Assassin's Code

by Ward Larsen

  The presidential brow furrowed, and he seemed about to say something, but then only cocked his head to encourage the liaison to continue.

  “Explosive disposal teams are working the scene. They estimate they’re dealing with over a hundred kilograms of TATP along with the associated hardware. Apparently an initiator charge went off prematurely and blew a hole in the bottom of the boat. It began to sink, which is presumably why someone called in the mechanic.”

  The army chief of staff snorted in exasperation. “Incredible! We are dealing with imbeciles!”

  “Perhaps,” said the president. “But committed imbeciles have harmed us far too often. The important thing is that the plot has been interrupted.”

  The liaison said, “We found a map on the boat that suggests they were targeting a cruise ship in Le Havre. We’ve long been worried about that kind of thing. Should we stand down our search in the north? Our forces are stretched very thin at the moment.”

  “Do we have information on any other possible strikes?”

  “No, Mr. President. We of course will remain watchful, and continue to monitor communications out of Syria. But this episode exhausts our current intelligence—we know of no other cells that have been activated.”

  The president considered it, then looked around the room, and said, “Where the hell has Baland gone?”

  The intelligence chief said, “I believe he returned to DGSI to check on things there.”

  The president shrugged and took a sip of his espresso. “Very well,” he said. “Stand down your search.”

  SIXTY-FIVE

  It was midmorning when Slaton exited a taxi two blocks from Invalides. The rain had finally abated, and as soon as the cab was gone he crossed the street to an inexpensive hostel. He’d been steered to the place by Neumann, who had occasion to know such recesses of the city, and she assured him it would meet his two main requirements: vacant single rooms and a willingness to operate on a cash basis.

  Slaton purchased lodging for one night, and the proprietor, a man with wild hair and a deeply grooved face, explained that the room would not be available for another two hours. He also said that if Monsieur so desired, he could leave his bag in the locked closet behind the desk. Slaton accepted enthusiastically, no hesitation to suggest that the case might hold something valuable. Fifteen minutes later he was walking unencumbered across the storied grounds of Invalides.

  There was never a question of where to start. He took his phone from his pocket and called up a very accurate mapping program he’d downloaded. It was designed for agricultural use—in particular, the application of pesticides—but inherent in the platform was the one thing Slaton needed: precision.

  He began on the stone terrace where the ceremony was to take place, and was forced to estimate the spot where the interior minister would tomorrow shake Baland’s hand, or perhaps put a banner over his shoulder—whatever pomp fit the circumstance. This put him in the middle of a half acre of stone pavers, Arcane limestone if he wasn’t mistaken, that spread artfully back toward the museums. In front of him the terrace ended abruptly, bordered by an empty moat that was guarded by rows of inert cannons. Slaton marked the location and elevation of the spot where he stood, then set out on his search.

  He walked the surrounding gardens, up the Esplanade des Invalides and toward the river. At the Quay d’Orsay, with the Seine spreading before him, he checked his phone and saw a range of 562 meters. He marked the spot as a border, then moved west, canvassing rows of apartments along Rue Fabert, and taking a lingering look up Rue de Grenelle. A few of the buildings there caught his eye, and he marked them on his electronic map. He spent a full thirty minutes on his survey, along the way standing amid groups of tourists—always in abundance here—and snapping a few photos for later reference.

  He initially discounted the idea of using the eastern border along Rue de Constantine—the street was home to any number of embassies, Canada and Great Britain among them, which implied added layers of security. Then, in a burst of inspiration, he doubled back for a second look. His idea coalesced as he stood in the skeletal shadow of a hand-sculpted, wintering horse chestnut tree.

  Slaton stared at the Colombian embassy, or more accurately its placeholder. It was a narrow three-story affair wedged on an urban triangle, shouldered tightly between a slightly taller residential building and a small branch bank. More intriguing was what Slaton saw on the front door, and along the high façade above.

