Assassin's Code

by Ward Larsen

  Slaton held it out as if it were a stick of dynamite.

  Bloch took it in hand very much the same way.

  FIFTY-ONE

  With the strike orders from Raqqa disseminated, pockets of activity took place across France.

  A cell of three students in Toulon, who’d been given a suicide vest months ago along with two semiautomatic weapons, arranged to meet by simple text message. In the corner of a charming café they sipped their last espresso before Paradise and discussed how best to attack the headquarters of a popular Jewish newspaper. A pair of unemployed cousins from Paris’ eighteenth arrondissement cloistered themselves in their grandmother’s basement, where they retrieved and loaded two hidden handguns for an attack on a kosher grocery store. The best technicians of the bunch, a crew of four North Africans who’d been schooled by an expert on how to cook explosives and build a truck bomb, coordinated among themselves by coded phrases via e-mail. Having stockpiled material for over a year as they waited their chance, their orders were to destroy the largest synagogue in Lille.

  After considerable trial and error, all seven of Chadeh’s groups made final preparations before assaulting their assigned targets. In a mélange of hastily produced suicide videos, magazine loading, and prayer, all set about their duties in earnest, this a consequence of the closing words of their directive from Raqqa: It would please God most if they could expedite their martyrdom.

  * * *

  Slaton didn’t let Uday and Sarah out of his sight. As detainees went they were cooperative, even eager, delighted to give everything they knew about the Islamic State. Director Nurin conceded reluctantly that the pair had to be surrendered to France, but his instructions were clear: Mossad was to make the most of every second the two were in hand.

  A pair of senior Mossad interrogators arrived at the safe house and began interviewing Uday and Sarah separately. With considerable foresight, the man talking to Uday supplied an aerial photograph of Raqqa, along with a black Sharpie, and for nearly an hour the former head of the Islamic State Institution for Public Information circled points of interest—meeting places, safe houses, and the mosque where ISIS’ computers were at that moment housed—like a tourist planning a holiday.

  Liking how things were going, Mossad took its time feeding and clothing their two guests. That leisurely pace ended when a new message from Nurin arrived: Baland had been advised of the mission’s success, and was impatient to get Uday and Sarah on French soil.

  Bloch copied the flash drive before giving it back to Uday, and transport was arranged to Palmachim Air Base. During the drive, Slaton took a call from Nurin, who explained how he wanted things handled. Slaton would accompany their charges back to Paris, and deliver them to Baland with a message. After that, Slaton’s involvement in the affair would be at an end. With more than a few doubts, Slaton acquiesced.

  When no more excuses could be manufactured, the same Gulfstream that had brought Slaton from Paris departed on the reciprocal journey. Not surprisingly, they were still in the company of Nurin’s interrogators. Under Slaton’s watchful eye, the gentle inquisition was kept alive on the flight to Paris, until an exhausted Uday fell asleep somewhere over Italy. This was not unexpected, and as Uday got his first rest in days, the pilot was quietly asked by one of the Mossad men to take a brief tour of Spain, adding another two hours to the journey in the hope that their interviews might carry on just a bit longer.

  * * *

  As the Gulfstream chartered by Mossad wheeled above the Pyrenees, Anton Bloch was preparing to go home after an all-night shift—the kind of schedule he had not endured since his own tenure as director. His role in the odyssey terminated at Mossad’s Glilot Junction complex. There he signed off on a mission report, ensuring its authenticity, and also took the time to inquire about Tal—the surgery on his injured arm was complete, with a favorable prognosis for full recovery. Bloch quite literally had one foot out the main office door when someone called his name from behind. He turned to see Talia tracking after him.

  “We have a problem, sir!”

  Bloch took a deep breath, then let it out in a controlled manner. How many times have I heard those words? He looked around and, noting a few early risers in the lobby, continued outside to the courtyard before asking, “What kind of problem?”

  “The katsa from Paris reported in two hours ago—the one who interviewed Gabrielle Baland.”

  He frowned. “Two hours ago? And I am only now hearing about it?”

