Authors: John Weisman
Tags: #Intelligence Officers, #Fiction, #Suspense Fiction, #Prevention, #Thrillers, #Suspense, #Terrorism, #Terrorism - Prevention, #Undercover Operations, #Espionage, #Military Intelligence
Tom squinted at the steamy window and read the Arabic aloud. “Abu Ali Café.” He started to exit the Audi, but Reuven grabbed his arm. “Stay put.” Tom shook off the Israeli’s hand. “I want to see what he’s doing,” he said in French.
Reuven shook his head and continued in Arabic. “It doesn’t matter what he’s doing—he’ll get back in the car in a minute—the flashers are going.” The Israeli’s tone was rebuking. “C’mon, man—take a look at the people in the street. It’s like we turned the corner and suddenly we’re in Beirut, or Oran. Look at yourself. You put your gringo ass anywhere near that place, you’ll blow us.”
“What if he’s meeting Ben Said there? Or phoning him?” “If he is,” Reuven said, “we’ll find out about it soon enough.” The Israeli rubbed his hands together. “Wait him out, Tom. Time is on our side— not his.”
Tom wasn’t entirely convinced. Then he saw Hamzi come out the door of the café juggling a pair of oversize brown plastic bags. The Moroccan opened the car door, leaned inside, and dropped his cargo on the floor of the front passenger seat. Then he climbed in, closed the door on the driver’s side, checked his side mirror, pulled into the rush-hour traffic, and accelerated away.
“Food for the troops.” Reuven let Hamzi get past the metro sign at avenue Hoche, two hundred meters ahead, only then nosing the Audi forward. “He’ll veer left before the périphérique. That’ll take him back to rue du Congo.” He followed Hamzi’s trail but turned right at the metro stop, paused long enough to allow a burka-clad woman to cross against the light, then steered onto a one-way street. “This’ll take us back where we began this little diversion.” He looked at Tom’s worried expression and spoke in English. “We’ll get there before he does. Trust me.”
7:22
P
.
M
. Tom stared through the night-vision device and watched the last of the wine disappear into the cellar. All that remained now were the two pallets of olives. The heavy traffic flow on rue du Congo had dwindled to a trickle—a vehicle only every seventy, eighty seconds. Hamzi’s Mercedes sat on the sidewalk behind the truck. Hamzi himself had disappeared inside his storefront with the two bags of takeout and hadn’t reappeared in more than an hour.
“So?” His eyes still on Boissons Maghreb, Tom nudged Reuven. “How do we activate the Algerians?”
Reuven tapped the cell phone in his hand. “One call.”
“Are they close?”
Reuven remained silent.
“How does it all work, Reuven? What happens if there’s a hitch?”
“If there’s a hitch we work around it.”
“And?”
“And what? We take this one step at a time, Tom. One step at a time.” He looked analytically at the American. “This is your first, isn’t it?”
“My first.”
“What you people call direct action.”
Tom swallowed hard. Then his head bobbed up and down once. “Affirmative.”
“Listen to me: it’s all right to be nervous. You’re jumpy. That’s natural, too—so long as it’s just the two of us. But you can’t ever show it. Not to outsiders.”
“I know, Reuven.”
“Listen to me,” the Israeli continued. “Direct action is different from everything else you’ve ever done. It’s more than mind games, or exploiting vulnerabilities, or spot, assess, develop, recruit, and run—all the agent stuff you’re so very good at.” He paused. “Direct action is full contact, Tom. It’s life-and-death. It’s the soldiering part of what we do.”
“But...”
The Israeli looked at Tom. “You’re ambivalent.”
Tom shrugged, his hand inadvertently brushing the black gauze affixed between them and the windshield.
“You were never in the Army.”
“No.”
“Me, I’m a big believer in universal service. It’s a great leveler. In Israel, we form friendships in the Army that last a lifetime. One reason is that we stay in the same reserve unit for years and years. Train with the same people. Fight with the same people.”
“What’s your point?”
