Assassin's Code

by Ward Larsen

  He’d sorted through the list of ISIS operatives effortlessly on his computer, segregating those who lived in either France or Belgium. Baland was astounded to find the names of fourteen hundred men and women. He allowed the data itself no more than a ninety percent accuracy. Contact information would be invalid for some recruits, and a few had probably already found their way to the eastern battle, a one-way ticket to Ankara followed by a bus to the Syrian border. Even so, Baland was sure he was looking at a thousand willing attackers in the cities around him.

  A veritable army.

  Many of the files had photographs to go with backgrounds, and a good number listed weapons in the given recruit’s possession. He flicked from face to face and saw a gallery of rogues. Some had to be college students, while others were certainly criminals. The bold had kitchen knives, the brazen stolen guns, the educated closets full of TATP. Baland studied their unrepentant gazes, and saw the scars of hard lives. Among them, in perhaps one young face in twenty, he recognized what he wanted more than anything. It was an attribute he had long ago learned to discern—the already-dead eyes of eager martyrs.

  All were now his.

  A message blinked to his mobile. Baland scanned it quickly. Something about a boat having been discovered in Gravelines. In a reversal of roles that was gaining momentum, he viewed the news in an all-new light. Something to keep the gendarmerie busy in the countryside. He pushed the phone aside.

  Work faster.

  From the vulnerability report he had extracted twenty-seven primary targets, and forty-two he labeled as secondary. Baland would spend every available minute tonight pairing recruits with targets. After that he would get a few hours’ sleep before the ceremony at Invalides. There was no way out of that, and he had to admit, a part of him wanted to attend. An hour or two to bask briefly in what might have been. It would also serve to fuel his new legend. He imagined photographs of the event going viral in the coming weeks, situated under a banner headline: “New DGSI Chief a Traitor.”

  His alternate life would soon be gone, reverting to the original. The cruelest irony of all: It was the Jews who were forcing him to again become Ali Samir. For that they would pay dearly. He decided to try to spend a few hours with Jacqueline and the girls before abandoning them. It was more than he’d given his pregnant wife and Malika fifteen years ago.

  If only I had known …

  He expected to send the first commands tomorrow night—the larger cells would need time to plan. With any luck, the primary strikes would occur by midweek. Even if only half succeeded, he would be orchestrating the greatest blow against the Zionists of Europe in generations.

  Another message blinked to his phone. Baland nudged the handset farther away on the table. As he did so, an earlier thought returned. Too many knives in the air.

  * * *

  Slaton made two stops before reaching his room. The first was a small grocery store, where he purchased corn syrup, cocoa, and food dye. The second was an internet café on the edge of Clichy.

  In his survey of Invalides he had taken a number of pictures of the surrounding grounds, both interior and exterior shots of the wall under repair, and also a telling photo of the hide where the Covert lay in place. Using a wireless link, he connected the smartphone Bloch had given him to a machine that printed photographs. He transferred seven images, and waited patiently as they spit one by one into a trough. The quality was first-rate, and he collected the hard-stock pictures and placed them in his pocket. A check of his watch confirmed that he was comfortably ahead of schedule.

  From a trash can he scavenged three discarded sheets of printer paper, all of which had weak images on one side—an ink cartridge gone dry. The back sides, however, were quite clean.

  Outside the café, a lone waiter ran a few tables beneath an awning. Slaton took a vacant seat, ordered a white coffee, and asked the waiter if he might borrow a pen. The waiter was an older man, proper and deferential, and Slaton envisioned him working tables at more storied establishments in years gone by. And yes, of course he had an extra pen.

  Slaton’s coffee came quickly, and he set to work. From memory he drew a sketch of the Colombian embassy and the grounds of Invalides. To further reinforce things, he drew a dashed line between the two critical points. Alongside that he made a note: 138.2 meters. Satisfied with the first draft, he folded the paper neatly and nested it with the photographs in his pocket.

