Assassin's Code Page 12

  “And you believe that? Other rumors suggest he met his end more recently in Geneva, although a body was never found.”

  She waited, but Baland didn’t respond.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Malika.

  “What do you propose we do about it?”

  “There is only one way to deal with such a person.”

  “You cannot be serious! The risks would be far too—”

  “You should want him dead more than anyone!” she hissed.

  Baland looked at her, and the vehemence in her argument made him understand. “No,” he said pensively, the truth beginning to dawn. “Not more than anyone. It was you … you have brought him here.” She averted her gaze, and he knew he was right.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “But you unwittingly did your part. Do you not recall the other research you performed for me last month?”

  Baland thought about it. “The satellite account? The one my technicians tracked to a sailboat in the Philippines?”

  “Your technicians are very good. Raqqa came up with the initial lead—they have many helpful sources across the region. Clearly in this case, their information was accurate. See how well we can all work together?”

  “That was reckless, girl! Stupid and reckless!”

  She looked at him anew, more critically. Baland sat rigid, his gloved hands anchored in his lap.

  She said, “Given what he did to you—I’d think you would beg to pull the trigger yourself.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “You realize what a precarious position you are in. Slaton is here, so the situation must be dealt with, for both our sakes. If you can put him in a certain place, at a certain time—I will finish things.”

  “What do you propose?”

  Malika had clearly given the idea some thought, and what she presented was a surprising blend of caution and practicality. “The important thing is for you to not be predictable until it is done. This man is hunting you, but we must choose his moment. Until then, you can go nowhere you are expected.”

  “I have to go to work—surely DGSI headquarters is secure.”

  “Yes, keep your appointments there. But nowhere else … and we should create the chance soon.”

  He nodded, and said, “There might be an opportunity tomorrow.” He explained his idea, and she agreed that Slaton might see it as an opening.

  “I will visit the place today. If I see any problems, I’ll contact you. Otherwise—be ready.”

  Baland frowned. It seemed a rash plan, even reactionary. But Malika was right on one count—as long as this kidon was skulking around Paris, he would have to avoid public engagements, and certainly his family. All at a time when he was striving for normalcy. The idea of requesting a security detail from DGSI crossed his mind, but it exited just as quickly. That would require him to explain why an Israeli assassin was gunning for him, which of course was out of the question.

  “All right,” he said resignedly. “What other business is there?”

  “The raid in Saint-Denis, the Moroccans … Raqqa wants to know if it was helpful.”

  “Yes, that was good. A step in the right direction.” The flow of information with Raqqa had long been going in both directions. Baland metered out France’s secrets to Malika, doing his best to minimize the damage. In return, he was given information about select ISIS assets in Europe, a means of furthering his advancement at DGSI. Now only one more rung remained on that ladder. He was silent for a time as he considered where to take the conversation. With face-to-face meetings rare, it seemed an ideal time to address the sword hanging over him.

  “Where does this end?” he asked in a hushed voice.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Merde! I am not a fool, Malika! If I should become director, we both know that our relationship will become decidedly one-way. What will your handlers want then? Information to sabotage France’s every operation against your Islamic State?”

  “Certainly not—that would be far too obvious. Even your internal monitors, blind as they are, would recognize the leak. The sharing must continue in both directions, exactly as we have done.”

  Baland stared at her. “The men in Raqqa,” he said searchingly, “do they understand the leverage you have over me?”

  Her face contorted into what might have been a smile, her thick cheeks bulging and lines crinkling around her eyes. “No. They have no idea.”

  “Do they know who I am?”

  Malika shrugged. “If they do, it is not because I told them.”

  “I’ve never understood—why have you taken up with them, Malika?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Religion?”

