THE CHASE CAR’S driver found his pistol and fired one, two, three wild shots up the Champs. The men and women who were watching from the sidewalks turned and ran.
—
A HUNDRED fifty meters down the hill, a Honda CB650F began to accelerate.
—
THE ROUNDS came through the Nissan’s windshield. The driver ducked. He saw the problem. The crash had mangled the plastic teeth that locked the detonator’s shield in place. Pressing harder wasn’t the answer. He needed to angle it. And he did. It popped free.
He flipped it up to expose the button and, without hesitation, thumbed it down.
—
IN A FRACTION of a second, three hundred twenty kilos of RDX exploded, creating an overpressure wave, a man-made tornado, tiny but massively powerful. The men in the Nissan vaporized. When flesh becomes air. The vehicle itself didn’t do much better, though bits of its engine block survived.
—
MARTIN’S LIMOUSINE was big and heavy, more than three tons of steel and reinforced glass, built to take bullets and grenades. But three hundred twenty kilos of RDX was enough explosive to flatten a house. On this Sunday morning on the Champs, the carnage was enormous. Seven vehicles around the Pulsar were destroyed. A tourist bus one lane over flipped on its side and caught fire. Shrapnel and blown windows killed four people on the sidewalks and grievously wounded fifty-three more.
Closer to the hatchback, the explosion pulverized the limousine’s windshield, sending a million glass daggers at Martin’s driver and bodyguard, killing them instantly. Fragments from the Pulsar’s engine shredded the second bodyguard. The pressure wave picked up the limousine and flipped it over, neatly, exactly on top of Martin’s chase car. Roof on roof, an accident of physics. It crushed the Renault. It would have killed the driver, too, but he was already dead.
Inside the limousine? When the blast came, Damien and Martin were on the floor of the passenger compartment. The worst of the explosion traveled over them. And the limo’s steel skeleton remained intact, testament to the skill of the welders who had reinforced it. Son and father survived, Damien with a fractured skull, Martin with a punctured lung, both with a dozen broken bones, their blood mixing from a thousand cuts.
Martin opened his eyes first, felt rather than saw his son.
“Damien.” Martin couldn’t do more than murmur. Each breath set his chest on fire. He forced himself to stay calm. He could save the boy.
Damien’s body was heavy against his father’s. When Martin pushed him, he didn’t push back. Deadweight. Martin slapped Damien’s face, hard, pinched the boy’s ear. In the darkness, Damien groaned. Good. He was alive.
Martin tried to orient himself. They were lying against the roof, which meant the limo had somehow flipped over, which meant the doors were upside down. Hard to open from the inside. Maybe the windows?
He reached for the windowsill, whimpering from the pain in his legs. He’d been hurt even more badly than he thought. Glass pebbles had sliced open his fingers, he couldn’t get himself out. He would have shrieked if he could have drawn breath, but he made himself try again, why wouldn’t someone help—
The door of the limousine wrenched open.
“My son,” Martin whispered.
Through the swirling smoke, he saw a mirrored visor peering at him. A hand reached inside and almost gently tossed a ball at Martin’s feet. The hand disappeared. The ball clanked against the limousine’s roof, metal on metal, and Martin knew. A grenade.
His last thought, not a prayer. For like so many French, he was a rationalist, an atheist. Even now, God didn’t come to him. Instead . . .
All those trips to Père Lachaise, I never guessed at the evil in this world.
25
SEVRAN
TWENTY minutes later. Wells hadn’t heard. He called Shafer from the hotel. “Found it. A kilometer from the store. 279 Allée Richelieu. Concrete building, freestanding on a narrow lot, security grates on the windows, razor wire fence, and an alarm.”
“Lot of security for sneakers.”
“Even cool ones. No sign, nothing that identifies it.”
“I’ll see what I can find. I assume you’re hitting it tonight.”
“If I can beat the alarm.”
“You care because . . . ?”
“Didn’t I just get out of prison?”
“I doubt the French police scramble for Sevran burglaries. Plus, if your friend has anything funky in there, he probably has the alarm company call only him so he can see what’s going on for himself before he brings in the cops.”
“Hope so. If he comes a-calling, we’ll have a nice late-night chat.”