  When he could think of nothing else, Slaton pulled out his phone, dialed Air France, and said to a welcoming reservation agent, “I’d like to book a ticket. Munich to Manila, one-way…”

  Five minutes later he checked his watch, drained the last of his coffee, and set out toward his room in Courbevoie. As a temporary residence, it had proved comfortable and pleasant, far more so than the hostel he’d just vacated in a rush. Even so, it was an address that would soon be condemened to the same terminal list: Places to which I can never return.

  SIXTY-NINE

  Malika was in Slaton’s room, sitting in the chair by the window, when she heard someone approach in the hallway outside. The footfalls were heavy, definitely a man’s. She lifted the weapon she’d found in the attaché. It seemed only fitting to use his own weapon, although hers was at her side beneath her folded jacket.

  She heard the lock tumbler click, saw the door swing open. Then the most satisfying moment—the look on his face when he saw her. Malika knew what any hunter knew: the most unsuspecting prey was the one that came to you.

  “Be very still!” she ordered. Malika said it in English. It wasn’t her best language, but it was likely the only one they shared.

  Slaton said nothing, but he did as she asked. His lean frame stood frozen, hands loose by his sides.

  “Away from the door … slowly.”

  He complied.

  It was the first time she’d seen him up close. He was attractive in a way, bigger and more powerfully built than she’d noticed from a distance. Yet what struck her most were his eyes. They were an unusual shade of gray, and in them she saw … what? Not what she should have seen. No concern or calculation. Not even confidence. His gaze was simply empty, like a window that was somehow both clear and opaque.

  “Turn around,” she said. “Pull the jacket over your head … but keep the sleeves on your wrists.” He again complied, removing the jacket as he would a T-shirt, but leaving the sleeves bunched over his outstretched wrists. Malika saw the expected weapon in his waistband. She got up and crossed the room carefully. Very, very slowly, she reached out and removed the handgun. Malika tossed it on the chair she’d been using. The door was still ajar, and she kicked it closed with her heel.

  Standing two steps away, she weighed whether to search him for other weapons. She knew he was physically superior, and the concept of holding a gun against such a man’s spine or throat, then trying to frisk him with a free hand—that was pure Hollywood. In close proximity, he could turn the tables in a fraction of a second. She decided to keep things as they were—her barrel trained on him with a wary eye, at a range where they both knew she couldn’t miss.

  “Drop the jacket,” she said. “Then move away.”

  Again he did as she asked. The jacket fell to the floor, and he sidestepped away from the door. Never averting her eyes, Malika bent down and picked up the jacket. She rifled through the pockets, and found a handful of photographs and a folded sheet of paper. Slaton was still facing away, and her eyes flicked back and forth between the stationary assassin and the images. She unfolded the paper, then smoothed it with her free hand on the table next to her. Malika saw a hand-drawn diagram that made perfect sense. The two of them were, after all, cast from the same mold.

  “I thought so,” she said to his back. “Where is this?”

  He spoke for the first time. “Where would you do it?”

  Her thick cheeks broke into a half smile he couldn’t see. “Invalides, tomorrow morning.”

  Slaton said nothing.

  “If I didn’t find you
at the embassy, I was going to look there next. I knew you wouldn’t rest until you’d killed Baland.”

  “Baland? Not at all. I’ve come to kill your father, Ali Samir.”

  Malika felt her blood rise. The pain came rushing back. How many times as a young girl had she cried herself to sleep? How many times had she dreamt of this moment? Her father’s killer squarely under her sight. “So you learned that much … that I am the daughter of Ali Samir. Good. Then you understand why I am here. But before you die, I will grant you a small mercy. The man you are hunting here in Paris is not who you think. He is my father’s twin.”

  Very slowly, the assassin turned to face her. Malika’s hand tensed on the trigger, but he came no closer, made no threatening moves.

