Presence of Mine Enemies

by Stephen England

  The doctor shook her head, casting one final glance at the heart monitor—its measured lines tracking the faintest of pulses–before Marike Beel slipped from the room, closing the door behind her.

  A pair of men in dark-gray uniforms and tactical vests stood without, holstered pistols on their hips, flanking a third man dressed in a worn business suit. The bureaucrat was a few years older than her, well into middle age, his hair graying, his blue tie draped over a slight paunch.

  A question all too visible in his eyes as he took a step toward her.

  Marike shook her head, brushing a strand of dark hair out of her face as she drew herself up to face the man.

  “I’m sorry, Meneer Kuyper. It is evident from the medical records I was able to obtain for Mevrouw Younes that she has suffered from a heart condition for the better part of a decade. The strain of this morning’s. . .events,” she settled upon finally, “have precipitated a crisis.”

  She didn’t know what had happened, not exactly, but she could guess, from the posture of the armed men, the emblems of the goddess Diana on the sleeves of their uniforms—the news reports flooding over Belgian media since the early hours of the morning.

  There had been raids—all across the city–and somehow, this aged, sickly woman had been swept up in them. Swept up. . .likely scared out of her mind by the descent of the federal police upon her apartment.

  “She won’t last the week,” she went on, registering the dismay in the commissioner’s eyes. “Perhaps not the day, barring a miracle, and I’m not expecting one. A heart attack this massive, coupled with her debilitation from months of battling the cancer—she doesn’t have the strength to fight this. Her family should be notified.”

  “As far as we know,” Kuyper said, shooting a significant look at one of the uniformed officers, “there is only the son.”

  And in that moment, she knew. The son had been their target. . .

  3:03 P.M.

  Alliance Base

  Paris, France

  “‘Why didn’t you tell me he was one of ours?’” The silence hung heavy in the conference room following the question. “Those were his exact words?”

  Armand Césaire nodded in answer to Brunet’s inquiry, his eyes never leaving her face. Searching for any sign of duplicity, any “tell” which would indicate she was concealing the truth from him here. “He insisted that Lahcen was an asset—that he was wearing a wire—that he had seen the wire.”

  Brunet traded a look with Gauthier, her surprise seeming completely genuine in that moment. “But he wasn’t. That’s impossible—we would have known—Daniel, do you know anything about this?”

  From the other side of the table, the American station chief shook his head, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “What are you asking, Anaïs? He wasn’t on our payroll, certainly. And we’d confirmed his links to the Islamic State through multiple sources.”

  “Then why was he murdered? By al-Almani, of all people?” Gauthier demanded. “That makes no sense.”

  “We don’t know what actually happened between them when they were alone,” Vukovic observed, taking a deep breath. “We don’t. Your undercover doesn’t. But I think it’s long past time we had a talk with the Belgians.”

  “You mean. . .?” Brunet’s voice trailed off for a long moment, her eyes transfixing the American. “You think he’s one of their people.”

  “I think we can’t rule that out. And I think we should have read them in on this long ago.”

  “You’ve expressed that concern, Daniel,” the director observed, her voice cold. “But before we take the risk of that exposure, we should ensure that we are acting on the best intelligence available to us.”

  Her focus returned to Césaire then, their eyes locking briefly across the length of the table. “What was your assessment of LYSANDER, psychologically speaking?”

  He had known the question was coming—had been preparing himself for it. But that didn’t mean he was truly ready. The look of desperation in the young man’s eyes, still haunting him.

  Fear.

  “He’s a good man. A fine officer. He–”

  “That’s not an answer, Armand.”

  And it wasn’t. He let out a heavy sigh, lifting his face to meet her gaze. “It is my firm belief that his intelligence product remains reliable.”

  “But?” There had been a but there, and she knew it.

  “But he doesn’t want to go back under—doesn’t believe he can go back under.” He saw the look on Brunet’s face and ignored it, pressing on. “Al-Almani has changed the parameters of what we’re dealing with here. The risks of this assignment. He’s not a disaffected youth, a petty criminal with dreams of jihad—someone we can subvert and co-op. He’s been to war and he’s brought that war back with him—as his willingness to murder Lahcen in broad daylight demonstrates. And LYSANDER knows as well as you do that we can provide no assurances of his safety.”

  “And that’s all the more reason we need him to remain on the inside. The capabilities of the Molenbeek cell are no longer a matter of speculation—not when they have a man like this at their head. Aborting the mission now, after this—it isn’t an option.”

  “I know,” Armand replied, a distant look in his eyes. “That’s what I told him.”

  4:37 P.M.

  The hostel

  Reims, France

  Back and forth, back and forth. The rhythmic, restless sound of feet against the floor. Steady, continuous. Irritating.

  “Stop pacing,” Harry announced coolly, glancing up at Driss from where he sat on the edge of the bed. They were alone in the room, the rest of the hostel’s occupants gone—scattered across the city, doing whatever they had come to Reims to do. “It’s not getting you anywhere.”

  The young Moroccan shook his head. “We’ve been here for hours—there’s nothing to do.”

