by John Weisman
5:55:47. At the end of the passageway, Reuven brought the truck to a stop and jumped onto the pavement. Tom followed him. The Israeli rapped the side of the truck with his knuckles. “Milo—back to the warehouse, please.”
“My pleasure.” The Corsican slid behind the wheel and drove off.
5:55:56. They’d prepositioned a black Audi sedan. Reuven used a remote control to unlock the door of the big car and switch the ignition on. The car’s side and rear windows were heavily tinted and its interior lights had been turned off.
5:56:11. Tom climbed into the passenger seat. He clutched the satchel on his lap, unzipped the top flap, and retrieved the sniper’s gauze veil. “Go.”
5:56:25. Reuven edged the car into the street. All lights out, he drove about sixty yards and stopped.
5:56:36. Tom handed the Israeli one side of the sniper’s veil.
5:56:38. Reuven took it and pressed the corner up against the far upper left-hand side of the windshield, attaching the gauze with a small tab of Velcro. Then he attached the bottom to a Velcro patch on the lower edge of the dashboard. Tom mirror-imaged Reuven’s actions on the right-hand side of the windshield.
5:56:43. They were perhaps sixty feet south of the rue du Congo intersection. As Tom retrieved the camera, Reuven edged the Audi forward crawling foot by foot until they were able to see the Boissons Maghreb storefront.
5:57:30. The truck was still there all right—complete with the pallets of wine and olives just as they’d been less than three minutes before. But the sidewalk in front of the storefront was deserted. And Yahia Hamzi and his gold-plated Mercedes were nowhere to be seen.
35
“MERDE.” Tom ripped the gauze off and slammed the dash.
“Got an idea.” Reuven gunned the Audi, swerved right at the corner, then took his first right again. “If he’s going back into town, this is the shortest way.”
“And if he’s not?”
“Then we’re screwed. But he’s not carrying any olives. The two pallets were still wrapped securely. I don’t think he’s making the drop.”
“Are you sure?”
The Israeli snorted. “I’m a trained observer, remember?”
Tom was in no mood for jokes and said so.
“Take it easy, boychik.” Reuven took a reassuring tone. He handled the big car smoothly. Reuven swung left onto a busy avenue, chockablock with brightly lit stores and sidewalks crowded now that the Ramadan fast had ended. Tom caught a glimpse of the street sign. It read AV. J. LOLIVE.
“There!” Reuven said. “Look. That’s him.” Quickly, the Israeli pulled the car over to the curb. “About half a block ahead—he double-parked on the right.”
Tom rummaged for his binoculars. The car was Hamzi’s all right. Stopped on a block of cafés, newspaper stands, and small supermarkets. The Moroccan had double-parked outside a greasy spoon, leaving his flashers on.
Tom started to lift the field glasses to his eyes but Reuven slapped them back onto his lap. “No,” the Israeli said in Arabic. “Don’t.”
“Sorry.” Tom had gotten so excited he’d forgotten his tradecraft. He checked the pedestrian traffic. Pairs of bearded men in skullcaps walked arm in arm, their wives in burkas trailing behind carrying the grocery bags. The refrigerated display window of a halal butcher opposite Tom flaunted whole goats and half lambs, their entrails hanging from the partially skinned corpses. Somewhere close by, banlieue gangbangers were playing Rai rap on a boom box. Reuven was right: they’d crossed into an alternative Islamic universe.
Tom squinted at the steamy window and read the Arabic aloud. “Abu Ali Café.” He started to exit the Audi, but Reuven grabbed his arm. “Stay put.”
Tom shook off the Israeli’s hand. “I want to see what he’s doing,” he said in French.
Reuven shook his head and continued in Arabic. “It doesn’t matter what he’s doing—he’ll get back in the car in a minute—the flashers are going.” The Israeli’s tone was rebuking. “C’mon, man—take a look at the people in the street. It’s like we turned the corner and suddenly we’re in Beirut, or Oran. Look at yourself. You put your gringo ass anywhere near that place, you’ll blow us.”
“What if he’s meeting Ben Said there? Or phoning him?”