  “Based on her report, I wanted to check on a few things.” She explained what Zavier Baland’s mother had said in the interview, then presented Bloch with a printout. “This took some effort, but we dug it out. It’s the passenger manifest from a flight—Air France from Paris to Cairo.”

  He took the paper in hand. “And why is this important?”

  “Check the date.”

  Bloch did so: September 15, 2002. He blinked as he stared at the paper, trying to catch up with what Talia was implying. A most implausible theory began rising in his mind. “This is not definitive in any way,” he said in a low voice.

  Talia, seeming unsure if Bloch was saying this to himself or to her, said, “No. But if there is even a remote possibility—”

  He held up a hand to cut her off.

  “Go home quickly and pack a bag!”

  “Let me guess—warm clothes?”

  “Yes.”

  Within the hour Bloch and Talia were boarding a second chartered jet, the pilots having filed a flight plan to Paris that would be flown in a far more direct manner than the previous sortie. As the jet’s wheels began rolling across the tarmac, Bloch hung up his phone after a lengthy call. There had been no chance to go home and pack his own bag.

  On the opposite side of Tel Aviv, Mossad director Raymond Nurin stuffed a tie in his pocket, ignored the bent collar on his shirt, and bypassed the dormant coffeepot in his kitchen as he strode to the front door. The limo waiting outside in the soft predawn had a perfectly good mirror in which he could make himself presentable, and there was a bottomless pot of coffee in his office. He would likely need both before the day was done. Having been awakened and briefed by Bloch on this new development, he reckoned that at some point today he would be faced with a very uncomfortable decision. One that would likely necessitate a meeting with the prime minister himself.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Slaton looked out the Gulfstream’s window as they approached Le Bourget Airport. It was nearly noon in Paris, and the weather was horrendous. The captain had announced before beginning the descent that a severe storm was rolling in from the North Sea, and that the ride would be turbulent. The airplane bucked and twisted through the sky on their final approach. Even after the wheels touched down, Slaton felt crosswinds buffeting the airframe, and rain reduced visibility out the window to no more than a few hundred feet.

  The jet came to a stop on a quiet corner of the airfield, its engines winding down in relief. Once the turbines fell still, the prevailing sound came from a pulsing, wind-driven rain that was peppering the aircraft’s hull. The crew provided umbrellas, but they were useless against the deluge. Slaton sloshed across the tarmac beside Uday and Sarah, and they were met by a four-person entourage—to his trained eye, a competent security contingent. Zavier Baland was not among them. Without so much as a cursory customs inspection, France’s newest three arrivals were ushered into the first of two cars, and without hesitation the driver launched into a street that looked like a river.

  Slaton was happy to have crossed the first hurdle—he would not have been surprised if the security team had turned him around and sent him packing, back to the Gulfstream for a return trip to Israel. They were on Baland’s turf now, Uday and Sarah effectively in DGSI’s custody. Yet Slaton was still being included. Better yet, he’d not yet been frisked—he was still carrying the H&K VP9 he’d been issued for last night’s mission. It was an undeniable comfort in the face of one thought he couldn’t shake—that Baland’s life would become m
uch more simple if the limo in which the three of them were riding went not to Levallois-Perret, but to a quiet ditch in the countryside.

  Traffic slowed as they reached Boulevard Périphérique. An exhausted Sarah appeared to be sleeping—her eyes were shut and her head lolled against the far window. Never one to squander an opportunity, Slaton said to Uday, “I’m guessing you know who we’re going to see.”

  Uday looked at Slaton uncomfortably. “Until recently I could only speculate on Argu’s identity—Malika never told us. But Chadeh recently confessed to me that he believes Argu is Zavier Baland, the man who will soon oversee DGSI.”

  Slaton gave no response.

  “What will he want from me?” Uday asked as he stared into the gloom.

  “The personnel list, of course. And more privately … perhaps a signal that you won’t betray him.”

  Uday’s gaze remained outside.

  “I’m only giving you fair warning. Baland helped you escape the caliphate, but he’s also done great harm to his country. It might prove a difficult secret to keep.”

