“Good, then, I’ll knock on his door, ask him where.”
“Try this instead.” And Shafer explained.
“Not bad,” Wells said when Shafer was done.
“You’re not arguing?”
“It’s better than nothing. Under the circumstances. So I’ll need money. And man’s best friend.”
“The kind that’s shiny and black and pokes holes in things?”
Wells waited, but Shafer seemed to want an answer. “Is there any other kind?”
“How many inches we talking, then? Eight? Ten?” Shafer chuckled at his own joke. “I knew you were in that prison too long.”
The man was seventy going on thirteen. “Can you set it up? Without involving the station?” The seventh floor would know if Shafer used any CIA officers here. Wells preferred to have the mole believe that he was still in Bulgaria.
“I think so. Our friends and neighbors.”
Wells assumed Shafer meant the State Department. Though he might have meant the British again. No matter. Wells would find out when the pistol and the cash arrived.
“Give me the hotel, the room number, I’ll get you what you need. May take a few hours, it being Saturday and all.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Even do a little research while you wait. Make sure this guy actually exists.”
“Hadn’t thought of that.”
—
WELLS HAD neither laptop nor smartphone, but the hotel did have a free computer in its lobby. Wells typed in vintage sneakers banlieue, hesitated, finally clicked Recherché Google. He hoped he wouldn’t wind up scrolling through a hundred pages, feeling like a greater fool with each one.
The very first listing was SuperSneaks Sevran. The store’s website featured pictures of dozens of shoes, prices listed in euros, dollars, and pounds. The most expensive were photographed in 3-D. A click rotated them from heel to toe. Email for special sizes! Many available! Climate-controlled storage! a banner announced in English.
The search also revealed stories in French and English about SuperSneaks. The store’s unfortunate name belied its Europe-wide reputation for selling hard-to-find vintage shoes at fair prices. Its owner was Raouf Bourgua, a first-generation immigrant in his early fifties who had come to France almost thirty years before. The photos attached to the articles showed a man who fell just short of handsome and who liked immaculate sneakers accented with brightly colored socks.
“This year, Bourgua expects about one million euros in annual sales, mostly through his website,” the Times of London had reported a few months before. The profiles unsubtly presented Bourgua as a good Arab, a not-too-religious man who had built a profitable, culturally relevant business. One mentioned that he had three children, a boy named Alaa, and two girls, Juliette and Stella. When he saw the third name, Wells felt a surge in his blood, a cold high real as a drug.
Stella. As in star. Like Najma.
Wells sent the article to Shafer, no comment necessary. Shafer would search every database for Bourgua and the store. Nobody was better at those deep dives. If Bourgua’s storage facility existed—and the reference to climate-controlled storage suggested it did—Shafer might well find it before Wells did.
Meanwhile, Wells read everything else he could. Bourgua showed no hint of radicalism. After the 2015 attacks in Paris, he hung a sign outside his store, Tous Nos Fils et Filles. All Our Sons and Daughters. “Some kids who died, I’m sure they were my customers, they wore my shoes,” he’d said when Time Out Paris asked about the sign. “I feel a special connection.”
A special connection. Wells imagined Bourgua smirking at his own cleverness.
According to its website, SuperSneaks closed at 6 p.m. on Saturdays, but it was open Sunday afternoons, a break. Wells would have no chance tonight, but he should tomorrow. Around 7 p.m., his phone buzzed, a text from an American number, 703 area code. How’s your diet?
The knock came two hours later. Wells opened the door, found two twenty-something men, one black, one white, both medium height, stocky, with brush-cut hair. Marine embassy guards. They might as well have worn uniforms. The black one carried a backpack. Their eyes held respect, with a little hostility. Whoever you are, you must be important, but we don’t appreciate being your errand boys. Especially on Saturday night.
“Word of the day?”
“Diet.” The password was a junior varsity move, but Wells understood.
The Marine handed over the backpack.
“Thank you.”
“Thank the ambassador.” He saluted and turned away.
