“Pardon, monsieur le directeur,” the younger man began, excusing himself, “but we have a development.”
“C’est vrai?” If so, it would be their first of the day, Dubois thought, gazing skeptically across the table at the younger man—his fork poised half-way between plate and mouth, a few drops of juice falling unheeded from the meat to the table.
“Local authorities in the Ardennes received a tip from a woman outside Nouzonville who remembered seeing SUVs like those used by Belkaïd in his departure from Liège—coming and going over the course of several days this past week along a desolate country road to the northwest of the town.”
Dubois shook his head in exasperation, jamming the bite of chicken into his mouth with a frustrated gesture. “C’est n’importe quoi. . .there are many such vehicles.”
A nod. “Certainement. But we looked at the road on our satellite imagery, and found an isolated house. . .it’s only half a kilometer from the woods where Benslimane’s body was found. And there are still vehicles outside.”
He stopped chewing, then—just staring at the man, waiting for him to continue. Something of a chill prickling at the hairs on his neck. Could it be?
“Have they gone in?”
A shake of the head. “Non. Given the sensitivity, the local police want GIGN to handle the operation, and Place Beauvau agrees with their assessment. They say it’s your decision.”
Convenient. Dubois suppressed a smile at the younger man’s use of the familiar metonym for the Ministry of the Interior, located four kilometers to the southeast, on the Place Beauvau, in the 8th arrondissement.
His superiors.
But they were leaving the decision to strike, or not to strike, to him—which could only ever mean one thing: they wanted him to bear the responsibility, if it proved to be the wrong call.
Enough. It wasn’t as though they could afford to let this go. “Send them in.”
Chapter 35
2:35 A.M. Central European Summer Time, August 7th
The safehouse
Coulommiers, France
“He screamed when I shot him, Harry. It was a good sound.” A muffled, choking sound in the semi-darkness, the broken form of Hamid Zakiri lying before him, sprawled on the floor. Framed in the sights of the Colt.
His own voice, remorseless—his finger tightening around the pistol’s trigger. “Burn. . .”
But when the trigger broke, it was Carol’s face which appeared beneath, her body shattered by the bullet, blood staining his hands. No harm.
The pistol falling from his nerveless fingers to clatter against the pavement as he stooped down by her body, scooping her up in his arms—a soundless scream escaping his lips.
Her face seeming to transform, even as he lifted her body—lights washing over them in ghoulish, alternating hues. . .red, white, and blue.
Until he was looking down into the youthful face of Aydin Shinwari, lifeless eyes staring back into his own—a small red hole in the center of the boy’s forehead. Painfully neat, masking the devastation which lay beyond.
“He meant nothing to you, did he?” He heard a woman’s voice demand from behind him, a voice in the darkness. “Just another pawn, in your bloody great game. A piece to be played. Like you have me.”
And he turned to confront her, just as the gun in Mehreen’s hand spat fire—a hot brand lancing into his side. Another shot, and he was falling, falling down. . .the cold, wet pavement meeting his own body. The severed head of Marwan, staring down at him from above—laughing, a hideous, macabre visage, distorted by pain.
Laughing, mocking, growing closer and closer, eyes staring wide, until—
Harry came awake in that moment, sitting bolt upright from his blankets on the floor—his heart beating so fast it seemed it might burst from his chest, sweat running in rivulets down his skin—his fingers clawing for the holstered CZ which lay only inches from the huddled blankets forming his pillow.
His vision only then, as his fingers closed around its grip, clearing to reveal the darkened room around him—the familiar figure of Yassin lying on the sofa a few feet from him, the outline of the open door, not ten feet away.
Familiar. Everything in its place. Everything as it should be—the ghosts banished to their respective hells. But no. . .nothing was as it should be, he realized, his hands balling spasmodically into clenched, whitened fists. Nothing.
Nor could it ever be. It felt as if he were going mad, his eyes drifting inexorably back to the pistol—his hands, moving as if of their own accord to withdraw it from its holster, the textured polymer cool beneath his fingers.
Thumb hitting the magazine release, he slid the mag out, hefting it in his hand. Feeling its weight. Fifteen rounds of 9mm Parabellum. One in the chamber.
Enough to kill everyone in the house, if he moved quickly—used the advantage of surprise, the confusion of sleep. Enough to kill himself.
Do it, Marwan’s voice—or was it the mocking voice of the demon—whispered in his ear. Avenge me.
Kill yourself. Kill them all in their sleep. Kill. . .
The magazine slid back into its well with an audible click, as if sealing his decision. Do it now.
“Ibrahim?” a questioning voice asked from the darkness, and he almost thought it was his dream once more. . .but the demons knew his real name.
He turned to see Yassin staring at him through the darkness—half-raised on one elbow on the sofa. “What’s wrong?”
It seemed an eternity before he could find the words to reply, though it was probably only a few seconds before he slid the CZ back into its holster, smiling back at his friend. The crisis, past.
“Nothing, brother—get your sleep while you can. Tonight, we will sleep in jannah. In the arms of the virgins. . .”
3:27 A.M.
