The Bombmaker: A Michael Thomas Thriller

by Gavin Reese

  May 6, 3:58pm

  8 Rue du Corbillon. Saint-Denis, France.

  Dressed in the skullcap and flowing linen gown more common for Saudi Muslims, he stepped out onto the street in front of his apartment building and checked his digital wristwatch. Two hours until the evening prayers. He pushed a button to activate its preset timer.

  00:04:00

  00:03:59

  Having abandoned his family name and devoted whatever remained of his life to absolute service to God, he now called himself something more befitting his few remaining days: Abdel Abdullah Abrini. Servant and slave to God. My agnostic identity died with my escape from Syria. Allah allowed me to learn electrical engineering at university and then brought me here to serve Him. That will remain the sole focus of the rest of my days.

  He had been mere months from gradation when the Assad regime fell apart and his nation collapsed into civil war. Although grateful to have been part of the rising tide there, Abdel wished he could have been born earlier. What a difference I could have made with my skills and determination, I have everything to offer Allah but time. Humanity is forever out of time, although God and nature seem unconcerned with such things.

  Abdel strode toward the small local market and the first meeting with his brother. Not a relative by blood, but by the more important shared struggle against the nonbelieving world. Having never met the man, Abdel had integrated the meeting into his normal patterns. Straying from the rigidity of my routine is far more dangerous than being seen speaking with another man in a neighborhood market.

  He walked north on his street and monitored the movement around him. Most of residents attended the mosque housed on the ground floor of his apartment building, and many of them celebrated the imminent Ramadan holiday by adopting a nocturnal lifestyle during the monthlong fast. It’s easier for the less dedicated to fast from sunrise to sunset if they’re asleep for much of that time. Their softness insults Allah, but at least they expose their shallow faith to the world.

  Abdel despised Muslims who searched for loopholes in God’s directives. The point of the fast is to prove your faith and obedience through deliberate suffering. With Ramadan upon them in a few hours, he’d already noticed an absence of the “faithful” in much of the neighborhood. Because of their command to fast and practice abstinence from sunrise to sunset for the full month of Ramadan, many of the heretics slept during the day and stayed up at night. They consume all the food and water they want, and they enjoy all the sexual relations possible during the darkness. How fitting. They sacrifice nothing, but continue to proclaim themselves as faithful, obedient servants. Abdel recalled a part of the Hadith: Veerily, the smell of the mouth of a fasting person is better to Allah than the smell of musk. The truly obedient, however, didn’t cheapen their faith and its glorious burden to make their holy obligations more comfortable for themselves and their children.

  Abdel slowed his pace at the next intersection, glanced along Boulevard Carnot, and then turned right only after finding no obvious threats. He walked past the Mak D’Hal restaurant, looked at his timer, and confirmed 2:15 remained until his appointed arrival time. Having reached his short walk’s midpoint early, he measured his pace and continued two streets east to Rue Gabriel Péri. Abdel again slowed, scanned the intersection for anyone who watched him regardless of their ethnicity, and turned right.

  The small, discreet sign hanging above the doorway of his destination caught Abdel’s eyes: سوق عدن. The familiar and beloved Arabic amid this foreign land brought a smile to his face. Marché d'Eden, the locals would say, the few who can read God’s language. The ignorant tourists would call it Eden’s Market and expect to find only their condemned apples offered for sale.

  Abdel pushed the metal-framed glass door open and stepped inside the shop. The door’s upper corner collided with a tiny shop bell, which dinged several times. Luxurious scents of the spices and aromas of his childhood enveloped him, and Abdel breathed deep, allowing the intoxicating fragrance to be a natural and momentary distraction. His watch beeped twice. Exhaling, he nodded and smiled at the shop owner and walked around the shop’s exterior aisles in search of any sign of trouble. At the back of the store, Abdel passed an employee-only door and reminded himself that it led to his preplanned escape path through a series of shared neighborhood courtyards.