Inside, Wells found ten thousand dollars in a neat brick of hundred-dollar bills. Ten thousand euros in various denominations. Under the money, the real prize, a 9-millimeter Sig Sauer. Plus two extra magazines and a concealed carry holster like the one that had saved his life in Hong Kong not so long ago. Wells shoved the extra mags and most of the money in the room safe, strapped on the holster, walked to the train station.
—
THE PLACE DE LA REPUBLIQUE was a broad, hectic, traffic-clogged square in eastern Paris, the heart of the city’s hippest neighborhoods. On those not-so-rare occasions when the students of Paris wanted to protest, they came here, to set up banners and barricades around the statue at the center of the square.
Wells saw no rallies this Saturday night, just a thousand teens and twenty-somethings hanging out, drinking and smoking. He realized as he walked around that making this pitch would be trickier than he’d imagined. His inability to speak French wouldn’t help. A creepy old American dude was even worse than a creepy old dude.
He saw a skinny white guy, maybe twenty-one, sitting alone on the bottom steps of the statue, a cigarette flaring between his lips. Wells sat beside him. The guy eyed him with distaste, scooted over.
“Hey, man. What’s going on?”
Without a word, the guy stood, walked off.
A couple of minutes later, Wells saw another potential mark, this one leaning against a lamp. He was older, maybe twenty-five, a Kronenbourg 1664 tallboy in his hand, two empties between his legs. Best of all, he wore expensive-looking yellow sneakers. Good. An aficionado.
He eyed Wells without much interest. “Nice night,” Wells said.
“You know it, bro.” In an exaggerated American accent.
“Cool shoes.”
As an answer, the guy chugged his Kronenbourg.
“Hey, can I ask a favor?”
“Got no more beers.” He let out a tremendous belch. “You can buy some over there.” He nodded across the avenue.
“It’s not that. And you can make some money.”
“Sorry, bro. Don’t play that way—”
“No, no—”
This guy muttered in French to two other guys a few meters off. They stared at Wells. He shook his head, backed off, left the square for the Boulevard du Temple. Where he called Shafer.
“Anything?”
“Your friend looks clean,” Shafer said. “The store, too. And I don’t have the warehouse, so that’s on you. How goes the recruiting?”
“It’s not going to work, your idea. These kids won’t let me get to first base.”
“Bad analogy.”
“It’s no joke, Ellis. It’s not like I can order them—” Suddenly Wells had the answer. “Call the embassy.”
“Now? It’s almost midnight over there.”
Wells waited in silence for Shafer to think about everything Wells had given already for this mission.
“Fine. And?”
“Tell them to send the coolest Marine they have to Café Canaille. On Boulevard du Temple. Now.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
“Tell them to make sure he doesn’t dress like a Marine.”
—
INSIDE THE CAFÉ, Wells ordered steak-frites and watched the k
ids around him drink and smoke and enjoy life. Ninety minutes passed before the black Marine who’d brought Wells the knapsack walked through the door. He wore a black T-shirt, black pants, and a black Yankees cap. He didn’t look like a Marine anymore. Wells watched girls’ heads swivel as he passed. He’d do fine.
He sat across the table from Wells. “Don’t know who you are, sir. But you have juice by the gallon.” His voice was low, with a hint of a Texas accent.
“What’s your name?”
“Winston Coyle.”
“Rank?”
“Staff sergeant.”
“Are you, in fact, the coolest Marine in Paris?”
For the first time, Coyle smiled. “Sir. I’m the coolest Marine east of Oceanside.”
“Glad to hear it. I have a simple job for you, Sergeant Coyle. You’re going to buy some shoes.”
Now that Wells had found a buyer, the play was simple enough. Coyle would show up at SuperSneaks the next day with the money he’d brought Wells. He’d demand every pair of Air Jordans that Raouf Bourgua had in his inventory. A cash deal, now or never. Maybe Coyle would ask for a little discount for buying in bulk, but Wells told him not to push.
“I have to warn you, I don’t speak French, sir. Only Spanish.”
