Direct Action

by John Weisman

  It was shut tight. He brought himself back, feet clamped on the pipe joint and left hand holding firmly on to the webbing, while he considered his next moves.

  He shoved the camera back into the fanny pack and—taking no chances—zipped the compartment shut. Then he swung back toward the window as far as he could. It took him two tries, but he finally was able to touch the cracked paint of the outer sash with his fingertips.

  That wasn’t enough. He swung back to the drainpipe. Now he took his right foot off the pipe joint altogether, skidded his left instep around the lip of the joint, unwrapped the web belt to give himself another five inches of reach, then pushed off once more.

  This time he swung low enough so that his right hand was actually able to grasp the wooden sill. Not daring to breathe, he held himself there, fully extended for some seconds, the unwilling hero of his own Harold Lloyd cinema verité feature film.

  When he’d finally convinced himself he wasn’t going to fall, he gripped the sill and pulled his body as low as possible. Carefully, he brought his face close to the dirty glass.

  2:09:21. The shade had been pulled down. Of course it had—he’d seen no light emanating from the window from the yard below. But now, with his nose just inches from the glass, he saw roughly an inch, maybe an inch and a half, of open space at the bottom of the window shade.

  Using every bit of his strength, Tom unwrapped the belt one more wind and extended himself another two inches. Now he was at the very end of his tether, and his left toe on the pipe joint was all that kept him from falling. Still, he strained to peer inside. It was impossible.

  He let go of the sill and swung back, heaving a huge sigh when he had both hands and both feet firmly on the drainpipe. He fiddled with the web belt until he had it wrapped exactly the way he’d need it. Tom extracted the camera from the fanny pack. Then he slipped his right foot off the pipe joint, leaned out, and swung back toward the window.

  He eased his right hand past the sill, held the camera lens up to the glass, and moved the pencil-size instrument, oh so slowly, from left to right, hoping that Murphy’s Law would, this one time, not be in effect, and that the camera’s low-light-capable lens would capture whatever was in the room—and even perhaps, some images of what lay beyond.

  2:13 A.M. He’d counted to a hundred and eighty—roughly three minutes of video. If the gods were indeed smiling on him tonight, the camera’s transmissions were secure on the battery-powered recorder in the 4627 van. Well, he’d know everything there was to know in a few minutes.

  Gently, Tom set the camera into the fanny pack and zipped the pouch closed. He pendulumed back to the drainpipe, where he hung for some seconds, the sweat pouring off his face and neck. His feet were so numb he couldn’t feel his toes.

  He unwrapped the web belt from his hand, pulled it around the pipe, and buckled it around his waist. He tightened the Velcro tabs on the backs of his gloves so his wet hands wouldn’t slip on the painted cast iron.

  He slipped his hands around the drainpipe as if it were a firehouse pole, eased his feet off the joint, and slid down until his running shoes caught on the next lowest protrusion. He stopped momentarily, then repeated the action, faster each time, dropping another four feet, then another, then another.

  2:19. Tom peered over the wall at the end of the alley. The intersection was deserted. He jumped, pulled, scrambled, rolled over the top, dropped onto the pavement, and headed south toward the rendezvous point at a slow jog.

  He’d just reached the foot of rue Ramey when Reuven’s voice exploded in his ear. “Change of plans.” It took Tom an instant to realize Reuven was speaking in Arabic.

  Tom answered in kind. “Go.”

  “I’m at your flat.”

  “What?”

  “MJ’s all right—nothing happened. No time to talk. Grab the truck. Meet us out front. I’ll explain.”

  “Us? But—”

  “Just move—move now.” Reuven’s belligerent attitude didn’t brook any opposition.

  “On my way.”

  30

  2:48 A.M. They were waiting in the vestibule. Reuven ushered MJ into the front seat of the truck, slammed the door shut, then went around to the side, opened the cargo bay, loaded her suitcase, and hoisted himself inside. “Office, Tom. Go to the office—now. I called Tony Wyman. He’ll meet us there.”

