by Amy Jarecki
After taking a good look around the exterior, she proceeded through the front door. She stood for a moment, using her wide-angle vision, noting everything from behind a pair of sunglasses. The Banque Palatine looked as small on the inside as it appeared on the outside, though across from the tellers was an iron gate with marble stairs leading to a lower level. A small, brass plate read voûte—vault.
A security guard stepped in front of her. “Puis-je vous aider?” he asked if he could help her.
Henri’s French had improved at ICE and she’d memorized a few phrases on the flight. “Le directeur?” She flashed her badge. “Interpol.”
“Attends ici,” he said, telling her to wait there. “Et vous Anglais?” he asked if she was English.
“Oui.” It was easier to say yes than to explain that she was an American.
Henri’s fingers drummed her thighs as she waited. Three tellers were on shift and they all checked her out, stealing curious glimpses from their work. The tension in the air was thicker than smoke. But that was understandable. Everyone must be totally nervous considering the bank had just been robbed.
Asa had only shown Henri the one still of the suspects getting away, but there were cameras everywhere, even one directed straight at her with its red recording light on. She turned her back and watched the activity on the street—not that anyone would be looking for her. After all she’d been in the field as an ICE asset for about two hours.
Five minutes later, the manager came out and greeted her in English as he led her to his office. He introduced himself as Richard Laplante. “I’m surprised to see Interpol brought in. Are the thieves part of an international crime ring?” he asked, gesturing to a leather chair. Richard was a short man, gray hair, glasses and a paunch he hid under his coat and tie.
“That’s what I aim to find out.” She sat, taking in everything from the Dell computer to the empty cup and saucer on the man’s desk. “I just stepped off the plane and this is my first stop. Do you know if there are any leads?”
He shook his head. “There were no prints.”
Henri thought back to the hand in the photo. The tattoo had been on the man’s wrist. “Were they wearing gloves?”
“Oui, rubber gloves.”
“What about the cameras? Have you given the footage to the police?”
“The cameras were disabled.”
“And that didn’t set off an alarm?”
“If it had, we’d be a million euros in gemstones richer, would we not?” He crossed his arms and sat back. “You can collect all this information from the police. The suspects came into my bank with guns after they’d disabled the entire security system—including the teller crisis buttons.”
Henri mirrored his position. “How easy is that to do, Mr. Laplante?”
He shook his head. “I wish I knew. We had the latest system installed only a month ago.”
Henri pulled out a notepad and started writing. “Do you have footage of the workers?”
“They were all licensed and bonded.”
“That may be, but I’d still like to see the footage. Can your IT person send me a file with the recordings from the dates of the installation?” She handed him one of the business cards she’d received right before she’d left ICE.
His gaze shifted sideways. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”
“No, it wouldn’t, would it?” She thought about asking if he’d given the information about the new system to the local police, but decided against it. If Asa came up with anything that would interest the local authorities, it would be shared through NATO. It was best for Henri to play her hand close to her chest—keep things as wrapped up as possible. She gestured to the card balanced in his fingertips. “When can I expect the file?”
“You’re an American are you not?”
“I’m an Interpol officer, and I’m trying to uncover clues to retrieve your million euros in gemstones.” She slid her finger across her phone’s screen and opened the photo Asa had put up in the ICE sit room. “How was this photo taken?”
His eyebrows arched as he examined the shot. “The security guard snapped it with his camera phone as the thieves were leaving.”
“He had use of his phone?”
“Only after they stopped pointing their guns at him.”
***
Life had been good to Omar Fadli over the past few years. Though he’d been through hell to get there. An orphan of war, he’d endured conditions far worse than most of his brethren. He’d been taken by Fahd al-Umari at the age of twelve and from that time he carried an AK-47 in his hands. The caliph had taught him to be a soldier and the rigid values of the Islamic State. Fadli had been given increasing responsibility and chances to prove his use to the cause until he’d become a part of al-Umari’s inner circle.
