Guards stood at the far end of the warehouse by the other door, ready to raise it by the rolling chain gearing at a moment’s notice. Everyone waited anxiously for Ismael to be done and gone. The other four vehicles would be behind him in a rigid, preplanned order. Everything was on a schedule. They had only allowed ten minutes for him to be there. Any time more than that and the schedule would be off. No one believed that a few seconds lag in the schedule was a problem, but if someone noticed too many vehicles going in or out of the warehouse in the middle of the night, one random call to law enforcement might send the entire scheme crashing to the ground. That was why Ismael was first. The best missile, the best position for shooting, and the designated shooter.
They loaded his missile into the van and closed the doors. He crossed to the table, chose an AK-47, a handgun, ammunition, and two grenades. He placed them on the rubber floor of the modified van and climbed into the driver’s seat. He started the truck and drove toward the other door of the warehouse. The thin blue smoke from his exhaust left a haze in the warehouse. As he approached, the door rolled up in front of him, and he drove out into the dark Paris morning. He and the other shooters were to drive around the city all day, mostly in the suburbs and the auto-routes, breaking no traffic laws and stopping nowhere in particular. They were to draw no attention to themselves at all; no stops except to refuel.
He was to refuel before dawn and once more around noon. That would take them right up to the air show—or at least the time in the air show when the Blue Angels flew. Le Bourget was in a wide-open area north of central Paris. Those who were anxious to get there would take public transportation. There would be a lot of traffic, but the place that had been chosen for Ismael to shoot from was far off the path of anyone heading toward Le Bourget.
Ismael pulled away from the warehouse quickly as the door rolled down behind him. He turned the radio to an Arabic station.
* * *
Groomer and the others in the van watched carefully as they quietly stimulated the cell phone of their target. They didn’t have any idea who their target was, but Hafiz had reported to him. That was good enough. The signals were strong and excellent for direction finding. Groomer had gotten several hits but was becoming convinced that whoever had the cell phone was moving. The positions were not correlating with each other.
They drove toward the general area of the signals. “Rat, you up?” Groomer transmitted on his digital encrypted radio.
“Go ahead,” Rat responded through the tiny earpiece.
“We’re getting a good trace. I think it’s mobile.”
“Is it the lead?”
“We think so. It’s who our spy-boy called.”
“Pick me up.”
“Where are you?”
“At our friend’s hotel.”
“Too far off our path.”
“Pick me up!”
“Roger,” Groomer said, perturbed as he wheeled away from their mark to get Rat. He raced through the deserted Paris streets watching for police. Fifteen minutes later they pulled up in front of the Blue Angels’ hotel. It was ringed with security. They regarded the van skeptically. Groomer watched several fingers slide slowly down to triggers. “Easy,” he ordered to no one in particular. Rat stepped out from the dark and in front of the van. They stopped, threw open the sliding door, and he jumped in. Groomer sped off back toward the cell phone they were tracking.
“You still getting a good signal?” Rat asked.
“Yeah. . . . We’re getting away from it, but we’ve got a good
signal.”
“Let’s go get him,” Rat said sitting at a console. They drove for nearly twenty minutes. Rat studied the screens in the van, the cameras, the electronics monitoring, and the communications equipment hooked up to Washington.
They followed the signal and turned down a poorly lit street in the suburbs of Paris. A van turned down an alley in front of them. Groomer drove by the alley. He saw the taillights of a small panel truck turn onto the parallel street a block away.
“Shit, we’re right on top of him!” Rat said. The others in the van sat up taller, focusing on their prey.
“He see us?”
“Don’t know,” Groomer said. “We’re the only two people even awake out here. We’re kind of obvious.”
Rat picked up one of his cell phones and dialed a number. A man answered. Rat replied in French. “We’re on the leader,” he said.
“Where are you?”
Rat gave him coordinates off a map he pulled out of a case between the seats in the front.
“We have him. Stay behind, and we’ll see where he goes. We may need your help.”
Rat looked at Groomer as he checked his weapons. “Stay out of sight, and track his signal to see where he goes.”
They stayed a mile away from the other van, following him through the suburbs.
“Where the hell is he going?”
“He’s waiting. He’s just staying on the move until it’s time.” He glanced at the clock on the dash. It was nearly 5:30 a.m. Rat leaned over to look through the windshield at the sky. It was showing the first signs of dawn.
“He’s stopped,” the man next to Rat said.
“Get there,” Rat said. “Everyone get ready.” Everyone except Groomer reached for a weapon and readied to jump out of the van.
As they turned the corner, Groomer slowed suddenly. “Here they come,” he said, looking in his side mirror. He pulled over to the curb to give way to the flashing blue lights behind him. There were three French vehicles, the front one of which looked like an armored personnel carrier. They drove silently, with only their lights on to warn other traffic.
“That you, Jean?”
“Yes. They’re headed for a warehouse in the middle of the block. Stay behind the armored car and be ready to help if we hit a large group of them. We’re going in.”
“Will do.”
Rat looked at the others. “Put on your jackets.”
