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  FOR ZAVIER BALAND

  THANKS FOR THE WARNING

  9

  The two security men looked all around, this time at not only sidewalks and windows, but also rooftops and alleys.

  “Who is Nine?” Didier asked.

  “No idea.”

  They both looked up at the house they were guarding.

  “Should we have a look around?” Didier asked.

  “No. Stay put and keep your eyes open.” The leader walked up the path and knocked on the front door.

  THIRTY-THREE

  “Do you know who ‘Nine’ might be?” asked the man in charge of the security detail.

  Baland studied the message, and said, “No, it means nothing to me. You’re saying it arrived attached to a drone?”

  They were together in the study, Baland having excused himself from dinner with his family. Earlier he’d given Jacqueline and the girls a gentle version of what had occurred at Le Quinze. They all took it as well as could be expected, but having armed men now surrounding the house did nothing to lighten the mood. That being the case, when the team leader came to the door, Baland had told them it was a routine check-in, knowing full well it wasn’t.

  “And you didn’t see where it came from?” asked Baland.

  “No, I’m afraid not. I didn’t want to bother you with this, sir, but the way the message is worded—I thought you might have some insight as to what it meant.”

  Baland shook his head.

  The security man said, “I’ll have to pass this up to my commander.”

  Baland looked at his watch. It was 7:52. The security team was DGSI’s own, and the man who would soon be director said, “Whoever sent it must be nearby.”

  “Probably, although we have been briefed that some of these drones can be programmed to fly preset courses. They go beyond the controlling transmitter’s range using GPS.”

  “Even so, before you call in reinforcements, let’s try to deal with this ourselves. You and your men do a quick sweep across the street. Don’t disturb anyone unnecessarily—I have to live with these people. Just check the backyards and rooflines. Ask anyone you meet if they’ve heard or seen anything strange.”

  “Very well. But I should call in extra personnel to—”

  “No,” Baland cut in, “that’s not necessary. Just leave one man in front, and the rest of you try to figure this out. We’re already paying enough overtime tonight. I won’t take manpower away from units with better things to do.”

  “Sir, I really think it would be better if—”

  “Be quick about it!” Baland said decisively, and turned away.

  The detail’s leader didn’t argue any further. He used the radio to relay the plan to his team.

  Soon Baland was watching it all unfold from his front window. There was a brief huddle with all four men, then one became a fixture on his sidewalk while the others got busy across the street. It gave Baland the chance he needed.

  He went to his second-floor study, and from the bottom drawer of his desk he extracted the burner phone he’d taped into a recess. He turned it on, looked at the screen, and was stilled for a moment. There was one unanswered call. Baland shook away his surprise, and was soon quick-stepping downstairs with renewed urgency.

  In the kitchen he gave Jacqueline very specific instructions, and he kissed each of his daughters good night. Two minutes later Baland was out the back door. He bypassed the still-broken swing and the finely trimmed hedges, and fast disappeared into a deepening night.

  * * *

  Four minutes after Baland left his home in Courbevoie, a phone rang in Raqqa. So deep was the handset buried in his backpack, Uday almost didn’t hear it. When the ring did register, he practically fell off his chair trying to reach it. To begin with, he was surprised that a mobile signal was available—coverage had been acutely unreliable in recent weeks. The second and more unnerving shock, made clear by the special ringtone, was which of his phones was receiving the call.

  He checked once over his shoulder to make sure he was alone in the room. Satisfied, he swept up his backpack, reached deep inside, and pulled out the special handset he’d begun carrying for just this contingency.

  “Bonjour,” he said, his range of French expended in a single word.

  The caller began rattling away breathlessly in the language, and realizing his error, Uday interrupted with, “Wait! Please … is English possible?”

  “It is,” said the agent named Argu.

  “We must be quick,” Uday said, again looking back toward the main hall.

  “We have sixty-three seconds,” said Argu, “or so I’ve been told.”

  Uday closed his eyes, feeling stupid. Think! I must think clearly!

  Argu said, “I saw that you tried to contact me earlier. I assume it has to do with Malika. I don’t know what her condition is or where—”

  “No!” Uday said, cutting Argu off. His next words seemed to burst forth, as though they’d been held inside him under great pressure. “My name is Aziz Uday, and I am in charge of the Islamic State Institution for Public Information! I wish to defect with a woman, and I can bring valuable information with me!”

  Uday thought he might have heard an intake of breath over the line. He wished he’d rehearsed the rest of what he had to say. At the very least, he knew he had the man’s attention. But there was still one hurdle to climb. “If you help me,” he said with all the conviction he could muster, “I believe your connection to Raqqa can be buried forever.”

  The silence on the other end of the line was resounding.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  By nine that evening Le Quinze was predictably cordoned off by yellow tape, investigators going over the scene to extract every shred of evidence. From a distance Slaton saw evidence vans, camera crews, and clusters of bystanders. Bright lights had been trailered in, putting half a block of Paris into daylight. Even from fifty yards away he could discern the dark stain on the cobbled terrace, a marker of where Director Michelis had been gunned down.

