Assassin's Code Page 5

  “They approached you and Davy, but didn’t put you in danger.”

  “If that’s your idea of optimism, it’s utterly depressing.”

  Her chin sank to her chest, and Slaton pulled her next to him on the bunk and held her. “This had nothing to do with you,” he whispered, stroking his wife’s sun-streaked hair. Nothing was said for a time as they both decompressed, the only sound Windsom’s twin hulls carving through the sea.

  She finally pulled away, a question set in her face. “But I don’t understand. If these men came here to attack you … then what’s that?” She nodded to the memory stick.

  Slaton turned it in his hand. “A briefing, probably. A map of where we were anchored, or a diagram of Esperanza. Maybe photos of me working at the church, or you and Davy in the park—you’ve been going there on and off for a couple of weeks.”

  “Should we see what’s on it?”

  Slaton considered it, then discarded the stick on the bedside table. He looked at her openly. “Tomorrow. It’s been a long day, but we’re safe now.”

  “Are we?”

  He cupped the side of her face with a hand, stroked her cheek with his thumb. “Yes, I promise.”

  Her worry lines finally cracked. First relief, followed by the trace of a smile. Slaton kissed her lightly on the lips. Then again.

  On the third she responded, and their tension translated into the physical. Soon Christine was lying next to him on the bed. Soothing hands gripped more firmly, ventured with practiced familiarity. Thirty minutes later both were sleeping soundly, side by side, exhausted in every way.

  NINE

  The night at sea resolved into the usual challenges. Christine was the first to wake, and took the early shift. Slaton relieved her at 3:00 A.M. in a rising sea. An hour before sunrise, he was still at the helm.

  He’d seen only two freighters, both distant. Windsom was battering through steady swells, her twin hulls plowing obediently northward. Explosions of spray flew over the rails, more from the windward starboard side, and water slapped over the cockpit in rhythmic sheets. From the protection of a dodger, Slaton programmed a course ten degrees east of what he wanted—given the conditions, he felt it wise to keep the boat angled into the seas.

  He trimmed out the jib, confident things wouldn’t get worse. After cruising for almost a year now, he was beginning to understand that every sea had its habits—some pleasant, others annoying, a few outright dangerous. Just like people, he mused.

  He saw a dim light flicker below, and a few minutes later Christine appeared.

  “Coffee is brewing,” she said. She looked over the seas and the rigging. “A little tight on the main, but not bad.”

  “I’m trainable.”

  “Why don’t you come below. We should talk before Davy wakes up.”

  “Right.”

  * * *

  Coffee was brewing but not yet in hand. Christine slid into the settee, and Slaton took the seat across from her, still moving gingerly from the wound on his thigh. He pushed the plastic drive across the table. It seemed small and inanimate, which only made it that much more ominous. Slaton watched his wife closely and saw her spirits sink. Whatever comfort they’d stolen last night was lost in an instant.

  She picked up the drive as though it were some kind of talisman. “You didn’t take a look while I was sleeping?” she asked.

  “No. If you want, I can throw it overboard right now.” He said nothing more, only waited.

  Christine sighed and pulled the family laptop onto the table. As soon as it was up and running, she plugged in the stick. Their first finding was obvious, and not insignificant.

  “No access codes or encryption schemes,” he said.

  “No.”

  He let her do the navigating, which turned out to be minimal.

  “I see only one folder,” she said. “Three images.” She looked up at him, and Slaton nodded. She double-clicked.

  The first image filled the screen, and Slaton saw a copy of a news article. It appeared to be a screenshot of an online news piece. There was a photo of two men and a caption underneath.

  Slaton studied the faces intently. One man was grinning as he received an award, the classic right-hand handshake and coat-hanger smile, the award held jointly by the presenter and awardee. The man receiving the award looked vaguely familiar, but Slaton swept his first impulse aside. That would be impossible. He shifted to the man issuing the honor, whom he recognized instantly. It was the president of France. Slaton went back to the other man, and his discomforting thought recurred. The caption at the bottom explained that the award was being issued for meritorious service to the republic. A time and date at the head of the article suggested the picture had been taken three weeks ago. Which made no sense whatsoever.

