Direct Action (10 page)

2:12
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. “Let’s walk the lunch off.” Shahram shrugged into his overcoat, draped the long scarf around his neck in the European fashion, and pulled on his gloves while Tom said his good-byes to Monsieur Marie and Jeff then grabbed his own coat from the antique rack next to the front window.

The two men emerged through the narrow glass-paned door into a gray Paris afternoon. Tom glanced up at fast-moving slate-colored clouds that threatened rain and hunched his shoulders against the bone-chilling wind. Shahram didn’t seem to notice. He gave an offhand wave to the two DST agents sitting in a haze of cigarette smoke inside a silver Peugeot parked across the street.
“You have your shadows with you today.”
“They were waiting for me at the airport this morning.”
“Oh? Any reason?” Tom remembered the urgency in Shahram’s tone

the previous night. And at lunch, his demeanor had been both intense and unsettled, anomalous behavior for the Iranian.

Once again, Shahristani deflected the question. “Henri and JeanClaude. Good kids. Henri’s the one behind the wheel. He has twins.”
Tom caught a quick glimpse of the pair. They were kids, too— twentysomethings who wore mustaches so they’d look older—dressed in the wide-lapel, double-breasted retro chalk-stripe suits that were just now coming back into fashion. A couple of baby-faced gumshoes trying to look like Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon.
But they were no doubt well trained. DST’s Paris agents were some of the best operators in the world when it came to surveillance. In fact, CIA insisted that case officers heading for Paris take the denied-area-operations course—the same six-week course designed for spooks going to Moscow and Beijing. That was because DST was better equipped, more sophisticated, and much more highly motivated than the Soviets or the Chinese had ever been.
“Come.” Shahram put his right arm through Tom’s left and steered the younger man by the elbow along the busy sidewalk toward the Place des Ternes. Shahram pointed past the garish facade and rolled-up red awning of Hippopotamus, a branch of the American cum Parisian steak-andfrites chain that sat on the far side of the Faubourg du St. Honoré. “We’ll walk as far as Étoile. We’ll take our lives in our hands and cross above ground, then go down Victor Hugo as far as Boutique 22. I will buy you a cigar and myself a carton of cigarettes. Then I will go straight home for a nap and you will be free to write your report.”
Tom’s mind was racing. He didn’t want a cigar or a twenty-minute stroll. He wanted to go straight back to the five-story, nineteenth-century town house at 223 rue du Faubourg St. Honoré that was 4627’s European headquarters, scan the picture Shahram had given him into the computer, and start the process of verifying the Iranian’s claims. If Shahram’s information proved valid, Tom wanted to move the information about Imad Mugniyah and Tariq Ben Said right now. And the explosives. Air France flights to Tel Aviv were subject to extraordinary security measures. If Ben Said’s new formula for plastique could escape detection at de Gaulle, it truly was invisible.
The threat was unprecedented. In the 1990s, Ramzi Yousef, who’d been responsible for the 1993 World Trade Center bombing, had devised a plan to blow up a dozen American airliners at the same time. If Ben Said’s plastique was undetectable, al-Qa’ida could bring down God knows how many flights simultaneously.
Tom said, “Hold on just a sec, Shahram.” He reached into his pocket, took the cell phone, and punched a number into it. “Tony, it’s Tom. Where are you?” He paused. “Can you get away? Meet me back in the office in”—he looked over at Shahristani and shrugged—“fifteen minutes. It’s critical.”
Shahristani said, “Half an hour, Tom—we must walk farther.”
Tom didn’t want any delay. Because what he’d just learned was more than critical. It was personal. Personal, because Tom felt he owed something to Jim McGee. Jim McGee, the disposable who’d volunteered to put his butt on the line without backup and paid the price. McGee’s murder deserved to be avenged—and in a timely fashion.
He looked into the Iranian’s sad eyes and sighed. This was Shahram, and certain... proprieties had to be observed. It was all about tradition, and respect. So he said, “I’ll see you in half an hour, Tony,” shut the phone down, slipped it back into his coat, and allowed himself to be guided by the older man.
They marched in slow, deliberate lockstep toward the square. As the two of them ambled past the entrance to the huge Brasserie Lorraine, which took up most of the northeastern side of the irregularly shaped place, Tom suddenly caught the scent of the sea wafting past his nose. He glanced over at the brasserie. Crates filled with oysters, shrimp, crabs, and lobsters all packed in ice and cradled by seaweed were piled against the restaurant’s wall. One of the brasserie’s countermen was shucking large, green-tinged Marennes and placing them on a three-tiered server.