  Tom wanted answers before they moved. He looked at the confused, frightened expression on his fiancée’s face and enveloped her in his arms. “It’s all right, sweetie. Everything’s going to be just fine.”

  Then he turned toward the Israeli. “What the hell’s up?”

  “That fellow on the street had your address on him,” Reuven machine-gunned in rapid French. “Since you told me this wonderful woman had shown up unexpectedly, I thought it prudent to get over here.”

  “Why in God’s name didn’t you get hold of me?”

  “Because you had a job to do, my friend—something I couldn’t do. And because I was on the case.” Reuven smacked his fist into his palm. “The sons of bitches are onto you. I don’t know how, but they are.”

  Tom had more than an inkling how. They were onto him because Tom had been the last person to talk to Shahram Shahristani. They were onto him because they were keeping the American embassy under constant surveillance and he’d turned up there and left with a known CIA case officer. The same case officer they’d seen talking to Shahram Shahristani. They’d known because they were competent adversaries and they could put two and two together.

  Reuven broke into Tom’s train of thought. “Did you see anything up there?”

  “The shades were down and the lights were out. I saw nothing. But there was a gap between the shade and the sill and I used the camera.”

  Reuven lifted the painter’s tarp to reveal the rack of video equipment. “While you head for the office I want to see what you got.”

  3:19 A.M. Reuven had scrambled the staff and 4627’s offices were in condition red. A pair of security cars sealed off the front and rear exits. The entrance to the five-story building was manned by an armed guard. Inside, roving two-man teams patrolled the corridors.

  Tom had never seen Tony Wyman without a tie. Now Wyman, in a pressed pair of jeans and a thick cashmere turtleneck, monocle screwed into his right eye, squinted intently at the high-resolution plasma screen in Tom’s office. A police scanner played softly in the background as Reuven explained what Wyman was looking at.

  “Tom—freeze the picture. Those are detonators,” the Israeli said, pointing at a slightly fuzzy image of objects roughly the size of tongue depressors. “Ben Said disassembles the backpacks piece by piece. He inserts several thin sheets of explosive to replace the layer of padding between the inner and outer linings at the bottom and back side of the bag. Then he removes one of the stiffeners they use where the backpack straps connect to the body of the rucksack, and replaces it with the detonator.”

  Reuven pointed at the half dozen detonators lying on a kitchen towel—kitchen because the words Cuisine et Tradition in dark lettering were visible on the portion of the towel that was draped over the edge of the table. “I can’t be sure, but it seems pretty straightforward. The bottom end—the business end if you will—is pressed into the plastic explosive. It follows that the middle section is probably the battery that sends the electric charge into the explosive and detonates it. And the top is actually a small receiver and antenna—similar to what’s inside a cell phone.”

  Tony Wyman nodded.

  “Then he reassembles everything carefully.”

  Wyman said: “Where does he get the thread?”

  Reuven’s eyes brightened. “Good point.”

  MJ looked at the Israeli. “Huh?”

  “He has to sew the backpacks using the original needle holes and a thread that looks exactly like this—” Reuven reached across MJ, pulled her own Vuitton backpack from where she’d hung it over the arm of her chair, and tilted it. “Look at the stitching. The thread is unique
. He had to have an inside source.” The Israeli returned the backpack and scratched himself a note. “I’ll check it out.”

  “Good.” Wyman nodded. “How many bombs, Reuven?”

  “If I could count the detonators, I’d know better,” the Israeli said.

  “There are eight backpacks, Tony,” Tom said. “But there may be more.”

  “Makes sense.” Wyman looked at Tom. “Do we have the place covered? I don’t want Ben Said disappearing on us.”

  “Reuven took care of it.”

  “I called some friends from the old days,” Reuven said. “Corsicans. Trustworthy. Nothing happens without us knowing.”

  MJ pointed at the screen. “Why not just alert the French? Let them take care of everything?”

  “They’d get the bombs and that’s all,” Tom said. “I want Ben Said.”

  She crossed her arms. “The bombs are better than nothing.”