  Seeing nothing that concerned him, Abdel picked up a metal hand basket and conducted his normal shopping. Next to the produce, a small display of handmade scented candles caught his attention. He picked up a tall, light sand-colored cylinder and smelled it. The fragrance at once transported him back to his memories of his worship at Al-Haram Mosque, the Great Mosque of Mecca. Pride and honor swelled inside him, for he had completed his mandated pilgrimage to that very site and would soon have finished everything Allah required for ascension to Paradise. I will send my last almsgiving tomorrow, which fulfills my commandments. Modern technology allowed Abdel to support his choice of causes by delivering small, anonymous, and repeated donations to imams around the world. Despite international banking laws, like-minded activists were no longer restricted to paying hard currency to the local mosque and relying upon that one imam to advance Allah’s will.

  Abdel read the candle’s label, which declared the scent was called, simply, Obedience. He laid the tall candle in his basket, careful to protect it.

  dingding ding

  Abdel looked at the front door and saw another Arab stepping inside. He wore jeans and a black leather jacket, along with the traditional white skullcap, a taqiyah. His attire was consistent with many of the Muslims who tried in vain to blend into French society. Fruitless effort. They’ll never accept our people, and we don’t want to be known as French, but, still, some of us seek appeasement.

  The stranger made brief but polite eye contact with the shop owner, scanned the small market, and stepped inside as though looking for someone.

  Abdel lowered his gaze back to the produce in front of him and watched the man with his peripheral vision. He’s too focused, and he’s not here for groceries. He tried to conceal his displeasure and debated whether the man could be a police informant or his contact. What a terrible lack of subtlety.

  The stranger walked around the store, picking up and replacing random items without examining them. Abdel stood in place and picked through the store’s bin of lemons to force the stranger to come to him.

  As expected, the leather-clad man stepped to the opposite side of the fruit bin and stopped. Abdel replaced and retrieved another pair of lemons; in his peripheral, he saw the man stared straight at him like the amateur he obviously was. He quietly cleared his throat before speaking. “Do you know where I may find zaatar here?” His voice trembled and conveyed nervousness.

  Abdel stayed focused on the fruit in his hand for a moment before responding to that first line of their coded phrases. “The shopkeeper may sell such spices, but it will not be as good as that from the homeland.”

  “Isn’t that true of everything else in this nation?”

  Abdel glanced up at him. The words had been exact and precise, but too loud and fast. He shifted his gaze to the shopkeeper who focused on a newspaper and paid them no attention. Abdel stepped left to position himself closer to his contact. “You’re new at this, and too nervous. Are you capable of carrying out the work at hand?”

  The younger man leaned forward and spoke in a coarse whisper. “I long for nothing else, and I will not fail, not for any reason.”

  “Did you do everything as I demanded?”

  “Yes, precisely. No one followed me, and no one could have escaped my notice. Your map and guidance ensured my safe passage.”

  Abdel recalled the extensive routing he’d prescribed, which sent the contact through several choke points, U-turns, and isolated areas. If anyone had been following him, even this simpleton could have identified him. “Are you prepared? We are but days away from the end of our personal struggles.”

  “I’ve completed my appointed task
s, and my soul is ready. More than that, I am willing.”

  Abdel stepped over to an adjacent bin of squashes and his contact moved with him. The owner took no notice, but Abdel now believed that was intentional. “We cannot meet here again, it isn’t safe. You will stay in here at least five minutes after I leave. Buy several items, I do not care what they are. I will email further instructions. Expect to meet me only once, perhaps twice more. The last time will be for the delivery on the day of our action.” He glanced up and saw the man grinned too widely. At least the shopkeeper can’t see this useful idiot’s face. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, yes, completely.”

  Abdel handed him a yellow squash. “This one is good. Look for the email and draw no further attention to yourself. Leave here and continue the two kilometers to Stade de France. Board the metro there and follow the rest of my directions.” He stepped over to the shopkeeper and paid for the small assortment of food he required for the next few days. His strict compliance with Ramadan also allowed him to spend far less on food, his only real indulgence in this life. Further confirmation to God of my absolute obedience.

