The train came with a roar of air, its brakes squealing above a woman’s high-pitched scream as the front car smashed into the Iranian, flinging the body forward onto the track like a rag doll before rolling over it.
He stood in the shadow of a doorway across the street from her building. She had said “third floor,” which in France means the fourth floor as Americans count. Her building was brick with wrought-iron window balconies with flower pots, and at the end of the street a stone arch led to the Canal St. Martin. He could smell the water from here.
There was a light in the window of what had to be her apartment. She was waiting for him and he wanted to go up, but he knew this was as close as he was going to get, and that he would remember standing in the street looking up at her window for a long time. He called her on his cell.
“Allo,” she answered. And in English: “Is it you?”
He didn’t answer. Just hearing her voice, knowing he was as close as he would ever get, was like nothing he had ever felt before.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Across the street.”
“Come up, je t’en prie,” she whispered. Please. “We have to talk.”
“I can’t. Did you hear?”
“The death in the Metro? It was on the tele. Was it you?”
He didn’t answer. He could hear her breathing over the phone.
“Witnesses in the Metro said he was going to shoot,” she said. “You had no choice. I hate this.”
“So do I,” he said.
“What are you going to do?”
“You need to leave Paris now. Tonight,” he said.
“I could go back to-”
“Don’t say it! Don’t tell me where. Don’t tell anyone. Your phone could be bugged. Just call a taxi and go, now.”
“And you?” she said.
“I’m going too. I won’t be able to contact you, and don’t try to reach me. When it’s over, if I’m still alive, I’ll find you.” With a pang, he remembered those were the same words he had used with the boy, Ghedi. “You’ll probably be married with three children.”
“I wish,” she said. Then softly, “No, I don’t.”
“If you never want anything to do with me again, I’ll understand. It’ll probably be the smartest thing you’ve ever done.”
“Who said I was smart?”
“I’m so sorry about this.”
“You’re sorry. Is that the best you can do?”
“I don’t regret a damn thing,” he said, and clicked off.
He stood in the shadow of the doorway and waited. He wanted to be sure no one would follow her when she left. A cool breeze came from the canal, and he stepped farther into the doorway, out of the wind. Looking up at the lit window, he saw her shadow moving on the curtains. He hoped to God she was packing. His eyes scanned the street again. There were no watchers at either end or on any of the roofs.
Finally, a taxi pulled up outside her building and its interior light came on. He tensed watching the driver make a call on his cell phone. The light went out in Sandrine’s apartment. A minute later she came out of the building, pulling a rolling suitcase behind her. The taxi driver put the suitcase into the trunk and then they were gone.
The street was empty. Checking his iPhone, Scorpion located a youth hostel near the Gare du Nord that catered to backpackers and college students. He walked on the quai next to the canal, where it was virtually impossible for anyone to follow without him spotting them.
Turning up a side street, he walked for blocks past shuttered shops, his footsteps echoing in the deserted street. He had never felt so alone, and all he could think about was Sandrine. How he had upended her life and how quickly she understood what she had to do, even if she didn’t understand what was really going on. There’s steel in her, he thought. A lot more going on there than just a doctor with a pretty face.
There was traffic on rue du Faubourg St.-Martin. He stepped into the lobby of a cheap hotel and had a sleepy concierge call a taxi that dropped him off at the Gare du Nord train station. Waiting till the taxi left, he walked through the terminal, doubling back to make sure he was completely clean, then walked to the youth hostel.
He spent a restless night in a bunk bed. In the morning, by offering to chip in for gas, he was able to crowd into a beat-up Ford Mondeo, joining up with three young male European backpackers and a college girl from Ohio. They were headed south on the A6 to Grenoble, where all of them except the girl were enrolled at the university.
