*****
It had been a very long day, after a long night last night. He grinned with pleasure. The memory of the Lebanese whore made him smile, but there was nothing else that would have. He’d been up late, he’d gotten up early, he’d been outside most of the day and all night, and he had no hope of reprieve before this thing was done, God willing, at around two o’clock in the morning. Salah groaned aloud. His feet hurt, his phone was nearly dead; he wished he could go home to bed. He glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock. He reached for the phone and pressed “Send” twice, the phone auto-dialing the last number.
“Oui?” It was Ibrahim.
“Allahuakhbar” Salah said. “God is most Great. Ibrahim, I have nothing new to report. The Saudi is still in the hotel, all is quiet here.”
“Excellent Salah, excellent. I have everything arranged. You will wait there until two, the rest will meet you as we agreed, and then you take them. I will talk with you again in two hours, at twelve.”
“Ibrahim, my phone is nearly dead. Perhaps I should not call again?”
“No, you must call. Save your battery now, I’ll ring off. Call me at twelve, Salah. God is Great.”
“God is great” Salah said to the dead line. He pressed “End”, looked again at the battery indicator. Only one bar. “Probably won’t last that long,” he thought, but he had to make his call again at midnight. He switched off the power to conserve what he had left and dropped the phone in his pocket
Across the street to his right he could see the hotel marquis, dimly lit, and the semi-circular pool of light that came through the lobby door. He hoped whoever was coming had some kind of plan, something better than he could think of. Walking into the lobby, shooting or roughing up the night clerk and demanding the room number, barging into the hotel room with guns blazing or knives slashing seemed to him likely to land him in a French prison. Not what he had in mind when he’d begun working with Ibrahim. A chill ran down his neck. Killing a couple of women and a small child were not really his thing, what he was used to was roughing people up a little, maybe a broken arm or leg, a nose perhaps. Salah squirmed inside his clothes, cold sweat running on his back and legs despite the chill in the night air. He shook it off, thinking “I’ll go and get a coffee and get out of this damned cold in a few minutes. This guy isn’t going out this late anyway.” He looked at his watch.
A shadow moving very fast crossed between him and the lights from the hotel, then something hit him in the solar plexus, taking his breath away. Struggling for air, he lashed out with his right fist, trying to connect with whatever, whoever, was attacking him. He missed, but his fist, arm, shoulder, all the rest of him kept going. Salah couldn’t understand it, for a moment he knew he was off balance, falling forward still just barely standing on his right foot, and then everything spun vertically and he hit the pavement, hard. There was a flash of light inside his head, then everything went dark. He could still hear, although there was a roaring in his ears, and he hurt all over. Then there was a prick, something sharp, and he was embarrassed about where it seemed to be, laying there face down on the sidewalk, but a moment later hearing, feeling, and pain disappeared into an endless, deep blackness.
Ripley worked quickly. It took three zip-ties to bind the big man’s ankles together, only one long one for the wrists behind his back. Only ten seconds had passed by the time Cameron screeched to a halt at the curb. Ripley lifted the limp figure, way too easily Cameron thought, and opening the door with one hand he wrestled the man into the back seat, having to bend his neck awkwardly to get the feet in, the knees also bent to get the door closed. But it was done, and Ripley said simply “Drive” as he slammed the passenger door.
Cameron moved out, in no hurry at all, looking both forward and in the mirror for any sign of trouble or alarm. Nothing. “Which way to your lair, my leader?” he quipped to Ripley, who gave a short reply and went silent. Cameron laughed aloud and drove into the night
XII. Paris
With the slightest of bumps, the Gulfstream touched down on the runway at De Gaulle airport. Jones was already awake, thinking, but the steward at the front of the cabin had gone to sleep during the descent from ten thousand feet, and his new accomplice, David Allen, seemed as though he could sleep forever. The man had barely been awake at all during the seven hour flight from Andrews. As he looked, though, Jones saw that the eyes were open, and there was a gleam there under the heavy lids. Allen turned his head slowly in Jones’ direction, winked, and closed his eyes again. “Never know when you’ll next have time to sleep,” he said absently.
They rolled to a stop outside a large hangar on the general aviation side of the airport, and the stairs were let down while the turbines were still turning. First the crew, then the two passengers descended to the tarmac, where two French officials greeted them, accompanied by two baggage handlers. The pilots handled the French.