  His concern must have been evident, because Christine asked, “What’s wrong, David?”

  He met his wife’s eyes, but wasn’t sure how to answer. “Call up the others.”

  The next photo came into view—the same man in a policeman’s uniform, taken last year if the date could be believed. The photo looked like it might have been sourced from a gendarmerie personnel file. The caption at the bottom introduced him as a newly appointed conseiller to the director of DGSI. Christine navigated to the last image, and a fourteen-year-old news article was presented, the same man again, noticeably younger. This time he was lauded as being the top graduate in the Paris prefecture’s spring training class. Slaton couldn’t take his eyes from the half-smiling face. He rubbed his chin with a cupped hand, and a coarse grating noise reminded him he hadn’t shaved in two days.

  “Who is … Zavier Baland?” she asked, referencing the name linking all three pictures.

  “According to this, he’s a fast-rising officer at DGSI. That’s France’s internal security service.”

  “Like the FBI?”

  “You could think of it like that. They’re responsible for counterterrorism.”

  “Okay,” she said cautiously, “but why is this on a memory stick in a killer’s pocket … with your name on it?”

  He let out a long, steady breath, not sure how to answer.

  She said, “You told me this was going to be some kind of mission briefing used by the men who came after you.”

  “That’s what I thought it would be. But now I’m seeing another possibility.”

  Christine waited.

  “This was insurance.”

  “Insurance?”

  “Whoever sent these men didn’t have a lot of confidence in them. They thought I might survive. So the lead man was given orders to carry this file. If the attack failed, I would find it.”

  “But a few pictures of a policeman in France? Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Actually, yeah, it does. There is something special about this guy—something that ties him to me.”

  “What?”

  “I killed him fifteen years ago.”

  TEN

  Baland heard a muted voice behind him, but the words didn’t register as he sat at the kitchen table with his morning cup of tea. Then an arm wrapped around his throat.

  He smiled, and turned to face his youngest daughter. “I’m sorry, darling. What was it?”

  “Lapins Crétins! You said you would read it to me before school!” Amélie held out her favorite book. Baland was reaching to pull her into his lap when his wife intervened.

  “No, there is no time! Papa will read to you tonight.”

  Amélie pouted as only a seven-year-old could.

  “Yes, tonight,” said Baland. “I promise to be home before bedtime.”

  “You always break your promises,” chirped Celine as she came into the kitchen to collect her lunch. At nine years old, she was two years senior and therefore infinitely wiser than her sister.

  Baland answered by rising, corralling his older daughter, and kissing her on the head. “Perhaps I should arrest you both.… I will take you to work with me and keep you all day.”

  “Oh
please!” said Celine. “Then I will miss that terrible Monsieur Gabard and his boring history lessons!”

  “Knowledge of history is essential,” admonished Baland. “Do not let one dull old teacher steal your enthusiasm for a worthy subject.”

  Jacqueline Baland schussed her children toward the door. “Get your jackets, both of you. It will be cold today.”

  The girls complied, disappearing from the kitchen. When they were gone Jacqueline began clearing dishes. “You shouldn’t encourage them when they criticize their teachers.”

  “You and I have met the man—listening to him is like listening to an old record. He should have retired years ago.”

  “Say what you want to me, but we must teach the girls respect.”

  Baland sighed. “Yes, yes … you are right.”

  “I’m going to walk the girls to school.”

  Baland almost protested, but didn’t want to start the argument anew. He considered driving safer for his family: to be near the top ranks of the nation’s counterterrorism establishment did not come without a price. Jacqueline, unfortunately, was quintessentially French, and would not permit her joie de vivre to be infringed upon.

  “I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” she said. “Will you still be here?”