“If he is,” Reuven said, “we’ll find out about it soon enough.” The Israeli rubbed his hands together. “Wait him out, Tom. Time is on our side—not his.”
Tom wasn’t entirely convinced. Then he saw Hamzi come out the door of the café juggling a pair of oversize brown plastic bags. The Moroccan opened the car door, leaned inside, and dropped his cargo on the floor of the front passenger seat. Then he climbed in, closed the door on the driver’s side, checked his side mirror, pulled into the rush-hour traffic, and accelerated away.
“Food for the troops.” Reuven let Hamzi get past the metro sign at avenue Hoche, two hundred meters ahead, only then nosing the Audi forward. “He’ll veer left before the périphérique. That’ll take him back to rue du Congo.” He followed Hamzi’s trail but turned right at the metro stop, paused long enough to allow a burka-clad woman to cross against the light, then steered onto a one-way street. “This’ll take us back where we began this little diversion.” He looked at Tom’s worried expression and spoke in English. “We’ll get there before he does. Trust me.”
7:22 P.M. Tom stared through the night-vision device and watched the last of the wine disappear into the cellar. All that remained now were the two pallets of olives. The heavy traffic flow on rue du Congo had dwindled to a trickle—a vehicle only every seventy, eighty seconds. Hamzi’s Mercedes sat on the sidewalk behind the truck. Hamzi himself had disappeared inside his storefront with the two bags of takeout and hadn’t reappeared in more than an hour.
“So?” His eyes still on Boissons Maghreb, Tom nudged Reuven. “How do we activate the Algerians?”
Reuven tapped the cell phone in his hand. “One call.”
“Are they close?”
Reuven remained silent.
“How does it all work, Reuven? What happens if there’s a hitch?”
“If there’s a hitch we work around it.”
“And?”
“And what? We take this one step at a time, Tom. One step at a time.” He looked analytically at the American. “This is your first, isn’t it?”
“My first.”
“What you people call direct action.”
Tom swallowed hard. Then his head bobbed up and down once. “Affirmative.”
“Listen to me: it’s all right to be nervous. You’re jumpy. That’s natural, too—so long as it’s just the two of us. But you can’t ever show it. Not to outsiders.”
“I know, Reuven.”
“Listen to me,” the Israeli continued. “Direct action is different from everything else you’ve ever done. It’s more than mind games, or exploiting vulnerabilities, or spot, assess, develop, recruit, and run—all the agent stuff you’re so very good at.” He paused. “Direct action is full contact, Tom. It’s life-and-death. It’s the soldiering part of what we do.”
“But…”
The Israeli looked at Tom. “You’re ambivalent.”
Tom shrugged, his hand inadvertently brushing the black gauze affixed between them and the windshield.
“You were never in the Army.”
“No.”
“Me, I’m a big believer in universal service. It’s a great leveler. In Israel, we form friendships in the Army that last a lifetime. One reason is that we stay in the same reserve unit for years and years. Train with the same people. Fight with the same people.”
“What’s your point?”
“My particular unit,” Reuven said, “honed very special skills. We were trained to observe our enemies for long periods of time without attracting attention, and then kill them quickly. Not by the hundreds, either. But by ones and twos, or sixes and sevens. Sometimes during hostage rescue situations—up close, with great speed, surprise, and violence of action. Sometimes looking the
m in the eyes as they died. Sometimes sniping them from great distances, and sometimes executing them asleep in their beds.”
He gave Tom a quick glance, gauging his reaction. “Killing,” Reuven said, “is a skill—a craft, if you will. Your man McGee had it. He was no murderer, no sociopath. But he understood what had to be done—and when it was necessary he took the proper action.”
He gave Tom another fleeting look, and Tom saw the sadness in the Israeli’s eyes. Then he realized it wasn’t sadness at all. It was weariness. It was the bone-tiring fatigue that came from so many years of shadow warfare, so many years of intensity, passion, and rage.
Reuven continued: “There is no joy in taking life. But there are people in this world who need to be killed. Removed permanently, because of the threat they present.”