The bags went into the back of a seven-passenger van, Jones and Allen in the middle seats, and the two Frenchmen in the front. The Gulfstream pilots waived sarcastically as the van moved off, and Jones regarded the airplane: plain white all over, except for two blue and one silver stripe down the fuselage just under the row of windows, a U.S. “N-number” registration on the tail. Nothing to mark it as U.S. government, just another set of wealthy American businessmen come to work their magic in France.
The van made its way around the perimeter of the sprawling airport on a road that ran just inside the outer security fence. Twenty meters inside that one was another fence, clearly electrified in the truly bright glare cast by huge spotlights on poles ten meters high every hundred meters or so along the road. The French were taking no chances with security at this airport. The trip took ten minutes, the drivers apparently not intent on hurry, but in the end they arrived at an unused jet way at the north end of the new terminal building. Jones and Allen clambered out of the vehicle, were handed their bags, and shown up the steps through the jet way and into the terminal itself. From here they would join the regular airline arrivals to clear immigration and customs, and they began the long walk down the polished floor, following the signs.
Jones had been here before, of course, and so had Allen. The latter was now completely alert, walking with an easy, fluid pace, his eyes moving all the time as he scanned the sparse late-night crowd. He was not obvious, but to Jones he had the look and moves of a thorough professional. To anyone else he probably looked tired. To Jones he looked like he might be a very dangerous man. “Good company on this trip,” he thought.
They saw LaPlante at about the same time. He was reading a paper, sitting in a gate waiting area with his case and coat sprawled over two chairs. Allen began talking in French about their meeting tomorrow with executives of a French software company, and Jones fell into that language with no effort at all, pointing out himself that it would be an early morning, but that he was hungry for some dinner. The two men exchanged a look that told each what each already knew. They continued the flow of talk but walked on.
Renee thought the two men looked interesting. He’d not seen what plane they got off of, but he could check that. He knew that the corporate jets often had to have their passengers let in this way to clear the authorities. He envied the rich. But the man on the right, in particular, had a walk that he knew well enough, and he did not think it was the walk of a man who was planning a meeting with software executives tomorrow. He looked at his watch—just after eleven-fifteen. His shift was over, and there were no more arrivals or departures tonight to worry about. While the two men he would follow moved further down the terminal, he collected his things, and when they were a hundred meters away he got up to begin the chase.
At the end of the terminal the two Americans turned the corner into the immigration area, and cued in the line for “other arrivals” while most of the other passengers, few though they were, moved through the EU lines as quickly as they could and into the bagg
age area. They spoke little or not at all, each looking through the meager crowd for signs of another watcher. One or two people were already using cell phones, despite the signs that prohibited this, and Jones was thinking of using his to see what had been happening during their flight when LaPlante rounded the corner twenty yards away. “No need to give him an excuse,” he thought, giving Allen a look, and he moved to his turn at the immigration counter with the false passport in the name of William Murphy ready in hand.
Allen did not turn, but waited patiently, still watching the last of the crowd. He fumbled for a moment in his briefcase and produced a ticket folder, scanned it, checked his watch, made a show of looking around for a clock on the wall. This he found, and after stowing the ticket folder, having noted LaPlante, he re-set his watch to local time. It was his turn for the immigration clerk, and he approached the counter.
“What is the purpose of your visit to Paris?” the man said rudely, holding out his hand for the passport Allen handed across.
“Business,” Allen said, disinterested but polite.
“And what is your business, monsieur, and how long will you be staying in France?” pressed the clerk.
“I am in the computer business,” Allen replied, “we customize enterprise software for mid-sized companies. My firm has several clients in Paris and I’m here for a routine check on the progress of our projects. I’m usually here for a week, occasionally ten days, but it will depend on whether there are any problems to be solved.”
The clerk tried to look unimpressed. He wondered how he could go to school, get into this computer business, travel, be important, make money. These Americans. Well, the papers were in order, there was no reason to delay any further, and he was finished for the night in three quarters of an hour anyway. He stamped the passport and closed it, adding the required “welcome to Paris, monsieur” as he handed it across the counter to Allen who took it, saying nothing, and walked on into baggage claim.
He found Jones with the cell phone to his ear, listening intently, eyes looking dangerous. They walked to the customs pass at the end of the baggage hall, through the lane marked “nothing to declare” and out into the transportation mall. There were few people.
The two men made a show of shaking hands, talking low and smiling at one another. “Meet you at the hotel Agora in St. Germaine,” Jones said. You take the train, St. Michel stop, keep the tail if he follows you. I’ll go by taxi, and call you with instructions once he’s chosen. Have to think about this, and I need to make a call to Ripley, the local guy, to make a plan.”