“My particular unit,” Reuven said, “honed very special skills. We were trained to observe our enemies for long periods of time without attracting attention, and then kill them quickly. Not by the hundreds, either. But by ones and twos, or sixes and sevens. Sometimes during hostage rescue situations—up close, with great speed, surprise, and violence of action. Sometimes looking them in the eyes as they died. Sometimes sniping them from great distances, and sometimes executing them asleep in their beds.”
He gave Tom a quick glance, gauging his reaction. “Killing,” Reuven said, “is a skill—a craft, if you will. Your man McGee had it. He was no murderer, no sociopath. But he understood what had to be done—and when it was necessary he took the proper action.”
He gave Tom another fleeting look, and Tom saw the sadness in the Israeli’s eyes. Then he realized it wasn’t sadness at all. It was weariness. It was the bone-tiring fatigue that came from so many years of shadow warfare, so many years of intensity, passion, and rage.
Reuven continued: “There is no joy in taking life. But there are people in this world who need to be killed. Removed permanently, because of the threat they present.”
The Israeli paused. “That may sound cold. But Israel has been at war a long time, Tom. Every day is life-and-death for us. And so we are used to making hard decisions about taking human lives. You can use any term you like: direct action, lethal finding, targeted killing, assassination. The nomenclature is simply a bureaucratic determination. The goal is the same: to forever remove a specific threat; a threat so severe that if we let that threat persist, our citizens will die. So we do what we have to do—and we suffer the consequences on the world stage with our eyes open.”
He paused. “Y’know, for years, America thought of terror as a law enforcement problem. We in Israel never did. We always knew it was war. Call it what you will—warfare on the cheap, asymmetrical warfare, warfare by other means, insurgency—terrorism is war. Dirty war, but war nonetheless. And the object of war is to kill more of the enemy than they kill of you.”
“I know.”
“Well, for years, you Americans allowed terrorists to kill more of your people than you killed terrorists without suffering consequences. All those planes hijacked. All those Americans murdered in Beirut, in Khartoum, in Mogadishu, in Pakistan, in Kenya, in Jordan, in Tanzania, in Saudi—and in Israel. Now, after 9/11, you finally began to see some light. To deal with terrorism as what it is: unrestricted warfare.”
“But the cycle of violence, Reuven.”
The Israeli made a dismissive gesture. “Ach, the so-called cycle of violence is a lie. If the cycle-of-violence argument were true, then the Germans would still be suicide-bombing Brits and Americans for the tens of thousands of German civilians who were slaughtered during World War Two’s firebombing raids.” He looked at the American. “Here is the truth, Tom. This man, Ben Said, has to be stopped.”
“I agree. So why not turn him over to the French—do what MJ suggested?”
“My reaction? Bottom line? Because of what he knows,” Reuven said. “Look, this guy is a specialist. A genius who has managed a quantum leap in the construction of small, deadly, explosive devices.” The Israeli paused. “That’s why I say it’s important—imperative—that he takes his secrets to his grave.” Something external caught Reuven’s attention and he peered through the Audi’s windshield. “I don’t think Tony Wyman or Charlie Hoskinson would disagree, either. Already, this animal has done quite enough damage. Quite enough for a lifetime.”
The hard expression on Reuven’s face calcified. “Believe me—I know the extent of the damage the Ben Saids of the world can cause.”
That was when Tom really got what Sam Waterman had been talking about when he’d told Tom that retirement was just another form of cover. Understood why Reuven had agreed so readily to run 4627’s Tel Aviv operation. Why the Israeli had been working so feverishly for the past couple of weeks. Why he’d pulled strings to get Tom access at Qadima. Why he’d been able to arrange in a matter of minutes for Salah to come to Paris. Why he’d scratched his hands bloody creating the graffiti on the cell wall at the warehouse. It was personal.
Tom shifted on the leather seat so he could see Reuven’s reaction. “You think it was one of Ben Said’s suicide vests that killed Leah.”
If Tom had expected a visible epiphany, he didn’t get one. The Israeli’s face showed no reaction—not a quiver. No lump in throat. No sigh of angst. No deeply evocative moan. It was Reuven’s absolute silence that was so damned eloquent. All Tom heard were the ambient noises of the street and his own measured breathing.