  Slaton expected Baland to arrive from the direction of his home, and took up his post accordingly. Much like the previous morning, he spotted him walking up the sidewalk two blocks away. Slaton maneuvered to let the DGSI man pass, then fell in behind him. When Baland was half a block short of the restaurant, Slaton saw him hesitate on the sidewalk. He took this as a positive sign, and at that point began a survey of the street.

  Urban traffic, Slaton had long ago concluded, is an eminently predictable thing. Cars and trucks move in tight clusters, compressed by the effects of traffic lights, obstacles, and points of congestion. His preference in street craft was to approach an unsuspecting contact at the height of a rush, when noise and motion were at their most distracting. Traffic surges also provided visual and aural screens to any third party who might be watching, and if anything went wrong, the impending break in flow maximized the possible avenues of escape. Each element small in its own right—but Slaton never gave away any advantage.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said as he approached Baland from the shadow of an old granite wall.

  Baland turned and saw him, looking more relieved than startled. “We should go elsewhere,” he said straightaway, clearly uncomfortable with their proximity to the investigation.

  Another test passed, Slaton thought.

  He’d wondered if Baland would even come—Slaton had, after all, gunned down the man’s brother—but he suspected they had more common interests than were yet apparent. He led Baland away in silence, two quick turns back toward the Seine, and then down an embankment.

  “I came alone,” said Baland as they descended a long flight of stone stairs.

  “I know.”

  The river spread out before them, dark and indifferent. Baland looked all around, seeming distracted. “I’m glad I deciphered your message correctly—it was very minimalist. And the drone was most creative.”

  “It did the job. Although I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”

 
; “Really?”

  Slaton looked at the Frenchman—he could only think of him as such, regardless of where he was born—and reminded himself to not underestimate the man.

  “You weren’t harmed in the attack?” Baland asked.

  “No. And thanks for calling out the threat—you were very astute to see her coming.”

  “I began my service as a policeman, did I not?”

  Slaton gave Baland an inquiring look.

  “Ah, yes,” said Baland. “Our conversation at the restaurant. Just before it was interrupted I think you mentioned that I seemed to have … what was the phrase … insider information?”

  “Maybe that was harsh. Let’s just say you have a great talent for predicting France’s misfortunes.”

  “Actually, you were more correct the first time.”

  They took up a gently curving path along the Left Bank. Baland’s eyes, black in the dim light, studied him with a strange equivalence. “You are getting information,” Slaton said.

  “In a sense. But more problematic is that I am giving it. I am being blackmailed.”

  “By who?”

  “The simple answer would be to say ISIS.”

  “And the more complicated answer?”

  “I will put it like this … aside from my failing old mother, there has long been but one person who knows I am the brother of Ali Samir. That person has threatened to expose me unless I regularly supply intelligence to the leadership in Raqqa.”

  “I see,” said Slaton. “For a man in your position, a relationship like that would be a career-ender.”

  “Prosecutors would no doubt call it treason. If it came to light, I would spend the rest of my life in prison.”

  “So why are you confessing this to me?”

  “We’ll get to that—but trust that my reasons are selfish.”

  Slaton didn’t pursue the point. “What kind of information have you been giving them?”

  “As little as possible. Yet each week they demand more, and lately they have been making specific requests. Only this morning I gave the operative who runs me certain portions of a highly classified dossier—France’s vulnerability to terrorist attacks. Details of our greatest weaknesses are now in the hands of our enemy.”

  Slaton expelled a long breath. “That’s very bad for you.”

  “Information has traveled both ways. I have regularly been given intelligence on second-tier operatives here in France. Small terrorist cells, people to watch for at the immigration counters—dropouts mostly. Men and women who have returned disillusioned from Syria, or malcontents in France who were either denied the ability to travel, or who never had the fortitude to attempt it. Altogether, pawns from the banlieues who are sacrificed to advance the caliphate’s greater cause.”

  Slaton understood immediately. “Small victories to aid your rise within DGSI.”

  “Yes.”

  “The way you present it … it sounds as if this middleman running you, the one who knows of your relationship with Ali Samir, isn’t directly under the caliphate’s control.”

  “Correct.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Someone you have met—the woman who attacked us today.”

  Slaton slowed his pace, then drew to a stop. Baland stopped as well and watched Slaton decipher the code of what he was saying.

  “That makes no sense. If she’s running you as a valuable agent, why would she show up at Le Quinze and try to kill you?”

  Baland gave a half grin. “She didn’t,” he said, eyeing Slaton directly. “She was there to kill you.”

  Slaton stood a bit straighter, and his eyes scanned with more than their usual caution. The river flowed steady and slow, and a pair of young men—immigrants from the Middle East, on appearances—strolled harmlessly nearby. He turned back to study a face he’d first seen so many years ago, squared under his reticle on a still and arid morning. It was different now. Fifteen years of aging, to be sure, but an altogether different countenance. A different person.

  “Who is she?” he finally asked.