He went as far as Lyon with them, waving goodbye to the backpackers, and found an Internet cafe in Old Lyon, a few blocks from the Rhone River. There was only one person he trusted enough to contact, he thought grimly, hoping Shaefer was still in Europe. He sent an e-mail to Shaefer’s dummy Gmail account and then used the NSA software on a plug-in drive to delete any trace that he had been on the computer or where the message was coming from, including the deleted items file and the temporary Internet files. It only took four words, but it would reach Bob Harris, whom he and Shaefer had nicknamed among themselves “Turd Face,” or “tf.” tell tf im in
CHAPTER SIX
Zug,
Switzerland
It was raining when Scorpion stepped off the double-decker S-Bahn from Zurich. Even before he walked out of the train station in Zug, he spotted the surveillance.
It was a classic six-box shadow detail: two fore, two aft, two bracketing on either side in the center. The center pair-a man with a buzz cut wearing a Burberry trench coat, and a pert blond woman in a sweater and a North Face jacket who looked like a teenager-didn’t even bother to pretend they weren’t watching him.
Scorpion stood under an umbrella in the Bahnhofplatz in the rain and motioned to the Burberry to come over. At first the man pretended not to see him. When Scorpion persisted, the man threw a glance at the pert blond and came over. He was a big, bulky in his trench coat, a hand in his pocket.
“This is stupid,” Scorpion said. “Let’s go see Harris.”
A minute later he was in the back of a Mercedes sedan sandwiched between the Burberry and a man in a soccer hoodie. The pert blond climbed into the front passenger seat and turned, flashing perfect teeth and a 9mm Beretta at him. Scorpion handed both his Glocks-the 9mm from the small-of-the-back holster and the small Glock 28 from his ankle holster-to the hoodie. He kept the ceramic scalpel and polymer lock pick-nonmetallic to avoid metal detectors-taped with flesh-colored tape to the sole of his foot.
They drove through quaint alpine streets to the Upper Town and up a winding road toward the green hills. Less than a half hour south of Zurich, Zug looked like what it was: a picturesque backwater. Except for the fact that rented boxes in its local post office served as headquarters for more than thirty thousand international corporations and that most of the world’s commodities were traded in offices overlooking picturesque Lake Zug, which made it possibly the richest town in the world.
The Mercedes turned off onto a private road lined with trees and hedges. Scorpion caught a reflection from a scope that someone should have kept covered, spotting a guard in camouflage gear with an M4 rifle hiding in the bushes. There were security cameras and sensors in a 360-pattern around acres of green field and in trees along the road to the safe house, an ultramodern structure of glass and concrete that somebody with money to burn had spent millions on. It stood on its own at the end of a long driveway. A feature he knew he wouldn’t find in Architectural Digest was the silhouette of a sniper’s shoulders and head on the building roof.
Bob Harris was waiting with Shaefer in the living room on the second floor, with its panoramic wall of floor-to-ceiling glass providing a breathtaking view of the town, the blue lake below, and the snow-covered mountains. Shaefer, a lanky African-American, was sitting on a sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Scorpion and Shaefer had been in Delta Force together, the only two survivors of an ambush by the Taliban at Forward Operating Base Echo in the Chaprai Valley in North Waziristan, a
n area in Pakistan where officially American troops didn’t exist, and it defined a bond between them.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have sent Soames to Nairobi,” Harris began. For a change, he wore glasses and wasn’t in a suit. In his preppy khakis and cashmere sweater, he could have been an aging postgraduate lecturer posing for a Tommy Hilfiger ad.
“Soames is just a prick. It’s you I can’t stand,” Scorpion said.
Shaefer, his old friend, shook his head, grinning. Same old Scorpion.
“Soames is useful,” Harris said. “Every executive needs someone everyone can hate, so they don’t hate him. Coffee?” he asked, indicating a silver coffee service and several plates of Swiss cookies, a Linzer torte, and what looked like a Black Forest cake on a side table.
“And what’s with all the firepower? Who are you expecting? The Chinese army?” Scorpion said, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“We’re talking about people who took out a secure facility manned by specially trained United States Marines. Some presence is warranted,” Harris said, stirring sugar into a cup. “Tell me about Hamburg.”
“Harandi went back to his apartment. Warned him not to.”