  “But not impossible,” Uday suggested. “Chadeh suspected Baland, but I doubt many others were aware of it.”

  “Maybe you should tell him that. I’m guessing Baland will want to speak with you privately. You should think about it now … how you want to handle your relationship.”

  “I only want to live in peace with Sarah.”

  “I hope that works out for you,” Slaton said. “But your own history isn’t exactly pristine. You were a senior commander in ISIS.”

  Uday sank deeper into his seat. “Do you think Baland and I might reach an accord?”

  “No business of mine. But if you’re asking my advice, I’d say you have a lot to bargain with. Not only are you giving him the personnel file, but you undertook a digital slash-and-burn campaign before you left.”

  “I must also tell him about the new wave of attacks that are imminent. They are based on information he recently gave the caliphate.”

  This was news to Slaton, and he looked at Uday curiously.

  “I explained everything to the Mossad man who was questioning me.”

  “Okay, that’s good,” Slaton said, deciding that Bloch could fill him in later. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the glossy photo of Raqqa on which Uday had circled the mosque. “You could also give Baland this.”

  Uday took the photo in hand. “What will he do with it?”

  “Do you really have to ask?”

  There was a lengthy pause. The rain became a torrent, the car’s wipers overwhelmed at their highest speed.

  Slaton said, “I’ve been wondering about this agent who recruited Baland—Malika. What do you know about her?”

  “I was told she was a black widow who traveled to France of her own accord.”

  Slaton was familiar with the term “black widow”: the wife of a fighter who’d been martyred to the cause.

  Uday went on, “She said she had a way to force information from a high-ranking French official.”

  “What was in it for her? Did she ask for money?”

  “Not really. There were a few transfers, but mostly for operational expenses.”

  “Operational?”

  “Malika has become very important in Europe. Her work went far beyond Argu. For example, she organized the recent bombing in Grenoble.”

  “She was responsible for Grenoble?”

  “Yes. She herself recruited the martyr for that operation.” A sad smile creased his lips. “Malika knows the persuasiveness of God.”

  Slaton weighed whether to tell Uday the truth—that Malika was less a disciple of God than a vengeful daughter. He decided that secret wasn’t his to give, and in doing so he felt an unexpected wave of relief. The fates of Baland and Uday were increasingly intertwined, yet Slaton was fast becoming an outsider. The mystery of Ali Samir had been solved, and the terrorist’s daughter, who’d lured him here, was being hunted down. Very soon, he would be on his way back to the South Pacific.

  He looked outside, and in the distance saw the modernist edifice of DGSI coming into view—panels of reflective glass in a concrete frame, all blurred by sheets of rain. There were two guards in the front seat, and Slaton saw the one on the passenger side, a thickset dapper man, murmur something into his collar-mounted microphone. He guessed the man was talking to the lead car, which was blazing a path fifty yards ahead.

  In that moment Slaton felt an old and trusted caution. Not imminent danger, but an approaching boundary. In two minutes he would be inside one of the most secure facilities in France, effectively in Baland’s hands. At that point, Slaton would lose control.

  Sarah seemed to rouse from her slumber. He turned to her and Uday, and silently mouthed to each, It’s okay. Both looked at him curiously as he edged forward in the seat. He unzipped the front of his jacket, and set his feet firmly on the floorboards.

  “Turn left at the next street!” Slaton ordered. His command was reinforced by the H&K, which appeared between the two headrests. The barrel was steady on Dapper’s temple. The driver could see it clearly in the mirror.

  “Hands where I can see them!”

  The dapper guard placed his hands on the dash. The driver, professional that he was, already had both on the wheel. “If either of you talk into your microphones, I will kill you!” His eyes were fixed on Dapper. “Take the next left turn!”

  As expected, Slaton saw two sets of darting eyes. The driver complied, and the lead car disappeared the instant they rounded the corner. Slaton realized he would only have seconds to work with. “Faster!” he ordered. “Take the next right!”