After about a minute, Reuven shattered the vacuum. “If you display anything but steely resolve, you’ll lose control of the op, Tom. And you know as well as I do that control is everything, especially when you’re working false flag or through an access agent.”
The reason behind Reuven’s penchant for deflection, Tom understood, was that there were some doors, some compartments, some hidden emotional and operational caches that the practitioners of their particular trade refused to open for anyone—even the best of friends. Especially the best of friends. Tom nodded. “Gotcha, Reuven.”
“I hope so.” Reuven turned toward the American. “Now, when we grab Hamzi, you’ll get behind the wheel of this car. Don’t let anyone see your face—even with a prosthetic. Don’t say anything. Don’t freeze. And for God’s sake, don’t react.”
“React to what?”
“Remember.” Once again, the Israeli deflected Tom’s question. “Whatever happens, your job tonight is to get this car back to the warehouse. Full stop. My responsibilities lie with Hamzi and the barrels.” He looked at Tom. “Got it?”
“We’ll meet back at the warehouse, then.” Tom nodded. And although he was uncomfortable with the subtext of whatever Reuven’s operational decision with regard to Ben Said might turn out to be, he decided he could live with that part of it. “Got it, Reuven.”
9:04
P
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M
. The last load of olives disappeared belowground. Tom watched as the two steel doors were dropped and a heavy lock was run through the hasp that protruded at sidewalk level. One of the cargo loaders swung into the cab of the truck, started the ignition, eased into the deserted street, and drove off. Thirty seconds later, two of Hamzi’s employees came out the front door carrying eight-foot metal poles with handles on one end and hooks on the other. They reached up, snagged the outer edges of the corrugated steel security curtain, and yanked it downward.
From their vantage point eighty yards away, Tom and Reuven could hear the dissonant sound of metal on metal. As the Maghreb workers locked the curtain in place, Reuven retrieved a hands-free unit from the Audi’s console. He stuck the plug into the top of his cell phone and screwed the foam earpiece into his right ear. The microphone rested against his clavicle.
9:17. Hamzi came through Boissons Maghreb’s front door. He was carrying two bottles of wine. He unlocked the Mercedes, laid the bottles on the front passenger seat, slammed the door, and locked the car again. Then he went back inside.
9:23. Hamzi appeared again. This time he was wearing his overcoat. He wore it cape-style, thrown over his shoulders collar up, in the affected European fashion. Hamzi went to the rear of his car. He hit his remote. The running lights flashed three times and the trunk popped open. The Moroccan reached in and adjusted something. Then he signaled the doorway. Two of his helpers appeared. Each was carrying a pair of two-foot-high blue plastic barrels. Hamzi took them one at a time and placed them in the Mercedes’ trunk. He reached down, produced a long bungee cord, and secured the barrels together to prevent them from tipping over. He stared for an instant, and then, satisfied with his work, slammed the trunk door closed.
HAMZI TURNED AND, GESTICULATING, obviously gave instructions to his people. Then he climbed into the car and turned the ignition switch. Showtime. Reuven allowed the Mercedes to drive off. Tom reacted, but the Israeli said, “Not to worry, boychik, he’s covered. We let the work get done, then we do our jobs.”
9:27. Reuven retrieved a pair of thin leather driving gloves from the console and pulled them on. Then he turned the ignition key and put the car in gear, accelerating smoothly onto rue du Congo then immediately swinging left, to head north on a narrow one-way street.
Reuven steered with his left hand, his right index finger pressing against the cell-phone earpiece, his expression one of intense concentration. “Gotcha,” he said. “On my way.”
There was a blinking traffic light ahead. Reuven ran it then immediately swung right, onto the quai that ran parallel to the Canal de l’Orecq. Tom looked over at the Israeli, his face a mask of concern. “Jeezus—what about Hamzi’s cell phone?”
“The intercept vehicles have frequency jammers.” Reuven floored the big sedan, flattening Tom against the passenger seat. “Hold on.”
“They have what?” Algerian gangbangers didn’t have access to frequency jammers.
Reuven ignored Tom’s question. He accelerated past one of the canal locks then drifted left, onto a narrow bridge that spanned the canal. Tom took a quick glance as Reuven sped north, then west. Jeezus H. Keerist, they were less than half a block from the Pantin Garde Nationale barracks.