“Did you see who did it? The motorcyclist?” Harris said, sitting in an armchair facing the view.
“Yes.”
“Could you spot him again?”
“Not likely. I killed him in Paris.”
Shaefer snorted a laugh. Harris looked at Scorpion sharply as the young blond woman with the teeth and the Beretta came in and began working a big-screen laptop computer set up on a dining room table.
“That was you?” Harris said, and when Scorpion didn’t answer: “When were you going to tell us?”
“I just did.”
“Pity you couldn’t have kept him alive for us to question,” tapping his finger impatiently on the coffee cup. “That might have been the ball game.”
“At the time the only life I was interested in saving was mine.”
At that, the young woman glanced back over her shoulder, smiling with her perfect teeth like he was the Black Forest cake, then went back to her work.
“So they spotted you in Paris? How?”
Scorpion shrugged. “You tell me. That’s one of the reasons I contacted you. Probably someone with the Kilbane ID photo covering De Gaulle. Or a bent gendarme at Passport Control.”
“We’ll follow up with the Swimming Pool,” Harris said, referring to the DGSE, the French foreign intelligence service, so-called because their headquarters was located in Paris next to the French Swimming Federation.
“Because they’ve always been so forthcoming in the past,” Shaefer growled. He turned to Scorpion. “Did Harandi say anything before he died? Anything on the Iranians?”
“Wait,” Harris held up his hand. “Let’s get Rabinowich in on this.” He looked at the young woman. “Are we ready, Chrissie?” And back to Scorpion: “It’s some kind of Skype, only on JWICS,” which he pronounced JAYwicks. Scorpion understood. Whereas most U.S. federal agencies, the State Department, and the Department of Defense used both the government’s SIPRNET-for classified communications up to the Secret level-or the unclassified NIPRNET network to communicate, the CIA Clandestine Service and NSA used JWICS-Joint Worldwide Intelligence Communications System-the only network designed for highly secure encrypted Top Secret communications on up to the SCI/SAP-Special Compartmented Information or Special Access Program-level, the highest secrecy level in the U.S. government.
They got up and gathered around the big laptop on the dining room table. Dave Rabinowich was already on the screen, picking his nose as the others gathered around.
“Can you see us, Dave?” Harris asked. And to the young woman: “Thanks, Chrissie.”
They waited while she left and there were just the three of them in the room.
“Nice girl,” Shaefer said.
“She’s got a gun,” Scorpion said.
“My kind of girl.” Shaefer grinned. And to Rabinowich: “You can stop excavating your nose, Dave. It’s kind of killing my appetite.”
“Actually, the cilia, not the hairs, in your nose help create appetite through the sense of smell. Did you know they continue to beat after death? Their postmortem motility rate actually gives a more accurate reading of time of death than body temperature,” Rabinowich said, his face nearly filling the screen. With his close-set eyes behind glasses and bushy eyebrows slanting out at an up angle, he looked like a cartoon of a pudgy Horned Owl.
“Thanks, Dave. I think we’ve reached our Asperger quota for the day,” Harris interrupted. “Scorpion was about to tell us about Harandi in Hamburg.” He looked at Scorpion. “What about the Iranians?”
“Nothing. Harandi didn’t think it was the MOIS or Hezbollah. Said he would have heard if it was.”
“Christ,” Harris growled, frustration in his voice. “Was he saying it definitely wasn’t the Iranians?”
Scorpion understood his frustration. Things were in motion. While waiting in Zurich’s Hauptbahnhof Central Train Station, he had surfed the latest news from cnn.com on his cell phone.
The Americans had tightened security at their embassies around the world. Other Western nations, such as Britain, France, and Germany, were following suit. A news blackout had been imposed in Washington, and the White House, Department of State, and the Pentagon stated there would be no further announcements or press briefings until U.S. and “allied” intelligence sources had identified the Bern attackers, although it was widely speculated that al Qaeda had been behind the attack. The Pentagon did, however, acknowledge that the U.S. military had gone to DEFCON 3 status.
