Assassin's Code

by Ward Larsen

  She wondered how long it would take to reverse the process. Six months? A year? She didn’t like the idea of plastic surgery, but her hooked nose ought to be dealt with, and a bit of dental work seemed inevitable. All the better when the time came to disappear. She had enough money for it—she’d been skimming ISIS operational funds for over a year now. It wasn’t any great amount, but that was also by design—large accounts would only draw attention. She’d set aside enough to live on. Two years, maybe three. Enough to be reborn once her raison d’être was fulfilled.

  Her thoughts turned to Slaton. She had necessarily bunkered up for the last day and a half, letting her wound heal while the police spun their wheels. But she couldn’t wait forever. Her plan, years in the making, was tantalizingly close to success. There was an excellent chance that he was still in Paris. If so, it was time to finish the job.

  And Malika knew exactly where to start.

  * * *

  Baland was caught off balance by Slaton’s disappearance, but tried not to lose his advantage. He spent a full thirty minutes with Uday and his girlfriend, asking the most pertinent questions, before ushering them out of the office—it was nearly time to make a phone call to an assassin.

  He had used the more spacious director’s suite for the meeting, even if wasn’t officially his, for the gravitas it conveyed. Once he was alone, Baland strolled to the wet bar in the corner. He picked up a decanter of amber liquid and held it to the light, then removed the top and drew in the aroma. The scent brought recognition: a nice double-malt Scotch Michelis had been particularly fond of.

  He wondered what had spooked Slaton. A number of answers came to mind, but none were more than speculation. He supposed such men had overdeveloped cautionary instincts. Baland considered putting in an order to triangulate the call he was about to make, but decided against it. He remained in a delicate position, and wanted no chance of the conversation being recorded.

  Standing pensively at the bar, he used his private phone to place the call at the prescribed time. Slaton answered right away.

  “I’m not tracing your phone,” Baland said straightaway.

  “It’s not my phone. And I didn’t think you would.”

  Baland pulled a tumbler from the shelf, and from a full ice bucket he began distractedly transferring ice cubes one by one. The clinking sound must have carried over the phone, because Slaton said, “I thought you were a good Muslim.”

  Baland poured a brace. “Voilà! You now know the full catalogue of my secrets.”

  “Why don’t I believe that?”

  Baland tipped back the glass once. The Scotch really was good. “Uday and I had a long conversation.”

  “Good. Have you reached an accord?”

  “We are in general agreement. His past aside, he has done France a great service. The caliphate is reeling, and will soon be more so. He tells us that new attacks have been ordered on French soil, but with his help we may be able to forestall the worst of it. We are treating his arrival as a straightforward defection, the details of which will remain clouded. Uday and I have agreed it is in our mutual best interest to keep my relationship with the caliphate quiet.”

  “I hope you can keep it that way—but that’s between the two of you.”

  “Is it?” Baland asked. “You know as much about me as anyone.”

  “I have no interest in you or your past dealings.”

  “And Mossad?”

  “What about them?”

  Baland thumped his glass down firmly, a rattle of wet ice. “I am not a fool! Mossad had sole custody of Uday for fifteen hours. Don’t tell me he wasn’t interrogated!”

  “He was.”

  “So you see my dilemma. Director Nurin will someday try to leverage my misfortune for the good of Israel.”

  “Probably. In his shoes, wouldn’t you do the same thing?”

  Baland didn’t reply.

  “Look, it’s very likely that someday you will hear from Mossad. But we’re talking about Israel, not some band of organized criminals masquerading as a religious movement. Israel and France keep largely parallel interests. I’m sure that in your new capacity you’ll someday come across information that might reflect poorly upon Israel. A scheming mind might even expect you to search for it … as insurance, one might say.”

  Baland’s eyes narrowed. “You really have cut the cord, kidon.”

  “I’ve had strong differences with Mossad in recent years … but Israel will always be my homeland. What I’m saying is that arrangements can be made. Deals can be forged.”

  “Can they?”

