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To the men and women of the 95th Fighter Squadron

Tyndall Air Force Base, Florida.

And of course, Mr. Bones.

ONE

To be a day short of one’s fifteenth birthday is a characteristically happy time in a young man’s life. Considerably less so when there is no chance whatsoever of reaching it.

He was sitting alone in the backseat of a rattletrap Citroën. Malika was in front, and next to her a man named Naseem was driving. He knew why she was in that seat. He would have been there too had their situations been reversed. His identity documents alleged him to be Youssef Aboud, and after six months of use the name almost seemed real. His true name was Jalil, but that, like so much else, had fallen to a distant memory. They’d insisted he use the new identity exclusively, beginning the day he had left home, all throughout his travels, and even after he was established in the safe house in Paris. They’d told him it was a manner of training. If he became Youssef Aboud, he would be less inclined to make a mistake under the duress of a roadblock or border crossing.

There had been a great many of those since last summer. His first journey had taken him from Gaza to Syria, and after a month in Raqqa, onward to Turkey and Greece. Then came a surprise detention on the island of Lesbos, and eventually he’d been shipped back to a Turkish refugee camp along the porous Syrian border. It reminded him of the child’s game Chutes and Ladders. Three steps forward, two steps back. The second time they put him on a plane to Budapest, where he was interned for nearly a month before being hauled back to Turkey on a bus. It was the southern route that succeeded: Turkey to Macedonia, followed by a leaky boat to Italy, and finally France. It was strange, he thought, how much persistence had been necessary to arrive where he was today—at the most foreseeable of all ends.

“We are nearly there, Youssef,” said Malika.

“My name isn’t Youssef,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“Nothing,” replied Jalil, his blank gaze pinned out the window. The day was cold and gray, which seemed predestined. Minutes ago they’d passed a great industrial complex, and Naseem had said something about it being the place where France did its research on nuclear weapons. He might have been trying to lighten the mood, or maybe distract Jalil. There was little chance of either. A second car was trailing behind them, although Jalil couldn’t see it. Three men with AK-47s who would go to work in the aftermath. A four-minute delay—long enough for the smoke to clear and the crowds to start gathering.

He shifted in his seat, the vest heavy on his shoulders. They’d made him wear a mock-up around the safe house in recent days, a duplicate item filled with sand. He’d tried to get used to walking with something near a normal motion. Today he wore a thick coat over the vest, the liner removed to make room. It all suited the day perfectly.

As they neared town a light snow began to fall, and for the first time since waking Jalil thought of something other than his fate. He’d not seen snow since he was very young, and he marveled at the flurries of white whisking past his window. He used a button to run down the window, and a few flakes whirled inside.

“What are you doing?” Malika snapped.

“Nothing,” he replied. “I only wanted some air.”

Silence fell for a time, until Naseem said, “You should pray one last time.”

“I will,” Jalil lied. He had been praying constantly for the last two days, or so it seemed. They told him it would be easier that way, help him follow the path of Allah and see the light of glory. They were wrong.

“There,” said Naseem.

Jalil looked out the window, and he saw a place every bit as foreign as Paris. He had spent nearly a month there, feeling as though he’d arrived on a different planet from the one that held Syria. They had let him go outside only once in that time, two nights ago when they’d taken him to a dreary bar, and made him smoke from a hookah and drink bourbon from a place called Kentucky. He also had a vague memory of an incredibly curvaceous woman, a prostitute he was sure, who told him in Arabic what she would do for him. The others all laughed. Jalil had found her more intimidating than erotic, and when he sent her away she’d called him a homosexual. Then everyone had gone back to the flat and passed out, and in the morning they all cleansed themselves and prayed.

This place was called Grenoble, and it had been a half-day drive from Paris. When they told Jalil this would be his target, he’d researched it on Malika’s phone while she slept. It was a midsized town, 150,000 people nestled in the foothills of the French Alps. Roughly the same number of inhabitants as Aleppo today—a city whose prewar population of two million had been on par with Paris itself. So much suffering. The others at the safe house argued constantly about who was to blame for Syria’s misery: France, Assad, the United States, Iran. All they could agree on was that someone had to be held accountable.

What does any of that matter now?

Jalil noticed one hand trembling ever so slightly. He gripped the door handle as hard as he could. The car began to slow as they reached the center of town. The city seemed alive. He saw red tram cars gliding over spotless streets, glittering decorations strung across storefronts. There were people all around. No, not people, he corrected—infidels and apostates. He saw smiling women and children, circumspect old men. A group of boys his age were doing tricks on their skateboards. Which should I kill to most please Allah? This was the question Malika had told him to focus on once he got out of the car. Such a strange question.

He was again marveling at the snow when a voice drifted in, the words not quite registering. “What?” he said.

“The drop-off point is just ahead,” Malika said. “Are you ready?”

He looked at her, thinking how different she looked now. He remembered playing tag with her, when she was a teen and he was just a boy. Malika had never let him catch her the way the other teenagers did. Today she was wearing Western clothing, wedged into pants and a blouse that were too small for her ample figure. Still, as he looked at her exposed hands and face, she reminded him of the pudgy little girl he’d once known. She was even wearing makeup today, although she’d assured him it was only to blend in. Naseem was wearing jeans and a hooded jacket like half the young men in France.

The Citroën pulled to a stop along the busy boulevard.

Malika turned in her seat, and Jalil met her gaze. She looked worried.

“Yes,” he said, his voice sounding distant and unfamiliar. “I am ready.”

“May Allah be with you.” She reached out a hand and he instinctively took it. The trembling was back—no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make it stop. It occurred to him that this was the first time she’d touched him since the halfway point of today’s journey, when they’d stopped on a desolate farm road. She had taken the vest from the trunk and helped him put it on. His hand still shaking, he looked at her with profound embarrassment as a tear streaked down one of his cheeks.

“It’s all right,” she said comfortingly. “You know how proud your mother will be.”

Jalil only nodded. He pulled away, and with a last glance at Malika he got out of the car. He shut the door and began walking away, only to hear a rapping noise from behind. He looked back and saw her banging the window harshly with her knuckles.

Jalil looked at her dumbly, unsure what she was trying to tell him. She rolled down her window and motioned for him to come over. Of course he’d done something wrong. He had always been that child, the one who needed correcting.

He went to her window, and after an exasperated glance, Malika took his right hand and reached into his jacket pocket.

“What are you doing?” he asked, anxiously looking over his shoulder.

Her face went stern, and Jalil gasped when she pulled the trigger out of his pocket and set it into his palm. It was the size of a cigarette pack—the kind of wired switch they used in America, he’d been told, to open and close garage doors.

“Did you listen to nothing Naseem told you last night?” Malika said sharply.

Only now did he remember—he’d been instructed to keep his hand on the device at all times once he was out of the car. He saw Naseem lean over and whisper into her ear, and Malika looked at Jalil with something new and terrible in her expression. With her hand over his, she guided the triggering device back into his right pocket. Then she pinched his fingers until the button sank.

He inhaled sharply and his heart stuttered. “Malika! What are you—” He couldn’t even finish the question. Jalil gripped the controller forcefully to keep the button from rising.

“Hold tightly!” she whispered. “Remember, it activates when you release the switch!”

He nodded, and felt her hand relax the pressure until he alone was holding the button down. She pulled back, and the window began rising. The last words he heard were from Naseem, a hushed “Allahu akbar!”

The car pulled away in an eddy of snow, and he turned toward the crowded shops and sidewalks. There were hundreds of people, grouped in front of store windows, moving on the sidewalks. Jalil took a tentative step, and when he did he heard a tiny metallic noise, then felt something tap his shoe. He looked down and saw a hex nut and two nails on the ground. Near panic, he looked around to see who was watching, the jingle of metal on cobblestone seeming like thunder. No one even glanced his way.

Jalil regulated his breathing, and focused completely on the switch in his pocket. He walked at a deliberate pace, trying to keep the movement of his upper body to a minimum. Trying to ignore the thumping in his chest. The second car would be nearby, three men waiting, sweaty fingers on triggers. Did they feel as he did now? Or was their faith so intense that it precluded any doubts?

His right hand had the switch in a death grip. He imagined his fingers going white from lack of circulation. And there, Jalil realized, was the measure of his life—how long could he keep a simple plastic button pinched between his fingers?

Why had Malika done it this way? Why had she forced him to squeeze the trigger and hold it? He had been briefed on one tactical reason to do it that way—if he thought he’d been identified, or if the police were near, he was to hold the switch down as insurance. That way, if he was tackled to the ground or shot, merely letting go guaranteed success. But there had been no threats of exposure, no police nearby. Only now did Jalil understand: Malika didn’t trust him. She doubted he would go through with it.

They’d had a long talk last night, and he had expressed reservations. Certainly that was normal. He remembered this morning, when she’d told him his mother had already been given his martyrdom video. You must honor her today by giving yourself to Allah, Youssef. She had used the new name to tell him his mother was already mourning his death. How could any son not pay the debt of his mother’s grief? Malika had always been clever, the one who everyone knew would go places. And she might have, except that young girls in Palestine had but two possible destinations. One was marriage. The other was where she was at that moment—rushing to a safe house before another martyr was vaporized.

And not just any martyr.

He steeled himself and kept moving. He saw a café with awnings where smartly dressed couples enjoyed coffee and crepes, the smell of burnt sugar and vanilla hanging on the cool air. A clothing store with broad windows advertised the latest fashions. A tram went past with people inside shoulder-to-shoulder, probably as much for the warmth as to get anywhere. He’d been told to aim for a crowd, and to immerse himself as best he could. There was a small toy store, and he saw children coming and going with their parents. He couldn’t do that, although in Syria he’d met men who would, martyrs desperate for horror in their last act on this earth. Maybe Malika was right—maybe he was weak.

The snow came heavier, dampening the busy sounds and blurring the brilliant lights. He kept moving. There was a park where an old woman was exercising two dogs. The dogs were chasing one another, tails wagging vigorously. A long line at the Häagen-Dazs shop snaked out across the sidewalk, but that didn’t seem right either. He’d always liked ice cream. Certainly more than Kentucky bourbon.

A crowd was gathering near a pavilion where a brass band was preparing to play. Jalil was so engrossed in his search for a target that he didn’t see the curb coming. He tripped and went sprawling forward. His left hand flew out of his jacket pocket, trying for balance, but to his credit his sweaty right hand never moved. Someone reached out and grabbed him by the arm to keep him from falling. They succeeded.

