Assassin's Code Read online

  Slaton felt suddenly restless. He got up and paced to the far side of the room. He said, “You realize I have no choice in this.”

  Bloch nodded. “Knowing you as I do, I would be shocked if you didn’t go to Paris to get to the bottom of this.”

  “So then the question is simple. Will you back me?”

  “You know I no longer speak for Mossad. I can take it to the director, but I suspect we both know what his answer will be. There are no visible gains for Israel—only risks. Give me until tomorrow. I’ve set up a room for you here, and I’ll ask Talia to stay the night. She can access everything we’ve got on file.”

  Bloch went to the door, pulled his coat from a polished brass hook, and shrugged it onto his wide frame. “When I present this to Nurin, I will emphasize that you are acutely aware of the delicacy of the situation. Having one of our former assassins running around France, seeking out a high-ranking official—it necessitates a high degree of separation. If anything goes wrong, you will be completely on your own.”

  “I’m used to it.”

  Bloch cocked his head. “Yes, I suppose you are. I’ll have an answer in the morning.”

  FOURTEEN

  Five thousand miles east, in Slaton’s distant and deadly wake, an emerging investigation was hitting its stride. The bodies on Esperanza had been discovered the previous afternoon by a survey crew who’d visited the old ship to perform an inspection—two months earlier a group of fishermen had reported the hull was leaking fuel and spoiling the nearby reef. The government, in its plodding way, was finally getting around to looking into the matter.

  In the fading afternoon light, the crew had circled the ship and seen no sign of fuel oil. The lead man, a conscientious sort, decided to go aboard for a closer look. He’d no sooner reached the main deck than he sensed far greater ills. He smelled the problem before he saw it, and after stumbling across the first body on a catwalk, quite literally, the man had quickly retreated.

  The Philippine Coast Guard was alerted by radio, and by midnight four bodies were being removed by officers of the National Bureau of Investigation—the Filipino equivalent of the FBI. Landside investigative forces did their best with little hard evidence, but did get one break right away: From a room key discovered in one man’s pocket, they were able to identify the hotel in which the victims had been staying three days earlier. It was quickly determined that the group had booked four nights but, for reasons unknown, stayed only one before ending up dead on a half-sunk wreck in the South China Sea. More headway was made when passports were discovered in the room and all four men were identified as French citizens.

  This brought DGSI into play, and the same question was raised on both sides of a nine-hour time-zone divide: Why had four young men from Marseille, who did not appear to be of strictly Gallic heritage, ended up bullet-riddled on a shipwreck in the disputed Spratly Islands?

  On the Paris end, the matter was noted by a certain senior officer in the command section. Whatever Conseiller Zavier Baland might have added to the investigation, he kept to himself.

  * * *

  Slaton spent much of that evening looking over Talia’s shoulder. He asked her for information on Zavier Baland, and she opened a virtual floodgate. At least, that was the case since the day he’d signed on with the police nationale. The last fourteen years of his professional life were an open book, indeed a fairy-tale upward trajectory that was now nearing the apex of France’s counterterrorism establishment. Prior to that, however, Baland’s life was considerably more opaque, and this was the period on which Slaton asked Talia to concentrate.

  “Here is a birth certificate from the official records in Lyon,” she said, the document appearing on her screen.

  Without asking how she’d acquired it, he said, “Do you think it’s legitimate?”

  “No way to tell. Birth certificates get lost and have to be replaced. They’re notoriously easy to create and alter, and standards vary wildly from country to country—even within countries.”

  “And driver’s licenses and passports are sourced from them.”

  “Correct.”

  He took what he could from the document. “Forty-two years old. That would be about right for Samir. The mission briefing I saw fifteen years ago listed him as being twenty-six. We never had an exact birth date because we could never find any official records in his name.”

  “That’s often the case in Gaza, even today.” Talia next unearthed a record of Baland’s French driver’s license. “According to this, his license was first issued when he was nineteen, in Paris. As you know, we suspect Samir may have spent time there as a teen. He could have been trying to establish himself in France even then—if so, a driver’s license would be an important step.”