Shafer paused. “Hold on—”
Even from four thousand miles away, Wells heard the sudden tension in Shafer’s voice. “What’s up?”
“You near a TV? Turn it on.”
—
THE FIFTEEN-SECOND delay after the accident and before the bomb went off gave witnesses plenty of time to pull out their phones. Now CNN was cutting between live shots of the Champs, where firefighters were hosing down smoldering cars, and video of the moments before the blast. Off-camera gunshots and a siren were audible before the bomb blew.
Beneath the images, the crawl: MASSIVE EXPLOSION HITS CHAMPS-ÉLYSÉES IN HEART OF PARIS . . . “NUMEROUS” CASUALTIES, POLICE SAY . . . NO CLAIM OF RESPONSIBILITY YET, BUT TERROR ATTACK SUSPECTED . . .
Another video, shot from a couple of hundred feet down the avenue, captured the aftermath. Smoke obscured what was left of the limousine, but not enough to hide the motorcyclist who tossed a grenade through its back door. The image erased any doubt that the attackers had targeted the limo.
“Gotta be gov,” Shafer said.
“What?”
“The limo. French government. It’s a Renault. Who with a choice picks a Renault limo?”
“I get it.” Wells wondered who was inside. A person important enough to merit a chase car. And a bomb that left a ten-foot-deep crater in the Champs-Élysées’s asphalt. But not a motorcade or closed streets. So not the President or Prime Minister. Even a senior cabinet member, like the Minister of Defense or Justice, would have had more protection. Maybe a judge who oversaw terrorism trials. A central banker. The mayor of Paris.
The CNN crawl changed: BREAKING: FRANCE DECLARES HEIGHTENED STATE OF EMERGENCY NATIONWIDE . . . EXPLOSION ON CHAMPS-ÉLYSÉES WAS “CERTAINLY” TERRORIST ATTACK, MINISTER OF INTERIOR SAYS . . . PRESIDENT TO SPEAK LATER TODAY . . . FRANCE: STATE OF EMERGENCY TO INCLUDE RANDOM SEARCHES, BORDER CHECKS . . . PARIS AIRPORTS TO REMAIN OPEN BUT MAJOR DELAYS EXPECTED . . .
“That was quick.”
“I think they already know who got hit,” Shafer said. “And that it’s bad. They’ll have to tell us soon. They’re not going to be able to hide much. Too big, too many witnesses.”
And bodies. “I’m going to Sevran. Trace the route I’m using tonight.” Wells had another stop, though he was keeping it to himself. He feared Shafer would tell him not to go.
“I’ll be at Langley. See what Paris Station has for us.”
“One more thing. Get me Bourgua’s birthday and his kids’. And wedding anniversary.”
“For the alarm? Now you’re thinking.”
“You couldn’t be more condescending if you tried, Ellis.”
“Believe me. I could.”
—
AN EERIE CALM had settled on the banlieue. Ninety minutes before, when Wells tailed the guy from SuperSneaks to the storage depot, he’d passed a park where shirtless teenagers lazily played soccer and old men hunched over chessboards. Now the park was empty. So were the streets. Many of these people had lived under authoritarian Arab governments. They knew soon enough the police would come, angry, looking for revenge and broken bones.
Wells rode his stolen Suzuki past the depot. The garage
was south of Sevran’s downtown, in a mixed residential-industrial neighborhood. A plumbing wholesaler occupied the building to the north. An electrical supply store lay to the south. Both were closed on this Sunday. Trees and a concrete wall shielded the apartment complex behind them.
Coils of razor wire laced the fence around the garage. But Wells could handle those easily enough. France had its own version of Home Depot, a chain of home improvement stores called Leroy Merlin. The nearest outlet was in Gonesse, a suburb five miles west. Wells would pick up a flashlight, a canvas bag, garden shears, gloves, a claw hammer, rope . . . everything a good burglar needed. Everything but a pistol, and he already had one of those. No doubt the checkout clerk would smirk when he laid out his purchases. Smirk and take his money.
The alarm was still a problem. The agency had devices that could neutralize standard commercial alarms, but Wells couldn’t ask the Paris Station for help. And Sevran would have far more cops than usual tonight. On the other hand, they would have their own priorities, probably focused on the cités around the train station.