Jalil stood straight again, and turned to see a lovely young girl. Her hand was on his right forearm. Only inches from the switch. She was a few years older than he was, and wore a backpack with a baguette sticking out the top. She smiled and said something in French he didn’t understand.

His hand was shaking noticeably now, warm with moisture. He forced his fingers tighter but felt the muscles growing weary. When he straightened to his full height, he heard another tinkle on the pavement. This time it was noticed. He and the girl looked down at the same time. A screw and a few ball bearings rolled into the gutter. She looked up at him and must have seen the sweat on his face, the desperation in his eyes. She looked at the immobilized hand in his pocket. All at once she knew.

They both knew.

Her mouth went wide, and he thought, Please don’t scream. Don’t make me do it now.

And she didn’t.

Jalil watched her beautiful young face twist in primal fear. It was awful and frightening. Never in his life had anyone looked at him that way. They stood frozen for a time, seconds that felt like hours. Both stilled to inaction by what he might do. His hand began to cramp, and the first twitch came. Muscles no longer under his complete control. It seemed such a simple thing, to hold one’s fingers together. Any child could do it. He was squeezing so hard he thought the plastic switch might break. And if it did? What would happen then?

Of course he knew the answer.

“Run!” he whispered hoarsely in English. “Run quickly!”

His words seemed to register. She took one step backward, then turned and bolted away. No one seemed to notice. The world swirled around him as if he were its axis, a flurry of snow and cars and humanity.

His fingers ached.

Tears began streaming again.

He heard the girl scream in the distance.

Then the loud authoritative voice of a man.

Finally, the trembling in his fingers became uncontrollable. He closed his eyes, not wanting to know who or what was near. This was the moment he should have shouted with a martyr’s conviction. Allahu akbar! The words that came instead were in a level, conversational tone. They were meant for no one in particular. “My name is Jalil.”

In the next moment, the boy who had so long ago chased little girls in faraway streets gave his aching hand relief. He let go of the switch.

TWO

It was at six o’clock that evening, four hours after the blast, when the high-speed TGV train carrying Zavier Baland eased smoothly to a stop at the Gare de Grenoble.

Serge Baptiste, a junior man from the local gendarmerie, stood waiting patiently on the platform. His assignment was to collect the senior officer from Paris, and when the doors of the cars slid open he began searching in earnest. Baland would not be in uniform—he had reached a position in the force where such accouterments were no longer necessary—yet Baptiste was sure he would have no trouble recognizing him. He had seen the man’s picture more than once, a former colonel from the Paris prefecture who’d gone on to become a rising star in DGSI, the General Directorate for Internal Security. His picture was oft-published, plastered on media sites in both internal and public domains. Conseiller Baland had become something of a poster child for the country’s counterterrorism efforts, in part because he got results. But then there was the other part.

Baptiste locked in on a man who stepped from the second car and paused on the platform as if trying to get his bearings. He was average in height and build, his features rather benign, although even from a distance Baptiste saw a bit more of the Mediterranean than a strictly Gallic heritage would imbue. He carried himself in a stiff and upright manner, in the way of a lifelong maître d’, and his dark eyes were discreetly active. Baptiste had no doubt—this was the man in the press releases.

He gave a wave, and that was all it took. The two met halfway, and Baptiste said, “Good evening, sir.”

“Hardly,” Baland replied. “But thank you for being here to meet me. I’m sure Commissaire Valmont has his hands full.”

Valmont was Baptiste’s superior, head of the local gendarmerie and therefore on-scene commander for the situation. Baptiste guided his charge toward the exit. “Yes sir, things have been very busy. We’ve secured the perimeter of the attack. My instructions are to take you to the command post straightaway.”

“Has it been verified there are no secondary devices?”

“Yes, that was our first priority once the shooters had been dealt with.”

“How many were there?”

“Three, sir, aside from the bomber. All had AK-47s and multiple magazines. They waited long enough for the response to begin, then began shooting indiscriminately. Our officers responded, of course, but it took twenty minutes for a special tactics team to arrive and deal with all three.”

“Did any of the attackers survive?”

“No.”

“Where are we on the casualty count?” the inspector from Paris asked.

“Thirty-three dead and forty-nine wounded. At least five are in critical condition at the hospital.”

“Bastards!” Baland spat, more to himself than Baptiste.

“Indeed.”

They exited the station, and a patrol car was waiting, another uniformed officer inside serving as driver.

“Tell me,” said Baland as the two slid in back together, “where has the command post been set up?”

“At the station, of course.”

“In that case, I would like to go to the scene first.”

“But Commissaire, my orders are very specific—”

“If you please,” Baland interrupted. “It is important for me to see things firsthand.”

Baptiste caught the eye of the driver, who shrugged. The car shot ahead toward the center of town.

*   *   *

It was a drive Baland had made too many times. In the falling light he looked out over a midsized city that had until today been largely untouched by the troubles sourced so many thousands of miles away. He recalled his assessment to the interior minister only last week: Those corners of France unaffected are only waiting their turn. The minister had concurred.

When they arrived at the scene, Baland saw a perimeter cordoned off by yellow tape, at least half a city block altogether. All around were fire trucks and police cars, and as light snow continued to fall uniformed officers groomed the streets for evidence, everyone wearing gloves and protective footwear as they turned over debris.

The car came to a stop near the controlled entry point, near Place Victor Hugo, and Baland got out and walked straight to the yellow-taped border. He could easily discern the seat of the explosion, a distinctive crater, although it wasn’t as deep as some he’d seen. Truck bombs were the worst, leaving what looked like debris-filled swimming pools in the middle of a street. This one was more akin to the hole his daughters had helped him dig in his garden last weekend, into which they’d plugged a sapling chestnut tree. Next to the crater was the twisted frame of a car, its ashen body scorched from a fire that was certainly a secondary effect. It occurred to Baland that the car had absorbed much of the blast, and he wondered why the bomber had stood so close to it in the moment of truth.

Why do any of these men and women do what they do?

Even so blunted, the explosion had blown out the windows of buildings all along the street. Baland saw pockmarks in the façade of a hotel where either shrapnel or 7.62mm semiautomatic rounds had chipped into centuries-old stone. Telltale stains were evident on the nearby sidewalk, already going dark, and Baland saw a number of blanketed bodies. There were also coverlets with markers where smaller bits of biological evidence had been located.

He noticed Baptiste engaged in a conversation with a sergeant near the entrance—the man was holding something in his gloved hand. Both men looked toward Baland, then approached him together.

“We thought you might like to see this,” said Baptiste.

The evidence technician held out his hand to display the remains of a passport. It was ragged, and a hole the size of a one-euro coin had been blown clear through its pages. There were also clear traces of organic matter.

The evidence man offered up a latex glove to Baland, and said, “Would you like to have a look?”

“Certainly not! Bag that right away—we mustn’t contaminate any findings.”

The chastened policeman slid his find carefully into a bag and walked away.

“Do you think it could be the bomber’s?” Baptiste asked.

“Not his real one. If he was carrying it, then it could only be a false lead meant to confuse us.”

Baland noticed an ambulance fifty meters away, just outside the cordoned area, where a middle-aged woman was being attended to by an EMT. Baland walked over, and saw that she was being treated for a small wound on one arm. For the first time since arriving he produced his credentials, introducing himself to both the woman and the EMT, before asking, “Why are you only now being treated?”

“I was busy helping,” said the woman. “I work at the hotel across the street.” He could see her fighting to keep a steady voice. “It was terrible—I’ve never seen anything like this. There were bodies everywhere.”

“You were here when it happened?” Baland asked.

“Yes, I work at the front desk. I was just arriving for my shift.”

She was wearing her hotel uniform, but it was filthy, stained with blood and grime. The EMT removed a reddened bandage that had been hastily wrapped, probably something done in the immediate aftermath using a hotel first-aid kit. He cleaned the wound, and was about to apply a fresh bandage when Baland said, “Wait!”

The man looked at him, perplexed, and watched as Baland studied her wound more closely. It was a small gash, no longer than a pencil eraser, but the edges were ragged and inflamed. “Is there something in the wound, perhaps a piece of shrapnel?” he asked, not caring which of the two answered.

The woman said, “Yes, I think I can feel something inside. It’s sore, but it can wait. The hospital is besieged with people who need help far more than I do.”

The EMT nodded in agreement.

“The skin around the wound,” Baland said, this time looking directly at the EMT. “Does it not look more like a burn to you?”

“A burn?”

“I wasn’t near any fire,” the woman said.

The EMT reasoned, “I agree, it looks inflamed. Infection is always possible, but only a few hours after such an injury I doubt that—”

Baland cut him off by rising and walking away. He canvassed the aid station, inspected two more patients, then set off briskly toward the car. Halfway there he stopped suddenly, noticing a hex bolt on the sidewalk. Baland bent down and looked at it closely. He didn’t try to pick it up.

“What is it?” Baptiste asked, catching up with him.

Baland didn’t answer. He stood and looked again at the patients being treated, then regarded the terrible scene inside the tape.

“We must expand our perimeter immediately,” Baland said. “Push everything back—another hundred meters in every direction.”

“But why?” said Baptiste, looking at the tiny bolt on the ground.

“Just do it!”

THREE

It took less than an hour for Baland to be proved right: traces of some unidentified radiological contaminant were evident. The perimeter was moved back, and then doubled again after consultations with the minister of the interior. The president himself ordered that no resource should be spared in the investigation, and teams of experts were dispatched by air from Paris. The president too used the term “bastards,” albeit in private, and gave instructions that he was to be informed of every development.

Of these there arose but one of significance. Within the hour municipal CCTV footage was analyzed, and it took only minutes to isolate the two cars that had been involved. The men with rifles had bundled out of an old Peugeot, and it was right where they’d left it. Specialists had been crawling over that vehicle for hours. More of interest was the car that had delivered the bomber, which turned out to be a dark blue Citroën. Two occupants could clearly be seen in front, and as the video ran everyone saw a nervous young man get out of the backseat and begin to walk away. Then, curiously, the bomber returned to the passenger-side window. The person he conversed with could not be seen clearly, owing to the camera angle, but everyone in the screening room saw what appeared to be an exchange of some kind as their hands met. Then the car departed and the bomber walked away.