  “Trust me—Director Nurin revels in them.”

  “So he will keep my little secret for a price? Why should I believe it?”

  “From what I can see, you don’t have much choice.” Slaton paused before adding, “But as a display of goodwill, the director wants me to pass along that Israel will not share the ISIS personnel database for one week. That should give you time to vet the list and act accordingly. In return, Nurin asks that you restrict the dissemination of what you find during that period to France and her former colonies.”

  “In other words, he doesn’t want me to tell the Americans.”

  “Like I said, Nurin is a deal maker. Israel could benefit greatly from passing this information to certain allies. I’m only the messenger, but it does seem like they deserve something for the risks they’ve taken.”

  “And you, David? What of the risks you have taken?”

  “Irrelevant. My part here is done.”

  “What about Malika? She’s still out there.” Baland let that settle for a few beats. “She brought you here, and has already tried to kill you once. Can you and your family be safe while she remains at large?”

  The silence this time was extended, and Baland found himself envisioning the fluid gray eyes he’d seen at Le Quinze.

  “What do you know about my family?” Slaton said in a level tone.

  Baland knew he’d hit his mark. He poured a second brace and wandered to the wide window that provided the director’s office a reaching view of Levallois-Perret. “You have a wife and a son very far from here. I know because Malika asked for my help in tracking down a certain satellite account in the middle of the Pacific. Only recently did I realize who it involved.”

  “So we both have good reason to be rid of Malika. But you have the police forces of an entire nation at your disposal.”

  “And you are the kind of man who leaves little to chance. If the two of us pooled our abilities … certainly Malika would never escape. She is the last problem we both face.”

  “What do you propose?” Slaton asked.

  “First that we find a way to lure her out. Then the two of us can devise a strategy to finalize things.” Slaton said nothing, which Baland took for assent. He continued, “I think Uday might be of use in finding her. He has long served as Malika’s go-between—chances are, he has more information than he realizes. I’ve procured rooms for Uday and Sarah at The Peninsula. They will remain under heavy guard, but I think at this stage in our relationship it would be useful to treat them more as guests than detainees.”

  “A few nights in a five-star suite? That sounds like something right out of Director Nurin’s playbook.”

  “I will take that as a compliment. This afternoon I must extract everything possible from Uday regarding these new attacks—it is my duty to make that the priority. I will also be in touch with the Defense Ministry regarding a certain mosque in Raqqa. But later, I think, we should convene a more quiet conversation. Let’s meet tonight at seven, in the lobby of The Peninsula. Uday and Sarah will join us. If we can together find a way to deal with Malika, everyone will be better off.”

  “All right, I’ll be there. But there’s one thing you should understand very clearly.”

  Baland stood staring at the building’s forecourt far below. The blue, white, and red tricolor snapped rigid on its pole. “And what might that be?”

  “That glass you�
�re looking through is not as thick as it ought to be.”

  Baland stiffened.

  The connection went dead, and his eyes darted between distant buildings. He saw people milling about the streets and in the windows of nearby office complexes. The tree-lined Boulevard du Château was thick with parked cars, as was the distant Hôpital Américain. He stood rooted in place, his basal instincts in seizure as he awaited a tiny projectile to penetrate the glass. Then his policeman’s brain took hold and convinced him otherwise. Baland slowly took the phone from his ear.

  “No,” he whispered to himself. “Malika might do it that way. But you won’t because you have no reason.”

  * * *

  Eight hundred yards distant, Slaton backed out of a nook between cement columns in a fourth-floor parking garage. He headed straight for the stairs, pocketing his most recent purchase, a small but powerful set of binoculars. He turned off the phone he’d stolen from Baland’s guard, removed its SIM card and then its battery. On the way to street level he dropped one piece in the trash bins of three successive floors. His Mossad-issued phone remained off as well—he’d been carrying it too long for continuous use.