And his successes were on the rise. So was his power. In fact, Omar had carefully laid plans to build a dynasty.
After the assassination of the Iranian ambassador to America, Omar had been rewarded with a villa near Baghdad. He sat beneath the awning on his veranda with his feet up. His laptop was opened but he ignored it, preferring to enjoy his coffee.
The computer dinged, announcing an e-mail. He considered turning off the volume but chose to take another sip of coffee and enjoy the view of his pool down below. Who would have ever guessed the boy who begged on the streets of Aleppo would grow rich enough to own a home with servants for his wives and a pool?
He was blessed by Allah and, for that, he should be working twice as hard as he’d done before his rise to wealth. After all, al-Umari was growing old. He needed a strong successor in whom the ideals of the Islamic State could be truly realized. With that thought he heaved a sigh, sat forward and tapped the touchpad. He took another sip as he opened an attachment from the ISIS surveillance group.
Then he spewed coffee across his monitor.
Swiping the liquid away with a napkin, he leaned closer and read the e-mail.
Facial recognition flagged this picture of an ISIS enemy exiting the Avignon airport at 20:00 yesterday afternoon.
Snatching his phone from the table, Fadli made a quick call.
“Hello?” the voice asked in Arabic.
“How soon can you get me on a plane to France?”
“I’ll need to have papers made first. Could take a week.”
“You have a day.”
Chapter Twelve
Since it was clear the trail had gone cold in Pakistan, Mike headed for ICE and a new assignment. Hamilton and Rodgers could pick up the pieces in Lasbela and Mike was only getting in the way.
The problem? Henri wasn’t in Iceland.
Mike wouldn’t admit it to a soul, but he kinda missed the hotshot. He’d felt terrible about the way they’d parted, even though Henri was the one who’d walked away in a snit. Worse, he hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye, and then it had felt too awkward to send her an e-mail. God, he was a wanker. They’d shared a kiss. So big deal.
Another reason for not e-mailing was Mike didn’t like using internet communication when in enemy territory. No matter how much the gadget geniuses told him no one could crack ICE encryption, Mike didn’t buy it. Anything could be cracked, and the moment he veered from his hard and fast rule, he’d end up with a bullet in his brain.
Now back at ICE, he took his laptop to the lab for a scan—maintenance all operatives did when they were at headquarters. “Hiya, Asa. What’s the chatter about today?”
The lass looked at him through black, plastic-framed glasses that made her eyes appear enormous. “There are more thugs out there every day.” Her screen was processing data a gazillion bytes a minute and she stared at it as if she could read every word.
Mike slid his laptop in the docking station and started his scan. “You need the speed of a quantum computer.”
“Jà, tell me about it.” She sat back, still watching her screen. “I’m running facial recognition on a file Henri sent.”
“Where is she?”
&n
bsp; “Following up on a bank heist.” Asa switched her monitor to a blurry picture of men in black, one with a briefcase in his hand.
Mike leaned closer. The man’s sleeve had hitched up, exposing his wrist. “Is that—?”
“A tat of the ISIS flag.”
“You dunna see that every day. Where was it taken?”
“Avignon, France.”
“What did Henri send you?”
“Footage of men installing a new security system in the Banque Palatine right near the town center.”
“She thinks they’re the culprits?”
“Could be.”
Mike scratched his chin. “You think it’s an ISIS job?”
She gave him a look over the rims of her glasses. “Ask Garth. I’m just a techie.”
“Right, and I’m just a grunt.”
Asa snorted as she reverted to the other screen. The data had stopped and two pictures stared back at them. One of a worker, and the other of a guy who looked identical to the first, wearing a black jihadi uniform and brandishing an AK-47. “This says his name is Melvut Amri. From Turkey. Suspected ISIS recruit. Before he went loco, he worked as technician for a security company in Istanbul.”