  No phones, no TV, no Internet access since leaving the café. A desolate waste, surely. Harry smiled within, freshly aware of the age difference between the two of them. Age. . .and a life of training. Of rigor.

  “And we’ll be here for hours more,” he replied, concealing his amusement. “Do what I am doing to pass the time—recite the verses of the Qur’an to yourself. Look to the words of the Prophet for your strength.”

  Driss seemed to hesitate, a flush spreading across his swarthy face. “I. . .I have never memorized any.”

  “Then perhaps it is time you learned. ‘Fighting is prescribed for you, and you dislike it,” Harry quoted, his eyes never leaving his companion’s face, “But it is possible that you dislike a thing which is good for you, and that you love a thing which is bad for you. But Allah knows, and you do not.”

  “Ameen,” Driss whispered.

  “Ameen, my brother. Tell me,” he began, changing directions without preamble, without warning, “do you have any family, anyone that the police could reach in order to find you? To find us.”

  “My parents live in the city,” Driss replied, with seeming reluctance. “My brother and his wife are in America, with their family. But I have not spoken with any of them in over a year.”

  “Why is that?”

  The young man began to respond, hesitating as if embarrassed by his answer. “My father did not approve of the friends I had made—wanted me to leave with my brother. Go to America. He said I would be unable to find work if I stayed.”

  “And?”

  “And he was right. But you’ve seen how it is, Ibrahim,” Driss exclaimed, a desperate edge in his voice, “trying to get a job as a Muslim in that city.”

  So he had. And for Moroccans like Driss, in particular. There was a place for everyone in Belgian society and slowly but surely, over the decades, Moroccan Muslims had found theirs. At the bottom.

  “You were right not to allow him to turn you from the path,” he replied after a moment. “There was nothing for you in America.”

  Nor for him, anymore. It was a bitter, empty feeling, a sense of loss. And yet all
that had been already lost, so long before.

  “America believes that it has offered the world so much,” he went on, “and yet of what worth have any of its gifts been? Dry, lifeless—like dust in the mouth, serving only to choke those who consume it. We–”

  His phone began to ring in that moment, and he grabbed it off the bed, bringing it to his ear. Reza’s voice. Low and urgent.

  He took a deep breath, steadying himself. Preparing for what lay ahead. “Salaam alaikum, brother. . .”

  6:27 P.M. British Summer Time

  Edgware Road, London

  One moment Simon Norris was alone, standing on the kerb at the edge of the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change—surrounded by a crowd of commuters whom, like him, had just exited from the tube station a couple hundred meters to the west. The next. . .

  He could feel something change, as it were in the very air surrounding him—like a cloud passing across the face of the sun. A chill running down his spine.

  He glanced up to see the Russian standing at his shoulder in the crowd, the strange, cold ghost of a smile passing across the man’s face—the fading light of day glinting off his silver hair.

  Alexei.

  Then, before he could say a word, the light changed and the crowd began to move—the two of them moving with it, the Russian keeping pace.

  “I had begun to think you weren’t coming,” he managed, struggling to keep his voice level. Low. The man was just behind him now, just close enough for their voices to carry.

  “You doubted my word?” It was an absurd question, and the touch of irony in the Russian’s voice told him he knew it. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but he could envision what it looked like in this moment—that familiar smile of a man in control. Supremely arrogant. “I keep my promises, Mr. Norris, you must understand this. Now—are you prepared to keep yours?”

  A nod. The thumb drive was already in his hand, clutched between sweat-slick fingers—reaching back.

  “Two names, just as we agreed—with their accompanying files, as proof of my access. SIS assets in Moscow.” He felt a terrible chill wrap its icy fingers around his heart as he felt the drive leave his hand. What have I done?

  It was a question he knew the answer to all too well. But he was committed—now, if never before. “I’ll give you the rest once I’m out—have you found a way?”

  “Of course, Mr. Norris.” He felt a slip of paper, pressed into the sweaty palm of his hand. “If your information proves accurate, be at the address on this paper on the night of the 13th. If it doesn’t. . .well, if I were you, I would make plans to be very far away.”

  “You can’t just threaten me like that,” Norris exclaimed, a strange mixture of fear, indignation, and anger playing across his features. “You need to understand that I can still—”

  The words died in his throat as he turned to confront the man, finding himself suddenly face-to-face with a middle-aged businesswoman on her mobile, her eyes wide as she collided with him—his abrupt halt bringing them both up short.

  He mumbled an apology, ignoring her wrath as he pushed on past her—shoving people aside as he struggled to make his way back down the street to the corner—eyes wildly scanning the passerby.

  But Alexei was nowhere to be found.

  7:03 P.M.

  A pub

  London

  The scrape of a pint glass against the wood of the tabletop, seeming unnaturally loud, even against the background noise of the soccer match on the television over the bar—the low hum of voices.

  Dmitri Pavlovich Litvinov looked across the table into the eyes of the black man, then back down at the pint of beer he had pushed over to him, shaking his head. “No.”

  A shrug of the shoulders, and the man reached over, pulling the glass back beside his own. “Have it your way, mate—might as well drink both of them myself. I don’t want to be here any more than you do.”

