8:29 P.M.
Mont-de-Mans Air Base
Landes Department, France
The sun was sinking quickly into the western sky, sending a last few rays filtering across the airbase’s runways—glinting off the delta wing of a parked Dassault Rafale as Sergeant Nathalie Jobert stood on the open balcony of the control tower, her left hand resting on the concrete parapet. Her dark eyes scanning the gathering darkness, ears straining to catch the slightest sound.
A useless endeavor, as she should have known by now. Glatigny’s senses were much sharper than her own, she thought, feeling the golden eagle stir restlessly on her gauntleted right arm—its own, far keener eyes probing the dusk.
He was full-grown now, the largest of the three raised from a single clutch, each of them named after one of the fictional French paratroopers from Jean Larteguy’s 1960 classic The Centurions.
Glatigny, Esclavier, and Raspéguy.
A smile touched her lips in the darkness. She could still remember the first time she had laid eyes on Glatigny, eighteen months earlier—a barely feathered ball of white fluff, tearing at raw meat on top of a wrecked drone.
Now. . .he had grown into a bird worthy of the nobility of his namesake, a scion of one of France’s old families.
A defender of France. Glatigny’s wings stirred in the night, a keening cry escaping the eagle’s lips as she let the jesses slip free, the bird launching itself from her arm like a rocket, streaking across the runway toward the fading western sun.
Jobert reached up with her free right hand, bringing down her NODs over her eyes. And then, only then, in the pale-green glow of the night-vision, could she see what Glatigny had seen. A small quadcopter, coming in from the west, still half a kilometer or more out, penetrating the base’s airspace.
But not for long. Even as she watched, the raptor circled, gaining altitude before diving into the UAV like a falling meteor, its leather-and-kevlar-mittened talons extended to seize the quadcopter, unbalancing it and knocking it off course.
She continued watching, but by now this had become a matter of course—an exercise she had witnessed a hundred times before as Glatigny brought the drone down to earth, crashing amidst a wreckage of snapped and mangled plastic.
But this was one of the first times they had attempted it in low-light conditions and, just as she had assured her superiors, it had made no difference in the end result.
Une victoire écrasante. A crushing victory.
9:34 P.M.
Pont de Fragnée
Liège, Belgium
He had waited as long as he dared. Far longer than his superiors back in Paris would have tolerated, had they known. Armand Césaire stood there for a moment longer, his form illuminated by the glow of the overhead streetlight, gazing up at the gilt statues towering far above him here at the eastern end of the bridge—a pair of angels, playing upon the trumpet.
Guardian angels? Something in him hoped so—hope against hope, hope against the experience of decades.
A hope he knew wouldn’t die until this was over. Until he saw Daniel again—alive or dead.
But it was time to leave. Whatever this had been. . .whatever intelligence Paris thought they would gain from this mysterious caller, it had been all for nothing. A dry hole, like so many other promising intelligence coups through the years.
Whatever salvation there was to be found here, it would be found in their own officer, nowhere else. If he was still alive.
Time to check his signals. Once again.
Chapter 27
9:45 A.M. Central European Summer Time, August 1st
Liège, Belgium
“You’re going to need at least two vans,” Harry observed, leaning back into the front seat of the SUV as the vehicle came to a stop in morning traffic, winding their way through the streets of Liège. “Perhaps three.”
“Why?” Belkaïd had picked him up in his personal vehicle for the trip to the warehouse this morning. An olive branch after the events of the previous day? Or a trick designed to lull him into relaxing?
“You don’t want both of your drone operators to be in the same vehicle—if they are, and anything goes wrong. . .” He paused as they began moving again, the implication of his words obvious. “They ought to be utility vans, preferably from Électricité de France—something that won’t draw attention near the stadium. Uniforms, even, if you can manage it—so that there can be activity around the vehicle which will give it the appearance of legitimacy.”
The way he had done it, on a hundred surveillance ops over the years. He paused, realizing again just how easy it was, despite it all, to slip into the old ways of thinking. To view this through the familiar, if now distorted lens of just another mission. And yet Belkaïd was no fool—he would recognize bad advice if he was given it. “And we’re going to need to train—Yassin and Driss seem to think that flying these drones will be like playing a videogame, but it’s not that simple. It takes skill.”
“You’ve done it?” the older man asked, and he could feel Belkaïd’s eyes on him from the back seat, watching him closely.
A nod. In Afghanistan, Harry thought, glancing into the SUV’s side mirror. Still there. And Yemen. And a dozen other places, around the world—putting up a handheld UAV to conduct reconnaissance for an Agency operation.
“My friends and I back in Germany used to take quadcopters into the Schwarzwald,” he said, referencing the Black Forest, “and race them between the trees. An obstacle course and a race, all in one.”
He smiled. “I was never very good—but the adrenaline rush of those afternoons. . .it gave me purpose in those days, before I found the true faith.”
“Do you believe they can learn? In time?” Harry looked back to see a concerned look on the older man’s face—glancing, even as he did so, through the rear windshield. Still there. Closer now.
“Mohammed,” he began, turning to the driver, ignoring Belkaïd’s question, “take the next right.”