The authorities followed up this discovery in the most practical manner. They ignored the bomber for the time being—his was a fait accompli—and focused their efforts on the car and the two individuals inside, who might still be a threat. They followed the Citroën through the footage of two traffic cameras, then lost track when it turned onto a heavily wooded road that ran into the rising Chartreuse Mountains. Cars were immediately dispatched to the area, and after less than an hour the Citroën was discovered abandoned along the siding of a small and thickly wooded secondary road. At a glance, the officer who found the car reported one extraordinary bit of evidence inside—a large man wearing jeans and a dark hooded jacket, very possibly of Middle Eastern extraction, who was poised serenely behind the steering wheel. He was quite dead, with a single bullet wound evident on his right temple. More forensic teams were sent in.

Though none of the investigators would ever know it, in those early minutes, as they sat poring over hours-old CCTV footage, the very same cameras were recording the passage of a young woman along Rue Molière. She was heavy, though not obese, and wore clothing that was two sizes larger than necessary. She carried a small bag of groceries, and expressed the same curiosity a hundred other passersby had at the scene before her, even asking one of the officers standing guard at the perimeter what all the fuss was about. She otherwise did not pause before turning in to a nearby block of apartments and disappearing from sight.

She was weary from the exertions of a long and trying day, and by the time she reached the two-person elevator she had gum on her shoe and snow on her shoulders. She trundled down the vacant fourth-floor hallway, and at the halfway point stopped at the door marked 20. Were anyone to inquire, they would find that the small flat was operated as a vacation rental. It had been booked for the next week through an online site, a key provided through the post. Most of the residences in the building were similarly rented out, something the woman had researched thoroughly.

She entered the flat but did not turn on a light, leaving the main room cast in gloom as night took hold. It was the first time she’d been to the place, and she vaguely recalled the online photos: modernist décor, sterile and angular, the only warmth being a few stock photographs of the Alps on one wall. Yet there had been one critical point, and that was where her eyes went. Indeed, it was the reason she’d selected this unit—the view from the fourth-floor window.

She walked carefully across the dim room, barking her shin once on a table and cursing under her breath, until she reached the big window. There she surveyed the scene outside. She saw the perimeter of the blast scene fifty meters away, at least a dozen policemen and investigators milling about. An evidence van and two fire trucks were inside the tape, and a crowd of media—obvious by their shouldered cameras and microphones, and the credentials hanging round their necks—were gathered at an access control point where a hapless junior patrolman ignored their questions. Just behind him was a huddle of what had to be detectives—some likely from the national police, others local. She wished she could hear what they were saying, but in time everything would become clear.

She went to the television, selected a news channel, and set the volume very low. Next she pushed a chair from the dining room table toward the window, staying clear of a shaft of light that leaned in from a nearby streetlight. She sat down thinking she’d chosen well. There was no better place to watch the response unfold.

Earlier she had cursed the bomber, whom she knew to be hapless, for getting too close to a car—it had taken the brunt of the blast in one hemisphere. But now she realized his small error had turned fortuitous. The authorities had expanded the perimeter beyond what she’d expected, and if the blast had carried any farther, the building in which she sat might have been evacuated.

She settled in for the night, putting her bag of groceries on the floor and making sure her phone was turned off. It had been a long day, and her feet hurt from so much walking.

Malika took off her shoes and rubbed her feet, then pulled out a bag of potato chips and twisted the top off a bottle of Coke. She put her naked feet up on the window box and leaned back, knowing there was not a safer place in all of France.

FOUR

It was the first time the stonemason had ever worked with coral. Porous and light, it had reasonably good strength, and was easier to shape than Virginia granite or the great marble slabs he’d battled in Malta. David Slaton had become something of a connoisseur of the world’s stone, although not by choice.

He used the last of his joint mixture—an aggregate of cement, lime, and sand—on the edges of the shell-shaped entryway steps. He stood back with a critical eye, and was satisfied. Slaton began cleaning up, knowing that tomorrow he would have to come back and haul his debris to the nearest dump site, half a mile away. If there was a downside to this job, it had more to do with the local practices than materials. He’d been forced to make every cut by hand because there were no power tools available—and rarely any power if there had been. The raw blocks of coral limestone from the quarry had been delivered via handcart by a man who kept no particular schedule.

And then there was the sun.

If Palawan, in the Philippines, was not on the equator, it had to be within spitting distance. The heat was constant and unrelenting, and today conspired with a cloudless sky to mock Christmas lights that had been strung across the chapel roof two months ago. It was a tiny house of worship, three rows of wood-plank benches on either side of the central aisle, but it was full every Sunday, and the guiding father, an agreeable white-haired man, undertook his mandate with a faith no less ardent than what existed under the domes of St. Peter’s.

Slaton had just finished gathering his tools, and was wiping his hands on a rag, when he saw his family a hundred yards distant. They were walking up a dirt path, what passed for a street here, and in no particular hurry. His son was out front—as he invariably was—with Christine herding him to stay on the path.

It was hard to say what gifts or deficiencies his son, not quite two years old, might possess, but he and Christine were unanimous in one regard: Davy had inherited his father’s uncommonly sharp eyesight. His son’s eyes locked on to him, and his choppy pace quickened. Slaton walked toward them to close the gap. He noticed they were both burnished by the sun, probably more than they should have been, but it was hopeless to expect otherwise living so near zero latitude. Christine’s auburn hair had lightened, and her long limbs were reiterated in their son, evident in spite of his residual toddler’s pudginess.

They met halfway, and Slaton swept Davy into his arms.

“So did you finish?” she asked.

“Pretty much. I’ll come back tomorrow after everything has set, but I think it’s good to go.”

“Is the owner happy with it?”

Slaton shrugged, but didn’t answer.

“David … tell me this is a real job.”

“Father Michael gives what he can.”

“He’s not paying you in one of those seashell currencies, is he?”

“Where do you think the fish I’ve been bringing home every night is coming from? Besides, you’re not one to talk. You worked at the clinic every morning this week, and they don’t pay a dime … or a limpet or a flounder.”

“It’s not a big deal. Their only real doctor visits every other Saturday—that’s not the kind of schedule people get sick on. Anyway, I like keeping a hand in medicine.”

“Is your license valid to practice in the Philippines?”

“Probably not. But that skateboarder with a broken arm yesterday didn’t ask to see it.”

He pulled Davy up onto his shoulders, and got a grunting laugh in return. He seemed to be getting heavier by the day. “I hope you’re not implying that I’m a less than adequate provider.”

She smiled a smile that warmed Slaton to his depths. She still had that effect on him, even after a year of sailing the Seven Seas. Or at least three of the seven.

She took a long step back and regarded his work. The limestone building was designed as a residence for the father himself, one main room and a shaded lanai in front. “It’s good—I like it. Was the arch over the doorway difficult?”

“Not really, a lot of cutting and chipping. It just takes a little time.”

“You built it pretty fast.”

“Just under a month. But then, I didn’t have to worry about plumbing, electric, or insetting windows. And there’s definitely no air-conditioning ductwork. It’s basically a nicely crafted cave.”

“Sort of Flintstones tropical?”

He grinned. “Right—a new architectural style.”

Slaton picked up his tool bag, and as he did he saw Christine’s humor dissipate a bit too quickly.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

She hesitated, then began swatting at Davy’s legs. He kicked back at her, his heels thumping into Slaton’s chest. “It’s nothing. I’ll tell you later.”

Slaton straightened and locked eyes with his wife.

“Really,” she said, “no big deal. Let’s go home.”

*   *   *

Home was an Antares 44, a custom-fit catamaran rigged to sail the world. She’d been christened Windsom II, after the original boat owned by Christine’s father. The new boat was rigged for blue-water cruising with heavy-duty electric winches, an extensive navigation suite, and solar panels.

They put together an early dinner, fish with rice and kamote, a local variant of sweet potato. Slaton did the cooking—fish had become his specialty—and while they ate, Christine made a stab at conversation. He typically enjoyed exchanges with his wife. There was something in the manner of her speech, a rich tone with precise elocution, that he found warm and pleasing. He’d mentioned it once, and she had laughed it off, saying he was probably the only man in the world who wished his wife would talk more. But at that moment, some part of it was missing.

Something was bothering her.

They cleaned the table together while Davy pulled out his favorite pastime, a memory game involving paired tiles that could be turned over and matched. Fish, tigers, and elephants, all uncovered two at a time. “He’s getting good at that,” Slaton said. “He beat me this morning and I was trying.”

Christine barely smiled, and he gripped her arm until her eyes met his. She nodded, and chinned toward the cockpit outside. They went above, leaving Davy at the table hunting for a zebra. The deck was warm on his bare feet, and it struck Slaton that Windsom had become more of a home than he’d imagined it could be. They instinctively sought out shade, and ended facing one another near the helm.

“I met a woman at the playground today,” Christine said. “She was there with her little boy—he was about Davy’s age. I could see she was upset, and I tried to talk to her. Her English wasn’t very good, but we got by. Her husband is a fisherman and he’s disappeared. She said he rarely stays out overnight, but that he’s been gone for three days.”

“Where was he fishing?”

Christine told him.

Slaton knew the area. “Those are contested waters. Have been for a long time. Is anyone searching for him?”

“She reported it to the Coast Guard, but they won’t do anything—they’re too busy tracking Chinese ships out in the Spratlys. Some of the other fishermen went out to look for him, and one of them spotted his boat.”

“Drifting or anchored?”

“Neither. She was tied on to the Esperanza.”

Slaton straightened in his seat. He looked out over the tranquil waters. They’d been here over a month, long enough to know a little about the local situation. These island chains were ground zero in a far-reaching geopolitical struggle. China, Malaysia, Vietnam, Taiwan, the Philippines—all were laying claims as fast as they could to uninhabited cays and reefs, staking out territory using highly creative means. The simplest route was to pitch a few tents and assign a squad of soldiers to an uninhabited sandbar. China had taken things to a new level, dredging sand and destroying coral reefs to create islands that had never before existed, then populating them with buildings, runways, and troops. Other nations, having fewer resources to work with, had been driving derelict ships onto shoals as markers of sovereign territory. It worked pretty well until the boat began to disintegrate—as was the case with Esperanza.

“That old hulk?” he said. “It’s in pretty bad shape.”

She nodded. “Nobody wanted to go near it.”

“Why not? I know there used to be government soldiers on board, but they pulled out last year because she was falling apart.”

“The local rumor is that after the government abandoned ship, a band of smugglers took over—drugs or slavery, depending on who’s telling the story.”

“And they’re still there?”

“Nobody knows. That’s why none of the fishermen wanted to go near.”