Wells put the bike into gear and wended through the neighborhood around the garage, memorizing the street grid. It was simple enough. A big surface road called the N370 lay one block west. In turn, the N370 connected to the N2, a divided arterial that ran south of the airport. Left, right, right, left, and Wells could be at his hotel in twenty minutes.
For now, he had another destination.
He rode through Sevran’s empty streets until he reached SuperSneaks. In the banlieue’s drab downtown, the store stood out. Hundreds of old sneakers jutted from its exterior walls, in every color and size, from gray running shoes to bright green high-tops.
Wells expected SuperSneaks would still be open, a subtle rebellion against the approaching cops. It was. He left the bike in front, walked inside. He wanted to see the Puma for himself.
The walls were covered with posters of indie bands and rappers. Someone had added thought bubbles over their heads: J’aime Chuck! Adidas Pour Toujours! The most expensive sneakers were displayed under glass serving dishes, as though they were truly precious objects. A pristine pair of what Wells assumed were first-generation Air Jordans sat in a cage, rotating slowly. No wonder the French hadn’t bothered to look at the man who owned this store. They might suspect an imam or a lawyer, no matter how many times he mouthed the proper platitudes. But they had mistaken hip, sly Raouf Bourgua for one of them.
Televisions hung from the store’s four corners. Wells guessed that they usually played music videos, old movies, maybe NBA highlights. This afternoon they were tuned to France 1, broadcasting live from the Champs. Two men stood looking up at the television in the back right corner. Wells had followed the first, a small, thirtyish Arab with oddly gray skin, on the run to the storage shed. The second man was older, and both less and more familiar. Wells had never met him before, but he had seen a dozen photos.
Raouf Bourgua.
Now he turned, smiled at Wells. “Bonjour.”
“As-salaam alaikum.”
“Alaikum salaam.” Bourgua switched to Arabic. “You prefer Arabic?”
“I don’t speak French.”
“I wasn’t sure.”
“It’s all right. Nobody knows what to make of me.” Wells immediately sensed Bourgua’s vitality, his self-assurance. He had the easy charm of a politician. His face was smooth, his hair black, his eyes deep-set, slightly hooded. Underneath the charm Wells sensed a watchfulness, calm and dark. A summer lake at midnight, a nest of water moccasins lurking three steps from shore.
Wells nodded at the television. “What’s happened?”
“You didn’t hear?”
Wells held up his helmet. “No radio on the bike.”
“A terrorist attack. On the Champs-Élysées. They say a car bomb.”
“That’s”—Wells paused—“too bad.” A flipness in his voice suggesting the opposite.
“Dozens dead, they say. Maybe more than fifty. The Right Bank hospitals are filled.”
Did Wells hear a touch of triumph? “They’ll blame us. Like they always do.”
“Us?”
“All of us.”
Bourgua gave Wells his full attention. “Not French. Where are you from?”
“Canada.”
“You don’t know these people. Believe me, they’ll make it miserable up here. They love to remind us who we are.”
Not exactly what Bourgua had told Time Out Paris after Bataclan.
“Maybe this time it’ll be different,” Wells said. “Maybe Allah wants all of us to live through a little misery. To wake up.”
“Don’t worry about that,” the second man said.
Bourgua’s head snapped from Wells to the man with gray skin, and Wells knew he’d heard something he shouldn’t have. Don’t worry about that. Why?
Because another attack was coming. And soon.
“I try not to argue with my customers, but I don’t think Allah wishes misery for anyone, Soufiane,” Bourgua said primly. Stuffing the genie back in the bottle.
“Even the kaffirs?” Wells said.
Bourgua gave Wells a shopkeeper’s smile, deferential and false. “Even them. Looking for anything in particular, habibi?”
Wells wished he could stay longer, see if Bourgua’s buddy Soufiane dropped more hints. Maybe Wells should mention Pumas were his favorite brand. Just to see. But he’d pushed his luck already. Time to go. “I wish, but this place is too cool for me.”
“You change your mind, we’re here.”