The man looked at him in surprise, taken off-guard by the sudden order. “Do it now.”
He hesitated a split-second longer, distracted by Belkaïd’s surprised query from the back seat, but then he put the wheel over, swinging the SUV into a narrow side street lined with parked vehicles, offering scarcely enough room for two cars to pass.
“What’s going on?” Belkaïd demanded, leaning forward—his hand entering his jacket. Going for his gun. “This isn’t the way to the warehouse.”
“We’ve had a car behind us for seven blocks,” Harry responded coolly, his eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror. Waiting. And there it was, the same off-white sedan he had been watching for the last ten minutes.
It didn’t stop, didn’t turn, but there was a hesitation there—a visible slowing of the vehicle as if its occupants were looking down the street to ascertain their position—relay it to another follow car. An easy mistake, but fatal.
Got you.
10:03 A.M.
An apartment in Anderlecht
Brussels, Belgium
The mid-morning sun was already filtering in through the window when Jan Vertens woke, finding himself already sweaty beneath the thin sheet covering his body. He felt the woman stir in the bed beside him and he smiled, reaching out to trace his fingers over the smooth curve of her back, leaning down to bestow a kiss on her bare shoulder. “Goedemorgen, liefje,” he whispered, hearing her murmur a sleepy reply. Love.
That was what had brought them together, a lonely middle-aged Belgian divorcee and a younger single mother from Egypt. An agnostic and a Copt. Opposites. And yet. . .somehow exactly what each of them had needed at that moment in their lives. If he had met her earlier. . .
Perhaps he would have gone a different path. Avoided the mistakes he had made along the way—mistakes which had kept him awake half the night, staring up at the ceiling of their bedroom.
Rana stretched out her arms, her dark hair splayed out against the pillow as she turned over, looking into his eyes. Throughout
the week, they went their separate ways, to their separate jobs—but this morning, they had for themselves. Together.
“Do you think you can take Youssef to his football camp this afternoon?” she whispered, running her fingers through the hair of his chest.
“Natuurlijk,” he replied, reaching out to draw her in close for a kiss. He always enjoyed the time he spent with her son, but today. . .today anything that kept his mind off his work—his mistakes—would do.
Anything.
10:34 A.M.
Rue Hors-Château
Liège, Belgium
“How could you know they were there?” Belkaïd demanded, almost as soon as the door had closed behind them, closing off the corridor without. They hadn’t gone on to the warehouse as planned, opting instead to circle back through the streets of Liège to the Algerian’s apartment, predictably picking up at least one—possibly two—more tail cars along the way.
“The better question,” Harry spat, his voice low as he turned on the older man, “is how you could not? Weren’t you even looking for them? You warned me yesterday that surveillance was being contemplated—I kept my eyes open.”
“Even so—”
“And keep your voice down,” Harry interjected, cutting Belkaïd off. “You don’t know who may be listening. Not now.”
As if to punctuate his words, in that very moment he heard a door close, somewhere deeper in the apartment—a chill striking through his heart. Was a member of the Belgian surveillance team still here? More than one?
If they were, keeping them alive would be an almost impossible challenge, Harry thought—glancing at Belkaïd’s face to see if he had heard the sound.
Everything blown in this moment. To hell and gone. And perhaps that would all be for the best.
But Belkaïd gave no sign, an intent look in his dark eyes as he asked another question, this time in a much lower voice, about the surveillance Harry had picked up.
“We’re going to have to shift our base of operations,” Harry replied, his face grim, his own hand lingering near his waistband and his holstered CZ. “Somewhere out in the country, preferably. Perhaps even across the border, into France itself.”
He backed toward the kitchen, trying to draw Belkaïd out of the entry hall, but without success—hearing suddenly a small, feminine gasp from off to his right.
Turning to find Nora standing there in the hall leading back, presumably, to the bedrooms—her hand up to her mouth, her blonde hair flowing free over her shoulders. She was still in pajamas, having all too clearly spent the night. With Belkaïd.
“Please, Nora,” Belkaïd said imperturbably, “make Ibrahim some tea. I have calls to make.”
“I should put something on,” she murmured, a stricken look on her face—unable to look Harry in the face.
“You’re fine,” the older man replied flatly, pushing past her into the hall. “Make the tea—I will need to remain undisturbed. And Ibrahim? I will be careful, in what I say.”
Harry felt the girl slip past him into the kitchen, his eyes following Belkaïd down the hall toward the back of the extensive apartment. It was an old story, what had happened here—but being old made it no less tragic.
He thought of Ghaniyah Belkaïd, wondered if she had known of her brother’s intentions when she sent the girl over. She had to have marked her absence, in time. Her words, still echoing in his ears, the memory of trauma still fresh in her voice. I was raped—that, I suppose, I have in common with Nora.
And now here they were again.
Harry moved into the living room of the apartment, leaving Nora alone in the kitchen as he began a methodical sweep for listening devices—probing behind every piece of furniture, checking the light fixtures. Nothing out of place. Yet.
He was still on his knees, examining the electrical outlet behind the sofa, when Nora emerged from the kitchen nearly twenty minutes later—bearing a tall thin glass of tea.