“You’re American. He won’t expect you to. He probably won’t ask why you want them. If he does, just tell him you have buddies at home who are into Jordans.”
“My homies. Hanging on the corner.”
“Don’t push it.”
“Don’t suppose you want to tell me the point?”
The point was to convince Bourgua to send someone to his warehouse to pick up the inventory. Wells would track the deliveryman. Maybe he’d follow the guy inside, maybe he’d come back later. If he could find even a single weapon inside, he’d have the proof he needed.
“I want to see where he keeps his extra shoes.”
“You can’t just ask him.”
“It’s for a good cause.”
“Isn’t it always?”
“I wouldn’t know, Sergeant.” The rank to remind Coyle that Wells was ordering, not asking.
“Yessir.”
“Be at the hotel at eleven a.m. And it goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway, keep this to yourself.”
“Better get my beauty sleep.”
Coyle walked out. No salute. He’d make a good operative, Wells thought. He’d listened carefully, asked only one unnecessary question. He hadn’t pushed Wells for personal information. Maybe when all this was done, Wells should try to steer him to Langley.
First things first.
—
THE TABLES around Wells cleared out. Paris was not a truly twenty-four-hour city. The Métro shut not long after midnight. Few restaurants stayed open all night. Wells paid and left to find the Boulevard du Temple was notably quieter than it had been when he entered. Perfect.
He walked south two blocks, turned left on Rue Commines. Like so many streets in Paris, it was narrow, one-way, hemmed in by solid five- and six-story apartment buildings with Juliet balconies and lushly planted flower boxes. The storefronts, closed now, mixed hip boutiques and tiny restaurants. Even Wells, hardly the world’s greatest romantic, could see the city’s appeal. A block ahead, a man and woman strolled side by side, their heads close, tittering to each other in French.
He walked slowly until the lovers turned right two blocks ahead and he had the street to himself.
He didn’t know how long he would have to wait. But his luck held. Not five minutes later, he heard the low rumble of a motorcycle engine echoing behind him. Wells stepped to the curb, looked. Small, maybe 250 ccs, but a real motorcycle, not a moped. It moved slowly down Rue Commines, weaving a bit. The rider was probably drunk. And alone. Perfect.
Wells stepped into the street, waved both hands. He was ready to jump aside if the bike didn’t stop. But it did. An old Suzuki. The rider wore a cheap helmet, no face shield. He was in his early twenties, skinny. He said something in French.
“Sorry. I don’t understand.” Wells stepped closer, half staggering, making sure to put himself on the rider’s left side.
“English?”
“American. I’m sorry, I’m so lost, my hotel’s on the Left Bank, I got confused on the Métro—”
The rider smirked. “I know, Paris is so complicated for Americans.” So pleased with himself that he didn’t notice Wells closing on him, closing—
Without breaking stride, Wells brought his right arm into the guy’s left shoulder and chest, a shiver that sent the rider sprawling sideways over the seat. His legs kicked high as his helmet thumped pavement. Meanwhile, Wells grabbed the bike’s left handlebar, squeezed the clutch, holding the Suzuki upright and keeping it from stalling.
“Hey—” The kid sounded more shocked than afraid. Civilians almost always needed a few seconds to process violence that came out of nowhere, understand they were in trouble.
Wells pulled his new Sig. “Shht.” Not Shh—Shht. Like he was talking to a dog. “Take off your helmet, put it on the seat. Don’t stand up.”
The kid’s hands trembled, but he stayed quiet, did as Wells ordered. Wells reached into his pocket for a wad of bills, twenty-five hundred euros, more than the bike was worth. He riffed through the one-hundred-euro notes so the kid could see, tossed the stack on the pavement twenty feet up the road. “Yours. Do me a favor, don’t call the police.”
“Yes, okay, please.”
“Now, crawl to it. Don’t walk, crawl.”
The kid went to his hands and knees. Wells pulled on the helmet, mounted the bike, disappeared into the night. Behind him, the kid began to yell. No matter. The Paris police had bigger problems than motorcycle thieves.