Outside Nouvonville
Ardennes Department, France
They had been lying in the field for over three hours, Maurice Navier thought, adjusting his shoulder once more against the buttstock of the PGM Hécate II anti-materiel rifle, slowly sweeping the house with the night-scope. Nothing.
No signs of life. No movement from the house, not a flicker of activity around the pair of SUVs parked to the side. The GIGN sniper shifted uncomfortably once more, knowing the assault team was out there somewhere—moving in on the house, preparing for the final breach. And he had to be prepared to cover it.
He would have far rather brought his lighter Accuracy International sniper rifle, but the commander had been insistent—if anyone tried to get away, they needed to be able to stop their vehicles. So the Hécate it was. . .
Navier pulled his eyes off the scope for a brief moment, staring out through the darkness toward the house, past the massive muzzle brake at the end of the Hécate’s long barrel which reduced the 12.7mm rifle’s felt recoil to little more than that of a standard 7.62mm NATO. Listening, but there was nothing he could hear beyond the night song of the birds in the woods behind them to the west—the gentle hum of crickets in the humid summer night. The even rhythm of his spotter’s breath, lying just a few feet to his left. In and out.
There was a crackle of static in the gendarme’s earpiece then, the hushed voice of the assault team leader issuing his final orders. Get ready.
He could make out the assaulters now, materializing out of the night near the house—stacking up by the door.
There was no warning in his ear when the moment arrived, everything now communicated through hand signals—only the distant thud of the ram slamming into the door reaching his ears. Men disappearing within the house as the door crashed inward.
Navier’s hand curled around the rifle’s pistol grip, bringing the stock back snug against his shoulder as he focused in on the vehicles—settling the nightscope’s reticle on the hood of the first SUV, center-mass on the engine block.
When the explosion came, he was taken completely off-guard. . .
9:54 A.M.
DGSE Headquarters
Paris, France<
br />
If they had needed confirmation of the severity of the threat posed by Gamal Belkaïd, Anaïs Brunet mused, glancing down at the images displayed on the screen of her laptop, the DGSI’s overnight raid on the suspected safehouse near Nouvonville had surely provided it.
If in a far grimmer manner than any of them had hoped, as the blast-scorched, blood-stained inner walls of the safehouse bore testament.
“. . .triggered a small IED in the dwelling’s kitchen,” she heard Dubois announce, his voice a flat monotone, “killing two gendarmes and wounding four more.”
Brunet winced. The death toll had gone up since the initial report, which had mentioned only the one officer.
“Je suis désolé, Raoul. Brave men.”
On-screen, Dubois nodded, accepting her condolences with a look of weary resignation. “As you will already have been informed, no one was there. Either they had already left the area, or they fled after the discovery of Benslimane’s body. But it was not entirely a dry hole. If you’ll look at the photos we sent over, Anaïs, we were able to obtain confirmation that the film made of Daniel Mahrez’s execution was made in the basement of the house. And we found a trove of litter and other paraphernalia left behind when Belkaïd and his people made their exit, including a laptop computer. We’re working to determine what intelligence can be derived from. . .”
Dubois’ monologue continued, but Brunet was no longer listening, her attention drawn to where Albert Godard sat off to her left, an expression of unusual animation on his face as he stared at his laptop, his eyes suddenly darting up to meet her gaze. “Excusez-moi, madame le directeur. . .”
“Qu'est-ce que c'est, Albert?” What is it?
“It’s the laptop,” he explained quietly, feeling every eye in the room, suddenly on him. “It’s the one we gave LYSANDER.”
11:34 A.M.
The safehouse
Coulommiers, France
“. . .unconfirmed reports of an explosion and fire outside the Ardennes town of Nouvonville early this morning, accompanied by a massive police presence. At this time, we. . .”
Belkaïd swore beneath his breath, his eyes fixed on the newscast playing out across the laptop’s screen.
He didn’t look over at Harry, didn’t need to. Each man knew what the other was thinking—or thought they knew.
But it was Aryn who spoke first, leaning against the doorway. “We knew this was going to come, once they found Driss’ body. It was only a matter of time.”
“We need to leave,” Belkaïd announced, tension pervading the older man’s voice. “Within the next few hours.”
“You’re coming with us?” Harry asked, surprised at his words. There had been no indication that he had ever intended to be part of the attack.
“Non,” Belkaïd replied, shaking his head. “Only so far as Montmorency. I have a residence, an hour southwest of Paris. I will go there and await the results, with my sister.”
Oh, yes. He remembered it having been mentioned, around the warehouse in Liège. . .somewhere in the Eure-et-Loir department, near a town called Béville-le-Comte, he thought.
“They will come for you there, after what we have done.”
“Let them,” the older man replied, a stolid, defiant look in his dark eyes. “They will have no proof, and even if they do. . .”
He clenched his fist, raising it to display the old tattoo. The man between four walls. “I have been in their prisons once before—I am not afraid of going back.”
It may not be prison. It was another thought best left unsaid. Unlike their rule-bound allies across the Channel, the French had rarely been squeamish about utilizing more. . .“direct” methods of dealing with those they wished to put out of the way.