The Israeli paused. “That may sound cold. But Israel has been at war a long time, Tom. Every day is life-and-death for us. And so we are used to making hard decisions about taking human lives. You can use any term you like: direct action, lethal finding, targeted killing, assassination. The nomenclature is simply a bureaucratic determination. The goal is the same: to forever remove a specific threat; a threat so severe that if we let that threat persist, our citizens will die. So we do what we have to do—and we suffer the consequences on the world stage with our eyes open.”
He paused. “Y’know, for years, America thought of terror as a law enforcement problem. We in Israel never did. We always knew it was war. Call it what you will—warfare on the cheap, asymmetrical warfare, warfare by other means, insurgency—terrorism is war. Dirty war, but war nonetheless. And the object of war is to kill more of the enemy than they kill of you.”
“I know.”
“Well, for years, you Americans allowed terrorists to kill more of your people than you killed terrorists without suffering consequences. All those planes hijacked. All those Americans murdered in Beirut, in Khartoum, in Mogadishu, in Pakistan, in Kenya, in Jordan, in Tanzania, in Saudi—and in Israel. Now, after 9/11, you finally began to see some light. To deal with terrorism as what it is: unrestricted warfare.”
“But the cycle of violence, Reuven.”
The Israeli made a dismissive gesture. “Ach, the so-called cycle of violence is a lie. If the cycle-of-violence argument were true, then the Germans would still be suicide-bombing Brits and Americans for the tens of thousands of German civilians who were slaughtered during World War Two’s firebombing raids.” He looked at the American. “Here is the truth, Tom. This man, Ben Said, has to be stopped.”
“I agree. So why not turn him over to the French—do what MJ suggested?”
“My reaction? Bottom line? Because of what he knows,” Reuven said. “Look, this guy is a specialist. A genius who has managed a quantum leap in the construction of small, deadly, explosive devices.” The Israeli paused. “That’s why I say it’s important—imperative—that he takes his secrets to his grave.” Something external caught Reuven’s attention and he peered through the Audi’s windshield. “I don’t think Tony Wyman or Charlie Hoskinson would disagree, either. Already, this animal has done quite enough damage. Quite enough for a lifetime.”
The hard expression on Reuven’s face calcified. “Believe me—I know the extent of the damage the Ben Saids of the world can cause.”
That was when Tom really got what Sam Waterman had been talking about when he’d told Tom that retirement was just another form of cover. Understood why Reuven had agreed so readily to run 4627’s Tel Aviv operation. Why the Israeli had been working so feverishly for the past couple of weeks. Why he’d pulled strings to get Tom access at Qadima. Why he’d been able to arrange in a matter of minutes for Salah to come to Paris. Why he’d scratched his hands bloody creating the graffiti on the cell wall at the warehouse. It was personal.
Tom shifted on the leather seat so he could see Reuven’s reaction. “You think it was one of Ben Said’s suicide vests that killed Leah.”
If Tom had expected a visible epiphany, he didn’t get one. The Israeli’s face showed no reaction—not a quiver. No lump in throat. No sigh of angst. No deeply evocative moan. It was Reuven’s absolute silence that was so damned eloquent. All Tom heard were the ambient noises of the street and his own measured breathing.
After about a minute, Reuven shattered the vacuum. “If you display anything but steely resolve, you’ll lose control of the op, Tom. And you know as well as I do that control is everything, especially when you’re working false flag or through an access agent.”
The reason behind Reuven’s penchant for deflection, Tom understood, was that there were some doors, some compartments, some hidden emotional and operational caches that the practitioners of their particular trade refused to open for anyone—even the best of friends. Especially the best of friends. Tom nodded. “Gotcha, Reuven.”
“I hope so.” Reuven turned toward the American. “Now, when we grab Hamzi, you’ll get behind the wheel of this car. Don’t let anyone see your face—even with a prosthetic. Don’t say anything. Don’t freeze. And for God’s sake, don’t react.”
“React to what?”