  “Her name is Malika.”

  “Was she sent here by ISIS?”

  “I can’t say for certain, but on balance … I would say not. I suspect Malika spent time in Syria, but she remains an outsider. A sympathizer with parallel aims. She has run a number of small operations in France, enough to earn their trust. Once she had that, she told the leaders in Raqqa that she could recruit a high-level agent within DGSI. I’m quite sure she never gave specifics about who it was or how she could do it. They were of course interested. In time, her results proved her point—all at my expense.”

  “What is it that she has over you?”

  “Think about it, kidon. The very same thing that makes her want to kill you. Malika is my niece.”

  Slaton stared at Baland. “You mean…?”

  “Yes. She is the daughter of Ali Samir.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The photographs from Malika arrived at the Raqqa mosque in a laborious stream. They were first downloaded one at a time through an encrypted messaging application. Once in hand, each file had to be reconstituted as a document, a process brought to a standstill that afternoon by a local network failure. Having given his team the day off, Uday worked alone until Anisa showed up. It was late that night before everything was sorted.

  “Whatever this is,” said Anisa, looking through what they’d downloaded, “it appears to be a partial document.”

  Uday seemed not to hear.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “No,” he replied too quickly.

  They were seated side by side, the room an aqueous yellow in the glow of oil lamps. The electrical grid was down again, and their computers were running on a single generator that had been situated three buildings away, connected using every heavy-gauge extension cord they possessed. They’d learned the hard way that the newest drones could spot a heat signature through walls. In a blackout, any operating generator signified something important to the caliphate, which guaranteed attention from the fighter-bombers.

  “Actually, I think you may be right,” he said finally. “Chadeh was expecting a larger document.” The images had arrived in scattershot bunches, suggesting a logjam in the routing scheme. The fact that anything at all was getting through was a minor victory for the persistence of their network. For Uday, however, the transmission of these new files held a double-edged meaning. Their arrival meant that Malika had survived.

  He considered his conversation with Argu earlier. Uday had confirmed what he’d suspected: Malika’s agent was Zavier Baland. In their short conversation the two had devised a loose pact. But how might Malika’s survival complicate things?

  “I don’t like how this came through,” Anisa said, filling the silence. “Our repeater was piggybacking on mobile towers in Aleppo. This data could have been intercepted.”

  “Perhaps, but at the moment security is a luxury—we have to take what we can get.”

  “Has any of this been forwarded to the council?” she asked as she continued to shuffle through the printed pages. “God has truly blessed us. Malika has obtained incredibly valuable information.” Uday was sure he heard a hint of feminism in her voice as she carried on, “Here is a diagram of a synagogue in Nice. And a Jewish grocery in Paris.”

  Uday’s gaze narrowed. “Give me that.”

  Anisa handed over the printouts, and Uday flicked through them. “These are all Jewish interests,” he remarked. “Why would Argu send us only this portion?”

  “Maybe he hates Jews. Who cares? It is clearly useful.”

  “The council was expecting more. Are you sure there was no message regarding the rest?”

  “Everything Malika sent is in your hands.”

  He considered it. “Perhaps she is holding back the rest intentionally. We have put a great deal of trust in her.”

  Anisa glared at him severely. Uday knew she was distilling their discord to a matter of sexism—the inevitable by-
product of a society that systematically devalued women. He was happy to let her have the thought, because it deflected attention from the true nature of his worry.

  She said, “We should send word to the council to convene an immediate meeting.”

  An uncomfortable silence weighed in. Uday knew he held every advantage in this room. Anisa worked for him, and women in the Islamic State never challenged men on matters of importance. All the same, he did not want to antagonize her. Not when he was in such a precarious position himself. “You are right,” he finally said. “This is truly good news at a time when we could use some.”

  “Yes … we have all been under a great deal of pressure.”

  “Send a runner to Chadeh and ask him to call a meeting tonight—eleven o’clock.”

  “Not sooner?”

  “No,” he hedged, “we still might receive more data. I want to be sure we have everything.”

  Anisa nodded, then disappeared through the doorway sided by prayer rugs.

  Uday waited a full two minutes before going to the threshold. He searched the great hall of the mosque. At the far end he saw the cleaning woman, who came most nights, but Anisa was gone. He returned to his workstation and poised his fingers over the keyboard. The commands he was about to enter were irrevocable—once things were set in motion, there was no turning back.

  He took a deep breath, then set to work with a fervor. He had built his trapdoor, or at least conceived of it, in recent days, not sure when or if he would ever be able to use it. Now Uday was glad he’d laid that foundation. Thirty minutes later it was done. He lifted his backpack, looped it over one shoulder, and exited the mosque for the last time into a cold and moonless night.

  * * *

  The more Slaton thought about it, the more it made sense. The woman named Malika was Ali Samir’s daughter. It was she who’d sent four men to the Philippines to eliminate him or, failing that, to draw him to Paris. She had been waiting at Le Quinze, knowing Slaton would show himself. Ready to seek revenge against the man who’d killed her father.