“That’s not what I said,” Scorpion said. “What about al Qaeda?”
No one said anything, but Rabinowich sat there shaking his head back and forth like a swivel-head doll.
“It’s not al Qaeda,” Rabinowich said. The fact that neither Harris nor Shaefer disagreed with him meant that as far as the CIA was concerned, they weren’t following that thread.
“How can you be so sure?”
“COMINT levels have shown zip. We’ve been monitoring nonstop. If someone even farts in Rawalpindi we’d have picked up something. It’s not them.”
“What else did Harandi say?” Harris said to Scorpion. “This thing about a snake?”
“The saw-scaled viper. It’s the most poisonous snake in the Middle East.”
“Nice,” Shaefer said, and to Rabinowich: “Have we heard anything, Dave?”
“Absolutely nothing. Zero. Bit of an outlier,” Rabinowich said.
“What about this ayatollah? What’s his name?” Harris demanded, turning to Shaefer and Scorpion.
“Ayatollah Ali Nihbakhti. From Qom,” Shaefer said, glancing at Scorpion as if to confirm he had it right.
“What do we know about him?” Harris asked.
“It’s a cover ID. He doesn’t exist,” Rabinowich said, wiping his glasses. Without them, his eyes looked softer, more vulnerable.
“Or the Iranians don’t want us to know about him,” Harris said, pursing his lips. He turned to Shaefer. “What are we getting from the Swiss?”
“You won’t like it,” Shaefer said, uncrossing his legs.
“They’re Swiss. I know I won’t like it. What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s impossible. There must be something.”
“None of the dead attackers had any ID or any papers, anything of any kind,” Shaefer said. “There’s no record of them ever staying at a hotel or pension or anyplace in Switzerland. Their clothes were cheap, bought locally for cash. No credit cards, debits, anything. According to the Kantonspolizei, it’s as if until the day of the attack these guys never existed.”
“This is bullshit,” Harris said. “There must be something. Dental work, Immigration control photos, a check of Swiss drivers’ licenses, Interpol records, something. They didn’t just materialize out of thin air.”
“They knew we’d be looking,” Rabinowich said. “Thi
s attack was very carefully planned.”
“Impossible. There’s always something,” Harris said. “Come on, guys. What is it?”
“DNA,” Rabinowich said. “On the attackers in Bern. Just preliminary, of course. One of the four bodies from the attack is an Arab. Possibly Iraqi. DNA from the female bomber’s foot suggests she may have been Kurdish, possibly a Syrian Kurd; we need more markers before we can nail it down. The other three bodies are Persian. Give us a couple more days and we can say with 99.999 percent certainty that they’re Iranians.”
“So that’s what we go to war on?” Harris snapped. “Iranians are everywhere. They could’ve come from England, Turkey, Sweden, even California. We could bomb Beverly Hills. There’s not one damn thing to prove they came from Iran.”
For a moment no one spoke. Scorpion sipped his coffee and looked out at the view, the trees and fields, the town below, the blue lake and mountains. Thinking the female Kurd was an anomaly, but three Iranians and an Iraqi, ten-to-one a Shiite, wasn’t a coincidence. Neither was the Russian VKS rifle of the sniper in Paris, the al Quds Force’s sniper rifle of choice. Proving it to the UN and the media on a world stage, though, was something else.
“Red rose,” Rabinowich said, pursing his lips and looking more like a horned owl than ever.
“What?”
“Gol ghermez,” Rabinowich said. “In Farsi it means red rose. According to cell tracking coordinates, someone made a mobile call from Gerten Mountain in Bern to Zurich approximately forty minutes after the attack. All they said was ‘Gol ghermez,’ and hung up.”
“Could be anything. A guy calling his girlfriend. A florist,” Shaefer said facetiously.
“It could be a completion code,” Scorpion said. “Maybe signaling success after the attack.”
“That’s what NSA thinks,” Rabinowich said. “They’re the ones who picked it up. It just took them a while to sort through all the COMINT traffic in God-knows-how-many-languages in Switzerland.
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