  She laughed out loud. Leaning closer, she said, “Don’t imagine that by eliminating me you can eliminate your problem. These men in Syria might be zealots and barbarians … but they are not fools. If they don’t know your identity, they could probably figure it out based on the information you’ve given. They also might uncover our connection. There is no turning back. You can only trust that as long as you are reasonable, we will continue to be so. Our arrangement so far has been mutually beneficial. The only loser is France herself, and what do any of us care about that?”

  Baland remained still.

  Malika slid a cupped hand onto the bench near his hip. “Take this.”

  He looked down and saw a cheap phone, white plastic with a sliding cover. He palmed the device and slid it into his pocket.

  “Use it only in an emergency,” she said. “It is a direct line to Raqqa. The number is loaded.”

  “Raqqa? Should I take this as a lack of confidence on your part with regard to hunting Slaton?”

  She gave him a withering look. “It wasn’t my idea. They consider you an irreplaceable asset.”

  “Will there be further attacks soon?”

  She shrugged. “I would only be guessing. But I can tell you they are getting impatient for the information you promised. It’s been over a month.”

  “Yes, I know. A report like that takes time to research. The department head has assured me it will be on my desk today.”

  “Deliver it tomorrow morning then, our number-three drop.”

  “In the morning? But you just told me to—”

  “Take a company car if you are worried about your safety! Just make sure you get Slaton to show himself.”

  Baland looked at her sourly. “He already has once. Perhaps you should have targeted him with something more than a camera lens this morning.”

  There was a momentary impasse.

  He picked up, “This is a complication of your making, and it comes at a very awkward time.” Baland studied her openly. “So tell me … I know how you found this assassin, but how did you entice him to come here?”

  Malika grinned. “That was simplicity itself. I sent him your picture.”

  An incredulous Baland listened as she recounted what had happened in the Philippines. He remembered the recent request from the Philippine authorities for information on the men. Baland hadn’t known what to make of it at the time, but now he saw a perfect fit. “Who were they?” he asked.

  “The usual ISIS cannon fodder—a bunch from Marseille whose names were given to me by the Emni. I had a free hand to assign them as I wished. There was a chance they might have done the job, eliminated Slaton themselves. As it turned out, it will be up to us.”

  Baland looked at her with grudging respect. She was a clever girl. Clever and vengeful. “You took chances in Grenoble,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw you there, on a CCTV capture—you really should be more careful. I watched you reach into the bomber’s pocket and activate the switch.”

  Now it was Malika who sat speechless.

  “Who was he? Another of your endless supply of martyrs? Apparently this one was having second thoughts.”

  Malika opened her mouth, but then stanched what she was about to say. “I told him it was God’s will,” she replied tersely.<
br />
  Baland nearly laughed. “And to kill this kidon? Will that too be God’s will?”

  Malika didn’t reply. She got up, rounded Monsieur Picard’s frigate, and disappeared into the next exhibit.

  Baland remained on the bench for some time, thinking about what he’d learned. Events were accelerating, and soon they would reach a point where they could not be stopped. He realized the photograph was still in his hand, and without looking at it he slipped it into the inner pocket of his jacket. Right next to a new phone.

  Slaton. That was a complication he had not expected. He looked all around the room, and wondered where the Israeli might be at that moment.

  It was like grasping at air.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Slaton left his room early the next morning, and before sunrise was in the vicinity of Le Quinze with a café américain in his hand and a Glock 17 in his pocket. He passed in front of the restaurant only once, regarding the interior layout through its darkened glass windows. He saw a maître d’ stand, a cherrywood bar, and tables that were widely spaced—an establishment where discretion was more valued than the number of guests who could be served.

  After pausing briefly to review a menu posted near the door, he rounded the block completely. Slaton then moved one street south and did it all again. In an ever-expanding perimeter he noted buildings and walls and pathways, and within twenty minutes he had a mental map more relevant than anything Google could provide. Comfortable with the field of play, he set out back toward his room. He was not yet to the river when his phone trilled. Slaton saw who it was, and picked up. “Good morning, Anton.”