Beside Bourgua, Soufiane gave a tiny grunt. Hardly audible. The laugh of an inside man at an inside joke. Because you won’t be here very long, Soufiane? That what I’m hearing? Or did you have a piece of air caught in your throat?
—
WELLS WAS in Gonesse, putting a pair of shears into a shopping cart, when his phone buzzed. Shafer.
“Antoine Martin was in the limo.”
“Who?”
“DGSE director. His son, too. Get ready for an avalanche. They’re already talking about bringing in the army. You want to hit that garage, better be tonight.”
“Avalanche sounds right. Any leads?”
“Doesn’t sound good. They’ve asked the NSA for everything, but so far we’re coming up blank.”
“Can’t believe he only had one chase car,” Wells said.
“Guess he didn’t think they knew where he lived. Stupid, but it’s a very common name.”
“You think our guy gave them Martin’s address?” Anyone on the seventh floor could have figured out where Martin lived easily enough.
“Great minds think alike.”
“His last play.”
“Looks like it. I asked the NSA to put a trace on Bourgua. Nothing so far. Anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”
But Wells knew nothing was likely to come up. Bourgua was too canny to use phones or email at this stage. They needed real surveillance, bugs in the house and store, a dozen men to track the Puma’s comings and goings. The French no doubt had a hundred or more high-end targets and the manpower to watch ten at most. No way would they kick Bourgua to the top of the list based on what Wells had found.
“You run the garage address?”
“Yeah. Nothing. I have the birthdays, too. I’ll text you.”
“I went to Sevran, Ellis. I saw him.”
“Dumb.”
“Maybe. But a guy was with him, the one who picked up the shoes, and he said something. No details, but I’m pretty sure more’s coming. And soon.”
—
AS WELLS rode back to the hotel, a bag of gear in his lap and another strapped to the back of the bike, he saw a convoy of high-sided Renault police vans speeding south. Toward Sevran and the other banlieues. Minutes later, three black sedans, emergency blue lights flashing from their grilles. DGSI o
r DGSE. The vanguards of the approaching army.
Chasing what? Wells didn’t think they knew. Not yet. For now, this was a show of force. But little in life was as pointless as a show of force without a target. A hurricane in the middle of the ocean.
Though the police would have targets soon. Clues, at least. No matter how carefully the attackers had covered their tracks, Paris was a modern city. Modern cities had cameras everywhere. The investigators would start by identifying the license plates of the car and the motorcycle used in the attack. Their owners would face very unpleasant questions. If car and bike had been stolen, the police would focus on the thefts. The bombers themselves, or what was left of them, might be another clue. Forensic technicians would have the gruesome job of scraping DNA from the bits of the bomb for genetic matching.
The investigators would figure the killers had tracked the limousine from Martin’s apartment. They’d scour cameras, looking for anyone watching the building. They’d go another step back, try to figure out how the attackers had found Martin’s address. They’d scrutinize his friends, the admins at the DGSE, his household help. Though probably not senior officers at Langley.
Most of all, the investigators would offer every Muslim in France a lifetime get-out-of-jail-free card for help catching the attackers. Forensic evidence grabbed headlines and the television shows, but in the real world informants broke most cases.
The French would move as fast as they could. They knew the Islamic State preferred to attack in bunches for maximum psychological impact. But if Wells and Shafer were right and the Puma was behind the attack, the French were in trouble. The DGSE didn’t even know the guy existed. Only an informant could help them in time to matter, and why would the Puma’s men crack? They’d just pulled off the most important terrorist attack since September 11. They had proven they could strike anytime, anywhere. If the head of the DGSE wasn’t safe in an armored limousine on the Champs-Élysées, no one was.
Whatever they were planning next had to be even bigger. The jihadis sold terror, their only product. Like all smart marketers, they saved the best for last.
—
BACK AT THE HOTEL, Wells split his time between watching the news and imagining how he’d attack the garage. The French President announced the death of Martin and his son in a grim speech around 7 p.m. “Antoine Martin served with distinction and pride. We will honor his memory by finding the men who killed him and bringing them to justice. Meanwhile, I call for the citizens of the Republic to remain vigilant and strong.” Exactly what kind of justice the French planned, and whether they had suspects, were questions that would have to wait. The President took no questions.
The Prisoner Page 33