  “What about school records?”

  “Nothing yet. I’ve been trying to obtain his original application to the national police, which would include the names of the schools he attended. So far I don’t have anything.”

  “You mean there’s no record of his application?”

  “No … I mean I haven’t been able to hack into the database. We are talking about the French national police, David. There’s a good chance I won’t be able to break that one—at least not in time for it to be of any use.”

  “Okay—but we’re running out of places to look. What about marriage records?”

  “I found that right away. Baland got married seven months after he was hired onto the force.”

  “What can you tell me about his wife?” Those words had barely escaped Slaton’s lips when a wave of guilt washed in. Was this not the very thing he himself was trying to avoid? The question he hoped others would not ask about him? What of Baland’s daughters? Should they be vetted as well?

  Talia said, “She’s French all the way—born and raised in Nice, nothing suspicious in her background.”

  Slaton was glad Talia had already gone down that path without his asking. Happier yet that it seemed a dead end. He thought again of the briefing he’d had on Ali Samir—Mossad had never learned if the young terrorist in Gaza was married, but the absence of such information was hardly unusual. “Okay, it’s almost midnight. Let’s give it a rest.”

  Slaton went to the kitchen and began rummaging through a well-stocked refrigerator. He found two beers, and Talia joined him. They tapped bottles, but neither bothered to toast anything.

  They walked out to a balcony with a spectacular view. Front and center was the Mediterranean, a great void that seemed exceptionally settled tonight. On either side the yellow jewels of greater Tel Aviv glittered up and down the coastline. The night air was cool and damp.

  “Thanks for your help today,” he said.

  “It’s my job.”

  “You’re good at it.”

  “How would you know? You’re not an information specialist.”

  “Trust me—I know.” He took a long draw, and said, “I want to ask your professional opinion on something … but don’t feel obligated if you see a conflict of interest.”

  She looked at him speculatively. “That’s a strange way to begin—but go ahead.”

  “I live with my family on a sailboat. We’re about as off-grid as you can get, but apparently someone found us anyway. I’d like to know how.”

  “Do you have any electronic connection to the outside world?”

  “Only one, a satellite internet account. We rarely use it, but occasionally there’s no choice when we need information on weather or ports of entry. I set up the account as carefully as I could, and keep up payments using an alias. I thought it was pretty secure.”

  He gave her a few details about the service, and she responded with a minor excursion on ISPs and cybertracking.

  “So that was it then,” he said.

  “Most likely. I can tell you that Mossad has close ties to software technicians in at least one big telecom. Chances are, we’re not the first to think of it.”

  “I’ll cancel my service immediately.”

&nb
sp; “Technology is always a double-edged sword.” She recommended a satellite provider he’d never heard of, and gave him tips on how to configure the electronics on Windsom for better security.

  “Thanks. I’ll take your advice.”

  “My best advice is to remember that there’s no sure thing when it comes to communications security … not anymore.”

  “I don’t think there ever was.”

  She hesitated, then said, “You are going to France, aren’t you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’d like to ask you something, and don’t feel obligated to answer if you feel a conflict of interest.”

  He looked at her and grinned. “Go ahead.”

  “If it comes down to it … would you kill this man to keep your family safe?”

  He looked out over the shimmering city and the black sea beyond. “That’s not how I look at it. For years now I’ve tried to stop killing to keep them safe. I wish it had stayed that way.”

  “But since it hasn’t?”

  “Then I’ll do whatever is necessary.”

  Slaton felt her eyes on him and their gaze intersected along the balcony rail. Talia was stunning in the half-light, her dark hair glimmering and her gaze deeper than the sea beyond. She turned toward the main room, but then paused in his periphery, a vague form in the dim light. Slaton heard a soft brush of fabric as she half turned, and smelled the scent of her perfume. Floral and spice. She said in a hushed tone near his ear, “I hope that someday I can find someone like you. Someone who loves me as much as you do them.”