  “You need to abort this nonsense.”

  Slaton grinned. “You know what I’ve always liked about you, Anton? You’re the only person I know whose social skills are more stunted than my own.”

  “We are not comfortable with this plan.”

  “Nor am I—but you and Director Nurin have no say in the matter. He chose not to get involved.”

  “When you asked for weapons, I thought you might act quickly and cleanly. What you presented to Talia is madness.”

  “I admit,” said Slaton, “it’s going to take some nuance.”

  “Nuance? That is hardly your specialty.”

  “I’ll make it work. Are there any changes to Baland’s schedule?”

  “David—”

  “Are there any changes?”

  “No. According to Talia, nothing that will affect your plans.”

  “Good. Tell her the timing of the message she sends is critical.”

  Bloch was silent for a time, and Slaton imagined him laboring to think of valid arguments. What he said in the end was, “All right, then … I wish you luck.”

  * * *

  We are done!

  Those three words, spoken ten minutes ago by his assistant, Anisa, had washed Uday’s thoughts onto new and dangerous shores. The database project was complete.

  It was Chadeh who had pushed the project over the finish line—he’d kept his word and delivered manpower, twenty individuals of varying capability who’d brought completion virtually overnight. Uday had long ago given up trying to understand the schizophrenic dictates of the Shura Council, but in this case he knew exactly why they’d prioritized the project. A new wave of attacks against France was imminent.

  Uday had felt fear before—no one who’d lived in Syria in recent years had not—but this time it settled differently, a cold ballast in the pit of his stomach. The strikes he’d been briefed on yesterday, if they were half as destructive as Chadeh hoped, would kill thousands of civilians. France, likely supported by a coalition of Western powers, to include the United States, would be forced into a ground war. And when they came to eradicate what remained of the caliphate, there would be no half measures. What use were thirty thousand ISIS fighters with small arms, committed as they might be, against a modern army ten times that strength? Apocalypse indeed. The surviving ISIS strongholds would face annihilation.

  Uday fought to regain his focus. Only four members of his team remained in the mosque, the rest having been sent home with the job done. In a workroom littered with empty coffee cups and overflowing ashtrays, four sets of eyes fell on Uday. They all knew what had to come next. Under the watchful eye of Anisa, Uday applied an encryption algorithm, then fed the database into the most secure, air-gapped hard drive available. He electronically destroyed the working source files, and saw to it that any temporary memory devices were incinerated in the room’s tiny pot stove, the heater that kept everyone warm using the only reliable source of fuel—discarded computer printouts.

  The end result could be attested to by everyone present: a complete electronic lockdown of their new database. It contained identity information on every known member of ISIS, both within the caliphate and beyond. Names, addresses, passport numbers. Phone numbers, ages, units of assignment, family ties. That done, Uday looked around and saw four weary but smiling faces.

  “You have done well,” he told his team, all of whom had worked through the night.

  “This is something we have long needed,” Anisa added. “We can reference it for unit assignments, payroll records, even notification of next of kin.”

  Another technician, the newest recruit and therefore the optimist of the bunch, piped in, “This could eventually form the basis for a system of medical records.”

  Uday nodded, and said something encouraging. His empty gaze, however, seemed to bypass them all. Only he knew the truth. The information they’d gathered would have but one use in the near term, and countless innocent souls in both France and Syria would die because of it.

  He looked at Anisa, then around the room. “We have worked very hard for this. I want you all to take the rest of the day off. Enjoy our victory. It will be of enduring help to our caliphate, inshallah.”

  There was no argument. Uday said he would stay a bit longer to shut things down. Anisa was the last to leave, and as she reached the door Uday said, “Tell the guards outside that security should be increased. This room now holds the our most precious secrets.”

  A visibly tired Anisa promised that she would.