  Slaton hit the sidewalk in full stride and turned west. Choppy gusts and a sheeting rain lashed his dark blue windbreaker, and his hair was soon matted and disheveled. The jacket was a thin item, purchased one year ago for use on Windsom during tropical rain showers—little use against a tempestuous North Sea squall. As he made turn after turn, carefully checking the streets around him, the irony did not escape Slaton: At that moment, the South Seas could not have seemed farther away.

  * * *

  Far outside of the City of Light, and three miles aloft, the chartered jet carrying Bloch and Talia suffered through a holding pattern thirty miles south of Le Bourget Airport. A line of storms was passing over the airfield, and the pilots, in a decision Bloch thought conservative, had decided to wait things out.

  “We need to land now!” he complained to the flight attendant.

  “I’ve passed along your concerns to the pilots,” the young man said, “but they tell me the weather is too severe at the moment. It is a matter of safety.”

  Bloch was about to argue the point when Talia touched his hand and raised a finger, as if to say, Wait a minute. As soon as the flight attendant had gone, she said in a hushed tone, “I know we’re not supposed to do this, but we must be holding at a low altitude … it works.” She waved her phone at him. “We have a signal.”

  Without even looking to see where the flight attendant was, Bloch took out his own phone and turned it on. He had three bars of reception. Better yet, the Gulfstream didn’t appear to be falling out of the sky.

  “Thank God!” said Bloch. Slaton’s number was already loaded, and he immediately placed the call. It ended in frustration ten seconds later.

  “He must have turned his phone off!”

  Talia looked crestfallen. “I’m sure he’s only being cautious.”

  Bloch didn’t reply, but he knew she was right—for someone in Slaton’s position, it was a perfectly reasonable act. Only hours later would they realize how regrettable such precautions could be.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  The woman walking her bichon frise under an umbrella took no notice of the man, nor did the small tour group rolling amoeba-like toward the Arc de Triomphe. He meandered up Avenue Kléber at six forty-five that evening with little conviction in his stride and an aimlessness in his path. With his head under the hood of a light jacket, he seemed almost bewildered, taking a number of sudden turns, but always ending up back on Avenue Kléber. Anyone watching would have written him off as a disoriented tourist—this part of town was full of them on the best of days, and the inclement weather had imposed itself on everyone. Perhaps an American expecting a travel-brochure Paris of lights and riverside strolls, but who’d instead been subjected to the vagaries of a freak storm.

  It was curious, Slaton had always thought, how something as simple as rain could revise tradecraft. It brought coats and hats into play, and countless upturned umbrellas. People who hadn’t exercised in years darted across sidewalks and leapt over puddles. Electronics—things like earbuds and radios and cameras—could be shorted out by the moisture, and their performance was invariably degraded by reduced visibility and increased background noise. Conversely, electronics were easier to hide under raincoats and hoods. Taken together, it was an all-new gallery of advantages and disadvantages waiting to be employed on either side of the game—offense or defense.

  Right now, Slaton was strictly defending.

  For nearly an hour, in an ever-shrinking pattern, he had walked the surrounding area taking in sights and sounds and smells. Noisy transportation hubs and silent bank guards. Fresh-baked cake in patisseries and garbage in the bins behind them. Every sensation seemed to heighten as he neared his objective—the hotel named The Peninsula.

  Slaton still couldn’t say what had alerted his instincts in the car. Something Baland had said? Or Uday? The continued elusiveness of Malika? There was no clear answer, only an edge of caution he hadn’t sensed in a very long time. An edge of caution he invariably trusted.

  He’d so far seen nothing out of place on his approach to the hotel. If anyone was following Slaton, they either were very good, or had a large team in support. He’d kept his phone turned off, but there were still ways one could be tracked—CCTV cameras, for one. His countermeasures were rudimentary at best, and in this new age of comprehensive urban surveillance, walking the streets of Paris was akin to walking across a Hollywood movie set.

  He saw The Peninsula in the distance at 6:54. One could hardly miss it. The hotel was as grand a façade as existed in Paris, a mix of classic and contemporary themes in an imperishably opportune location. Within easy walking distance were the Champs-Ėlysées and the Arc de Triomphe, the latter encircled by Place Charles-de-Gaulle, the most famous roundabout in all Europe.