“No problem,” Allen smiled again, gave the proffered hand a brisk shake, turned on his heel, and headed for the ticket booth to buy a transport pass.
Jones went left, straight for the doors to the outside, and found the taxi cue empty but two taxis waiting for a fare. He hailed one, heaved his bag into the back seat, and as he contorted his body into the car he looked hard at the bank of doors where LaPlante would have to exit if he was going to follow, but the man was not there. “Good,” he thought. He was not yet certain what he wanted to do, but for now, he wanted this guy, who he assumed was a Paris policeman, to stay relatively close. Might be useful, depending on what Ripley had in play.
He’d called the comm. Center, who’d told him that Ripley had taken down one of the terrorists, and where, and that he and Cameron had taken the suspect to a hotel in St. Germaine. Jones thought that was a strange choice, but he was getting used to Cameron’s unpredictability and imagination, so he was not that surprised. He did not yet know whether they’d done anything else about the possible attack on Falcon for tonight, and that was what he must know soon if he was going to get into the act.
The taxi was rolling, he’d given an address he knew in North Paris, near Sacre Coeur, where he planned to switch to the subway himself and proceed from there to the Agora. He settled into the seat and opened his phone again, entered the number he needed, and waited.
“Nam?” answered the voice after only one ring.
“Hello, my name is Smith, calling from Phoenix, USA,” Jones said, a little surprised by the greeting. This was supposed to be the cell number Cameron had picked up . . .when was it? This morning? “Jet lag sucks” he thought.
“Phoenix,” said the voice on the other line. “Well, I’m not sure you have the right number.” There was a pause, then “What was the name of Lawrence’s book about his time with the Arab resistance?”
Jones was briefly startled, then said, a broad grin on his face, “Hello Mr. Cameron. Seven Pillars of Freedom was the title. Are you secure there, and is Ripley with you?”
“Good evening Mr. Smith,” Cameron replied, clearly pleased on the other end of the phone. ”Yes, we’re at the Hotel Agora, in St. Germaine, Ripley is with me, and, ahh, our guest is here as well.”
“Wonderful. I think I should speak to Ripley, then, if he can spare a few minutes. I need to get up to speed and I suspect we have a time press on our hands.”
“We do, and he’s just finishing up with our friend. I need to get moving, too, here’s Ripley.”
Cameron handed the phone over as Ripley came out of the second bedroom of the suite where he’d been working on the Egyptian they now knew was called Salah. It’d taken quite a cocktail of drugs to partially revive the big man from the near-coma Ripley’d put him into with the hefty dose of valium, but in the end he’d come to in just the right state for an informative conversation. Still bound hand and foot but in no pain at all laying there on one of the beds, Salah had confirmed what Ripley was already pretty sure he knew. Salah was a foot soldier, not as nasty as he looked, not a kingpin by any means, a small fish. He did know the cell number for the bigger fish up north, his near-dead phone confirmed he’d dialed the number every two hours all day today. He called the big man Ibrahim, sheik, and a few other respectful things, he had an address, which Ripley already knew, but he also named two restaurants in the same neighborhood. Beyond that he was pretty useless.
“Smith” Cameron said as he handed over the phone.
“Mr. Smith, how good to hear from you. You’ve come to Paris, I believe?”
“Uh huh,” Jones’ voice came back. “I have, and I have one associate with me, who I believe has attracted a guest of his own. He’s headed your way, guest in tow. I thought the man might be useful, but I need to know your situation.”
Ripley frowned briefly, then gave a quick summary of their actions since eight o’clock tonight. “We think the last call our friend here made set the time for a hit on the hotel. He doesn’t speak much English, sad to say, but the Colonel has some Arabic and we’re pretty sure that’ll happen around two in the morning, a little more than two hours from now, give or take depending on how prompt these guys are.” He paused. “What do you have in mind, and who’s Allen’s guest?”
“Looks like a Paris cop of some kind, very alert guy, picked us up as we walked down the terminal at De Gaulle. Kept his distance, but I’m pretty sure he’s following Allen, on the subway.”
“Just a minute,” Ripley said, covering the phone, he turned to Cameron. “Hey, Colonel, did you say some guy eyeballed you at the airport when you came in the other day?”
“Yeah,” Cameron replied. He was shrugging on his coat, preparing to leave. “I’ve got to get moving to get the family moved. Why?”
“Smith's got a guy following him. Can you describe your guy?” Ripley proffered the phone.