They all slipped on dark blue nylon jackets with fbi stenciled unmistakably on the front and back in yellow.
“Hold on,” Groomer said. “More of them.”
Three other French vehicles came down the road from the other direction. They could see more lights reflecting off the damp buildings a block away, on the other side of the buildings in front of them.
“Here we go,” Groomer said. He turned the corner just in time to see the armored car turn hard and run directly into the steel door of what appeared to be one of many small, quiet warehouses along the row. The steel door gave way and the APC stopped in the mouth of the building. Several French police in body armor and helmets ran out the back of the APC with automatic weapons, yelling at the top of their lungs.
Madani couldn’t believe it. He was to be the last one to retrieve his missile. He had driven around the neighborhood for three hours. There was no one around. It had been clear, yet here were the French breaking down the door and no doubt waiting on the other side of the other door. They were doomed, and he knew it.
He looked up the stairs to the men working there and screamed in Arabic, “There is no way out! We must fight!”
“What for?” the man asked. “We should surrender! They don’t have anything on us, maybe arms charges!”
Rat and the others in their FBI jackets scrambled out of the van.
Inside the garage, Madani ran to the back of his truck and opened the case for the Russian shoulder-fired missile he had just put there. He flipped the switch turning the missile on as he lifted it to his shoulder. The reticle lit up, and he aimed it at the APC. Several of the Frenchmen saw him lift it to his shoulder and began firing their automatic weapons at him as they yelled for him to put it down.
Madani heard a good growl from the missile as it locked onto the heat from the APC’s engine. He pulled the trigger, and the missile flew out of the tube directly to the APC and smashed into the front of the vehicle. It hit with tremendous energy but didn’t explode. It was too close. The
warhead had to travel two hundred yards before it would arm. The missile lay on the concrete floor hissing and going in circles, its guidance and flight abilities crippled by the jarring impact with the APC.
The French expected the warhead to explode any moment and ducked.
Madani grabbed his AK-47 off the seat of the truck and began firing at the French. When he couldn’t see them, he jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine of his truck. Two French gendarmes stood and began firing. Two of the warehousemen at the top of the stairs came out and began firing at them as Madani drove madly toward the door at the other end of the small warehouse. He didn’t even slow, and smashed through the door. His van ran into the French security truck waiting just outside the door. The French gendarmes fired into the front seat, hitting Madani several times in the chest and neck within two seconds. He slumped forward, dead.
The gun battle continued inside the warehouse until the Lieutenant of the GIGN ordered the French to stop firing. They stopped instantly, leaving only the distinctive sound of the AKs that the Algerians were using. The Lieutenant estimated four to five men in the warehouse. He had twenty. He spoke through a microphone that was attached to the APC. “There is nowhere to go. If you stop now, you will not be killed. Put down your weapons, and we will not harm you.”
One wide-eyed Algerian threw his gun down and walked down the steps. “Don’t shoot! I had nothing to do with any of this.” He hurried down the steps toward the Lieutenant.
The head warehouseman leaned over the railing and shot the Algerian in the back. “Traitor!” he yelled in Arabic as the man fell the last few steps.
The French fired again and hit the leader, who fell into the railing, then back. Two other Algerians waited on the floor in the office at the top of the stairs. They lay face down, with their weapons several feet away. “No more!” they yelled in Arabic, then, “Arretez! Arretez!” Stop! Stop!
The French officer, Lieutenant Jean Marcel, moved the dead man’s body off the stairs and stood at the bottom. Rat walked in carefully, ensuring that the French saw him and his FBI jacket. He crossed to Marcel. “Nice work. How many topside?”
“I think two,” Marcel replied. “Let’s go.”
He and Rat hurried up the stairs, weapons drawn. Two other gendarmes went up behind them, covering them. Marcel went into the office and looked for a trap. “Get up!” he yelled in French. “Get up!”
They rose.
“Come out of there, and walk toward me with your hands up. How many of you are there?”
“Just us.”
The two behind Rat and Marcel went around them and grabbed the two Algerians. They threw them to the ground and bound their hands behind them, then dragged them down the stairs and walked to the back of the APC. More French commandos scurried around the garage looking for other men and weapons. It was quiet.
Rat and Groomer motioned for the others to stay where they were. They walked to the Lieutenant, who was herding the two Algerians into the APC. The French Lieutenant looked at them as they came closer.
“They have a lot of weapons,” Marcel said.
“And we probably missed most of the missile shooters. They were running through here while we were following this driver around. Damn it!” Rat cursed. He began to fume.
Marcel squinted at him. “Why an FBI jacket?”
“Just a little camouflage. Keeps you from getting shot. Even in France.”
“So you got out of the headquarters building. I thought you’d talk your way out of it. Why didn’t you tell them you had been in touch with me?”
“They wouldn’t understand. I don’t trust anyone except operators.”
Jean nodded. “You really cut that other guy up.”
“He’ll be fine. No real damage.”
Jean regarded the two scared Algerians who were being led into the APC. “Let’s have a talk with these two. Your Arabic still good?”
“Not bad.”
