She pressed her lips together and moved her gaze from the disturbing images to the spray of tiny fiber pills covering the back of Hays’s green-and-blue-striped polyester sweater. “I know you’re doing a hundred things at once, Hays, but I really need you to add one more to the list—and maybe do it now so if you find what I think you might find, we can bring it to the Team Viper meeting.”
Now he did look at her. “What?”
“I need you to nose around in open source, see if any events from yesterday—robberies, security disruptions, I don’t know what else—stand out, where the timing coincides with the bombing. Discrete events that happened in that same time frame.”
Again she heard the echo of Bhoot’s accusations: “But the suicide bombing is a diversion, a distraction.”
“You’re thinking it was like a magic trick?” He blinked his owl eyes at her. “The RDD was a diversion for something else, something bigger?”
“I think it’s possible,” Vanessa said.
Hays cut his eyes away, following some vanishing point. When he looked at her again, he said, “That would be bad.”
19
At 0643, Vanessa took a deep breath and then breezed into the dining room to find five people already seated around the table, laptops open, coffee cups close. The French on one side, Americans opposite—operations officers closest to the still-vacant head of the table, techs at the far end nearest the kitchen. Unspoken divisions but clearly understood by all; territory marked without the piss.
Jack motioned to Vanessa to take the empty seat to his left—putting her contiguous to lead and opposite the seriously unfriendly woman who’d chewed her out at the Louvre.
Stepping over a snake’s den of cable and wire, Vanessa set down her coffee and laptop, but she did not sit. She straightened her posture before reaching across the table to introduce herself. “Vanessa.” Continuing in French: “Sorry I didn’t properly introduce myself yesterday. I didn’t realize you were part of this team.”
The woman looked up, reading Vanessa with striking brown eyes defined by dark, arching brows against olive skin. Just past thirty, Vanessa gauged. With her classic bone structure; wide, full lips; and thick cascade of dark curls, she was undeniably beautiful.
But her expression was stony. In stark contrast to the intense emotions she’d displayed yesterday, her features were as composed as if she’d donned a mask. And she took a few seconds longer than necessary before she said, “Yes, I remember now.”
Without visibly reacting to the snub, Vanessa turned her attention to her notes. She had a meeting to open for Chris and no time to spare for the distraction of dramatic petty turf games.
She looked up and around the table, noting one empty seat between the woman and a man who was now nodding amiably to everyone.
“Good morning, I’m Jean.” His English carried a heavy French accent. “And my colleague is Aisha.”
And that set off a chain of quick first-name introductions all the way down to the French techs, one of whom Vanessa recognized as the sour-mouthed dosimeter guy from yesterday—his name today was Canard.
Duck? Really? With an internal shrug, she let it pass.
As good a time as any, Vanessa thought. She scanned the faces at the table and said, “Good morning, I want to welcome everyone to Team Viper. I’m standing in for Chris—some of you already know him. And he will introduce himself when he arrives momentarily.”
As Vanessa took a quick sip of her coffee, she felt a new presence in the room. She glanced toward the door expecting Chris or Fournier. Instead, she met David Khoury’s eyes.
Breathe.
But her hand betrayed her, tipping just enough so that coffee stung her chin and she sucked in air.
He kept moving, letting his gaze brush past Vanessa, almost pulling off the studied ease. But she saw the tension in his throat where he caught and held uncomfortable emotions. Like excitement tinged with apprehension, for instance.
Why the hell didn’t he tell me last night that he is part of Team Viper?
He took the empty seat next to Aisha.
Throwing off the territorial balance. He’d been working with the French, okay, Vanessa could give him that, but he was CIA.
When Aisha placed her hand on Khoury’s wrist as she spoke softly to him in French, there was no way to miss the fact they knew each other—well.