Shahram gestured with his head toward the stacks of shellfish. “The best oysters in Paris, Thomas. Have you ever eaten here?”
“Twice. The food was okay.”
“ ‘Okay,’ he says.” Shahram laughed and tweaked Tom’s elbow, pulling himself closer to avoid a pair of overeager tourists weighed down by video cameras and carrying huge, partially unfolded Michelin maps. “You are preoccupied, dear boy.”
Tom grunted. His attention was focused on the steel-and-glass display cases that held Belons, Marennes, and Creuses arranged artfully by size and displayed on shaved ice. You could order them by the piece or by la douzaine and eat them on the spot. They were delicious.
Suddenly, from somewhere behind him, Tom heard shouting.
Instinctively, he turned toward the sound. “What the—”
The Iranian’s grip on his elbow tightened. Shahram pushed him rudely, almost knocking him to the ground.
Tom staggered, but caught his balance. Shahram fell up against him. The Iranian uttered a huge wheeze and gasped, “Thomas?”
As Tom reacted, the old man’s knees went out from under him and he sagged to the ground.
“Shahram?” Tom tried to catch his friend under his arms. But Shahram was already deadweight.
It was a goddamn heart attack. Shahram slipped to the sidewalk. He collapsed face forward. Tom tried to roll him onto his back, but couldn’t. He screamed, “Somebody get a doctor, a doctor—quickly!”
Tom lifted Shahram’s head. He saw that the Iranian’s eyes had rolled back. He reached around, unbuttoned Shahram’s coat, and loosened the scarf. “C’mon, c’mon—a doctor!”
He felt Shahram’s neck, but sensed no pulse. He pressed his cheek against Shahram’s chest to listen for a heartbeat. Nothing. He was about to start CPR when suddenly an arm was thrown around his neck, he was yanked backward, wrestled across the sidewalk, spun rudely onto all fours, and kicked in the ribs hard enough to lift him clear off the pavement.
He landed badly, his trouser knees shredding on the rough concrete. He tried to claw his way back to Shahram, but got a chop to the throat and an elbow to the side of his head for his troubles.
Tom saw stars. Everything went out of focus. He fought the pain, struggled to his feet, half collapsed, then regained his balance. He tried to scream that Shahram had suffered a heart attack, but all that came out of his throat was a gurgle.
He saw he’d been attacked by one of Shahram’s DST shadows. The youngster was already on his knees, unbuttoning Shahram’s jacket and shirt. But when he looked down, all he said was, “Merde.”
Where was the other agent? As Tom looked around in panic, he saw the second DST man, a gun in one hand, a radio in the other, dashing across the boulevard, heading north, toward Avenue de Wagram.
And then he saw the dark stain spreading onto Shahram’s shirt. The DST agent moved the Iranian’s left arm upward, and Tom saw where he’d been wounded—shot or stabbed just under the armpit.
He edged forward. “Please . . .” The DST agent gave Tom a long and dirty look. But he finally gestured as if to say, C’mon, and Tom crawled over to his friend.
Shahram’s eyes were open. But they were already clouded. Tom lifted the old man off the cold concrete and cradled his head in his lap. He looked down at his left hand. It was wet—covered with blood. He wiped the hand on his jacket.
Tom began to see spots in front of his eyes. The world started to turn black and white. Tom hyperventilated, fighting to remain conscious. From somewhere in the distance, he could hear the raucous hee-hawing of sirens approaching. It had begun to drizzle. He hunched over, to protect his friend from the raindrops, and regained control over his own body. Carefully, he brushed hair away from the Iranian’s forehead. Then he slipped his hand over Shahram’s face and tenderly closed his eyes.

10

18 OCTOBER 2003
8:35
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17 RUE RAYNOUARD, PARIS

MJ USED ONE OF THE FOUR KEYS on her Arc de Triomphe souvenir key chain to open the heavy wood door that led into the courtyard hidden behind the gray stone facade of the six-story apartment building. She held the door open with her shoulder, shifted her huge purse, which had slipped off her shoulder, back where it belonged, and muscled her carry-on through the opening. Carefully, she leaned against the door to press it closed, then rolled the suitcase across the flagstones to a second door, which led into the small foyer just past the concierge’s apartment, where the antique elevator shaft ascended up through the stairwell.

She watched as the cagelike ascenseur descended. MJ was more than a little upset. More than a little? Hell—she was fuming. The day had begun with Mrs. Sin-Gin. It had ended with a horrendous flight. The plane was full—every single seat occupied. There were long stretches of turbulence that kept everyone buckled in, nervous, and claustrophobic. Worst of all, her seat back hadn’t reclined, not at all. And so she’d been condemned to sit straight up, the seat in front of her barely six inches from her nose, for the entire eight hours.