“Remember.” Once again, the Israeli deflected Tom’s question. “Whatever happens, your job tonight is to get this car back to the warehouse. Full stop. My responsibilities lie with Hamzi and the barrels.” He looked at Tom. “Got it?”
“We’ll meet back at the warehouse, then.” Tom nodded. And although he was uncomfortable with the subtext of whatever Reuven’s operational decision with regard to Ben Said might turn out to be, he decided he could live with that part of it. “Got it, Reuven.”
9:04 P.M. The last load of olives disappeared belowground. Tom watched as the two steel doors were dropped and a heavy lock was run through the hasp that protruded at sidewalk level. One of the cargo loaders swung into the cab of the truck, started the ignition, eased into the deserted street, and drove off. Thirty seconds later, two of Hamzi’s employees came out the front door carrying eight-foot metal poles with handles on one end and hooks on the other. They reached up, snagged the outer edges of the corrugated steel security curtain, and yanked it downward.
From their vantage point eighty yards away, Tom and Reuven could hear the dissonant sound of metal on metal. As the Maghreb workers locked the curtain in place, Reuven retrieved a hands-free unit from the Audi’s console. He stuck the plug into the top of his cell phone and screwed the foam earpiece into his right ear. The microphone rested against his clavicle.
9:17. Hamzi came through Boissons Maghreb’s front door. He was carrying two bottles of wine. He unlocked the Mercedes, laid the bottles on the front passenger seat, slammed the door, and locked the car again. Then he went back inside.
9:23. Hamzi appeared again. This time he was wearing his overcoat. He wore it cape-style, thrown over his shoulders collar up, in the affected European fashion. Hamzi went to the rear of his car. He hit his remote. The running lights flashed three times and the trunk popped open. The Moroccan reached in and adjusted something. Then he signaled the doorway. Two of his helpers appeared. Each was carrying a pair of two-foot-high blue plastic barrels. Hamzi took them one at a time and placed them in the Mercedes’ trunk. He reached down, produced a long bungee cord, and secured the barrels together to prevent them from tipping over. He stared for an instant, and then, satisfied with his work, slammed the trunk door closed.
Reuven pressed the transmit button on his cell phone. There were about five seconds of silence, and then he said in Arabic, “Go shopping.”
36
9:24 P . M .
RUE DU CONGO
HAMZI TURNED AND, GESTICULATING, obviously gave instructions to his people. Then he climbed into the car and turned the ignition switch.
Showtime. Reuven allowed the Mercedes to drive off. Tom reacted, but the Israeli said, “Not to worry, boychik, he’s covered. We let the work get done, then we do our jobs.”
9:27. Reuven retrieved a pair of thin leather driving gloves from the console and pulled them on.
Then he turned the ignition key and put the car in gear, accelerating smoothly onto rue du Congo then immediately swinging left, to head north on a narrow one-way street.
Reuven steered with his left hand, his right index finger pressing against the cell-phone earpiece, his expression one of intense concentration. “Gotcha,” he said. “On my way.”
There was a blinking traffic light ahead. Reuven ran it then immediately swung right, onto the quai that ran parallel to the Canal de l’Orecq. Tom looked over at the Israeli, his face a mask of concern. “Jeezus—what about Hamzi’s cell phone?”
“The intercept vehicles have frequency jammers.” Reuven floored the big sedan, flattening Tom against the passenger seat. “Hold on.”
“They have what?” Algerian gangbangers didn’t have access to frequency jammers.
Reuven ignored Tom’s question. He accelerated past one of the canal locks then drifted left, onto a narrow bridge that spanned the canal. Tom took a quick glance as Reuven sped north, then west. Jeezus H. Keerist, they were less than half a block from the Pantin Garde Nationale barracks.
Tires squealing, Reuven four-wheel-drifted around a corner. He sped east until he reached the chain-link perimeter fence that marked the big commuter rail storage and maintenance facility. He turned south, then east again, finally threading the needle past a set of steel-and-concrete barriers into a narrow, dark street that looked as if it had been flattened by bombs. Reuven looked at Tom. “Everything demolished,” he said disparagingly, “to make way for a branch of IKEA. Progress, eh?”