  He said, “I understand perfectly. The two were born in Gaza. Their parents—your grandparents—had intended to immigrate to France. But they weren’t expecting twins. New paperwork had to be run. The man who became Zavier Baland was sent ahead. Then your grandparents were killed by an errant Israeli rocket. Your father, Ali Samir, was doomed to remain in Gaza. I know all about that.”

  Malika only stared at him, her hand rigid, her finger poised.

  “But there’s a part you don’t understand,” he continued. “On September 15, 2002, the real Zavier Baland traveled on an Air France flight from Paris to Cairo. It was a meeting arranged by your father—created because he knew I was hunting him. He understood that sooner or later I, or someone like me, would succeed. He fed Mossad information about where he would be on a certain day, at a certain time. A teahouse in Gaza. When I lined him up in my sight that day, there was no question in my mind who I was shooting—Ali Samir, unrepentant bomber of women and children. That was exactly what your father wanted me to think.…” His voice trailed off, as if inviting her to think about it.

  And Malika did think. He is trying to talk his way out of a bad situation. He is desperate, weaving an impossible story. Yet she couldn’t shake one image …

  Gloves.

  She had met her uncle face-to-face on only five occasions since arriving in France, and in every case Zavier Baland had worn gloves. She’d noticed, but written it off as no more than an eccentricity. Now, however, a distant memory intruded. When she was four, perhaps five years old, her father had come home one day with a burn on the back of one hand. Malika could still remember her mother dressing the wound. Years later, when she was old enough to understand who he was and what he did, her father had explained. He told her the scar was a badge of honor, caused by some manner of bomb-cooking gone wrong. Now it acquired an all-new relevance: As far as she knew, that scar on his right hand was the only physical difference between the two brothers.

  Slaton went on, “Yes, you’re beginning to see it. Your father traded places with his brother, Malika. He was the one on the return flight to Paris the next day.”

  Her eyes narrowed, but her shooting hand was set in stone.

  “A friend of mine recently talked to Gabrielle Baland,” he continued, “the woman who raised Zavier. She said her son was a changed man after he returned from that trip. He moved to Paris immediately afterward and the two became estranged.”

  Malika began shaking her head, as if to dislodge the growing madness.

  “It’s true,” he said. “But then, maybe deep down you suspected it all along. Your father abandoned his family to steal his brother’s life in France. He left you and your pregnant mother by yourselves, let you think he was dead. Now he’s issued orders to hunt you down. You … his daughter.”

  Malika wanted to argue, but she felt as if she’d lost the capacity to speak. Her world narrowed and she focused completely on the notch above her weapon. She tried to hold it steady on the figure in front of her.

  “I’m not here to kill Zavier Baland. That’s already been done. I’m here to do what you brought me here to do. I’m going to kill your father, and this time I won’t miss.” He took a step forward. “Now that you know the truth about him … I suspect it’s what you might want as well. He’ll never let you rest, Malika. You know too many of his secrets.”

  “Stop!” Her arm locked straight.

  He was five paces away, but still coming at her. She pulled the trigger. The gun clicked but didn’t fire. In a flash Malika slammed her left palm into the butt of the magazine, racked in a new round, and squeezed the trigger a second time. The result was the same. She stood stunned, confused. Slaton had gone motionless two steps away. He didn’t look surprised or angry or murderous. The gray eyes remained a blank, no sign of intent or emotion. She tried to make sense of it all—the failing gun, his reaction to it. Malika was never able to complete that thought, because in the next instant the window beside her exploded.

  In a blur she saw Slaton drop, hitting the floor like a sack of gravel. She dove away from the window and crashed into a wall. Rounds burst in at a high rate of fire, peppering the room. Glass rained to the floor, and a picture on the far side of the room was knocked from the wall. Malika looked at Slaton. A smear of red stained his neck, and blood was fast pooling beneath him. The gray eyes were empty as ever, only now focused to infinity.

  The incoming fire didn’t relent.

  Her own gun was on the chair across the room, as was the one she’d taken from Slaton. Both were small-caliber. Whoever was outside had vastly superior firepower. She looked at the door—it was still cracked open.