  Moments later Uday was alone. He turned back to his computer, and once more felt the weight inside him, deep and burdensome. With the monitor staring at him in its soulless gray hue, he addressed the keyboard and began to type.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The ops briefing that morning had been on Baland’s schedule for two days, and because it was entrenched deep within DGSI headquarters he had no reservations about attending. Israeli assassins might be lurking along the shoulders of the Seine or on the boulevards of Courbevoie, but there was certainly no more secure place in Paris than the fortress where he sat drinking tea at five minutes past eight.

  This was not to say that Baland hadn’t taken precautions since his rendezvous with Malika. He’d slept in his office last night on the surprisingly comfortable couch, something he’d done before while navigating late-night agency crises. Baland had considered telling Jacqueline to take the girls to her sister’s in Rouen, but he doubted they were in danger, and the greater distance between them would only add complications. He was the one Slaton would be hunting. All the same, he had insisted Jacqueline drive the girls to school today.

  His assistant had cleared his schedule for the day, regrets given to his German Bundespolizei counterpart who’d been penciled in for an evening cocktail at a nearby hotel, and Baland relished the excuse to cancel an afternoon interview with a minor television station. The only outside event he did not alter: his lunch date at Le Quinze with director Claude Michelis.

  So prepared, he sipped his Earl Grey and flicked through a newspaper until the director arrived—as was his custom, precisely ten minutes late. The first thing Michelis did was curl a bony finger, drawing Baland to a quiet corner of the conference room.

  “Good morning, Director,” said Baland.

  “Good morning, Zavier. You look well, considering.”

  “
Considering what?”

  “That you slept in your office.”

  Baland’s first thought was to wonder how Michelis had found that out. His second was to remind himself that the director was the director for a reason. “This thing in Grenoble,” he said on the fly, “it’s been bothering me. At least here, if I’m unable to sleep, I can do something productive.”

  Michelis set a fraternal hand on his shoulder. “This briefing might put us both to sleep, but I suppose it’s ground that has to be covered. We weren’t prepared for Grenoble, and the president himself has directed me to make radiological threats our top priority.”

  “A wise decision,” Baland found himself saying. A middle-aged woman approached the lectern, and he turned to go back to his seat.

  “I’ll see you for lunch,” said Michelis.

  “I look forward to it.”

  The director was spot-on—the morning’s briefings were indeed coma-inducing. Everyone first endured the department’s specialist in radiological terrorism, a woman who delivered a lecture on gamma particles and shielding in a flaccid monotone. Next came a bespectacled man who championed a new organizational structure, represented in an unremitting series of Venn diagrams.

  Thirty minutes in, Baland stifled a yawn and flicked through the long-awaited report that had reached his desk yesterday afternoon. He’d studied it thoroughly in his office last night, which did nothing to promote sleep. A comprehensive profile of France’s vulnerabilities to terrorism, it covered electrical grids, dams, nuclear power plants, and at-risk public venues. Transportation and commerce were given an entire chapter, and Appendix B catalogued armories where conventional weapons and explosives were stored, along with conceivable security weaknesses for each site.

  As individual scenarios, much of what he saw was well-trod ground. Taken collectively, however, the information in the two-hundred-page binder in his hands, which was labeled at the highest level of secrecy, was overpowering. It demonstrated profound weaknesses in France’s security arragnements, and included the most current threat assessments—susceptibilities to dirty-bomb attacks had even been updated for a dozen high-profile sites. The Eiffel Tower, Versailles, Disneyland Paris—all had been freshly reexamined this week using information gleaned from Grenoble. There were also a handful of new scenarios, including a hypothesis that a toxic-waste holding pond, located at a chemical factory upriver from Paris, could be breached and diverted into the Seine with catastrophic consequences—only a small car bomb was needed. A computer simulation of a chlorine gas attack inside the Châtelet Métro station was chilling in its body count. In sum, the report was a wake-up call, and would prove invaluable in assembling defensive measures for years to come. And if such information ended up in the hands of the enemy? he thought.