She handed him the drink without a word, still unable to meet his eyes—turning away as if to retreat back into the kitchen. He seized her wrist before she could move out of reach, their eyes locking as she finally looked up into his face. Fear. Guilt. Playing across her delicate Gallic features.
“Sit,” he instructed simply, motioning her to the sofa as he himself took his seat on it, a few feet away. Raising the glass to his lips.
Harry suppressed a grimace at the first sip—the tea was far too sweet, even by the generous standards of the Maghreb, overpowering the taste of the mint. An outsider, trying to mimick the traditions of a culture she had adopted as her own, but to which she remained an alien. The tea, an ironic metaphor for her faith as she sat now across from him—never looking less a Muslim than in this moment.
“I’m sorry,” she began, her face distorted in an agony of uncertainty. “I didn’t mean for this to. . .I mean—”
“You should have left, as I warned you,” he said soberly, overcome by his own sense of responsibility. There had to be a way, even yet. . .
To save her.
“If you need money to get home,” he began, setting aside the tea to reach into his pocket, “I can give you enough to get you on your way. I—”
“No,” she shook her head, something desperate in her voice. “I can’t leave. Not now.”
“Why?” Harry asked, reaching out for her hand and taking it in his own—feeling her shrink away from his touch. “What’s left for you here? Reza is dead, you’re only a distraction to those who remain. And Belkaïd isn’t going to be satisfied with one night.”
The words were cruel, but he had learned long ago that some cruelties were necessary. To save a life.
He watched a tear slide down her bare cheek, but she made no effort to reach up, to wipe it away. “You don’t understand,” she whispered numbly, an edge of bitterness creeping into her voice. “Reza was there for me when no one else was—when no one else could understand, not even my parents. He showed me how Islam valued—protected—women in a way the West no longer did. He brought me to the light.”
“Alhamdullilah.” He forced a smile, knowing he had to tread with care. His tone quickly becoming sober once more. “But men are still men. And even among the Caliphate itself, I found men who would take advantage of a woman. A sister, even. I can’t protect you from them.”
She raised her hand then, brushing away the tear with a quick, angry gesture. “I’m not asking for your protection.”
“What, then?”
And there were no more tears. Just the measured tones of a woman who knew what she wanted. And was prepared to do anything to get it. Even if it meant sharing the bed of a man like Belkaïd.
“A chance to give my life in this war. You were wrong, you know—wrong to say that it was no place for me. There is no other place, not now, not after all I’ve done.” She paused, her eyes shining with a strange fire as they locked with his own. “Reza didn’t just show me the light. He showed me why it was worth dying for.”
2:04 P.M.
Médiacité
Liège, Belgium
Heat radiated off the pavement as Daniel Mahrez crossed the street toward the massive Médiacité mall, its distinctive wave-glass roof shimmering in the summer sun.
He’d been a teenager when it opened, not that many years ago. A lifetime, now.
LYSANDER’s eyes flickered from one side to another, alert for more than just the traffic. Knowing all too well the dangers of this moment—the reasons he hadn’t dared make contact with his handler over the last several weeks.
Belkaïd was becoming ever more paranoid with each passing day. As a trained intelligence officer, he knew the signs. Recognized the tightrope he was walking on here. And al-Almani. . .
Daniel suppressed a grimace. There was something about that man—something far more dangerous than even Belkaïd. And now the two of them together. . .and this plan.
He had left the counter-signal for Césaire thirty minutes earlier. Now it remained only to leave the drop—a micro-d
rive containing an audio recording of what he knew of the plot—in the designated location, inside the mall’s cinema.
Daniel marked a man in a tracksuit crossing the street behind him, behind and to the right, the man’s reflection visible in the glass doors of the mall ahead. Another man, in shirt and jeans, perhaps fifteen meters to the left. There was no sign that the two men were together—connected even—but even as he reached the door, he saw one of them glance over at the other. Or did he? It was almost impossible to tell, the flicker of a glance in a mirror—his own mind playing tricks on him. Had Belkaïd put a team on him? Did he suspect?
Calm down, he told himself, knowing it would do him no good to lose his head. Not now. There was nothing for it but to press forward—see what came.
Daniel ducked as a toy helicopter buzzed through the air past his head, hearing a child’s delighted laugh as he glanced quickly over toward a kiosk in the middle of the mall’s concourse, finding the kiosk’s owner instructing the child of a passer-by in the manipulation of the controls. The kid was no more than seven, a couple years older than his own Saphir.
A shadow passed across the French intelligence officer’s face as he used the moment’s distraction to glance behind him. Still there. He hadn’t seen his son in two months. And if he put a foot wrong now. . .he never would again.
Neither of the two men appeared to be North African, but not all of Belkaïd’s crew were—he’d been around them long enough to know that.
And they were following him, that much was undeniable now—fifteen minutes in. There would be no chance to make the drop, not now. Even going into the cinema could excite their suspicions—something he and Césaire should have thought of when setting this up, the advantages of the darkness and privacy outweighing all other considerations.
Presence of Mine Enemies Page 43