  He went closer and read the notice posted on the door in French, Spanish, and English:

  THE EMBASSY OF COLOMBIA IS CURRENTLY CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS. LIMITED SERVICES ARE AVAILABLE AT OUR TEMPORARY ANNEX AT 45 RUE DUROC. WE APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE.

  He looked up at a scaffolding and saw two workers busy refurbishing a cornice. The outer stone edifice had been pulled and rebuilt, this obvious to Slaton by mortar joints that were a near match in color to original sections, but without the telling stains of the urban wear. He knew a good deal about Lutetian limestone, also known as “Paris stone,” which for centuries had been cut from the quarries of Oise, north of the capital, and shipped conveniently downriver. In recent years the rock had become fashionable, and it was shipped in great quantity around the globe to enhance terraces in Dubai and mansions in Hollywood. Having worked with it, Slaton knew the stone had unique characteristics: it was easy to cut, durable to the elements, and available in a wide array of colors. So as he stared up now at a major rebuild, clearly in its final stages, his curiosity was piqued.

  “It looks good,” he called up in American-accented English.

  One of the men kept working, but the other, a hirsute fireplug of a man, smiled amiably.

  “Is the stone from Oise?” Slaton prodded.

  “Of course,” said the stocky man. “You know Paris stone?”

  “I’ve worked with it a few times in the States. Once to build a patio for a mansion, and at another site a small concert pavilion. I like it better than the Italian stone, easier to work with.”

  The man began climbing down a ladder, and when he reached street level, he said, “Italian stone?” The words came through puckered lips, as if he’d tasted something sour. “No one uses that rubble here.”

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt your work.”

  “We are almost done for the day.” He wiped his hand on a tarp that was hanging across the scaffolding. “The mortar will have to set before we finish the last section—after the weekend, I think.”

  Slaton looked up and saw a few remaining gaps in the long cornice. “It looks like you’ve been at it for some time.”

  “Three months. The weight-bearing wall behind the cornice had cracks, and the only option was to replace the top three meters, a big job.”

  “What was the original thickness?”

  The man smiled. “You do know your stone. The original wall was over two meters thick.”

  “Two meters?”

  “The man who first commissioned it would accept nothing less.”

  “Who was that?” Slaton asked.

  “Napoléon.”

  Slaton stared. “As in … Bonaparte?”

  “Is there another?”

  Not here, Slaton thought, before saying, “How thick is the new wall?”

  “Just under half a meter. The committee for … how do you say it … authenticité architecturale. They insist on perfection to the eye, but cannot raise enough money for honesty to the original structure.”

  “Believe me when I say, it happens everywhere. I had the same problem in Malta. Let me guess—there’s a void between the outer wall and the existing interior walls.”

  “Certainement. But who will ever know but us?”

  Slaton smiled.

  The Frenchman gave him an overview of the project, and pointed to various repairs in the building’s façade. Slaton asked a few knowledgeable questions, and complimented him on his workmanship. The mason suggested agreeably, and not without a bit of pride, “Come, let me s
how you. As a brother mason, you would be most interested.” He started up the ladder with a beckoning wave. His partner, who Slaton suspected did not speak English, showed no interest whatsoever.

  Without hesitation, Slaton stepped on the first rung and began climbing.

  SIXTY-SIX

  Twenty minutes later Slaton walked away from the unfinished Colombian embassy with his sniper’s mind in overdrive. His tour of the walls under repair had been comprehensive and enlightening, and he had thanked his guide unreservedly as he and his partner began packing up their tools for the day.

  Slaton walked quickly, details falling into place one at a time. The outline taking shape in his head was not yet complete, and one variable would be beyond his control. Yet if he could make it all coalesce, each of his objectives would be met.