Slaton looked west by northwest. “Thirty nautical?”

“Thirty-six,” she corrected.

“I hate to ask … but what do you want me to do about it?”

“What do we do about it.”

He gave her a stern glare. “Give me your take on this woman.”

“The wife?”

He nodded.

“She was upset. Her husband was missing, and she’s worried to death.”

Slaton sensed that his wife had been planning those words very carefully. “We’ve talked about this for the better part of a year,” he said. “I don’t get involved in anything unless it takes place far from where we are. You don’t ever get involved, because that brings Davy into the picture.”

“We’re just talking about a missing fisherman who—”

“Have you ever seen this woman before?” he cut in.

“No, but what difference does that make?”

“Did she give you her phone number, tell you where she lives?”

“She said something about Villa Grande.”

“Five miles away. I guess they don’t have playgrounds there.”

Her anger flashed. “You’re so paranoid!”

“You’re damned right I am! It’s the only reason I’m still alive. And that’s how we’ve agreed to live—a constant state of paranoia. My past has a way of catching up. The fact that we’ve gone a year without any problems doesn’t put us in the clear.”

“So what are you suggesting? That Hezbollah is here in Palawan? Tracking David Slaton, the legendary Israeli assassin, to the other side of the earth?”

He bit down on a reply, and silence ensued. Slaton forced a more conciliatory tone. “I don’t like the smell of this,” he said. “But if it’s important to you … I can take a look.”

“It’s important to the man’s wife and son. She’s worried her husband might have gone aboard and gotten hurt.”

Slaton was already having second thoughts. “If we do this, you and Davy don’t go anywhere near that ship.”

Christine didn’t argue.

“If I see anything I don’t like, I leave and we get out of here right away—open ocean.”

Slaton saw a half smile.

He didn’t return it.

FIVE

To board a ship on the open ocean is never easy, even if the water is only a few feet deep. Slaton did his homework. None of the local fishermen knew about a missing man, but they conceded that if he was from Villa Grande they might not know about it. Slaton found out as much as possible about the derelict ship before pulling anchor in Palawan. Esperanza was a World War II–vintage minesweeper, and had been gifted to the Philippines by the U.S. Navy decades earlier. She’d been run aground intentionally in 1999, an ungainly attempt by the government to establish sovereignty over a long-ignored coral atoll.

For years after her grounding, the Philippine Navy did their best to keep the ship in one piece. Steel plates were welded to the deck, lumber used to reinforce catwalks, and at one point someone had installed a generator and window-unit air conditioners, no doubt to shore up the morale of the heat-stricken Philippine Marine contingent who kept watch. The government had thrown in the towel just over a year ago, evacuating their disintegrating outpost, but rumors persisted that smugglers had taken over Esperanza in the interim.

Slaton made his approach to Esperanza using their inflatable dinghy, a twelve-foot runabout with an outboard motor that would best thirty knots on a calm sea. Windsom remained ten miles east, anchored in the lee of a so-far-unclaimed cay.

Slaton traversed the reef at idle, and saw no signs of habitation in the distant hulk. Indeed, in the gathering dusk Esperanza cast something of an apocalyptic image. Her hull rested askew on Midnight Reef, ten feet of water on the port side, and the starboard waterline fast against coral formations that were exposed at low tide.

A local news article Slaton had seen maintained that the only inhabitable parts of her structure were a few rooms in the aft superstructure—the bridge, a mess room, and a handful of crew cabins that had been more or less kept up. The Navy had reinforced the ship’s port side, starboard being largely unapproachable owing to the shallow reef and heavier seas beyond. On the port beam was a fixed deck ladder reaching ten meters down to the waterline. Slaton saw no fishing dory lashed to the ladder, which was the only functional entrance.

He had surveyed the ship using binoculars from two miles away, and now did it again at a mile. He saw no lights, no laundry pinned on rails, no bags of stinking trash thrown out on deck. Notably, there was also no flag, Philippine or otherwise, flapping from the crooked yardarm.

There was no sign of life at all.

He could think of no stealthy way to approach such a target. Slaton kept scuba gear on Windsom, but the currents around the reef were unpredictable, meaning he would have had to drive within half a mile to even consider a swim. On a featureless ocean, that was tantamount to ringing the doorbell. He’d also concluded that waiting until nightfall could prove a disadvantage—he had no night-vision gear, and any drug smugglers on board probably would.

He steered north, along the reef that abutted the ship’s starboard side. Breaking waves warned of treacherous shallows, but Slaton could see deeper channels in the reef, evidenced by smooth countercurrents. His inflatable drew only twelve inches of water, less with the engine raised. That was another method he’d used in the past—lift the engine, and a team of commandos paddling in unison could close quickly in virtual silence. As it was, with the wind and currents against him, trying to paddle the last two hundred meters solo would be little more than an endless cardio workout. He decided to use the engine until the last minute, keeping the throttle to a minimum and hoping the breeze would drive the sound out to sea. In the end, Slaton saw but one certainty: If anyone remotely competent was on board the ship, they were going to see him coming. But that wasn’t all bad. A naked approach at dusk was obvious, but also unthreatening. It was his best chance to get close. Assuming he could manage that, whatever odds he was up against would begin to swing.

As he came nearer, Slaton got the impression that the ship’s hull was more rust than steel. Her bow was noticeably high on the reef, and what remained of her superstructure was in various stages of decay: listing aerials and davits, deck rails broken, and cables hanging into the sea like vines off a storm-ravaged tree. The hull looked paper thin, spars and bulkheads showing through like ribs on an underfed dog; any load at all in her holds would surely cause seams to burst. The bow gun emplacement held the remains of a 40mm Bofors. Once meant to intimidate, the gun now resembled something from a long-abandoned museum, its barrel pointed skyward in a final salute.

Twenty meters away, the breeze dropped sharply in the lee of the ship’s hull. He killed the motor and reached for the paddle. He was wearing old work clothes—a tattered pair of pants and a sleeveless shirt stained by mortar—reasoning that an approach to Esperanza in a black wetsuit and camo would be needlessly hostile. By the same logic, he’d brought the smallest weapons from the minor arsenal he kept under lock and key on Windsom—a reliable Beretta 9mm holstered beneath his shirttail, and a Glock 26 on his right ankle. Two spare magazines weighed down his left hip pocket, ready for a left-handed grab and reload, and a flashlight big enough to double as a truncheon filled the back pocket on his nonshooting side. With his hardware reasonably concealed, he might appear harmless on first glance—and anyone Slaton deemed threatening wouldn’t get more than one glance.

The starboard hull loomed high as he approached, the lowest deck rail five meters above his head. Slaton’s dodgy intelligence, a blend of old news articles, hearsay, and local rumors, had so far been spot-on—the starboard side of the ship gave no access to the upper deck. But he did see one possibility. Just beneath the wing of the bridge was a section of hull so rusted it was falling into the sea, and he noted a series of jagged holes that might be used as footholds. He paddled silently closer, his eyes and ears alert. He heard only water lapping against steel and the cry of a distant gull.

He lashed the dinghy by its painter to the base of a broken fitting. Slaton gauged the climb up close and thought it might work. Having brought a rope just in case, he looped it over a shoulder before beginning upward. In less than a minute he was on deck. He secured the rope, which had climbing loops at regular intervals, and fed it down to the dinghy. Ready for a quick departure.

There was still no sign of life, but caution got the better of him. Slaton pulled the Beretta from his waistband as he moved aft. He was on the main deck now, and above him were two upper levels, the highest having once been the bridge—it was rimmed with windows, and catwalks overlooked every part of the ship, the obvious high ground for anyone playing defense.

He stepped carefully, the wisdom of which was proved when one foot began sinking into a rusted section of floor. The problem area was the size of an oven door, and he shifted his weight and leapt silently over it. He immediately rounded a corner and was faced with a larger failed section that could only be traversed using a two-by-six plank someone had left in place. The plank took him to the base of the superstructure, and Slaton led with the Beretta through a doorless passageway. He cleared a room where two tattered hammocks were strung between bulkheads and the lone window was nothing more than a web of shattered safety glass. He saw an old generator, mooring lines, and a windlass under repair. The stench was heavy, fetid and rotting, and he quickly climbed a ladder toward the second of the three levels.

The instant his eyes reached the middle floor, he paused and scanned the room at ankle level before exposing himself further. He saw nothing worrisome and kept rising. As soon as he cleared the top step, Slaton sensed movement to one side. He whipped the barrel of his gun instinctively, and when the sight settled he saw a wary tiger-striped cat behind it. He lowered the Beretta. The cat looked healthy and plump, and under its front paw was a small dead rat. Slaton half turned to take in the rest of the room, and when he did the cat bolted, taking its kill and disappearing through some unseen passageway.

The light outside was growing dim, and he pulled out his flashlight to inspect a mess hall that hadn’t been used as intended for nearly twenty years. He saw an old steel sink, and a makeshift kitchen consisting of a propane stove and a tiny refrigerator. There was no food in sight, but on a table in the center he saw the scattered excrement of some manner of vermin. There were also discarded sheets of plastic, a container of Ziploc bags, and a mechanical scale that could have been taken from a grocery store deli. Trash littered the floor, along with a dusting of what looked like ground tea leaves. He decided smugglers might have replaced the Philippine Navy after all.

He moved toward the stairs that led to the bridge, and was nearly there when a clatter came from above. Slaton trained his weapon on the metal staircase. The cat? he wondered. No, the cat would be finishing its dinner.

His senses shot to another level, grasping for any sound or motion. All too late, he recognized his error. He’d been too predictable, coming straight up the only staircase. He turned and saw a shadow in the stairwell he’d just risen through. The next thing he saw was the barrel of a machine pistol rising upward.

SIX

Slaton threw himself against a wall as the weapon shattered the silence in full auto, rounds pinging into metal and ricocheting across the room. He felt a strike and a sting of pain in his left thigh. As soon as the burst ended, he curled his hand into the stairwell and fired three unsighted rounds down the path of the rising steps. He heard a thump and a clatter from below, one body and one gun hitting the deck in quick succession. If there was another threat, he knew where it would be.

He vaulted into the stairwell as shots came from above, reverberating like thunder between the gray-steel walls. Slaton returned fire upward this time, suppression to buy precious seconds. Reaching the main deck, he saw the man he’d just hit, unmoving and still. His machine pistol had tumbled toward the doorway that led outside. It would be a useful weapon in this kind of fight, but the idea was killed when a third figure appeared on the threshold. More rounds rained down from above.