Jean slipped into the APC and sat across from the two Algerians. Rat sat next to him. Jean removed his helmet and rubbed the top of his head. He picked up his machine pistol and pointed it casually at one of the Algerians. “What’s your name?”
The man hesitated. “Assad.”
Jean didn’t care if he was telling the truth about his name. He moved forward on his seat so he could look the Algerian in the eye. “Where did you get that missile?”
“We didn’t get them anywhere.”
“Why was it in your warehouse?”
“The man who got it asked us to store his truck. That is all. We don’t know anything about missiles.”
Marcel looked at him sadly. With no warning he leaned forward quickly; his right arm flew out and jammed the barrel of his machine pistol into the man’s side, instantly breaking one of his ribs. A sharp, searing pain shot through the man’s chest. “I had hoped you would be truthful. I was wrong, so now I’m going to have to ask you more directly. Do you know how many ribs you have?”
The man shook his head. His face was sweating from pain.
“I am going to break every one of your ribs in order, bottom to top, until you tell me what I want to know.” He waited until the man looked up at him through the pain. “You are helping a terrorist. We don’t like terrorists in France. We like order, and civility, and decency. Not terrorism.” He looked at the other Algerian. “You are next. After I break his last rib, I will start with yours. First on the left side, down here,” he said, indicating on his own rib cage, then that of the man with a broken rib. “Then working up. Then over here, on the right.” He rammed his machine pistol forward again unexpectedly and felt the snap of the first man’s next rib.
“Aaaahggh,” he cried, looking at the Lieutenant as if he were crazy.
“Do you know how hard it is to breathe if all your ribs are broken? It may be impossible. I don’t know. I’ve never made it to the last rib. People have always told me what I wanted to know. But I am sure it’s hard to breathe. It has to be, doesn’t it? I mean your rib cage expands—”
“What do you want to know?” the man asked pleadingly.
“Who is the dead man?”
“I don’t know. Algerian.”
“He was here to shoot down the Blue Angels, yes?”
“I don’t know! He just wanted a place.”
“To keep missiles, and you didn’t ask what they were for?” The Lieutenant shook his head and shot the machine pistol forward again.
“Yes, an airplane! To shoot down an airplane!”
“An American airplane.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“How many missiles did you see?”
“I don’t rememb—”
The Lieutenant’s hand feinted a move forward and the man jerked. “Five! Five missiles total! Just five.”
“Where are they now? There weren’t any missiles in your warehouse.”
“They all came. He was the last.”
“Four others?”
“Yes.”
“Did they come together?”
“No. Thirty minutes apart.”
“Starting when?”
“At 3:30 a.m. The first.”
“And was that Ismael Nezzar? The brother of the Algerian pilot who was shot down?” He pulled out Nezzar’s passport photo and showed it to him.
The man’s widening eyes told the lieutenant he had found him. “I don’t know.”
The machine pistol rammed forward but this time upward into the man’s jaw, breaking it instantly. The Lieutenant leaned forward so the man could feel his hot breath on his throbbing face. “You lied to me again. I told you not to do that. I thought I could rely on you. But now I think I’m going to have to break your spine instead. I’ll leave you in the sewer for the rats to chew. You won’t be able to move anything because your neck will be broken. How long do you think you would last?” He let the man consider the question for a minute. “Tell me, I need to know, would you rather be face up in the gutter so you can see what is coming?
Or face down, so the vomit spills out of your mouth?”
The man was beyond pain, verging on incoherence. He nodded, as the tears streamed down his face. He nodded again.
“What kind of van is Nezzar in?”
“Blummimm.”
The lieutenant frowned. “I can’t understand you very well. Here,” he said, adjusting the man’s jaw to increase the pain.
“Mrmrmrmrmrm!” the man screamed. “Blummimmm!”
“What?”
The other man couldn’t stand to see his friend in such agony. “Plumbing! He is in a plumbing van!”
“What color?”
“Black.”
“And the others?”
He told the Lieutenant the times and types of vans of all the shooters.
“One last question. What kinds of missiles did they have? Were they all like the one that your former friend shot at me? Russian SA-7s?”
The second man shook his head in complete fear. “No. Four were, but one was different.”
“What was the different one?”
“American.”
“Stinger?”
“I heard that name, but I don’t know. They treated it differently. It was special somehow. It arrived differently.”
“How did it arrive?”
“On a truck. A standard French delivery truck.”
“Algerian driver?”
“No, he spoke Arabic, but he wasn’t from North Africa.”
“Thank you. You have been helpful. Perhaps we should discuss a future relationship.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
The Lieutenant moved down on the bench seat to look directly into the second man’s eyes. “You were the only one to survive a violent shoot-out with the French counterterrorism forces in this warehouse. You’re a hero. You can return to your community and tell them how evil we are, and I could make sure neither you nor anyone you care about is ever harmed or in need for anything.”
“But I am not the only survivor,” he said, looking at his boss.
The Lieutenant gazed at the other man holding his jaw and his ribs. “I’m afraid he didn’t make it. It was very unfortunate—he charged us as we came into the warehouse, and he fell down the steps.”
The Shadows of Power Page 31