“Since we have no time to waste,” Vanessa said, more tersely than she’d intended, “let’s make sure we’re on the same page with all the details we know to date. I learned this morning that we have a tentative ID—”
“On the suicide bomber.” A familiar male, French-accented voice had cut her off, and now he continued, “Omar al-Attas, although, as our American friend was about to tell you, we’re awaiting DNA confirmation and we need it—”
Startled, Vanessa stood silent while Marcel Fournier strode the last few paces to claim the head of the table, still speaking: “—before the press gets wind of this.”
He tossed down a stack of files. “Omar al-Attas,” he repeated, slapping the top file hard. “Nineteen-year-old American-born son of Abdul Hasib al-Attas, a senior Al Qaeda commander targeted and killed by a U.S. drone strike fifteen months ago. An event that certainly gave young Omar motive to strap on a bomb and kill Americans to avenge his father’s death—although why he was part of a plot to target what should have been a covert CIA meeting outside a French national treasure instead of a hard U.S. target is a question we urgently need to answer.”
Fournier only glanced at Vanessa, but that was enough—he’d singled her out. “This was a coordinated attack involving the kidnapping and execution of an intelligence asset, a suicide bombing, and a second device, a fairly sophisticated dirty bomb that did not detonate, Dieu merci—and for those of you who don’t know me, I’m Marcel Fournier, DCRI director of operations.”
He snapped open a laptop, giving the team a moment to breathe and size him up. Today he wore freshly ironed jeans, a crisp white shirt, and the now familiar black leather jacket.
Vanessa pulled back to take her seat on a cushion that could double as a hair shirt. So much for standing in for Chris.
Fournier launched in again. “I trust you’ve all made introductions. And by now you are meilleurs amis, best friends.”
Aisha made a small sound—Vanessa heard it as a snort. Khoury stared intently at her and she flashed him a dirty look: You should have warned me.
Fournier clicked his tongue against his front teeth and sucked in air with his words: “I want every link we can find between al-Attas and True Jihad and—if they are there to be found—links between True Jihad and Al Qaeda—” He cut himself off, when something or someone caught his attention from the other room. A quick frown, and he raised his palm to the team at the table. “Attendez—one minute.”
Vanessa sat up sharply as she tracked his exit: Fournier stepping out to greet the CIA Chief of Station Paris—COS James Blount—who had arrived with Chris.
Vanessa had met the COS several times. She knew the assignment of chief—to a city like Paris or Rome—came at the end of a long and successful career. By that point the COS was either cruising toward a comfortable retirement or burned out.
Blount had the physique of a man long out of the field, now working government and diplomatic circuits, shaking hands, soothing ruffled egos, at the far end of his career and not dreading retirement. She’d put money on a cottage in the South of France.
Blount also had a reputation as a good man to work under; the fact he’d placed himself quietly in the background spoke volumes—he would not be pushing to run the show.
While Fournier quietly greeted the COS, Chris took the opportunity to make his entrance to Team Viper. In his hands, he balanced files, laptop, and a cup of takeout coffee, steam rising from the vented lid. Somehow he eased everything onto the table without spilling anything.
Fournier out, Chris in—like a changing of the guard. No accident in the timing, Vanessa thought.
>
This was Chris’s moment to assert himself and the Agency. CIA resources were vast compared to French means—but the territory belonged to les grenouilles.
“And if you’re not BFFs,” he said, picking up Fournier’s thread, “we hope you are at least ready to deal with True Jihad’s latest threat. Because minutes ago they contacted Al Jazeera claiming they will name new targets later today.”
Reactions to this somber announcement were muted—but the tension and the sense of urgency around the table—already high—rose to a new level.
Chris lifted his chin, sizing up the group. After a distinct beat, he said, “I’m Chris, CIA, good morning everybody. We will get to know each other soon, but right now, we urgently need to review the events of the last twenty-four hours.”
Chris moved his attention to Vanessa and she braced internally, here it was—her declaration to the French.
“I know you all exchanged introductions earlier, so you know Vanessa by name. But you don’t know that she is one of our most highly respected operations officers.” Chris held her gaze for an instant—and maybe it eased the pain of exposure just a bit.