Slaton lunged toward the only other way out of the room, firing four rounds as he leapt shoulder-first into the already-shattered window. The glass gave way and he tumbled onto the outer deck, landing in an awkward roll. He scanned for other attackers as he counted to three, then rose to the window frame, acquired the man just inside the doorway, and sent three rounds toward his head. He waited only long enough to see the man crumple as if his bones had disconnected.

He ducked back down, shouldered to the wall, and ran toward the starboard sidewall where his dinghy was tethered. The Beretta’s slide was back, confirming the count in his head—mag empty, no round in the chamber. He dug into his pocket for a spare, and had just reached the corner of the superstructure when two problems arose. A man appeared on the catwalk along the starboard side, his gun lifting toward Slaton. The greater problem was the magazine he pulled from his pocket—the frame was hopelessly bent and he felt the liquid warmth of his own blood.

The sting in my thigh.

Slaton registered a noise from behind, and he saw a man straddling through the window with his gun leveled—no doubt the one who’d been above. That put the count at four, with two down. Manageable, except for the fact that Slaton was looking at a pair of gun barrels from different directions. The man at the window said something. His partner responded. Slaton could discern only that they were speaking French—not one of his better languages.

He stood still, a spent weapon in his hand. With two targets so widely spaced, Slaton knew he could never pull and load his final mag in time. Even if he tried, that one might also be damaged. He had only one remaining advantage.

He had been here before.

In the next two seconds he learned a great deal about the men facing him. Most important, he realized they were not assassins. It had nothing to do with the fact that their shooting had been ineffectual, or that their tactical approach had been flawed. He knew because of what they weren’t doing right now. Assassins never hesitated.

Never.

The men stared at him with a certain satisfaction—thoughts of payback for their two downed comrades, but also a bit of victory. They were soldiers, in some sense of the word, and so Slaton played along. Completely exposed, and with an unloaded weapon in his hand, he did what any vanquished combatant would do.

He surrendered.

The three men stood together at the corner of Esperanza’s superstructure, Slaton at the vertex of a right angle. He was fifteen feet from both men, but most critically, neither of them could see the other. Somewhere over his right shoulder, fifteen feet down, the dinghy bobbed lazily on its line. The man near the door was big, over six feet tall and well over two hundred pounds. Geometry and numbers that were vital.

“I am going to drop my weapon,” Slaton said slowly in English.

Neither man responded, but he suspected they understood. Suspected they’d seen enough Hollywood movies.

With the greatest of care he sent the empty Beretta skittering along the deck toward the man near the door. Slaton dropped the damaged magazine and stood with his empty hands held harmlessly outward. He edged one step back, an almost imperceptible and wholly unthreatening movement. As he did so, he slid his right foot along the outer railing. The Beretta had come to rest halfway toward the big man. It was just short of the two-by-six plank Slaton had crossed earlier. Directly on top of a section of rust the size of an oven door. The big man traversed the plank carefully, his weapon level on Slaton. When he was one step away from the Beretta, and bending down to pick it up, Slaton discreetly hooked the toe of his right boot into the base of an old stanchion.

The floor failed as soon as the big man’s knee touched the deck, the section of rusted metal cracking under his weight like ice that was too thin. The fracture spread in an instant and swallowed the man. Slaton was already moving. He launched himself over the Esperanza’s starboard rail, pivoting on his right foot while gravity did the rest.

Bullets flew to the spot where he’d been a fraction of a second earlier, carrying out over the sea. Slaton went over the side, disappearing from sight. When the second man reached the rail, he probably expected to find a wounded adversary floundering in the sea. What he saw was a man hanging nearly upside down, one foot hooked into solid metal, and a hand gripping a loop on a climbing rope. In the other hand, a mere eight feet away, was a compact Glock 26.

Slaton never hesitated.

*   *   *

Clearing Esperanza for remaining threats took a tense fifteen minutes—Slaton reasoned the risk involved in doing so was preferable to a retreat over open water in a rubber boat. He also hoped to find something to explain who these men were.

There had been no survivors. The big man had ended up thirty feet below deck in what was once a cargo hold. In the beam of his flashlight Slaton saw the body crumpled over a spar, facedown in water. The others had suffered his marksmanship. All four men were cut from a disturbingly similar mold—dark complexions, black hair, and three had beards that were more or less groomed. He searched the habitable areas of the ship but found nothing to explain why four men of Middle Eastern extraction, at least two of whom spoke French, had traveled to the remote reaches of the Pacific to attack him.

His final chore was to search the bodies, or at least the three within reach. On the last man he’d taken, Slaton found his only clue. In the front trouser pocket, amid sticks of gum and a handful of hollow-point bullets, he discovered a memory stick. Intriguing as it was, the significance didn’t sink home until he held it to the beam of his flashlight.

What he saw was stunning.

He had come to Esperanza in search of a stranded fisherman. Smugglers would have been his second choice. In his hand was precisely what he’d hoped not to find. Indeed, what he feared the most. One word had been printed neatly on the flash drive’s plastic case.

SLATON.

SEVEN

The meeting began just before noon in the general director’s office of the northern Paris headquarters of DGSI, which, in a somber twist of fate, kept an address in the township of Levallois-Perret—a district that some years ago had been carelessly anointed a “twin city” to Molenbeek, Belgium, Europe’s well-documented incubator of Islamic terrorism.

Aside from Baland, in attendance were DGSI director Claude Michelis and Charlotte LeFevre, the head of DGSI’s intelligence technologies section. LeFevre was a serious blue-eyed woman whose pants and blouse were always stylish but never pressed, and whose blond hair was anchored firmly by gray roots—in Baland’s favorable interpretation, a woman who was trying to keep up appearances, but too hardworking to be consumed by it. She carried the meeting from the outset.

“The radioactive material used in Grenoble has been positively identified as americium-241. Americium is primarily an alpha-particle emitter, with some resulting gamma rays.”

“What threat does it pose?” the director asked.

“By some measures this isotope is more radioactive than weapons-grade plutonium, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. Alpha radiation doesn’t penetrate well. Americium is generally only dangerous to humans if inhaled or ingested. A few contaminated bolts lying in the street are virtually harmless. The other limitation is quantity. Measurements taken on-site suggest the blast contained less than a gram of the material. Put in common terms, I doubt anyone will suffer more than the equivalent of an extra few days of common background radiation.”

“So radiation is not a concern,” said the director.

“Radiation is always a concern. But this event could have been far worse.”

“Where did this americium come from?” asked Michelis.

“Smoke detectors,” replied Baland before the expert could answer.

“Yes,” said LeFevre, “that is the most likely source. Certain types of household smoke detectors contain trace amounts of americium-241—it’s used in conjunction with an ionization chamber, a method to recognize smoke. This type of detector has been banned in much of the E.U., but they’re commonly available in other countries.”

It was an all too common theme, Baland knew—deriving weapons from what was readily available. In the Paris attacks of 2015 the bombers had worn vests packed with TATP, a volatile explosive mixture that could be manufactured from hair dye and nail polish remover.

LeFevre continued, “The amount of material in a single smoke detector is minuscule, three-tenths of a microgram. Spent units can be safely discarded with household trash. Americium is a malleable metal, silver in color, and not soluble. In theory, you could swallow the source from a detector and it would pass right through your body.”

“You make it sound harmless.”

“Not at all. The explosion in Grenoble generated particles that will ride on the air. If these particles are inhaled, they can establish in the lungs and emit radiation continuously, leading to cell aberrations and cancer.”

“All right,” said Michelis. “How hard will it be to clean up this disaster?”

“I think we’ll make quick work of it. A few blocks of Grenoble will be closed for a month, perhaps two. Mind you, the cleanup will not be absolute—we’ll be finding minute pockets of contamination for years to come. But then, I think we can agree that direct injuries from radiation was never the point.”

“As a method of terror,” Baland concurred, “the damage is complete. Every news report leads with a picture of cleanup crews in full protective gear, and every headline is backed by the radiation symbol. Hospitals in Grenoble are overwhelmed, tourism will disappear at the height of ski season, and radiation film badges will become the latest must-have accessory.”

The director nodded, and said, “We’ve already responded to over two hundred reports of suspicious individuals and packages across France in which radiation was mentioned. All have proved baseless, yet this surge of fear has stretched our resources to the breaking point.”

Baland said, “The national police will have to deal with it. Here at DGSI our duty is to ask what comes next. I’ve been in meetings all morning, and there is no intelligence to suggest a follow-on attack. But then, we didn’t see this one coming. We’ve had too many minor distractions—raiding rooming houses, monitoring gun sales, tracking the movement of suspicious characters. The introduction of nuclear material, even at a low level, is a clear graduation of hostilities.”

Michelis said, “ISIS has claimed this attack. I spoke with the president a few hours ago, and he has ordered retaliatory airstrikes. Not that it will make any difference. The problem is what it has always been: Each bomb dropped on a hideout in Raqqa gives them ten new recruits in Saint-Denis. We’ve been keeping watch lists for years, adding to them exponentially, but we can’t keep up. There is simply no way to know which of these Arab cutthroats among us are a danger and which are good citizens. I don’t see why…” Michelis’ voice trailed off. “I’m sorry, Zavier, I shouldn’t have said it that way.”

LeFevre looked at Baland, who said, “It’s all right. I’ve been known to use worse terms myself. And what you say is true—if we had some way to identify the terrorist element in our midst and intervene, the president would be less inclined to launch air attacks in the Middle East. That, in turn, might dampen the swell of outraged young men. The entire cycle of violence could run in reverse, perhaps even giving way to peace.”

“Let’s move on,” Michelis said. “Have any of the attackers been identified?”

“Not yet, but all appear to be of Mediterranean extraction,” LeFevre said, using the new agency term. Ten years ago France’s large population of immigrants had sourced largely from North Africa, places like Algeria and Tunisia. The exodus from the war in Syria had forced a broadening.

“Has there been anything new on this car in which the body was found?” the director asked.

LeFevre said, “It’s definitely the car that delivered the bomber. We’re going over it now for DNA samples and fingerprints. The CCTV video is grainy, but we think the individual at large is a female. We also discerned something interesting in the footage. We can easily see the bomber get out of the car and begin to walk away. Then he returned to the passenger-side window, and this woman can be seen reaching into his jacket pocket. Our analysts believe she was activating the switch on his vest.”

“Why on earth would she do that?” the director asked.