  The driver again did as asked. As soon as they rounded the second turn, Slaton looked back. There was no sign of the lead car. His eyes held the panorama of what was around them. Relatively busy streets on midday, a combination of businesses and apartment blocks. It would have to do.

  “Stop!”

  “What are you doing?” Uday asked.

  “Don’t worry.”

  The car came to a halt.

  “Put it in park, turn the engine off!”

  The driver did so.

  “Keys!” Slaton held out his empty left hand.

  The driver finally spoke. “Our orders are to—”

  Slaton whipped his left elbow into the driver’s head, the H&K remaining steady on his partner. It was a sturdy blow, but only an attention-getter. The keys dropped into his hand. He saw a mobile phone on the seat next to Dapper.

  “Give me the phone!” he said. “Very carefully.”

  The man frowned, but complied. Slaton wanted to take their guns, but there wasn’t time to do it safely. The second car had to be closing in.

  With his eyes locked on the guards, he reached for the door handle and began backing outside. He said to Uday, “I’m going to shut down this phone. Tell Baland I’ll turn it back on in exactly one hour. He will call me.”

  Uday said he understood.

  Once outside, Slaton held the H&K more discreetly, tight against his chest in the open fold of his jacket. He locked eyes very briefly with both Uday and Sarah. “Good luck to you both.”

  Neither responded, but everyone in the car was watching Slaton as he darted behind a parked delivery truck a few steps away.

  As soon as he was out of sight, the two men in front threw open their doors and bustled out to the curb. Their hands went into their jackets, gripping their weapons but not drawing them. They ran to the delivery truck, but in no time were spinning circles on the sidewalk, their eyes scanning helplessly.

  A sudden metallic clatter on the limo’s hood drew everyone’s attention, and one of the men drew his gun and trained it instinctively on the source. His weapon came back down just as quickly. Caught on a stilled wiper blade, the plastic fob and metal key hung limply on the rain-splattered windshield.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Perhaps the scar would be minimal, Malika thought as she studied her wound in the dim light of a naked bulb. Working
by the reflection of a broken mirror, she changed the dressing for the third time. Just as she was finishing, the sound of a siren rose outside.

  From the tiny slatted vent that served as her window she looked out across the rain-wet streets of Clichy-sous-Bois. She saw nothing unusual, which was to say she saw tenements and smoking street grills and countless young men loitering in packs. Hearing a siren here was like hearing a seagull at the beach. Malika turned away not even waiting for the sound to fade. If Baland had found her, he would never be so overt.

  The room was little more than an attic, a no-questions-asked hideaway above a taxi garage in one of the most distressed banlieues of eastern Paris. The garage was owned by a grizzled old Tunisian whose son was in prison—according to the French for trafficking guns, according to the old man for having parents from Africa. The attic was always open to friends of the caliphate, particularly those taking flight from the flics. For more than a year now, Malika had been a frequent flyer.

  She retrieved the dog-eared newspaper the old man had slipped under her door, and noted it was today’s issue. There was an article on page 2 about the continuing search for Claude Michelis’ assailant. The police expressed boundless confidence, this in spite of little new evidence. She crumpled the newspaper and fed it into her pot stove—she was running out of fuel, and the damp, drafty room made her yearn for the desert.

  She settled on the bed, the mattress folding around her like a taco, and began eating from a tin of cookies. They were sickeningly sweet, but she kept at it. Lately she seemed hungry all the time, and she wondered if she might be getting diabetes. It wasn’t easy, keeping the weight on. Her youthful metabolism fought to rid her of every calorie, but so far she’d managed. The worst had been putting on fifty pounds to begin with, a binge she’d begun in Gaza two years ago.

  It had been surprisingly effectual. Who from her old village would recognize her now? The anonymity her new shape permitted her was even more useful than she’d imagined. With her drab dress, poor hygiene, and tangled hair, she was invisible on the streets of Paris, and on the better avenues given a wide berth. Her redoubtably surly nature only amplified her isolation. Men ignored her, women tilted up their noses. All precisely as she wanted.