  Slaton remained still, his eyes steady on the sea under a calm and moonless sky. He sensed her walking away, heard the sliding door open behind him. A rush of warm inside air spilled out over the balcony. He said, “Talia?”

  “Yes?”

  “Before I leave tomorrow—I want to know where Baland lives.”

  FIFTEEN

  The raid in Paris came at seven the next morning on an untidy flat along Rue Fontaine. The police used a battering ram on the wooden door, although the frame was so rotted a good kick with a tennis shoe would have done the trick. Twenty armed men in full battle gear stormed through the breach, and they had no trouble overwhelming three sleepy Moroccans and a naked woman of indeterminate origin. Not a single shot was fired.

  When the all-clear was given by the tactical team, a contingent of investigators and evidence technicians followed across the shattered threshold. In the lead was DGSI Conseiller Zavier Baland.

  It didn’t take long to realize that the tip was a valid one, although hardly the coup they’d hoped for. Two Kalashnikovs were found beneath a bed frame, and a shoe box in the closet held six boxes of ammo, two empty magazines for the AKs, and a rusty grenade. The grenade caused a brief stir, and a temporary evacuation, but order was quickly restored when the leader of the bomb squad, brought along for just such contingencies, determined that the grenade was in fact a remarkably accurate novelty item meant for lighting cigarettes—pull the pin, release the lever, and an inviting flame flickered. One computer was confiscated for later analysis, but it had been powered up when they arrived, and on first look contained nothing more threatening than a first-person-shooter video game.

  Interviews with neighbors revealed that the group had been renting the place for roughly a year, and that one other young man was an occasional resident. He was quickly identified, and arrested within the hour as he pulled warm baguettes from the oven of a nearby boulangerie. The only other find of note was two kilos of midgrade hashish stashed in a dresser drawer. While not the point of the whole affair, the drugs were a welcome find, as they made detention of the suspects that much easier.

  By ten o’clock that morning the place had been well turned over, and Baland stood on the sidewalk in front of the building to declare a minor victory over terrorism to a brigade of reporters. He mentioned explosives and weapons at least three times, and let slip that the suspects were likely of Moroccan heritage. He did not bring up the matter of drug trafficking, and deferred when asked if the terrorists had put up a fight. Baland stretched a largely factless briefing into a powerful five-minute sound bite that would lead newscasts across France for the balance of the day.

  * * *

  When Bloch arrived back at the safe house, in midmorning, Slaton was in the bedroom packing. He hadn’t brought a bag on his journey from the Philippines, wanting as few leads as possible back to Christine. Not surprisingly, Bloch was one step ahead—Slaton had opened the closet door last night to find a selection of bland and unfashionable clothes, all in his size and with commercial labels, along with a tan suitcase. It caused him to remember the former director’s words—remove every possible complication.

  “Nurin wants no part of this folly,” Bloch announced.

  “No surprise there,” Slaton said as he folded the last shirt.

  “He won’t obstruct if you choose to look into it, but Mossad cannot condone action against French citizens.”

  “In other words, I’m welcome to hunt down Baland—but if I screw up I’m on my own.”

  “The clothes in front of you are the end of his support. I’ll do my best to intervene if problems arise, but understand that my hands may be tied. Use caution.”

  “That’s your briefing? Be careful?”

  Bloch shrugged. “It’s not like the good old days.”

  “Honestly, Anton, I don’t remember the good old days being so great.” Slaton shut the bag emphatically, tugging the zippers more forcefully than necessary. He looked his old boss in the eye. “There were a lot of times when I felt like I was operating on my own.”

  Bloch appeared unmoved, but said, “Strictly off the record—is there anything else you might need?”

  “I’ve already arranged my travel. Alitalia to Rome, then a connection to Turin. I’ll figure out the rest later. My flight leaves in three hours.”

  “Documents?” Bloch asked.