“Because she didn’t trust him to do it,” Baland interjected. He had already studied the video thoroughly and reached the same conclusion.

“Most likely,” agreed LeFevre. “A cold move on any number of levels.”

“It suggests to me that she also dispatched the driver,” said Baland. He got no arguments. “Our lone survivor appears to be one very ruthless woman.”

LeFevre said, “We’re guessing she switched to a different vehicle. If that’s the case, she could be anywhere in France by now. The Swiss and Italian borders are also very near.”

With the worst of the news dispensed, everyone agreed to keep looking. Michelis dismissed LeFevre, and once she was gone he turned circumspect and said to Baland, “That was good work in Grenoble, recognizing the chance of a radiological hazard. Going forward we should embed radiological testing in our standard attack response.”

Baland waved his hand dismissively. “It has long been on our list. We simply don’t have the right equipment at first-responder level.”

“One more thing to squeeze out of our budget.”

There was a time when Baland would have been surprised by that comment. On reaching the middle ranks in the force, he’d begun to see how preoccupied senior officers were with budgetary issues. He supposed it was the way of things. One step above them in the hierarchy were politicians who viewed law enforcement as nothing more than a cost index. Curiously, as Baland himself reached the higher echelons, he felt a surprising urge to not point out such shortcomings. Advancement had its price.

He said, “I fear the scope of these attacks will continue to escalate.”

“More radiological agents?” Michelis asked.

“Perhaps. Or something new … biological, chemical. This strike in Grenoble was a simple cell—six individuals. There are thousands of potential jihadists on our watch lists. Even if only a handful go active, it could mean dozens of attacks in the works. Each small in its own right, but collectively … it’s death by a thousand cuts. I fear we will soon be in the same spiral Israel has found itself in. Policemen on every bus, checkpoints, teaching suspicion to our children.”

Michelis nodded. “Where do you think the survivor from this Grenoble cell has gone?”

“She’s clearly in hiding, but who can say where. It is always easier to become lost in a big city. Paris would be my first guess, perhaps Lyon or Marseille. It won’t be easy to find her—we have one poor image, no identity information.”

“We’ve gone through these motions before. Step up the raids in the Muslim quarters, keep an eye on the mosques.” Michelis sighed heavily, then rose from his seat. He walked around his desk and escorted Baland to the door.

Before reaching it, he gripped his protégé’s elbow, and they paused side by side. “I should tell you something, Zavier. For five years I have sat behind this desk, and never has it seemed more heavy.”

Baland nodded. “These are trying days. But we will prevail.”

Michelis seemed to study him before saying, “You have a gift—an ability to see around corners, to visualize what will come next.”

“It’s not so hard. You simply have to put yourself in your enemy’s position. Force yourself to think as they do.”

Michelis nodded. “Whatever the trick, I want you to keep doing it.”

“Of course, sir. And thank you.”

When Baland was gone, Michelis started back toward his desk. Halfway across the room he paused at a decorative mirror. He did not like what he saw. He’d once cut a striking figure, but the piercing blue eyes now had bags beneath them, and the regal lines along his cheeks had deepened into channels. His wings of gray hair had thinned and gone to a white that was positively grandfatherly. The strain was showing, and the thought of another year or two dealing with the aftermath of mass shootings and dirty bombs was hardly revitalizing. As Michelis knew better than anyone in France, the struggle against fundamentalist Islam wouldn’t end if this crime could be solved, or for that matter the next one. At some point, more likely sooner than later, it would be time for him to pass the baton.

He turned away, sat tentatively behind his desk, and reflected on what his legacy might be. Would he be remembered as the director who let things get out of hand? Or the one who had laid the foundation of victory? At the very least, Michelis prided himself on being a good judge of character, of identifying men and women who could run an effective department. Now, with his career at a sunset, he was quite confident he’d found the right man to carry the battle forward.

EIGHT

“Ow!” Slaton looked down at the bloody needle.

“Don’t be a wuss,” Christine said as she tied off a suture.

Slaton had been called a great many things in his long career as a Mossad assassin. Never had he been called a “wuss.” He was lying naked on their bunk, his left hip high with towels draped across either side of the wound.

“How many stitches?” he asked.

“Only five—a mere scratch by your standards.” She applied an antibiotic to the wound and then a professional-grade bandage. Given the tenuousness of their circumstances—not to mention that she was a doctor and he a trained combat medic—they had agreed from the outset that Windsom’s medical locker would be stocked comprehensively. She slapped him on the butt to say she was done.

Slaton rotated onto his back, and pulled a sheet up to his waist. “Is that how you treat all your patients?”

“Only the ones who deserve it.”

She turned and began putting away supplies. His doctor was barefoot, her auburn hair askew, and she was wearing a set of loose pajamas. Windsom lurched on a wave, and she grabbed the side of a cabinet as a handhold.

They were already under way, six miles removed from their anchorage, and making five knots on a following swell with the autopilot engaged. After leaving Esperanza, Slaton had taken an indirect return route to Windsom. He bypassed two deserted islands, and gave wide berth to an anchored megayacht—countersurveillance, South Seas style.

Christine had been waiting for him on deck, and when he’d stepped aboard they both felt a wave of relief. A brief reception of kisses and clutching, however, ended abruptly when she saw the blood on his leg. He told her what had transpired, and they’d gotten under way immediately. Slaton pulled Windsom’s anchor under the light of a rising moon, and set a course to open water. Christine set up a sick bay.

Davy, at least, had been asleep in his cabin, and they both knew he wouldn’t stir until morning. Cruising the oceans was like camping in the sense that circadian rhythms fell in tune with sunrise and sunset. Tonight they would violate that schedule. In three hours Windsom would approach busy shipping lanes, meaning someone would have to be on deck. A long night lost to watch shifts and adrenaline.

Christine met his gaze, and he tried to read her. Caring doctor? Angry wife? Protective mother? He saw a bit of them all.

“So there were four of them?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And they attacked you without provocation.”

She hadn’t phrased it as a question, but he answered anyway. “Yes.”

“You don’t know who they were?”

“No idea.”

“Could they have been smugglers?”

“Definitely not.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

“For one thing, they look Middle Eastern. And they spoke French, which isn’t exactly endemic in these waters.”

“You talked to them?”

“No, they were communicating with each other during … what happened.”

Thankfully, Christine didn’t ask him to recount the battle.

“And smugglers wouldn’t have had this,” he said. Slaton reached across the bunk to the bloody trousers she’d cut from his leg ten minutes ago. From a pocket he removed the memory stick and showed her what was written on it. He heard a subtle intake of air before she spoke, her tone strangely hollow.

“Your name.”

“My real name.”

She shut her eyes tightly. “This is all my fault.”

“How?”

“You were right,” she said. “It was a setup all along. The woman and her son on the playground. If I had just walked away—”

“No! You are in no way responsible for this.”

She looked at him searchingly.

“The way it worked out—it could have been worse.”

“How?”

“They approached you and Davy, but didn’t put you in danger.”

“If that’s your idea of optimism, it’s utterly depressing.”

Her chin sank to her chest, and Slaton pulled her next to him on the bunk and held her. “This had nothing to do with you,” he whispered, stroking his wife’s sun-streaked hair. Nothing was said for a time as they both decompressed, the only sound Windsom’s twin hulls carving through the sea.

She finally pulled away, a question set in her face. “But I don’t understand. If these men came here to attack you … then what’s that?” She nodded to the memory stick.

Slaton turned it in his hand. “A briefing, probably. A map of where we were anchored, or a diagram of Esperanza. Maybe photos of me working at the church, or you and Davy in the park—you’ve been going there on and off for a couple of weeks.”

“Should we see what’s on it?”

Slaton considered it, then discarded the stick on the bedside table. He looked at her openly. “Tomorrow. It’s been a long day, but we’re safe now.”

“Are we?”

He cupped the side of her face with a hand, stroked her cheek with his thumb. “Yes, I promise.”

Her worry lines finally cracked. First relief, followed by the trace of a smile. Slaton kissed her lightly on the lips. Then again.

On the third she responded, and their tension translated into the physical. Soon Christine was lying next to him on the bed. Soothing hands gripped more firmly, ventured with practiced familiarity. Thirty minutes later both were sleeping soundly, side by side, exhausted in every way.

NINE

The night at sea resolved into the usual challenges. Christine was the first to wake, and took the early shift. Slaton relieved her at 3:00 A.M. in a rising sea. An hour before sunrise, he was still at the helm.

He’d seen only two freighters, both distant. Windsom was battering through steady swells, her twin hulls plowing obediently northward. Explosions of spray flew over the rails, more from the windward starboard side, and water slapped over the cockpit in rhythmic sheets. From the protection of a dodger, Slaton programmed a course ten degrees east of what he wanted—given the conditions, he felt it wise to keep the boat angled into the seas.

He trimmed out the jib, confident things wouldn’t get worse. After cruising for almost a year now, he was beginning to understand that every sea had its habits—some pleasant, others annoying, a few outright dangerous. Just like people, he mused.

He saw a dim light flicker below, and a few minutes later Christine appeared.

“Coffee is brewing,” she said. She looked over the seas and the rigging. “A little tight on the main, but not bad.”

“I’m trainable.”

“Why don’t you come below. We should talk before Davy wakes up.”

“Right.”

*   *   *

Coffee was brewing but not yet in hand. Christine slid into the settee, and Slaton took the seat across from her, still moving gingerly from the wound on his thigh. He pushed the plastic drive across the table. It seemed small and inanimate, which only made it that much more ominous. Slaton watched his wife closely and saw her spirits sink. Whatever comfort they’d stolen last night was lost in an instant.

She picked up the drive as though it were some kind of talisman. “You didn’t take a look while I was sleeping?” she asked.

“No. If you want, I can throw it overboard right now.” He said nothing more, only waited.

Christine sighed and pulled the family laptop onto the table. As soon as it was up and running, she plugged in the stick. Their first finding was obvious, and not insignificant.

“No access codes or encryption schemes,” he said.

“No.”

He let her do the navigating, which turned out to be minimal.

“I see only one folder,” she said. “Three images.” She looked up at him, and Slaton nodded. She double-clicked.

The first image filled the screen, and Slaton saw a copy of a news article. It appeared to be a screenshot of an online news piece. There was a photo of two men and a caption underneath.