As Wells rode through the Paris night, a grin sliced open his face. He should feel guilty for stealing the bike. Scaring a civilian. Maybe he could have found another way. But he was short on time. And the kid would drink free for a month telling the story.
Anyway, the criminal in Wells knew the truth. Sometimes taking was so much easier than asking.
24
PARIS
IN THE MONTHS after he took over the DGSE, Antoine Martin had made the mistake of believing his agency was winning the fight against the Islamic State.
Then came the terrible night in November 2015 when the jihadis blotted death across his hometown. The French called the attacks Bataclan, for the nightclub on Boulevard Voltaire where the worst carnage occurred. One hundred thirty gone, and even now the public didn’t appreciate its luck. At least two suicide bombers had blown only themselves up. Another had lost his nerve, tossed his belt. Daesh could have killed two or three times as many.
After Bataclan, the DGSE went to war. At Martin’s request, the French president ended restrictions on the agency’s surveillance. It now monitored every call, email, and text in France and used what it found without judicial oversight. Elsewhere, the DGSE relied on the NSA, which had turned out to be a more-than-willing partner. The quid pro quo, unstated but real, was that France would stop complaining about the NSA’s other surveillance, terrorism-related or not—and do its best to shut the rest of the European Union up, too.
The extra monitoring helped. So did the officers Martin moved to Belgium to aid that country’s troubled security services. The DGSE had cracked a dozen cells and imprisoned hundreds of jihadis and sympathizers, often on vague charges of “conspiracy to support terrorism.”
Still, Martin was certain more attacks were coming. Worse, the DGSE was picking up rumors of a secret Islamic State network called al-Zalam, Arabic that translated as The Dark. The agency’s sources claimed the cell included six to ten highly trained jihadis unknown to any Western spy service. Some of Martin’s analysts believed the threat was real. Others argued Daesh lacked the sophistication to keep such an important cell hidden and had invented al-Z
alam to increase the stress on France’s police and intelligence officers.
If that was the group’s goal, it had already succeeded.
The Père Lachaise Cemetery was not far from the DGSE’s headquarters, which occupied a small, heavily fortified compound in northeastern Paris. In early 2016, Martin had found himself visiting the burial ground over and over. Even in that city of corpses, the Bataclan gravesites were obvious. Candles and flowers overran them. Seashells, rocks, well-thumbed paperback novels. Stuffed animals, their fur wet and matted in the winter Paris rain. Pictures, too—pictures most of all. These were the tributes the young left one another, and the Bataclan victims were so young. Pretty girls and handsome boys out for a night of dancing and drinking. A little screwing, if they were lucky. The harmless, febrile pleasure vices of youth.
Every trip exhausted Martin. Finally, he made himself leave the dead to themselves. Mourning the last attack was less important than stopping the next.
He had always been dedicated to his job. Since Bataclan, he slept five hours a night, worked six days a week. Still, he did his best to keep his Sundays inviolate. One day to rest. Most weeks, his driver brought him to his family’s estate in the western suburbs. Maybe estate was too strong a word, but the house did have a tennis court of cracked red clay. Martin had learned to play there as a child, never lost his love for the game. Even in Iraq, he’d played. Tennis kept him sane in the Green Zone. But that trickster Time had worked its dark magic even before the DGSE grabbed his life. One by one, his sons learned to beat him. He couldn’t compete with Simon or Remi anymore. He feared that soon enough even Damien, his youngest, would refuse to give up his Sundays for these trips.
For now, Martin could drag Damien along. The beautiful teenage sisters who had moved in three houses down didn’t hurt either, he suspected.
So at 1 p.m. on this pleasant Sunday afternoon, he and Damien grabbed their rackets. With two bodyguards in tow, they made their way to Martin’s armored limousine and the chase car that he had accepted a month before as an unfortunate necessity.
—
TWENTY KILOMETERS northeast, Raouf Bourgua and Soufiane Kassani watched the black American put the last bundle of shoe boxes into the trunk of his waiting Uber. Bourgua offered a friendly wave as the Peugeot rolled off.
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