Mike’s gut twisted. Garth had sent a newbie asset into an ISIS firestorm? “Can you find a picture of his wrists? Who does he work under? Where is he now? How the hell did he get to France? Christ, is Anderson safe? Who has her back?”
Asa’s fingers flew across her keyboard. “You bark worse than Garth—and you’d better talk to him about Henri. As far as I know he sent her on a fact-finding mission and that’s what she’s doing, finding the facts.”
Mike headed for the door. “I want every tidbit of information on that bloke as soon as it crosses the wire. Make it your top priority.”
Asa’s fingers didn’t stop. “I’ll do what I can but—”
“I’m off to have a word with Garth right now.” Mike could have blown steam out the top of his head. What was Moore thinking, sending a rookie into a hostile situation? He stormed up the stairs and down the long passageway to the command center and burst through the doors. It took half a second to spot Garth standing with his arms crossed, looking up at a monitor. Mike forwent a greeting and jumped straight to the point. “What have you heard from Anderson? Did you know an ISIS militant installed the security system at the bank in Avignon? Who’s got her back?”
Garth straightened, giving Mike a quizzical look. “Whoa, back up there, soldier. What did you say about the security system? Have you been talking to Asa?”
Mike thrust his fists into his hips. “I have and the guy’s name is Melvut Amri. He’s a recruit from Turkey. Asa’s digging up more intel now, but it stinks like terrorist shite, and we’ve put a greenhorn in over her head.”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist. Anderson is only gathering intel.” Garth pulled his phone from his belt. “But if what you say is true, the pot just started to boil.”
Damned straight.
Mike paced while Garth put his phone to his ear. “Asa. Why is it Rose knows the name of the Avignon robber before me? And he’s confirmed ISIS? On our most wanted list? Good God. What about the tattoo? It belongs to Melvut Amri? I need details! Faster! Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this sooner? Oh? That’s not an excuse!”
By the time Garth tapped the end button, his face was scarlet. He sucked in a deep breath and regarded Mike with a pair of enormous eyes. “This just went to DEFCON 1, my friend.”
Mike headed for the door. “Order me a private jet. I’m going in stealth.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sitting in an antique, French Provincial chair in her hotel room, Henri clicked off an encrypted video call with Garth. She couldn’t help but take a moment to revel in her achievement. First job out and she’d gotten a dynamite lead. And now they had proof ISIS was in the middle of the bank’s security system install. She’d know it from the moment Richard Laplante had mentioned the work had been done. The concerning part was that Melvut Amri seemed to have disappeared along with the gemstones. Since the heist, there had been no major arms purchases or movements, at least none that ICE had uncovered as of yet.
From the intel provided by Asa, the local police hadn’t turned up anything either. For the time being, Henri had opted to stay away from local law enforcement and Garth agreed. The sooner the cops found out that Amri was involved, the sooner every journalist in the free world would be turning him into a celebrity headliner. If Amri hadn’t gone underground yet, he’d go into hiding when his face popped up in newsfeeds across the world. Then they’d never find him.
Now that she had a picture of his face on her phone, she could do some snooping of her own, maybe uncover a line on Amri’s whereabouts before Mike arrived.
Yeah, Mike.
Her stomach fluttered. Rose was already on a jet headed for Avignon. And she didn’t want to come across looking like a rookie twiddling her thumbs waiting for the seasoned operative to arrive. She might be new to ICE, but she had years of warfare under her belt, which included being a sleuth.
She shook her head. So, Garth thought she needed backup. Didn’t he know she could handle herself? Delta Force soldiers routinely handled sticky situations. She had firsthand experience in interrogation and surveillance. Heck, her education at ICE had only served to enhance skills she’d already honed years ago—aside from walking into a foreign bank pretending to be an Interpol officer—and she’d pulled off that ruse just fine, by the way.