Slaton studied the faces intently. One man was grinning as he received an award, the classic right-hand handshake and coat-hanger smile, the award held jointly by the presenter and awardee. The man receiving the award looked vaguely familiar, but Slaton swept his first impulse aside. That would be impossible. He shifted to the man issuing the honor, whom he recognized instantly. It was the president of France. Slaton went back to the other man, and his discomforting thought recurred. The caption at the bottom explained that the award was being issued for meritorious service to the republic. A time and date at the head of the article suggested the picture had been taken three weeks ago. Which made no sense whatsoever.

His concern must have been evident, because Christine asked, “What’s wrong, David?”

He met his wife’s eyes, but wasn’t sure how to answer. “Call up the others.”

The next photo came into view—the same man in a policeman’s uniform, taken last year if the date could be believed. The photo looked like it might have been sourced from a gendarmerie personnel file. The caption at the bottom introduced him as a newly appointed conseiller to the director of DGSI. Christine navigated to the last image, and a fourteen-year-old news article was presented, the same man again, noticeably younger. This time he was lauded as being the top graduate in the Paris prefecture’s spring training class. Slaton couldn’t take his eyes from the half-smiling face. He rubbed his chin with a cupped hand, and a coarse grating noise reminded him he hadn’t shaved in two days.

“Who is … Zavier Baland?” she asked, referencing the name linking all three pictures.

“According to this, he’s a fast-rising officer at DGSI. That’s France’s internal security service.”

“Like the FBI?”

“You could think of it like that. They’re responsible for counterterrorism.”

“Okay,” she said cautiously, “but why is this on a memory stick in a killer’s pocket … with your name on it?”

He let out a long, steady breath, not sure how to answer.

She said, “You told me this was going to be some kind of mission briefing used by the men who came after you.”

“That’s what I thought it would be. But now I’m seeing another possibility.”

Christine waited.

“This was insurance.”

“Insurance?”

“Whoever sent these men didn’t have a lot of confidence in them. They thought I might survive. So the lead man was given orders to carry this file. If the attack failed, I would find it.”

“But a few pictures of a policeman in France? Does that mean anything to you?”

“Actually, yeah, it does. There is something special about this guy—something that ties him to me.”

“What?”

“I killed him fifteen years ago.”

TEN

Baland heard a muted voice behind him, but the words didn’t register as he sat at the kitchen table with his morning cup of tea. Then an arm wrapped around his throat.

He smiled, and turned to face his youngest daughter. “I’m sorry, darling. What was it?”

“Lapins Crétins! You said you would read it to me before school!” Amélie held out her favorite book. Baland was reaching to pull her into his lap when his wife intervened.

“No, there is no time! Papa will read to you tonight.”

Amélie pouted as only a seven-year-old could.

“Yes, tonight,” said Baland. “I promise to be home before bedtime.”

“You always break your promises,” chirped Celine as she came into the kitchen to collect her lunch. At nine years old, she was two years senior and therefore infinitely wiser than her sister.

Baland answered by rising, corralling his older daughter, and kissing her on the head. “Perhaps I should arrest you both.… I will take you to work with me and keep you all day.”

“Oh please!” said Celine. “Then I will miss that terrible Monsieur Gabard and his boring history lessons!”

“Knowledge of history is essential,” admonished Baland. “Do not let one dull old teacher steal your enthusiasm for a worthy subject.”

Jacqueline Baland schussed her children toward the door. “Get your jackets, both of you. It will be cold today.”

The girls complied, disappearing from the kitchen. When they were gone Jacqueline began clearing dishes. “You shouldn’t encourage them when they criticize their teachers.”

“You and I have met the man—listening to him is like listening to an old record. He should have retired years ago.”

“Say what you want to me, but we must teach the girls respect.”

Baland sighed. “Yes, yes … you are right.”

“I’m going to walk the girls to school.”

Baland almost protested, but didn’t want to start the argument anew. He considered driving safer for his family: to be near the top ranks of the nation’s counterterrorism establishment did not come without a price. Jacqueline, unfortunately, was quintessentially French, and would not permit her joie de vivre to be infringed upon.

“I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” she said. “Will you still be here?”

“No, I must go in early.”

She came up behind him and put her arms across his chest. “You’ve been working so much lately, darling. The girls miss you. I miss you.”

He closed his eyes and put his hands on hers. “I know. I’m sorry, but this business in Grenoble has stirred things up. It will get better soon.”

“When you become director?”

He pulled her around and looked at her questioningly. “What makes you say that?”

She shrugged. “A few of the other wives … we talk. They’ve seen your advancement, and there is but one place to go from where you sit.”

“You should not discuss such things with your friends.”

“Do you deny it? The possibility?”

He smiled and swatted her rump. “I can neither confirm nor deny such information.”

She smiled back. “See? You were born for the job.”

“On the minuscule chance it does come to pass, I can tell you the job includes cars and bodyguards we will all make use of.”

She kissed him on the cheek, went to the next room, and in a flurry of hugs and backpacks and gloves, Jacqueline left with the girls.

The house turned eerily quiet. Baland went to the sink, and as he washed his cup he looked out the window across their wintering garden. Even out of season, everything was trimmed and proper, no thanks to him—he’d hired a gardener who came twice a week to tend to things. He noticed a swing on the play set that was hanging loose on one side, and he wondered how long it had been that way.

He set the cup in a drying rack and tried to think of something else to do. It was no use—he checked his phone and flicked through a sea of new e-mails from work. The phone was secure, or so they told him, and one message in particular held his attention: there had been no progress in identifying the woman they’d seen in the car in Grenoble. He wasn’t surprised. The CCTV video had told Baland what he needed to know.

They’d been searching for her for some time, a female organizer, a shadowy young woman who’d been cobbling together local recruits and ISIS infiltrators, and sending them into attacks. Until now she had largely remained under DGSI’s radar, but in Grenoble she’d made a mistake. She had also proved herself ruthless enough to depress the switch in the bomber’s hand, and later to execute the driver. Perhaps the man had been unreliable or done something to compromise security. Whatever the transgression, she had put a gun to his head and shot him at close range.

Ruthless indeed, Baland thought.

Minutes later he was walking into an iron-gray morning, steering toward DGSI headquarters, which lay slightly over a kilometer from his house. Contradicting the security concerns he expressed to his wife, Baland regularly walked to work himself. Director Michelis had more than once offered to provide a car and protection, to which Baland invariably replied, “Senior officers at DGSI order covert operations—they do not suffer them.”

He turned up his collar against a brisk wind and set out with a purpose. Baland had covered roughly half his morning commute when he diverted into a small grocery store. At the entrance he pulled out a thin pad of Post-it notes, and scribbled a list on the top page: bread, yogurt, and his favorite English tea. He continued writing on the second page, then spent ten minutes with a basket collecting his lunch, checking each item meticulously off his list. At the checkout line, Baland bid the familiar cashier a friendly “Bonjour” before giving his scarf a turn around his neck and heading back into the street.

It was ten minutes later, as DGSI’s senior conseiller was arriving at his office, that a dark-skinned young woman picked up a basket at the same market and began strolling the aisles. She had a squat build, and was dressed in an ill-fitting dress and thick down jacket. Her wiry black hair was matted with cold rain, and droplets ran down her hooked nose as she shuffled across the weary linoleum floor. She was discriminating in the produce section, checking ten apples before selecting two, but less so in back, where she stocked her basket with pain au chocolat and a cheap bottle of table red. She again stalled when selecting tea, going to the back of the shelf for a box of Twining’s English Breakfast before moving to the checkout line.

She paid with a prepaid Visa card, trundled outside with a bag in each hand, and walked a circuitous path to a nearby bus stop. There she took a seat on an empty bench, set down her bags, and removed a small piece of yellow paper from one of the shopping bags. She carefully unfolded the three meticulous creases so as not to damage the paper, which had glue on one edge. She read the brief message.

When a bus unexpectedly approached the stop, the woman frowned. She stood smartly, and walked away with her bags in hand. Minutes later she arrived at the small bed-and-breakfast that would be her home for another three hours. Malika locked the door behind her, took a seat at the dining table, and partook of a very nice pain au chocolat as she pecked out an encrypted message on her phone.

ELEVEN

For the two men it was a rare event to be in the same building. When their paths did intersect, it was strictly for brief periods, and never on a predetermined schedule. Indeed, their encounters were often no more than chance events, rather like friends bumping into one another at a pub after work. Except the two men were not friends—not really—and there wasn’t a pub within a hundred miles of Al-Raqqa, deep in the troubled land that had once been called Syria.

The place had been a small grocery some years ago, evidenced by old advertising posters on the walls, many of them peeling away like dated wallpaper. A few long-empty shelves had been pushed aside to make way for a large rectangular rug, giving the main floor the aura of an arena. A security contingent loitered outside, but only a few trusted men, all of whom kept to the shadows. Neither of the principals carried a mobile phone, and both had arrived on foot. They would depart the same way, with minimal fanfare and in different directions. These maneuvers were not by choice—the leadership of ISIS had simply learned the hard way. A phalanx of black-clad guards, a convoy of vehicles, a stray signal—any of that could be a giveaway to the drones. A veritable invitation for an airstrike. Such was the survivalist mind-set these days of the men who administered the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria.

Wael Chadeh was the number-two man in ISIS, answering only to the caliph himself. If the organization were to embrace a corporate structure, Chadeh would be its chief operations officer. His internal security service, known as the Emni, was responsible for both security within the caliphate and the planning of operations abroad. As a matter of strict religious theory, of course, the Islamic State did not recognize the borders of any country. The caliphate existed not as a nation-state, but rather the very antithesis, a geographic boundary where the only law was the law of God, and where, according to the Prophet, an apocalyptic battle would one day take place. Unfortunately, in recent years the caliphate’s holdings had shrunk markedly. There were still a few strongholds, but across the Middle East, ISIS was losing ground fast. And when a given territory was lost, the surviving fighters did what they’d always done—they ghosted back into the population to fight another day.

Chadeh had risen through the ranks as a hardened warrior. In the course of battle, he had killed the enemy in more ways than he’d once thought possible. He had also watched countless men and women around him fall to Western crusaders, their Kurd minions, Shiite militias, Russian bombers, and even a few to Assad’s bumbling Alawite army. Chadeh himself had lost two fingers to a piece of shrapnel, carried fragments of a Peshmerga bullet somewhere near his heart, and on occasion had difficulty breathing—he’d been exposed to something terrible in a barrel-bomb attack last year, and his lungs no longer worked as they should. He was rather tall, but had difficulty standing erect, and, in spite of his being only forty-one years old, there was far more salt than pepper in his foot-long beard. Chadeh was a weary soldier in a vicious campaign, and as such, carried a predictably bitter outlook on life.