“She was integral in assisting MI5 with the arrest of Dieter Schoeman a year ago.” He paused a moment for emphasis. “The Brits have acknowledged their appreciation for her services on more than one occasion.”
“I think you all know by now that Vanessa was on-site yesterday. You may not know that she was there to meet with a vital asset who promised to deliver intel on a nuke we believe was smuggled out of Iran last fall.”
Again, he acknowledged her with the quickest visual tap, and she appreciated Chris for it.
He said, “She can recap events of yesterday.” And with that he turned the floor over to her.
Vanessa stood, nudging the chair back with her foot so she wouldn’t feel cornered. She launched in, offering basic background the team would need—but withholding some things under the need-to-know principle.
“We’ve all heard rumors that a nuclear device was smuggled out of a recently identified underground facility in southern Iran just weeks before that facility was destroyed last October. That’s been in the news to a certain extent.” She paused, making sure everyone was following. “What has not been in the news is the fact the device is a prototype for a very powerful miniaturized weapon.”
She paused, letting her words sink in. In the silence that followed, she heard the faint and distinctive ping signaling a new IM on her laptop. She glanced down quickly to confirm that Hays had followed up on her request.
She returned her attention to the faces of Team Viper, and it was Aisha who leaned forward intently. “Are we talking about a functional nuclear weapon—miniaturized—now loose on the black market?”
“That’s a distinct possibility,” Vanessa said. “Or it could be in the hands of True Jihad.”
“Yesterday’s attack apparently was meant as a one-two punch with the pipe bomb carried by the suicide bomber, and the RDD that failed to explode,” Khoury said, frowning in concentration. “Neither weapon was a new class of nuke, so what does that have to do with the facility in Iran?”
Vanessa met his gaze—it still felt odd that he was sitting on the other side of the table. “Farid—my asset—was going to give us intel to help locate the prototype.” She paused, as if checking notes, but really buying a moment to collect herself. “We hoped that this time he would help us to further identify Bhoot; the smuggled nuclear weapon was from a facility that was a joint venture between Bhoot and the Iranians.”
She slid her laptop around so that team members could view her screen. “I need to shift our focus for a moment—and I apologize in advance that we don’t have a bigot list compiled yet for everyone in the security loop, so this morning we will have to make do.” She clicked on a document icon and it suddenly filled the screen. “You are looking at a list that I asked Hays to compile for us from open sources. He has flagged anomalous events that occurred in or around Paris yesterday at approximately the same time as the explosion at the Louvre: power outages, security disruptions, full-out intrusions, fires, et cetera. As you see, there are almost a dozen entries—locations or business names.”
“You believe the bombing was cover for something else?” Khoury spoke slowly, following this new thread.
“It’s a possibility,” Vanessa said, glancing around the table. Most everyone was studying the monitor dutifully. But she was caught by the look of recognition on Aisha’s face as she stared at the entries.
“Aisha, vous le voyez?” It was Fournier who addressed her as he stood between the French doors that connected the living room and dining room.
“Oui . . . mais . . .” Aisha tugged restlessly on the soft coral-colored scarf draped around her neck. “I’m puzzled.” She eyed Vanessa sharply. “What led you in that direction? Do you have an asset who told you the bombing was a diversion?”
Aisha had asked a smart question, Vanessa thought, keeping her voice and her expression neutral. Bhoot certainly wasn’t her asset, but . . . she quickly reasoned through a way to stay close to the truth. “One of my reliable sources picked up chatter from the streets and passed it along.”
“One hell of a diversion,” Khoury said flatly.
Aisha exchanged another look with Fournier.
He said, “Aisha, dites-leur ce que vous savez.” Tell them what you know.