  His first stop was a home-improvement store, where he purchased a powerful hammer drill, a variety of drill bits, an extension cord, and a pair of workman’s coveralls. In another section he found a diamond-edged cutting tool and a large suction cup. Nearing the checkout line, he added a heavy canvas sack. Once he’d paid, in cash, his purchases went into the canvas bag. On the way back to the hostel, he detoured into a narrow alley bordering a construction site, sought out the filthiest puddle available, and dropped the new coveralls in the middle. He stepped on them a few times for good measure, then picked up the wad of wet cloth. He twisted the coveralls once to squeeze out the excess water, then stuffed them back in his bag.

  He arrived at the hostel ten minutes later, and was told that his room had opened up. The desk man retrieved the roller bag containing a rifle from the storage closet. Slaton knew he hadn’t ventured a look inside. He knew because there were no awkward stares when he handed it over or, for that matter, no police standing in wait.

  He climbed quickly to a second-floor room, and found a predictably Spartan affair. Slaton didn’t bother with even the most basic security inspection. He removed the coveralls and the drill from the canvas bag, then refilled it with the case containing an Arctic Warfare Covert. The bathroom was a community arrangement down the hall, but there was a clean towel on the shelf in his room. Slaton made it less so when he used it to scrub the worst of the mud from the wrinkled coveralls. He slipped them on, damp and dirty, directly over his clothing, and transferred a few smudges from the mud-soiled towel onto his hands and face. He left the empty roller bag in the room, took the drill case in one hand, and heaved the bag containing the rifle over his other shoulder. He quick-stepped down the stairs, and diverted toward a side exit that bypassed the front desk. When he reached the street Slaton checked his watch. He had been inside the hostel nine and a half minutes.

  The hostel was soon lost behind him. It was a building he would never set foot in again, joining a lengthy list of deliberately avoided addresses scattered across the world.

  Slaton set out directly for Invalides. He was right on schedule.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  The temperature dropped markedly, and Slaton’s breath was pluming in front of him when he reached Invalides. The scaffolding in front of the Colombian embassy was vacant, just as the mason had said it would be. It was Friday afternoon, and with new mortar setting and a weekend pending, Slaton was confident the jobsite would be vacant for days.

  He set down his equipment at the base of the scaffold, and began sorting through it as any tradesman would to start a job. The extension cord he plugged into a ground-level receptacle before heaving the coil upward over the top of the scaffold like a commando tossing a grappling hook—a surprisingly transferable skill.

  With the weather improving, the streets and courtyards in front of the museum complex had become busier. He saw couples meandering, and guided groups who paused to take pictures. None of them seemed to notice the tall workman in coveralls who shouldered a heavy bag, climbed a ladder to the top of a scaffold, and disappeared into a building under repair.

  The opening through which Slaton passed was four feet high and half that in width, and he crouched to pass through to the dead space behind. The entrance was clearly temporary, meant to allow work crews to address the new wall from within, and a tarp had been strung across it to keep out the rain. The space behind the new frontage formed a narrow corridor, roughly one yard in width and five feet high, with buttresses every few yards for support. Updated electric and heating conduits were already being run through what was effectively a new utility pathway.

  Slaton had seen the passageway from the outside during his visit with the mason, but now, as he stood inside, he recognized his first mistake. The still-overcast skies left the interior extremely dark. Slaton wished he’d purchased a flashlight, but after folding back the tarp he decided the problem was manageable.

  The primary modification necessary was to drill two holes in the half-meter-thick exterior wall. Having worked with Paris stone before, he knew it was feasible, but also that it would take considerable effort. He began with a new mortar joint four feet from the entrance. Mortar being easier to penetrate than stone, the initial one-inch hole took a mere twenty minutes. He then paused to study the more exacting work.

  Slaton went back outside and took in the forecourt of Invalides, and also the view across the park, in particular where Rue de Grenelle strayed into the city. His angles had to be as precise as possible. He went back inside and began drilling the second hole, slightly to one side and at a marginally different angle from the first. Once the drill was through, he pulled the bit and peered outside. It was like looking through a soda straw, but he liked what he saw.