  “They’re nothing without the bomb maker, MJ,” Wyman said. “He shifts locations, identities, whatever, and starts all over again. Now that he’s perfected the detonator design, we’re talking a matter of what—weeks?”

  Reuven nodded. “Maximum.”

  “So?”

  “This time it’s high-fashion backpacks,” Wyman said. “And we have a real leg up because we know that. Next time it could be anything. Attaché cases. Carry-ons. Shaving kits. Makeup bags.”

  MJ cocked her head in Wyman’s direction. “But won’t he shift his base of operation anyway if he knows you’re onto him?”

  “It’s possible,” Wyman said, looking at her.

  “But harder to do than it might appear,” Reuven said.

  She looked at the Israeli. “Why?”

  “Because,” Tom interrupted, “of two factors. The first is that, from everything Shahram Shahristani told me the day he was killed, Ben Said’s IED designs are unique. That’s how he makes his money. He doesn’t sell his know-how. He sells finished products. Also, he tends to oversee the jobs himself. He was in Gaza. Now he’s here, because this is where the bombs are going to be used. My guess is some of that is ego, but it’s also to ensure that whoever buys his designs doesn’t reverse-engineer them and steal the proprietary stuff.”

  “Second,” Reuven broke in, “we’re not talking about making Molotov cocktails or homemade mortars,” Reuven said. “Those you can put together anyplace. These devices are precision IEDs. Moreover, it’s amazing what can be traced these days. You need a more or less sterile environment. No dust, no dander, because you have to be meticulous about the postexplosion forensics. A microscopic bit of soil that’s unique to a certain place. Or a tiny fragment of a towel—they can trace those things nowadays. So the environment can’t contain anything that forensics sniffers or the latest generation of airport screening devices might detect.”

  The Israeli noted the skeptical expression on MJ’s face. “Look for yourself, MJ.” Reuven tapped the screen. “Run it from the beginning, Tom.”

  “Huh?” Tom was distracted by the police scanner. “Listen.”

  Tony Wyman turned toward the radio and the four of them fell silent. The police were responding to a possible homicide on rue Bachelet.

  Tom turned toward the Israeli. “Reuven?”

  “Later,” the Israeli said in Arabic, his eyes flicking toward MJ. “I’ll fill you in on the details later.” He switched back to English. “Run from the beginning, please.”

  Tom dutifully clicked the mouse on the screen. The DVD began with out-of-focus moving images followed by a lot of black. “That’s from when I stowed the camera in the fanny pack.” He fast-forwarded until he saw the image of the safe-house wall. “Okay. Here’s where it gets interesting.”

  He clicked on speed then slow. The jerkiness decreased and the camera started to pan smoothly across the room. In the foreground, the green-tinged video showed a folding picnic table draped with plastic sheeting on which sat several Vuitton backpacks in various stages of disassembly. To its left, at an oblique angle, was another, smaller picnic table, also draped in dark plastic, which held the detonators. In the gap behind those two tables sat a third. It was more substantial than the other two—more like a drop-leaf dining table. In its center Tom could make out a large sewing machine sitting atop a small crate. The right-hand side of the table was visible through the backpacks, revealing what appeared to be a pasta roller bolted to the end of the drop leaf.

  The camera moved on, its autofocusing lens now concentrating on the back wall of the room. Some sort of plastic sheeting had been hung. As the camera panned, Tom saw that every one of the walls was covered in plastic sheeting.

  Tom slowed the DVD’s speed so he could look more closely and waited until the camera moved from right to left. The plastic over the window made it harder to see, but the objects on the tables were still identifiable.

  “Okay,” Reuven said. “Now…stop.”

  Tom froze the image.

  Reuven used his pen to point at the bomb-making materials on the tables. “Breaking this down won’t be easy. This isn’t the kind of thing you throw in a garbage bag and move. The backpacks have to be handled carefully. After all, they have to look new.” He looked at Tom. “Show the pasta maker, Tom.”

  Tom double-clicked and the image of the long table with the sewing machine popped onto the screen.