  “No, I must go in early.”

  She came up behind him and put her arms across his chest. “You’ve been working so much lately, darling. The girls miss you. I miss you.”

  He closed his eyes and put his hands on hers. “I know. I’m sorry, but this business in Grenoble has stirred things up. It will get better soon.”

  “When you become director?”

  He pulled her around and looked at her questioningly. “What makes you say that?”

  She shrugged. “A few of the other wives … we talk. They’ve seen your advancement, and there is but one place to go from where you sit.”

  “You should not discuss such things with your friends.”

  “Do you deny it? The possibility?”

  He smiled and swatted her rump. “I can neither confirm nor deny such information.”

  She smiled back. “See? You were born for the job.”

  “On the minuscule chance it does come to pass, I can tell you the job includes cars and bodyguards we will all make use of.”

  She kissed him on the cheek, went to the next room, and in a flurry of hugs and backpacks and gloves, Jacqueline left with the girls.

  The house turned eerily quiet. Baland went to the sink, and as he washed his cup he looked out the window across their wintering garden. Even out of season, everything was trimmed and proper, no thanks to him—he’d hired a gardener who came twice a week to tend to things. He noticed a swing on the play set that was hanging loose on one side, and he wondered how long it had been that way.

  He set the cup in a drying rack and tried to think of something else to do. It was no use—he checked his phone and flicked through a sea of new e-mails from work. The phone was secure, or so they told him, and one message in particular held his attention: there had been no progress in identifying the woman they’d seen in the car in Grenoble. He wasn’t surprised. The CCTV video had told Baland what he needed to know.

  They’d been searching for her for some time, a female organizer, a shadowy young woman who’d been cobbling together local recruits and ISIS infiltrators, and sending them into attacks. Until now she had largely remained under DGSI’s radar, but in Grenoble she’d made a mistake. She had also proved herself ruthless enough to depress the switch in the bomber’s hand, and later to execute the driver. Perhaps the man had been unreliable or done something to compromise security. Whatever the transgression, she had put a gun to his head and shot him at close range.

  Ruthless indeed, Baland thought.

  Minutes later he was walking into an iron-gray morning, steering toward DGSI headquarters, which lay slightly over a kilometer from his house. Contradicting the security concerns he expressed to his wife, Baland regularly walked to work himself. Director Michelis had more than once offered to provide a car and protection, to which Baland invariably replied, “Senior officers at DGSI order covert operations—they do not suffer them.”

  He turned up his collar against a brisk wind and set out with a purpose. Baland had covered roughly half his morning commute when he diverted into a small grocery store. At the entrance he pulled out a thin pad of Post-it notes, and scribbled a list on the top page: bread, yogurt, and his favorite English tea. He continued writing on the second page, then spent ten minutes with a basket collecting his lunch, checking each item meticulously off his list. At the checkout line, Baland bid the familiar cashier a friendly “Bonjour” before giving his scarf a turn around his neck and heading back into the street.

  It was ten minutes later, as DGSI’s senior conseiller was arriving at his office, that a dark-skinned young woman picked up a basket at the same market and began strolling the aisles. She had a squat build, and was dressed in an ill-fitting dress and thick down jacket. Her wiry black hair was matted with cold rain, and droplets ran down her hooked nose as she shuffled across the weary linoleum floor. She was discriminating in the produce section, checking ten apples before selecting two, but less so in back, where she stocked her basket with pain au chocolat and a cheap bottle of table red. She again stalled when selecting tea, going to the back of the shelf for a box of Twining’s English Breakfast before moving to the checkout line.

  She paid with a prepaid Visa card, trundled outside with a bag in each hand, and walked a circuitous path to a nearby bus stop. There she took a seat on an empty bench, set down her bags, and removed a small piece of yellow paper from one of the shopping bags. She carefully unfolded the three meticulous creases so as not to damage the paper, which had glue on one edge. She read the brief message.

