And worst of all?
She might understand the direction in which his aim had been off at Le Quinze.
He was ruminating on it all when a call came through on his private phone. He didn’t recognize the number, and felt a surge of anticipation. He picked up and instantly recognized the voice of Aziz Uday.
* * *
At the same time that Baland was taking a call from Syria, a handful of other phones around France were making parallel connections.
In a shoe repair shop in the Reuilly, nestled comfortably along the Right Bank, the proprietor’s son listened in silence as his orders from Raqqa, expected for months, finally came through. He was to round up his partner and undertake an assault on a Jewish grocery store a short distance up the river. Far across town, an out-of-work waiter in Montparnasse was cashing his unemployment check when he received an encrypted text message: he was to activate the cell he commanded, assemble the suitcase bomb they’d been working on, and deliver it without delay to a nearby Jewish community center.
For the leadership of ISIS, the process was not without snags. When a burner phone in the glove box of a taxi in Toulon went unanswered, a backup recruit across town had to be contacted to get things moving. An aspiring martyr in Bordeaux, who they’d hoped would steer the cement truck he drove for work into a bagel shop, had changed his mind, or more accurately his religion, having taken up with a stunning Catholic girl in recent months. It was discovered that a cell leader in Caen had been sent to prison, a wrathful young man whose anger was no doubt cresting at that moment, but whose usefulness to the caliphate could only be banked.
In the end, however, Chadeh had his wish. Seven cells, each consisting of between two and six individuals, began preparing for assaults on targets across France. All were to take place in the coming forty-eight hours.
FORTY-THREE
With “what” and “how” settled, the Mossad team in the foothills of the Golan Heights waited through the predawn hours to finalize “where” and “when.” Bloch took the call they were waiting for at eleven thirty that morning. Everyone at the safe house stood watching as the former head of Mossad was briefed by Zavier Baland. The conversation lasted less than two minutes. Slaton had a vision of Baland on a balcony, or perhaps the roof of the DGSI building, doing his best to stay out of sight and talk in hushed tones. It was a testament to the circuitous nature of modern communications that Aziz Uday, the once-removed source of the information, was less than a two-hour drive from where they stood.
“So far so good,” said Bloch after ending the call. He walked to the kitchen table, which had been taken over by a large topographical map. The map was already peppered with information: borders had been highlighted, Syrian army outposts marked in red, and potential corridors of ingress and egress were charted like so many deep-water channels through treacherous shoals. “Our defectors expect to be in Nawa by dusk.”
Aaron cracked open a water bottle and set the cap on Nawa for reference.
“They plan to leave town on foot at midnight, and move due west,” Bloch continued. “By one o’clock tomorrow morning they should be at least two kilometers clear of Nawa, and from there they want to forward exact
coordinates by phone.”
“Phones can be tracked,” Aaron said. “We should prearrange a geographic point—an old barn or a derelict pump house.”
“We are not talking about professionals,” Bloch countered.
“We’ll make it work,” Slaton interjected.
Aaron asked, “Are we still extracting two subjects?”
“Yes, your primary objective is a man named Uday. We’ve also agreed to bring out a woman on his request.”
Aaron again. “Do we know why he included her in the deal?”
Slaton liked this question, and had been about to ask it himself. A relationship between the two might affect either’s behavior during the op.
“No,” said Bloch, “but we should assume she’s his girlfriend—he was quite insistent that she be included.”
“Nawa is twelve kilometers into Syria,” said Aaron, plotting on the map. “If we stage near the border, and run over open desert—it’ll take between twenty and thirty minutes to get there.”
Slaton said, “Maybe less if we can find goat trails or old army roads.”
“Army roads?” Tal inquired.
“When we kept the Golan Heights after the Six-Day War, the Syrian regime didn’t like it. For years afterward they ran military exercises up and down the border. It was no more than saber-rattling, but their corps of engineers put down a pretty extensive network of unimproved roads. They’re no longer maintained because the government has far bigger problems than Israel these days. But the roads are still there.”
Aaron said, “Point noted. Now that we know where we’re going, we should get fresh drone pictures. If any of these roads look clear and usable, we’ll take advantage.”
There was no dissent, and soon everyone had new assignments: Slaton and Aaron were responsible for mission planning, Bloch concentrated on intel, and Tal and Matai were assigned to equipment prep.