  Abdel strode from the market and stuck to his normal route to foil any government assets watching him. The evening prayer began in less than an hour, and even though his chosen path took him by the local mosque, he refused to go there more than necessary. Righteous congregations are under surveillance, and the nonbelievers are too ignorant to know the difference, so I must assume they are all under government watch. Only imposters worship in that mosque, for even the imam is not a believer. That’s far worse, professing a faith and ideology you wish to destroy.

  A smile broke across his face, but Abdel regained his composure. God willing, they will soon know the price of their betrayal.

  May 6, 3:58pm

  Rue des Chaumettes. Saint-Denis, France.

  Gerard grimaced and sped away from the parking garage exit. I have to plant the devices, vacate the building, and get off the street before my bad man comes back. My lack of time forces me to choose an inferior tactic. Gerard turned left at the south end of the parking garage and drove east through a narrow alley. Seconds later, he turned left again on Rue du Corbillon. He passed two buildings, turned on the car’s emergency flashers, and stopped in front of the entrance to building 8. Gerard leapt from the seat and hoped any watchers would assume he was late in making his delivery.

  He retrieved a half-dozen purple canvas bags from the hatch, which also displayed the white Ferme A Table logo and held various produce and halal-compliant canned goods in case someone challenged him. Gerard covertly nudged the cameras in the concealed left pocket of his pants and the small Sig Sauer .380-caliber semi-auto holstered inside the right front of his waistline. Everything’s in place.

  Gerard slammed the hatch closed and rushed to the building entrance. He pulled on the handle and found it locked. Undiscouraged by the expected obstacle, he shifted most of the grocery bags to his left hand and swept his right across all the apartment door buzzers. He wasn’t surprised that only half of them lit up as they should. No one’s in here forcing the owners to keep up the maintenance, the local patrol cops are seldom here to keep the occupants from murdering each other.

  “Mar-habaan?”

  Gerard spoke enough Arabic to recognize hello, but hoped someone might blindly buzz him in.

  “Mar-habaan? Hal min 'ahad hna?”

  The question surpassed his proficiency, and Gerard pleaded for a child to reach the access button in just one apartment.

  bzzzz

  Gerard sprung forward and yanked the door open as soon as he heard its lock release. Thank God for blind trust, or perhaps mere laziness! He stepped into the building and found himself in the familiar, dark hallway filled with the stink of stale grease and too many varieties of curry. When he reached the closest stairwell, he climbed up while balancing his needs for stealth, speed, and avoiding suspicion.

  As he reached the third-floor landing, Gerard glanced at his watch. 00:08:56. A subtle scan of that window frame confirmed camera #8 remained hidden among the flyers, plaster damage, and spray paint graffiti. The teenagers in this building could find or destroy that one at any moment with the reckless way they treat everything here. That camera had given Gerard a critical success several days ago when it confirmed their target ascended past that landing, but the man hadn’t returned until today. After I hide cameras 9 and 10 on the top two floors, he’ll lead me to his specific apartment.

  Surprisingly, no one had yet stepped out to investigate the visitor, but Gerard didn’t expect his luck to last. He stopped on the landing halfway to the fourth floor, looked around, and retrieved camera 9 from his concealed pants pocket. Gerard peeled the cover from its adhesive backing and pressed the small covert camera into the stairwell corner that looked up to the fourth floor. Having placed it near his knee-level, he thought the slightly inferior images would be worth the trade-off for greater concealment among the damage and debris there. Gerard stepped back, ensured he remained alone, and risked another look at the device. The paint match is perfect, and it only has to blend in long enough to tell me where this animal sleeps tonight.

  Encouraged by his success, Gerard pressed on and repeated the process on the landing just below the fifth floor. He rechecked his watch on his way back downstairs. 00:05:02. Despite running out of time, he stepped onto the fourth floor confident he could escape as long as nothing--

  “Who are you looking for?”