  Bullets streamed in, fractions of a second apart, thumping into wood and plaster, ripping apart fabric. Then, all at once, a pause. The killer was either finished or changing magazines. Either way, it was her chance. With a hard look at the door, she stood, lunged over the dead assassin, and threw herself into the hallway.

  SEVENTY

  The hotel’s proprietor and both housekeepers heard the commotion, but none of them recognized it for what it was. The maintenance man, however, a middle-aged immigrant from North Africa who’d done a stint in the Moroccan Army, recognized the sound of gunfire.

  He was unclogging a toilet on the second floor when the first shots rang out, and he called the police right away using his mobile. When the shooting ended as abruptly as it had begun, his curiosity was piqued. The action, he thought, seemed to be taking place one floor above, although he knew from experience that sourcing such staccato sounds could be difficult. He cautiously took the service stairwell to the third floor, and right away noticed that the door to number 14 was ajar. Everything seemed quiet, and with nothing more than a plunger in his hand, he moved guardedly down the hall and peered inside.

  What he saw was perplexing. The room was a wreck. Both windows seemed to have shattered inward, leaving glass strewn across the carpet. There were holes in the walls, and the floor was covered by stuffing from a chair that seemed to have exploded. The other big chair looked untouched, and on it he saw a folded jacket and two handguns. There was no one in the room, but he did see one sign of human habitation—on the central floor a dark red stain that could only be blood.

  * * *

  The gendarmes arrived within minutes, and their first determination was clear-cut: Whatever battle had come to the small boutique hotel in Courbevoie, it had run its course. The building was secure. With everyone on edge given the recent spate of attacks, the assault on Room 14 was immediately stamped as having possible terrorist involvement. Evidence technicians were quick to arrive, and their initial findings sent straight to the DGSI command center.

  Charlotte LeFevre—who had been on duty for forty-eight hours—was the first to see the results. Based on the preliminary report, she ordered the immediate acquisition of CCTV footage for the area around the hotel. She soon found what she was after. LeFevre copied the best image from the video, and forwarded it to the detectives on scene, along with a question. They reply came almost immediately. She rushed two floors up to the director’s suite.

  Baland’s receptionist tried to turn her away, but LeFevre was adamant. She waited breathlessly while her arrival was announced, shifting her weight from one f
oot to the other as she stared at the heavy door. She thought she might have heard a desk drawer slide shut. Finally, Baland appeared at the threshold of his office.

  “Yes, Charlotte, what is it?” he said, gesturing for her to come inside.

  LeFevre followed the director-designate toward one side of the room, and they settled into large chairs. She covered the essentials of what had happened. “Our people have been interviewing the hotel staff, and when I heard their description of the man who’d rented the room, I began going over CCTV footage.” She slid the photograph onto the desk. “This was captured by a camera across the street minutes before the shooting started. I remembered the description you gave me of the man who brought Uday in—the one you thought might be responsible for the bombing at The Peninsula.”

  Baland looked at the picture. “Yes,” he agreed, “I think that might be him.”

  “Three hotel employees confirmed it—he’s been staying in this room for the last few days. There’s also footage of a woman—I think it’s the one we’ve been after, the one responsible for Director Michelis’ death.” LeFevre waited for a reaction from Baland, but saw little. “She can be seen leaving the scene of this shooting one minute after it was called in.”

  Baland seemed to consider it all. “Did you say there was blood on the floor of the room?”

  “Yes. The teams are recovering samples as we speak.”

  “But this woman didn’t appear injured?”

  “Nothing obvious. If anyone was wounded, they managed to escape. I’ve alerted hospitals to watch for gunshot victims seeking treatment.”

  “Yes, very good.”

  LeFevre went over other initiatives she’d ordered in the burgeoning investigation, all quite standard, and Baland nodded his agreement. She thought he seemed distracted, and, hoping to draw him out, she asked, “Have you heard anything new from the Defense Ministry on this boat in Gravelines?”