Tires squealing, Reuven four-wheel-drifted around a corner. He sped east until he reached the chain-link perimeter fence that marked the big commuter rail storage and maintenance facility. He turned south, then east again, finally threading the needle past a set of steel-and-concrete barriers into a narrow, dark street that looked as if it had been flattened by bombs. Reuven looked at Tom. “Everything demolished,” he said disparagingly, “to make way for a branch of IKEA. Progress, eh?”
There, in the Audi’s headlights, was Hamzi’s Mercedes. The Moroccan’s car was trapped in a pincer by two dark-colored late-model sedans with Paris license plates. Behind the Mercedes were a pair of motorcycles. As Reuven pulled up, Tom could see the motorcycle riders. They wore black leather and visored helmets that covered their faces. The drivers, dressed in dark jeans and leather jackets, had balaclavas. All four were armed: two pointed long, dark semiautomatic pistols at the Mercedes. The other pair held miniature submachine guns with suppressors fixed onto their stubby barrels.
The Mercedes had stalled out. Inside, the Moroccan was looking wildly around, screaming into what was obviously a useless cell phone.
“Goddamnit—what are they waiting for, the Messiah?” The Israeli slammed to a screeching stop, smashed his palm into the dash and extinguished the headlights, jumped out of the car, and ran to the door of the Mercedes.
With a gloved hand he smashed the window, reached inside, switched the car’s lights off, yanked the door open, jerked Hamzi out onto the street, pulled the cell phone out of the Moroccan’s hand, body-slammed him onto the ground, and dropped onto his back. Hamzi’s thick-framed glasses skittered across the macadam.
For an instant, Hamzi froze. Then he must have realized he was struggling for his life, and he tried to roll out of Reuven’s grasp. But Reuven wasn’t going anywhere. Tom could sense the man’s desperation as he bucked and kicked.
Reuven must have caught sight of Tom because suddenly he whirled, looked back toward the Audi, and shouted, “Go-go-go!”
Tom heard. But he couldn’t move. Everything was wrong. The snatch wasn’t going according to plan. Not even close. He and Reuven were scheduled to take control of Hamzi in Bagnolet. Not here. Not so close to Boissons Maghreb.
The Moroccan screamed. Reuven grabbed Hamzi by the hair and yanked his head backward. He twisted the Moroccan’s neck. Hamzi struggled even more wildly. He kicked and screamed and tried to pull himself off the ground. Reuven smashed the side of the Moroccan’s head into the pavement and Hamzi crumpled. He still struggled, but the fight had gone out of him.
Finally, the others piled on. The subgun-toting motorcycle riders slung their weapons and held Hamzi down. Another assaulter clapped a gloved hand over the Moroccan’s mouth. The second balaclava wearer handed Reuven a large black canvas satchel. The Israeli unzipped the bag and rummaged through until he found what he was looking for: a small leather case. He opened the case, extracted a syringe-looking device, pulled the needle protector off, and plunged the syrette right through Hamzi’s overcoat into the man’s hip.
The Moroccan went limp. Reuven stood up. He replaced the syringe in its case and dropped the case into the satchel. He looked at one of the leather-clad figures and pointed at his submachine gun. It, too, was placed in the bag.
Then Reuven produced a roll of tape and bound Hamzi’s legs together at the ankles. The Moroccan’s arms were also quickly pinioned. Then Reuven grabbed Hamzi under his arms and dragged him back to the Mercedes. Reuven let Hamzi’s body slip to the ground. He opened the Mercedes’ rear door and, with the help of one of the black-clad men, pulled the Moroccan onto the rear seat. The black satchel was tossed in next. Finally, Hamzi’s body was covered with a dark blanket that one of the black-clad figures handed to Reuven. Someone handed Hamzi’s glasses to the Israeli, who dropped them into the breast pocket of his coveralls.
Tom still sat transfixed. Dumbstruck. The whole sequence hadn’t taken more than half a minute. They’d rehearsed this. They’d had to.