Cameron took it, quickly describing LaPlante from his own quick observations in the airport and earlier today from the restaurant window. Jones grunted assent that meant, “same guy”, and Cameron added, “be careful with him, then, Mr. Smith. The guy is spooky, nearly spotted me through a plate glass window this afternoon by accident, completely random event, but he’d only seen me for moment a day earlier. The guy’s some kind of spook. Now I gotta go.”
He handed the phone back to Ripley, then made a cutting motion across
his own throat and gestured to have it back. Ripley gave over his own number and closed the line.
“Any change in plan, Colonel?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think so. You?”
“Maybe, I’m still thinking. Anyway, I’ll call you in a few hours and we can compare notes, make adjustments if necessary. Get moving now, take care, Colonel.”
“You too, Ripley. Don’t make too big a mess tonight.” A pause, and he added, “nice training with you again.”
“Same, now get outta here, talk to you later.”
Cameron nodded, opened the door, and was gone.
Ripley sat staring out the window at what could be seen of the Paris skyline down the narrow street. It wasn’t much. He looked at the small table across the room, then at his watch, considering whether to turn on the phone and do something at midnight when Salah, presumably, should be making his call to check in. He decided against it, nothing to gain there but a phone number he already knew, and a voice he already had recorded. No, better to leave that, let the phone be off and seemingly dead, he’d already checked the battery.
Looking back out the window he continued to struggle to put the pieces together. Somewhere in his mind he’d made a connection, but he couldn’t quite bring it to the surface. He lapsed into the slow, rasping breathing routine, clearing his thoughts. As expected, it came to him in a time he could not name until he looked at his watch: five minutes. Amazing, the passage of time.
He rose and began to sweep the hotel suite, thinking carefully of everything he’d touched. He took a washcloth from the shower, wet it and lathered it up with soap, and began to wipe things down. This took another seven minutes. He returned to the bedroom where Salah once again lay snoring loudly. He decided to leave him bound, no sense in not sending a subtle message to his friends in the FNP. He gathered up his equipment, stuffed it all into the black duffle it’d come in. Back out in to the sitting room and he made one last sweep. “Well, I’ve probably missed something, but then again, they’ll know someone was here anyway,” he mused. On an afterthought, he picked up Salah’s phone and pocketed it. It would be cute to leave it for the French, have them sort out the rest of the Paris gang for him, but he wanted the rest of the numbers for himself, and there was no time now. He grinned at the missed chance for mischief, and shrugged unconsciously. He took one last look around the suite, then walked to the door, opened it with his washcloth, and left.
Cameron was perhaps fifteen minutes ahead of him now. “Not enough,” he thought. The washcloth went into a laundry chute in the hall, and he was down the elevator and out on the street a few moments later. He walked a block west and stepped into the coffee shop where Colonel Cameron had begun this very, very long day. The tired waitress took his order, and while he waited, he dialed the phone number Smith had given him, and waited.
XIII. Northern Paris
Ibrahim lay on his bed, unable to sleep, mulling over the events of the last two days. “Extraordinary” was the only word that he could conjure up to describe them. They’d started out simply enough: a simple assignment, follow a Saudi general and see what he would do in Paris. But things seemed to have gotten rapidly out of control, and now he was sending some of his people, not wholly reliable people he reminded himself, to kill a family in a Paris hotel. “Madness” was the new word this realization conjured up.
He turned to his left and looked at the digital clock on the table beside the bed: twelve-seventeen. Salah should have called as instructed. Ibrahim looked back up at the ceiling and tried to make sense of his discomfort. He sorted and re-sorted the last two days to see if the events fit together in some way that made sense. He shook his head. They didn’t seem to. Everything had a good, solid explanation, and he was about to put an end to the worrisome general. He closed his eyes again, determined to sleep.
Ten minutes later he opened them again, the feeling would not go away. Getting up, he went into the living room, sat on the shabby couch, and opened his own cell phone. He dialed Salah’s number and waited. Two rings, and then the female techno-voice began to tell him in French that the number he’d dialed was not available. He hung up. “Probably the battery is dead,” he argued. He walked back into the bedroom, intending to get back into the bed. Instead he stood there, looking out the thin curtains on the window at the night beyond.
Without really thinking about it, he crossed the room to the closet, found a duffel bag on the floor, and slung it onto the bed. Coming out of the trance, he looked at it there, open, empty, waiting; he marveled at whatever had made him do that. Still, he decided, “Allah is merciful.” With a purpose now, he began to go through the closet, throwing things he might need onto the bed, moving to the small chest of drawers for other things. Soon there was a good sized pile, and he began to fold it all neatly into the bag.