Aisha tipped her head, a nanosecond’s gesture for Okay, you’re the boss. She said, “Nous avons—we have an open file on Société Anonyme de Recherche en Ingénierie et Technologie, SARIT, dating back to 2008. Shorthand, this is what we know about SARIT—they’re involved in legitimate cutting-edge technology engineering and software development. Several years ago they received a large government grant in support of their engineering research. Specifically for software and engineering of a smaller, faster, and more efficient triggered spark-gap design. We know that they are used in many things—medical devices, high-voltage switches, and so on.” She brushed a curl away from one eye. “But SARIT is also suspected of selling to less-than-legitimate customers on the black market. But we have no definitive proof, just dead ends.”
Khoury sat back, crossing his arms. “The most dangerous application of a triggered spark gap would be as a trigger device to detonate a nuke.” His gaze shifted to Hays. “So why exactly are they on the list? What happened at SARIT yesterday?”
“Isolated power interruption,” Hays said quietly. “The company had a security system failure for seventeen minutes beginning at 1107 hours. SARIT hasn’t publicly admitted to a breach, and police have been so involved in security post-bombing they’ve been late to respond.”
“That’s enough to make us wonder if they were targeted in coordination with the suicide bomber,” Vanessa finished.
Aisha frowned, twisting a lock of dark hair tightly around her index finger. “The first week of each month they shut down business operations for six hours to run a full security review and backup. So if somebody knew the company’s operating procedures and used a suicide bomber as a diversion for a coordinated break-in—”
“Then we’re talking about a sophisticated operation,” Vanessa finished.
Aisha, clearly displeased by the interruption, shot Vanessa an impatient frown. “I should get over to La Défense this morning and see what I can find out.”
Fournier eyed Khoury. “David, I believe you’re familiar with the file?”
Khoury nodded.
“I’m going—I’d like to go along,” Vanessa said.
Fournier pointed three fingers: “Aisha, David, take Vanessa with you. I’ll have the car brought around.”
Aisha acknowledged him, but she barely looked up from gathering her things.
As Vanessa closed her laptop, Chris zeroed in on the team.
“You all know your next steps. Keep your heads up for new developments from the terrorists—and watch your backs. We don’t know enough about True Jihad except they’ve managed to get their hands on
classified intel—and that makes them especially dangerous.” He paused, letting the warning sink in, and then he wrapped it up: “Unless you hear differently, we will see you back here at 1700 hours for the daily debrief.”
Chris looked to Fournier and then to the COS, who had moved to the doorway.
The COS included the entire team in his gaze. He said, “No one on the American team should take for granted that we are guests of the French government.”
Vanessa’s silent translation: Get it right—because if you don’t, I will have to live with your screwups.
—
VANESSA HURRIEDLY GATHERED her laptop and notepad. She was eager to get to La Défense and she definitely did not want to slow Aisha and Khoury down. She was almost to the foyer to grab her coat when some members of the French team, Aisha among them, stepped out to the landing and down the stairs. Clearly they were opting to leave the elevator to their superiors.
Khoury followed Aisha, but as he passed Vanessa, he let his hand brush her arm lightly. “We’ll be waiting for you, ready to go.”
“I’m coming—”
“She’ll be with you in a minute, David,” Chris said.
Vanessa turned to find her boss standing directly behind her. He kept his voice low and said, “Be careful. You’re dealing with unknown terrorists—and unknown team members as well.”
She nodded, hearing his warning all the more intensely because this kind of cautionary aside was unusual for Chris.
As he reached past her to claim his overcoat from the rack, she whispered, “What about Dieter? When can I speak to—”
She broke off as Jack passed them, moving quickly, calling out, “If you need me, I’ll be at the Station.”
“That conversation waits until later,” Chris said quietly. “You’re keeping your team waiting.”
“I know, I’m going,” she said, backstepping toward the door. “But this lead is vital. If I have to, I’ll drive to Belmarsh myself—”
Two of the French techs walked past them, and close on their heels, Fournier slowed to confer with the French operative they knew as Jean.
Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) Page 8