Her arrival at de Gaulle was no better. The passport control lines had been endless—only one surly agent on duty for the hundreds of bedraggled travelers from half a dozen flights that had touched down simultaneously. Her bag? It was the last one on the carousel, naturellement. Worst of all, Tom had been supposed to meet her, but he hadn’t. Instead, as she disembarked she’d been paged, then handed a message.

Something’s come up, it read tersely. See you at the apartment. He hadn’t even bothered to dictate his name or say he was sorry.
And so, instead of a comfortable ride in Tom’s Jaguar, she’d rolled her suitcase to the Air France ticket counter, paid her ten euros, waited inside the dank terminal for almost thirty minutes, then climbed aboard a boxy red, white, and blue bus with thirty other loners and sat, getting more and more depressed by the minute, as the steamy-windowed vehicle lumbered through the chill drizzle first to Porte Maillot, then on to Étoile. There, she’d stood in the rain listening to her hair frizz, enduring another fifteen minutes of hell until she was finally able to snag a cab for the seven-minute ride to rue Raynouard.
MJ wrestled the sliding gate open, smacked the elevator door with her suitcase, and emerged into darkness. She fumbled around until she found the minuterie switch and pressed it, relieved when the corridor lit up. She pulled her bag out of the elevator and allowed the narrow door to swing closed. She turned to her left and was halfway down the hallway when she stopped, said, “Goddamn French elevators,” let go of the suitcase, trudged back the way she’d come, yanked the stupid French door open so she could slam the stupid open-it-yourself French gate shut so all the other damn French could use the damn French elevator.
Of course the lights went out just as she’d let the elevator door hiss closed. She cursed under her breath, found the minuterie button, pressed it, and, soggy sneakers squeaking on the marble floor, finally made her way to the end of the hallway, let herself in, and double-locked the metal door behind her.
She turned on the lights and looked around. Nothing had changed. She walked to the window and looked across the rooftops toward the Eiffel Tower, whose crown disappeared in the morning mist. At least that was still here. MJ stared for perhaps half a minute, finding the sight hugely therapeutic. Then she turned away and rolled her suitcase into the bedroom.
Propped on the pillow was a huge shopping bag from Louis Vuitton, to which was taped an envelope on which was written Marilyn Jean. She opened the envelope. There was a card inside. It was from Tom. It said, I love you all the world, MJ.
From the shopping bag she removed a heavy rectangular Vuitton box, tied with brown-and-gold ribbon. She untied the bow and took the cover off the box. Inside, under a layer of perfectly folded tissue paper, sat a brown backpack, trimmed in leather, with gold hardware and patterned with Vuitton’s trademark interlocking golden LVs. It was absolutely gorgeous. She examined the bag minutely. Minibackpacks were all the rage in Washington. She’d get incredible use out of it. How wonderful. How exotic. And how expensive.
Carefully, MJ replaced the backpack in its box and set it aside. She set her suitcase on the bed and unzipped it so she could unpack her toilet kit. In order of preference, she wanted a long hot shower, a cup of fresh-brewed coffee, and—despite the fantastic backpack—a detailed damn explanation from him.
It being the day from hell, however, she soon discovered that the hot water lasted only a miserly six minutes, and that Tom was clean out of coffee. But being MJ, which meant she was resourceful, she adapted. By 10:15, the new backpack slung over her shoulder, she’d reconnoitered the cluster of stores around the Place de Costa Rica and bought enough essentials to last them the weekend. By noon, when she heard Tom’s key in the door, she was enjoying her third mug of perfect café au lait and her second, sinful pain au chocolat.
“Tom, what a wonderful, wonderful gift. It was perfect because I had the most awful—oh, my God.” He looked as if he’d been in a brawl. His shirt was askew. His trousers were ripped at the knees. His jacket had stains all over the front.
Before she could say another word, he held up his hand like a traffic cop, dropped his overcoat onto the floor, and lurched for the kitchen, pulling his jacket off as he went. He ran water onto his hands and, heedless that his clothes were getting soaked, scrubbed messily at his face, neck, and hair. He fumbled blindly until he found a kitchen towel and wiped himself dry. He finally turned around and saw her standing in the doorway. He draped the towel on the sink and ran a hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes. “I’m sorry, love. It’s been a bear of a night. Pour me about three fingers of cognac, will you? I’m going to get out of these clothes and climb into a shower.”