  That was true enough, Litvinov thought, staring the younger man in the face. But he had no choice.

  Not if he wished to escape from the web weaving itself around him.

  “Greer explained the situation to you.”

  A nod as the man leaned back into the shadows of the booth, wiping the foam of the beer off his lips with the back of a dark hand. “He did. And I’d suggest that that’s the last time either of us speak his name.”

  The edge in the British officer’s voice nettled him, but Litvinov bit back the instinctive response, instead nodding. “Of course, Mr. Roth. What do you have for me?”

  Roth replaced his pint on the tabletop, a small USB thumb drive appearing in his hand as he extended it toward Litvinov. “A sample, of the intelligence I am prepared to provide should my recruitment go through.”

  The Russian took the drive, turning it over and over in his hand. “This information, it’s real?”

  A nod. “All of it. This is to establish my bona fides. And yours.”

  “Vasiliev?” he demanded, a sharp edge entering his voice—a raw, unspoken fear.

  “No,” Roth replied, shaking his head, “we’re not going to broach that just yet. They’ll think I’m a dangle, at first. Bringing up Vasiliev can help us work past that, if we play it right. But we can’t lead with it.”

  Litvinov let out a heavy sigh. At least the British weren’t being completely stupid here. He could work with this.

  Roth reached into an inner pocket of his blazer, extracting a small folder and sliding it across the table.

  “What’s this?”

  “Our story,” the British officer responded. “I need you to memorize everything in that folder before we go our separate ways—make sure we’re both singing off the same sheet music. It doesn’t leave my possession.”

  Litvinov nodded his understanding, opening the folder as Roth began to speak. “Two nights ago, I approached you on the Tube. . .”

  Chapter 13

  8:05 A.M. British Summer Time, July 9th

  Embassy of the Russian Federation

  Kensington Palace Gardens, London

  “You asked me to come in early, Dmitri—to meet with you alone, before our regular morning meetings.” Valeriy Kudrin leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he stared across the cluttered surface of his desk in the office of the rezident. “So tell me, what is this all about?”

  Litvinov took a deep breath, looking the younger Russian intelligence officer in the eye as he reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

  “Three nights ago, I was approached on the Tube. By an officer of the British security services, a man named Darren Roth. He gave me this,” he continued, extracting a USB thumb drive and placing it on the desk in front of Kudrin, “as a way of establishing his bona fides.”

  Kudrin stared at the drive as though a poisonous snake had suddenly appeared in front of him.

  “You. . .haven’t put this into any computer here at the rezidentura, have you?”

  Litvinov snorted, shaking his head. “Do you think I was born yesterday, Valeriy Antonovich? This isn’t even the same drive I was given. One of our technicians processed it for me at a secure computer off-site last night.”

  It was true, all of it. At the end of the day, he had no reason to trust Greer and Roth, not enough to believe they wouldn’t try to play him. Use him to try to further penetrate Russian operations in London.

  That was farther than he was willing to go, more than he was willing to risk.

  At least not without something more in return.

  “He claims to have access to the Security Service’s counter-intel branch. There are more than a dozen files on this stick on our influence operations against members of Parliament–specific intelligence, everything they know about them, including the officers we’ve tasked, in some cases. And he claims he can get more. Much more.”

  “Do you believe him?” The wariness was still there, in Kudrin’s eyes. As well it should have been. They were both familiar with this kind of approach—a “dangle”, as Roth had
referred to it in the pub.

  Waiting for a fish to bite.

  “In my professional opinion,” he began slowly, following through with the script he and Roth had rehearsed, “this kind of intelligence—limited though it is at this moment—is too valuable for the British to jeopardize by such a gambit.”

  It wasn’t even a lie. He’d been shocked by the details of just what Greer was willing to put on the line. But considering the prize. . .

  “But there’s no way to know for certain,” Kudrin observed, leaning back in his chair—his fingers tented before him. “Not without continuing to. . .develop him.”

  He shook his head. “No there isn’t. And that’s why I’m bringing it to you.”

  A nod of understanding. “Were you able to ascertain this man’s motivations for approaching us—you?”

  “He was angry, that much was clear,” Litvinov replied, his eyes never leaving the rezident’s face. “He wouldn’t say why, but I did some digging. He was involved in saving the life of the Queen during the attack on Balmoral this spring—what, exactly, happened is unclear, but he was very nearly sacked for it. He’s an embittered man.”

  There was a long pause, and then Kudrin nodded once more. “Good. Bitterness is something we can use. Run him.”

  Litvinov rose to his feet, realizing from Kudrin’s tone of dismissal that the meeting had come to an end. He was half-way to the door of the office when the rezident’s voice arrested him once more, a sudden fear gripping hold of him at the words.

  “But have someone else step in to manage him—you’re the deputy rezident, not some case officer. I can’t have you taking this kind of risk.”

  9:13 A.M.

  DGSE Headquarters

  Paris, France

  “. . .based on the intelligence we received from Commissariat-Général Kuyper, these materials were found in the internet history of the laptop computer seized in the raid on the Harrak apartment.”