  “I’m good. I’ll use the passport I arrived on to get to Italy. After that I’ll use another I’ve kept in reserve.”

  “Let me guess … Swedish?”

  Slaton didn’t react to Bloch’s prescience.

  “It always was your most convincing language.” He tossed a manila envelope on the bed. “It’s the least I could do.”

  Slaton picked it up, and inside saw a stack of euros and a phone. He checked the phone and found it preloaded with a few contact numbers.

  “Does Nurin know you’re undermining him?”

  “Of course not. Talia requisitioned the phone. The money is my vacation set-aside. Miriam has already informed me that our holiday this spring will be an epicurean tour of Italy experienced from our kitchen.”

  Slaton nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Let me emphasize, David—none of this is traceable. Once you walk out that door you are alone.”

  “Fair enough. But if things progress, there’s a chance I might need one last bit of assistance.”

  “Dare I ask what?”

  Slaton told him.

  “Surely you jest.”

  Slaton’s steady gaze told Bloch otherwise.

  The old spymaster sighed. “I make no promises … but what would you need?”

  “With any luck, nothing at all. But in a worst-case scenario … I was thinking an Arctic Warfare Covert, in the case, with a variable Schmidt and Bender and a full box of ammo. Also a Glock 17, two mags.”

  Bloch closed his eyes, trying to either remember or forget Slaton’s request.

  Slaton picked up the suitcase. “That’s it then.”

  “I am in a position to grant you one further advantage. Nurin would never approve of it, but Talia is available—she is still officially on loan, and won’t be missed at her regular workplace for the next few days.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me—it was her idea.”

  Slaton thought it might be true. He also thought it was an ideal way for Bloch to keep a distant eye on his progress. Without mentioning his
suspicions, he walked out and found Talia in the main room.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She looked at both men in turn, before saying to Slaton, “45 Avenue Pasteur, Courbevoie.”

  Slaton nodded once, then turned toward the door and was gone.

  SIXTEEN

  Uday sat facing a computer in the rear annex of an ancient mosque, his fingers weary as he played the keyboard. All around him were cleaning supplies and oil lamps, and against the far wall prayer rugs were piled neatly in a stack. The sweet smell of burning candles saturated the air.

  When the results of his latest commands lit the screen, he heaved a frustrated sigh and leaned back in his chair. The server that had been giving them trouble for weeks was still only running at twenty percent capacity. It was hardly surprising—Uday had the unenviable job of keeping the most attacked computer network on earth from crashing.

  The first problem was the physical destruction. Bombs were taking out comm nodes with increasing frequency, to the point that he was sure someone in the West had figured out a way to locate and target them. Servers were also being electronically fried, which was probably the work of the Americans—he’d heard that their F-22 fighters had an amazing radar system, and suspected that if the jets flew close enough they might be able to focus enough RF energy on the local systems to do physical damage.

  Then there was the electrical grid. It was getting more suspect by the day. The diesel problem he’d discussed yesterday with Chadeh was a primary worry, but at least something they could manage. Last night someone had dropped an airburst bomb of some sort, and what looked like silver Christmas tinsel rained down on a makeshift substation, sending all of Hamat into darkness. The Crusaders at their devious best.

  His newest problem, however, might soon make the others pale in comparison. Hacktivists were infecting his media campaigns more quickly than he could track the damage, let alone repair it. Something called Ghost Security had been the first to engage, an army of nameless hackers across the world who never worried about attribution, and who ignored the restrictions legitimate governments placed on electronic chaos. The Anonymous network stepped in after the Paris attacks of 2015, decimating long-established channels for funding and media exposure. Telegram, the encrypted-messaging app they’d so long relied upon, was becoming useless, and replacements were increasingly suspect. Uday had watched their recruiting websites become inundated with eager volunteers this week, only to have the vast majority prove to be ghosts created by online radicals. Last month he’d published an online security guide, telling prospective jihadists which apps to use to avoid detection. Within a week a devastatingly inverse version of the document was sweeping across the web.