That was when Reuven looked over to where he was sitting frozen in the passenger seat of the Audi. “Why in God’s name are you sitting like a statue?” he shouted at Tom in Arabic. “Remember what I told you? Get the hell out of here.”
Reuven flicked his cell phone open, punched a number, and spoke rapid Hebrew. Then he whistled once sharply and circled an index finger in the air next to his head. The four others jumped on the bikes, wheelied, and sped off into the night.
Only Reuven and Tom remained. Reuven slid behind the wheel of the Mercedes and slammed the door shut. He looked back. “Damnit, Tom—”
“I’m going.” Tom pulled himself out of the Audi, went around the hood of the car, dropped into the driver’s seat, adjusted it, snapped the door shut, and slammed the car into gear. His head was spinning. These weren’t Algerians. Gangbangers. Drug enforcers. The whole thing was too slick, too professional. Corsicans, maybe. Who knew who they were. Who knew what the hell was going on.
And then Tom realized exactly what the hell was going on.
Because Reuven had told him, “Control is everything, especially when you’re working false flag or through an access agent.” And like some frigging greenhorn he’d nodded dumbly and said, “Gotcha, Reuven.”
This was a false-flag op, all right. A goddamn Mossad false-flag op. Reuven was in control. Hadn’t Shahram been trained by Israelis? They’d no doubt recruited him years ago. And Reuven? His portfolio in Paris had included Iran. Tom’s mind flashed back to Herzlyia. The retired Shin Bet man Amos Aricha had known Ben Said was formulating the new explosive in small batches. Only Shahram had known that factoid.
Reuven had known about Ben Said all along. He’d recruited Tom as the access agent. And if anything went wrong, 4627 were the patsies who’d take the fall. Tom slammed the steering wheel with such force that he bent it. “Reuven, you goddamn son of a bitch.”
He stomped the brakes, threw the car into reverse, and backed up violently, smacking the rear bumper of the Audi into the Mercedes, jamming it into the intercept cars.
He set the parking brake, jumped out, ran to the Mercedes, and pounded on the roof of the car with his fist. “Goddamnit, Reuven—open up.” Reuven swiveled around, threw the Mercedes into reverse, powered up the big sedan... and accelerated. The smell of burning rubber rose into the night air. But the Audi didn’t budge.
“Goddamnit to hell, Reuven—” Tom’s pounding put a dimple, then a crease, in the roof of the German car. “Let me in or you go nowhere.” The Israeli lowered the passenger-side window. “Move the Audi, Tom.” “Then what?”
The Israeli thought about it. “Then you can come with me.” “All the way?”
Reuven scratched under his hairpiece. “To the end,” he finally said. “We’ll play it out together.” He looked at Tom and his voice softened just a bit. “You’ve earned it.”
Tom pondered the offer. “Keys, Reuven.”
The Israeli blinked. “What?”
“Give me the keys first.”
Reuven examined Tom’s face. Then he grimaced, and with a sigh pulled the keys out of the ignition and handed them to the American. “Happy now?”
“No, I’m royally pissed—at me more than at you.” Tom shoved the keys in his pocket, strode back to the Audi, and moved it out of the way, handling the vehicle roughly. He turned off the ignition and was just about to lock the doors when Reuven exited the Mercedes.
Tom pulled himself out of the Audi and went around to the opposite side of the car to put distance between himself and Reuven. He was both disappointed and disgusted with himself. He was as blind as Tenet’s CIA. He’d had no idea what the man’s actual intentions were. He’d relied on a liaison relationship and that relationship had screwed him. Tom stood, fists clenched, as the Israeli approached.
Reuven reacted to Tom’s body language and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, boychik,” he said. “Since you’re coming with me, we’d better wipe this car down and get everything out of it. Then I’ll torch it.” “But the cops’ll track the registration.”
“Not this one—unless they keep track of Audis stolen in Turkey.” He gestured toward Tom’s hands. “Believe me, there’s no records.” He paused. “When you get into Hamzi’s car, touch nothing, or use your handkerchief. You’re not wearing gloves and I’m not carrying an extra pair. I don’t think leaving fingerprints or evidence is a good idea.”