  The sound of accented French grabbed Gerard’s attention more than the words themselves. He covered his surprise and nonchalantly turned to the sudden, confrontational voice behind him. A gaunt teenage boy, no more than thirteen or fourteen years old, stood in an open doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. He wore a traditional, off-white gown common to the Islamic cultures throughout the Middle East.

  Man-jammies. Gerard's deployments with the French military in both Iraq and Afghanistan had ensured he understood how easily a weapon hid beneath those long, flowing cotton gowns. The boy's posture inside the open doorway made Gerard suspect he had a weapon just out of reach, and that he wanted to keep it close, accessible, and hidden from Gerard for the moment. He noted the apartment number, 315, certain he’d need to avoid its residents in the near future.

  Gerard looked into his dark eyes and saw only negative emotions, a mix of suspicion and hatred. Confidence beyond his actual capabilities. Many a dead man made the mistake of relying on nothing but a weapon system. “I realized I drove to the wrong building,” Gerard explained in French. “I am still a street away from my delivery, I think.”

  “Show me.”

  “What?” Gerard now feigned surprise, which he expected would be the natural reaction for a man in his position. This wasn’t his first time in such environments, and he’d come prepared to backstop his presence and cover story.

  “Show me. Now.” The boy stepped over but stayed close to the doorway. Just as Gerard had expected, another gaunt man, probably the boy’s father, took his place and crossed his arms to stand guard while the boy communicated with him.

  I doubt he speaks French, so the kid has to be the front man. “I don’t need help, I only came into the wrong building, and I’ve just learned that for myself.”

  The boy looked into the bags but didn’t touch them. A creak from the stairs below him announced an additional presence, and Gerard looked down at the landing to see two more Arab men wearing similar gowns and expressions.

  Gerard still expected to prevail if this devolved into a confrontation, but four-on-one was the limit of his optimism and the little Sig’s effective round capacity. He put his hands up near his chest to show submission and held the bags in place while the boy rummaged through them. Nothing inside angered him. In the last bag, he found and removed the fake invoice Gerard had written up for the grocery order. After skimming it, the boy spoke a few words to the other men and jammed the invoice back into Gerard’s sack.

  The minor g
lared up at Gerard and held hard eye contact with him for a moment. “Get out, and never come back here. No one in this building will accept deliveries from your business.” His spittle emphasized the juvenile’s indignation and local authority to speak for the whole of his building’s occupants. “You will regret it if you do.”

  “I, I understand,” Gerard stammered. “Thank you.”

  The boy again crossed his arms, raised his chin, and disdainfully commanded Gerard. “Go, now!”

  Gerard only nodded and cautiously stepped down toward the landing. He needed the two men below and above him to misread his hesitancy as fear, but, in reality, he wanted to place himself in a tactically superior position along the walls and force his aggressors to his left. His movement protected the concealed Sig and his draw, if the circumstances required it. Although no one yet posed a significant threat to his safety, Gerard breathed a sigh of relief when the men allowed him to step out of the building under his own power.

  To stay in character and escape before the bomb maker returned, Gerard hustled out to the hatchback and leapt into the driver’s seat with all the grocery bags still in his hands. He started the car, slammed its transmission into drive, and accelerated away while Italian squash and potatoes spilled onto the seat and floorboard around him.

  beepbeep

  beepbeep

  His watch alarm announced his fifteen minutes had expired as he charged on to the next intersection. Those cameras better work, because I won’t get back inside that building without an army and a gunfight.

  May 6, 7:03pm

  The Oremus hotel. Paris, France.

  Before he even stepped across its threshold, Michael knew that Jacques had been inside his hotel room. The blinds, which he’d left several feet open, had been closed and several lights now repelled darkness from the living area. Nice to have someone else looking after the details. Sunset remained two hours away, but the added privacy hindered any exterior surveillance efforts. That’s a rookie oversight. Can’t let myself get hurried again, these little details add up and become dangerous when you miss too many of them.