Wearing a pair of jeans, black boots with two-inch heels and a light jacket, Henri headed out. While she’d been waiting on information to return from Asa, she’d spent some time walking the streets of Avignon. It was a relatively small city with much of its medieval architecture unchanged—in fact the city was awe-inspiring, a cool place to explore even if she was on the job.
She headed for a café she’d found in the shadier side of town. Middle Eastern music had resounded out to the sidewalk and as she’d gone past, she saw women wearing hijabs inside. At least it was a place to start.
When she arrived, it was 4 p.m. A little early for dinner, but that also meant they wouldn’t be busy. And she was right. A group of men sat at table in the back and when she stepped inside, their conversation stopped. All heads turned her way. Henri smiled and waved at a woman standing near the cash register and wearing a pink hijab. “Bonjour,” she said doing her best to impersonate a tourist. “This looks like a cool place to eat. Mind if I take a seat?”
The woman glanced back to the men before she picked up a menu and gestured to a table. Henri sat in a chair where, if she turned her head right, she could see the men and, to her left, she had a clear shot at the door. After ordering grilled eggplant with feta cheese and pomegranate sauce, she pretended to use Instagram while she took a couple of pictures of the men who had reverted to their conversation.
The waitress brought her food and Henri licked her lips. “This looks delicious.” When the woman glanced sideways with uncertainty written on her face, Henri gave her rudimentary French a try. “Merci. Il est tres bon.”
“Bon appétit,” she responded, though she didn’t smile.
The meal was good and Henri took her time. Another man came in and, after giving her a once-over, headed back to join the men. They were speaking Arabic, though not loud enough to make anything out. Her biggest language focus at ICE had been Arabic.
To buy time to draw out her surveillance, she ordered dessert and more water. By the time the woman brought the bill, she even smiled. Henri paid in cash and, right before she stepped outside, she showed the waitress the picture of Melvut Amri. “As-tu vu cet homme?” Have you seen this man?
The waitress’ eyes widened and she glanced back to the men before she shook her head with no trace of a smile. In fact, there was no mistaking the fear in her eyes. “Non.”
Henri pocketed her phone. “Merci.”
As she left, the hair at the back of her neck prickled. Obviously, the woman had l
ied. Moreover, something sinister appeared to be brewing. Before Henri crossed the street, she glanced over her shoulder at the café, then again when she turned the corner. It wasn’t until she reached the next block that she saw him—a man following. Of Middle Eastern descent, he stood about her height, stocky, sunglasses, black slacks, white shirt with a collar.
Thinking fast, she slipped into a pub. The air was hazy with cigarette smoke. The patrons had their eyes glued to a game of soccer on a big screen over the bar. Henri spied the Toilette sign and strode toward it with purpose. She even smiled and waved at a complete stranger on the way. The bathrooms were down a dimly lit hall that ended with a door to the alleyway. Henri pushed outside and looked both ways. The man on her tail wasn’t in sight. She ran westward, taking a circuitous route to her hotel, checking all directions at every turn. She didn’t see the tail again.
At the café, she’d paid in cash and hadn’t given her name. If those men were friends of Melvut Amri, there was no way they’d be able to find her. On the other hand, if they had been watching the bank, there could be a remote possibility that someone involved in the heist had seen her there.
But people go to banks, even tourists.
After Henri was absolutely positive she’d lost the tail, she walked in the door of the Hôtel La Mirande. The place was fancier than any accommodation the army had ever supplied, and stepping inside was like traveling back in time to an era that moved at a slower pace. Classical music softly floated through reception. Antique furniture filled the vestibule. Even Henri’s room had been decorated with French Provincial furniture; it even had quaint, yellow wallpaper with roses.
Regardless of the relaxed atmosphere, she remained on full alert. As she headed for the stairs and straight up to her room, every flicker of movement processed through her mind with the speed of a microchip. Adrenalin still pumped through her blood. She needed to send the pictures she’d taken to Asa to run through ICE’s system. First thing in the morning, she’d set up surveillance of the café. Good thing Mike was coming in. He could help with that.