  When a bus unexpectedly approached the stop, the woman frowned. She stood smartly, and walked away with her bags in hand. Minutes later she arrived at the small bed-and-breakfast that would be her home for another three hours. Malika locked the door behind her, took a seat at the dining table, and partook of a very nice pain au chocolat as she pecked out an encrypted message on her phone.

  ELEVEN

  For the two men it was a rare event to be in the same building. When their paths did intersect, it was strictly for brief periods, and never on a predetermined schedule. Indeed, their encounters were often no more than chance events, rather like friends bumping into one another at a pub after work. Except the two men were not friends—not really—and there wasn’t a pub within a hundred miles of Al-Raqqa, deep in the troubled land that had once been called Syria.

  The place had been a small grocery some years ago, evidenced by old advertising posters on the walls, many of them peeling away like dated wallpaper. A few long-empty shelves had been pushed aside to make way for a large rectangular rug, giving the main floor the aura of an arena. A security contingent loitered outside, but only a few trusted men, all of whom kept to the shadows. Neither of the principals carried a mobile phone, and both had arrived on foot. They would depart the same way, with minimal fanfare and in different directions. These maneuvers were not by choice—the leadership of ISIS had simply learned the hard way. A phalanx of black-clad guards, a convoy of vehicles, a stray signal—any of that could be a giveaway to the drones. A veritable invitation for an airstrike. Such was the survivalist mind-set these days of the men who administered the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria.

  Wael Chadeh was the number-two man in ISIS, answering only to the caliph himself. If the organization were to embrace a corporate structure, Chadeh would be its chief operations officer. His internal security service, known as the Emni, was responsible for both security within the caliphate and the planning of operations abroad. As a matter of strict religious theory, of course, the Islamic State did not recognize the borders of any country. The caliphate existed not as a nation-state, but rather the very antithesis, a geographic boundary where the only law was the law of God, and where, according
to the Prophet, an apocalyptic battle would one day take place. Unfortunately, in recent years the caliphate’s holdings had shrunk markedly. There were still a few strongholds, but across the Middle East, ISIS was losing ground fast. And when a given territory was lost, the surviving fighters did what they’d always done—they ghosted back into the population to fight another day.

  Chadeh had risen through the ranks as a hardened warrior. In the course of battle, he had killed the enemy in more ways than he’d once thought possible. He had also watched countless men and women around him fall to Western crusaders, their Kurd minions, Shiite militias, Russian bombers, and even a few to Assad’s bumbling Alawite army. Chadeh himself had lost two fingers to a piece of shrapnel, carried fragments of a Peshmerga bullet somewhere near his heart, and on occasion had difficulty breathing—he’d been exposed to something terrible in a barrel-bomb attack last year, and his lungs no longer worked as they should. He was rather tall, but had difficulty standing erect, and, in spite of his being only forty-one years old, there was far more salt than pepper in his foot-long beard. Chadeh was a weary soldier in a vicious campaign, and as such, carried a predictably bitter outlook on life.

  The man seated next to him on the ornate rug was altogether different. His hands weren’t callused, and there was not a trace of grit under his trimmed fingernails. He wore a beard, but at the tender age of twenty-nine it was thin and wispy, offering a far less righteous countenance than what was flaunted by other ISIS leaders. He was well educated, and the few scars on his slightly built frame came not from war, but the usual array of childhood mishaps. His name was Aziz Uday, and, notwithstanding his lack of daring and swagger, he was perhaps the most vital cog in what remained of the broken-down machine that was ISIS.

  A native of Oman, Uday had earned a degree from a minor university in England, specializing in computers and information networks. Like many young Arabs thrust suddenly into Western culture, he’d felt disconnected and adrift. So instead of going to Silicon Valley after graduation, where he’d had good job offers, he had answered Allah’s call. It had been many generations since a true caliphate had existed, and he viewed it as his duty as a Muslim to serve the Prophet’s vision.