  Slaton kept to the opposite side of Avenue Kléber, the leafless trees along the boulevard giving nominal cover. Like the weather, the seasons too had their say in tradecraft. The hotel entrance came into view, and right away Slaton didn’t like what he saw. A black limousine was parked on the street directly in front, and on the sidewalk next to it stood Uday and Sarah. They were talking with a thickly built bald man in a loose-fitting overcoat. The man had security written all over him. Slaton watched closely, and after an extended conversation, Uday and Sarah were ushered into the car.

  Because the windows were tinted, and because rain and gloom were cloaking the fast-fading light, he couldn’t tell if anyone else was inside the car. He scanned the sidewalks and hotel entrance, but saw no sign of Baland. He also saw no other guards, which seemed incomprehensible given Uday’s importance. The bald man closed the door, and began looking up and down the street expectantly.

  Looking for me, Slaton thought.

  He checked his watch. 7:02.

  He turned into the recesses of an alcove. It was a quiet space, and what he saw on the inset door told him all he needed to know: the name of a small bank, along with a FERMĖ sign, guaranteed that the alcove was his until nine o’clock the next morning.

  7:05.

  From the shadows he watched the bald man take out a mobile phone and place a call. Slaton’s suspicion escalated another notch. Baland had proposed a meeting at the hotel, yet Uday and Sarah were about to leave. It all felt wrong. He watched the bald man walk away with the phone still to his ear. He strode under the steel-and-glass awning fronting the hotel, passed between twin stone lions, and disappeared into the lobby.

  * * *

  Slaton began moving again. His first inclination was to go straight to the limo and talk to Uday, but a flash of motion behind the tinted driver’s window convinced him otherwise. There was at least one other man.

  He crossed the street three cars behind the limo. Keeping his head down, which was quite natural in the rain, he retraced the bald man’s path into the hotel. Once inside, Slaton scanned
the expansive and finely trimmed lobby. He spotted him in a quiet corner, still talking on his phone. Slaton pulled back the hood of his jacket and walked directly toward him. He was larger up close, at least six foot three, and the buttons of his suit strained across his chest with every move. When he saw Slaton coming, the man pocketed his phone and raised a hand as if hailing a cab.

  Slaton’s gray eyes were expressionless, and he was the first to speak when they merged. “Where is Baland?” His tone was no more than curious, the inflection inquiring.

  “Conseiller Baland has sent a car. Your meeting must take place at headquarters.”

  “Headquarters,” Slaton repeated, appearing relieved. “All right, but I’ll need to use the toilet.” Immediately behind them was a hallway, two clearly marked restrooms at the end. When Slaton took his first step in that direction, the bald man seized his arm. Slaton allowed it for an instant, long enough for the grip to go firm. He felt thick fingers clamping his biceps, as he knew they would, and creating a distinct pivot point. He then subtly leaned away, which unsettled the big man’s balance, effectively drawing him from the lobby into the narrow confines of the hallway.

  The bald man opened his mouth as if to say something.

  At that precise moment, Slaton rotated and slammed an elbow into his clean-shaven temple. It was a targeted blow, but not quite sufficient. The guard tipped against the marble-tiled wall like a felled tree, but he remained upright on wobbling knees. Slaton put a hand over his crown, jerked his head away, then slammed it into the stone. The man instantly went slack and crumpled to the floor.

  Slaton first checked to see if anyone had noticed. Confident he was in the clear, he dragged the man deeper into the recesses of the hall. Between twin doors labeled for men and women, he saw what looked like a service closet. Slaton tested the handle and found it unlocked. Inside were bathroom supplies: a broom, a mop … and five seconds later, one thoroughly unconscious Frenchman. Slaton already knew which pocket to search. He retrieved the bald man’s phone, then quietly closed the door. Walking calmly back to the lobby, he thumbed to find the call log and tapped on the most recent.