Assassination. Often carried out by the DGSE’s very own Division Action, running its operations out of Fort Noisy-le-Sec in Seine-Saint-Denis. He had worked with some of their officers over the years, knew their reputation was. . .hard-earned.
Wouldn’t have wanted to find himself in their cross-hairs.
He left Belkaïd a moment later, heading down the hallway back toward the room where their gear had been stowed—some of the Algerian’s men, working the entire previous day to rig the vests with the explosives the Russian had provided. Explosives, laced with scrap metal and ball bearings, embedded in the plastique.
Devastation.
Like so many times before. He would be wearing one of these, just as he had back in Leeds, running his deadly bluff against Conor Hale. Bluff? No, for he had been deadly serious that day. Hell-bent on achieving his mission. No matter the cost.
Harry reached out, running a hand over the vest, noting the carefully concealed wires, running to the detonator tucked in the pocket. The sheets of explosive had been molded thin enough for the vests to be concealed under even a light windbreaker, though even that would be conspicuous in the August heat. No help for it.
His fingers found the wire, tugged at it gently—testing its strength. It would be so simple to disable the vests, conceal the damage, until it was far too late. Until. . .
“Ibrahim.”
11:41 A.M.
Saint-Marguerite
Marseille, France
It was a quiet neighborhood. Peaceful, Armand Césaire thought, raising his hand once more to knock on the door.
Just the sort of a place where a man would want to raise his family.
The house itself was small, constructed from stark concrete block, its roof red—so characteristic of this part of Marseille, its white shutters now faded by the passage of time, their paint chipping to reveal the bare paint beneath.
He was standing at the top of the second flight of outside stairs leading to the main entry—exposed, the intelligence officer within him noted. His presence, painfully visible to anyone passing through the neighborhood.
Still nothing. Césaire glanced through the window of the door, unable to descry anything of the interior—the bright late-morning sun reflecting off the glass.
And then he heard footsteps, and the voice of a small child, from somewhere within.
“I want my son to know a better world—a better France than my parents knew, than I have known. I want to help create that world.”
A world he hadn’t himself lived to see, if it were even possible. Césaire winced, remembered Daniel’s words on that last night in Paris, the two of them, having dinner together one final time before he went under as “Marwan Abdellaoui.”
He hadn’t had the heart to tell him that a “better world” was beyond the ability of any one man to create. That France. . .was never likely to change, no matter how many young Muslims might lay down their lives for the tri-color.
Daniel Mahrez’s own ancestors—hard-bitten desert fighters from France’s colonial posessions fighting in the ranks of the French 1re Armée—had once, after all, liberated this very city from the Nazis. . .and won nothing for it but a bloody war in their own homeland, a scant decade later.
But being a case officer wasn’t about telling the truth. So he had told the young man what he needed to hear, and sent him off. To his death.
A death the whole country would learn of, soon enough. It had surprised them all that the video hadn’t been released on the Internet yet, but the decision had finally been made to notify his family. Brunet’s call, he imagined, like as not. Which is why he was here, standing at this door in Marseille.
He heard the sound of a bolt being slid back—the door opening but a crack, the face of an older woman staring out at him, her face framed by the light cloth of a hijab, dark, suspicious eyes emanating from deep, weathered sockets.
“Madame Hania Mahrez? Is she at home?”
“Oui,” the woman nodded, “ma belle-fille.”
Daughter-in-law. So this was Daniel’s mother, Césaire realized, a pang striking at his very heart. “May I come in for a moment? I am a colleague of Daniel’s.”
Was.
“S’il vous plait.”
11:43 A.M.
Coulommiers, France
The sound of the voice sent a chill shuddering down Harry’s spine, turning to find Nora standing there in the doorway, watching him. His opportunity for sabotage, slipping away in that moment.
“Yassin tells me that I’ll be going as part of your group,” she observed, her eyes watching his face closely, “not his. Pour quoi?”
She began to close the door behind her, as if wanting this conversation to remain private, but he shook his head, motioning for her to leave it open to the hall without—it would not do for a man like himself to be found alone with a woman, no matter what Belkaïd might himself have done with her. Even this was borderline, according to the tenets of the faith as he would have learned them in the Salafist mosques of Germany.
“Yassin still feels great affection for you, on account of his brother’s love,” he began, his own voice cold and aloof. “If he was with you in those final moments. . .it might unman him, cause him to lose sight of his purpose.”
He saw the flash of anger in her eyes, raised a hand to cut her off. “You weaken us, sister. . .by your very presence, you cause us to lose strength. I have told you before that you should leave, go home—this jihad is not yours.”
“This jihad belongs to everyone who has the faith to believe in it,” she retorted, moving in closer to him. Picking up one of the suicide vests and lifting it up, against her chest. “If women were not meant to fight. . .why does one find them among the companions of the Prophet? Why did Nusaybah bint Ka’ab so nearly give her life, fighting by his side?”
Nusaybah, Harry thought, remembering the hadiths well. She had been one of Muhammad’s earliest converts, and when the Muslim army had scattered before an enemy charge at the battle of Uhud, she had been one of only ten fighters who held their ground, fighting like demons, shielding their beloved prophet from his enemies, offering their own lives for his.
Presence of Mine Enemies Page 55