  He set to the greater task of crafting two custom slots. The drill hummed in the narrow confines of the passage, and mortar dust and stone chips flew for another hour. The muted sun was halfway to the horizon by the time he had the portals he wanted, along with three broken bits, an overheated drill, and two very numb hands.

  He set the drill aside, withdrew the component parts of the rifle from its case, and assembled the weapon. He looked left and right down the dim passageway, and at one end he noticed a pair of stone slabs. They were no doubt leftover blocks from the construction of the wall, each probably weighing a hundred pounds. He slid them one at a time across the floor, then stacked one on top of the other, just behind the larger of the two holes he’d fashioned. Slaton ensured the arrangement was solid, then set the sniper rifle on top. The barrel fit neatly into the gap, the tip three inches short of the outer opening. The slot was six inches in height, and between two and three inches in width, tapering outward near the top so the view of the scope would not be obstructed.

  He settled into a sitting position on the floor—the width of the passage didn’t allow him to lie prone—and trained the weapon on a statue near the plaza. At 120 meters the statue’s head looked like a giant playground ball through the magnified scope. He scanned left and right, up and down, and made sure the focal point of tomorrow’s ceremony could be sighted with room for adjustments. The Covert had a bipod stand, and Slaton noted that one leg was lower than the other, the stone base being uneven. He also realized that if he widened the base of the hole slightly, the barrel of the rifle could be retained farther into the recess with no loss of functionality.

  The modifications took less than ten minutes, and after a second trial with the rifle he decided his shooting stand was complete. He went to work on the second aperture, which was far more simple, the only alteration being to increase the bore to a smooth three-inch diameter. That done, he checked his angles one last time. Satisfied, Slaton searched the floor and picked up a few loose scraps of stone. By trial and error, he found one that could be used to seal the larger of the two fissures. He went outside and gauged the appearance. From the exterior, the signs of his work were nearly invisible. He left the smaller hole open, but decided to add one more fragment to disguise the larger opening. As his skilled hands worked the chip into place, it occurred to him that he had arrived at a bizarre intersection of his two domains. Creating and destroying at the same time.

 
He pushed his equipment deep into the passageway, and emerged into a gathering dusk. Slaton pulled the tarp closed behind him. He climbed down to street level, pulled the ladder away, and slid it neatly between the wall and the scaffolding. Removing the last external sign of his presence, he unplugged the extension cord, draped the coiled loops over one shoulder, and was soon walking down the Esplanade des Invalides toward a rain-swollen Seine.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  Baland sat alone in the director’s private conference room. Since Slaton’s phone call yesterday, his new office, with its panoramic view of the city, had summarily lost its appeal. The conference room was part of the suite, but with four solid walls. To make his isolation complete, Baland had given his receptionist firm instructions to shunt any calls that were not from the interior minister.

  As had been the case for hours, Baland concentrated completely on the papers in front of him. He worked feverishly, shuffling files and scribbling notes, inputting the names and numbers of terrorist recruits into his personal phone. Though he remained one day removed from ascension to the directorship, his first formal order was already on the books: Find Malika. The more informal, and provocative, version had been a loose suggestion to district captains at the daily briefing: Shoot her on sight. Such specificity was worth a try, but he doubted it would be carried through in that manner. Ethicists and lawyers invariably got in the way—the kinds of curbs that, as Ali Samir, he had never had to deal with in Gaza.

  They’d also been hunting Slaton. He had discarded the phone he’d used to contact Baland, and they’d had no luck discovering how he’d entered France. Baland wanted very much to deal with him now, a window of opportunity that was certainly closing. The Jews, the Islamic State, Malika. Someone was going to spill his identity—it was only a matter of who and when. Given the current state of affairs, his original estimate of a week or more was likely optimistic. He now allowed no more than a few days. At that point, it would be time to disappear.