  Reuven waited until the camera panned between the backpacks to the end of the table that held the pasta maker. Just visible next to the machine were a trio of cookie racks on which sat six-inch strips of what looked like fresh-made lasagna. “Okay, stop.”

  Tony Wyman squinted, then said, “Yes?”

  “That’s the explosive,” Reuven said.

  MJ said, “Just lying there? Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “No.” Tom’s hand caressed her shoulder. “The explosive itself is inert—it’s not dangerous until the detonator’s inserted. But look at how thin it has to be.”

  “You’re right.” Reuven pointed to the racks. “Looks to me like it’s what—two, three millimeters at most.”

  Wyman looked at the Israeli. “Is that significant?”

  “For sure. Plastique isn’t elastic the same way pasta dough is. It’s more like modeling clay, or Silly Putty. It’s easy to cut, and roll, and form into shaped charges. But it’s damned hard to roll into thin, delicate sheets unless you happen to have the right equipment. Obviously, all Ben Said was able to get was this pasta roller. Once the son of a bitch has rolled out the explosive, it becomes very, very fragile. From what we can see here, my guess is he’s rolled about three, maybe four knapsacks’ worth.” Reuven looked at Wyman. “Believe me, he’s not going to want to do the job twice.”

  Tony Wyman shook his head. “He’s using a goddamn everyday pasta roller.”

  “Can you think of something less likely to attract attention?” Reuven tapped the plasma screen. “With the exception of the explosives and the detonators, there’s nothing in this room that can’t be bought off the shelf.”

  The Israeli tapped the screen then turned back toward Tony Wyman. “Look—these guys are smart. You were able to destroy Abu Nidal’s organization because it was hierarchical. You cut the head off, and the beast dies. These guys work out of anonymous, self-supporting cells. Or they’re loners like Ben Said. They also study their targets. They probe for weaknesses. They bide their time. They’re patient, experienced, dangerous, well disciplined, and above all they’re resourceful. So while the FBI or Shabak or DST double-checks every building-supply or fertilizer manufacturer looking for fancy-schmancy, our boy goes to Monoprix or BHV, pays cash, and walks away with everything he needs right off the housewares and small-electronics shelves.”

  “Makes one wonder.” MJ played with her hair.

  Tom said, “Wonder what?”

  “Where he got the explosives. Where did they come from? Did he make them in the next room? Where’s his laboratory? Did he bring them into this place in a shopping bag or in his briefcase? How did they get from whereve
r they were manufactured to that table?”

  The three men looked at one another and realized no one had an answer.

  Tony Wyman’s monocle dropped onto his chest. “Roll the video again, Tom. From the top.”

  Tom clicked on the play button, then the slow button, and the camera panned slowly left to right. The four of them watched for more than two and a half minutes in silence.

  Finally, Wyman said, “Hold on the backpacks, will you?”

  Tom ran the disk fast-forward until the table with the backpacks was centered on the screen. He paused the DVD and looked over at his boss.

  Tony Wyman said, “Can you give me a print of the table with the backpacks? I don’t care about the packs, but I want to see the whole table, legs and all.”

  “Sure.” Tom cropped the image just as his boss had asked and clicked the printer icon. Thirty seconds later, he handed tony Tony a borderless eight-by-ten-inch photograph.

  Wyman plugged the monocle into his right eye and studied the picture intently. After a quarter of a minute, he said, “Hmm.”

  Then he gave Tom an intense look. “Can you do the same thing for me with the table holding the detonators?”

  “Sure.” Tom had no idea at all where tony Tony was heading.

  31

  3:38 A.M. Tony Wyman held the photographs side by side directly in front of his long nose and examined them closely, one then the other. He said “Hmm” again. He looked at Tom, swiveled his chair, and said, “Come see.”

  Tom came around and peered over Wyman’s shoulder, squinted, then shrugged. “What am I looking for?”

  Wyman used his right pinkie to summon Reuven. “Now you. What do you see?”

  The Israeli leaned over Wyman’s other shoulder. “Tables. Backpacks. Detonators. A kitchen towel.”

  Wyman peered over at MJ. “You’re the professional here, m’dear.”