The man seated next to him on the ornate rug was altogether different. His hands weren’t callused, and there was not a trace of grit under his trimmed fingernails. He wore a beard, but at the tender age of twenty-nine it was thin and wispy, offering a far less righteous countenance than what was flaunted by other ISIS leaders. He was well educated, and the few scars on his slightly built frame came not from war, but the usual array of childhood mishaps. His name was Aziz Uday, and, notwithstanding his lack of daring and swagger, he was perhaps the most vital cog in what remained of the broken-down machine that was ISIS.

A native of Oman, Uday had earned a degree from a minor university in England, specializing in computers and information networks. Like many young Arabs thrust suddenly into Western culture, he’d felt disconnected and adrift. So instead of going to Silicon Valley after graduation, where he’d had good job offers, he had answered Allah’s call. It had been many generations since a true caliphate had existed, and he viewed it as his duty as a Muslim to serve the Prophet’s vision.

Uday’s rise had been nothing less than meteoric, and he ended in the senior ranks not by the usual methods—either clever politicking or ghastly brutality—but on the basis of technical proficiency and merit. Even so, his final steps to the top were a matter of being the last man standing: his two predecessors had both perished, one falling victim to an American bomb, and the other executed when it became widely known that he was addicted to homosexual pornography. There were rumors the Americans might have planted the damning pictures on the young man’s laptop, but once they were revealed the news spread quickly through the ranks, leaving little recourse but a right good stoning.

In the wake of that scandal, and in spite of his fast-diminishing enthusiasm, Uday had been put in charge of twenty-two of the best technicians in the army of the Prophet. Most were computer and media specialists, but there was also an actress, a poet, and an aspiring electrical engineer. They generated the social media accounts and online journals that were so vital to recruitment, and managed ties to hopeful jihadists who popped up around the globe. Uday’s team of keyboard commandos was a classic force multiplier, each man and woman worth a dozen suicide bombers. Because of it, he today had a bigger target on his back than anyone but the caliph himself.

After the briefest of pleasantries, Chadeh got things going. “We held a meeting of the Shura Council yesterday,” he said, referring to ISIS’s unavoidably fluid leadership cadre. “A great deal has happened in the last two weeks.”

“Our success in Europe continues,” commented Uday as he stared at a poster of a smiling young boy drinking a Pepsi. The image brought back another era, the Oman of his childhood. He remembered a store very much like this one in his neighborhood in Muscat. He expanded that thought and tried to imagine Chadeh as a child, but there his nostalgic associations faltered. The bearded, dark-eyed warlord next to him defied such extrapolations.

“Yes, Europe is a bright point,” agreed Chadeh.

“I was surprised by the inclusion of radiological material in the attack in Grenoble. Was that our doing, or did the cell improvise?”

“It was only low-level material,” Chadeh said without answering the question. “We now have a solid report on their response procedures. Surprisingly, the police didn’t recognize the complication for many hours. A senior DGSI man had to bring it to everyone’s attention hours after the strike.”

“Based on the media accounts I’ve seen, the French are in an uproar. We should expect a heavy-handed response.”

“It will die down soon enough,” said Chadeh, waving his hand, “just like the others.”

“Will it? Route 4 was bombed twice last night.”

“Yes, yes … I know. Large trucks can no longer pass to make deliveries. Raman tells us our revenues have been cut in half in recent weeks.” Chadeh was referring to the nom de guerre of the Egyptian who ran the caliphate’s financial dealings—the hapless captain of a ship shot full of holes.

“I can tell you my section is in dire need of diesel to run generators. This brew the locals call fuel is no good—it clogs up the feed lines.”

“I have heard quiet words suggesting sabotage,” said Chadeh, his tone darkening. “We think someone might be adding sugar to clog the lines.”

In a rare demonstration of frustration, Uday said, “Then the problem will soon be corrected—there has not been a shipment of sugar in two weeks.” He immediately regretted the comment, although Chadeh seemed to ignore it.

Chadeh said, “The locals are hoarding again, hiding their food from us. We must be more forceful.”

“More forceful? We beheaded twelve men this week and stoned four women. At the rate we are going—” Chadeh shot a stern look that cut Uday off. No small part of his rise in the organization came from knowing when to shut up.

The senior man sighed. “You should have seen the meeting yesterday. We sounded like a bunch of old women bantering in the market.”

“Was the caliph in attendance?” This, Uday knew, was a delicate subject. The leader of the caliphate rarely engaged in face-to-face meetings any longer, having become increasingly reclusive since a near miss with a drone two months ago, which, according to rumor, had robbed him of the use of his left arm.

“No, he wasn’t. But he sent his blessings. The consensus is that recruitment has stagnated—our media campaign must be stepped up.”

“I admit, our hit count is down after peaking last summer. The video of the American reporter we burned alive in July garnered over three million views on YouTube. And there was a tremendous bump on Twitter for the photograph of the Yazidi girl being auctioned off as a slave.”

“Yes, that one came cheap. She was very attractive, and we saw a spike in young men volunteering in the following weeks. We must leverage such emotions wherever possible. But we need more, something new and inventive.”

A fully covered woman appeared with a large plate of dates and figs, and humbly set it in front of the two men. Chadeh scooped up a handful of figs.

“Does the council have any ideas?” Uday asked, trying not to sound tentative. Whatever depraved screenplays were hatched, he would be obliged to be director, producer, and writer.

“How many ways are there to kill a man? We’ve shot them a hundred at a time, burned them, beheaded them, crucified them.” He popped a fig into his mouth, and it made a squishing noise as he bit down, a dribble of juice rolling onto his black-whiskered chin. “There was a suggestion of an acid bath for one of the foreigners—perhaps the Russian pilot we captured. Would there be any technical challenges to such a presentation?”

“Let me think…” said Uday, staring at the food.

“Perhaps we could do it slowly. Do you think viewers would give up on a clip if we dripped the acid, say over ten or twenty minutes? Or would the shock value of simply dumping a barrel over the victim be more sensational?”

Uday realized he had to say something. “Let me research that—the time factor. I will discuss it with our physician. If the prisoner only passes out from pain, the effect of a longer production might be lost.”

“Yes, I see your point. That fool Kazbek suggested we search out a wood chipper, but I told him it was out of the question. We cannot be seen as cruel. Besides, where would we find such a thing in the desert? These Chechens, I tell you … they have no sense of where virtue ends and barbarism begins.”

“None at all.”

“But enough of that. Tell me the latest from your section.”

Happy to move on, Uday said, “The social media traffic relating to Grenoble is falling off quickly. As far as we can tell, the police have developed no good leads. I have wanted to ask—do we know who was responsible?” Uday was rarely briefed on operational specifics, but since his department managed all communications for the caliphate, including external contacts, he could often infer what was going on. Grenoble had taken him by surprise.

“I can tell you we knew of the mission in advance,” Chadeh said, but left it at that.

Uday removed a one-page printout from his pocket. “There was a message from Malika this morning.”

Chadeh’s head snapped up. Uday handed the message across and watched the oil-black eyes rake over it.

Malika was their most important operative in Europe. She ran an agent so secret—code name Argu—that the thread of communication was the only one Uday was not authorized to view. There again, as sole administrator of the ever-changing network, he invariably caught glimpses of the messages. He also knew that any man cunning enough to become the number two of ISIS would suspect he was taking a look.

Chadeh lowered the printout, and said, “Tell me, do we have any cells in France right now that might be considered expendable?”

“Expendable? In what way?”

“A small sacrifice to the authorities.”

“Argu again?” Uday asked.

“Yes.”

Chadeh had months ago explained that much to Uday. They would occasionally send Malika information regarding small groups or individuals in France, people who were of little practical use to the caliphate. She passed them on to Argu, and soon after, the French authorities would have a minor victory. Uday recognized the ploy for what it was: Argu resided in law enforcement at some level, and Chadeh was trying to fuel his advancement.

“There is a volunteer cell in Saint-Denis,” Uday said, as if just now considering it. “The Moroccan brothers—I might have mentioned them last week.”

“Yes, I remember your caution. Drug users and criminals, you said, a useless bunch. Do you know where they are?”

“I can find out.”

“Very well. Send Malika the address. But stress to her that we are due important information from Argu.”

“Very well.”

Chadeh’s tone turned reflective. “I have to tell you, Aziz, there is a shift in thinking among the council. We have lost a great deal of territory in the last year, and even here in Ragga we have been forced into hiding. Airplanes bomb us until we are frozen in place, and drones see our every move. But the West refuses to fight us directly on the ground. The French in particular are cowards. Our destiny, thanks be to the Prophet, is to engage the crusaders in our land. The council has decided there is but one way to bring them here: We must accelerate our attacks. And there is only one place where we have the assets to do that.”

“France?”

“Exactly. But the success of this new strategy will rely heavily on your work.”

“My work?”

“Tell me the status of the database project.”

Uday blinked, as if changing gears. It was an initiative he’d been ordered to begin last month. “Progress is slow. It hasn’t been a high priority, and many of the men and women sent to help me don’t last more than a few days. No sooner do I get them trained than they are pulled away to rig booby traps or attend beheadings. We are perhaps fifty percent complete.”

“Fifty percent? You must move more quickly! I will send over more workers. Would it help to have an increase in funding?”

Uday was stunned. “New hardware is always useful … but I recently put together new spreadsheets for Raman. There is no more money.”

Chadeh waved his hand as if swatting away a fly. “Perhaps we won’t make payroll for our fighters in the eastern provinces next month—it won’t be the first time. True believers are happy to fight on the credit of the afterlife.”

Uday only nodded, considering the implications of it all. The database project, the information demanded from Argu. Their situation was more desperate than he had realized.

Chadeh rose to leave, and as an apparent afterthought, he asked, “Are you enjoying the girl?”

Uday forced a smile. “Yes, she is … very adequate.”

“Tell me her name again?”

“Sarah.”

“A Christian?”

Uday nodded.

“If you tire of her, I can get a replacement. But as I’ve told you before, you should consider taking a proper Muslim wife. You are at an age when a man should start a family.”

“Yes, I would like to … but things are so unsettled right now. The girl will suffice.”

Chadeh chuckled. “I’m sure she will. You are fortunate. When I saw her I nearly kept her for myself. Perhaps if you tire of her I will reconsider.”

With that Chadeh turned toward the door and was gone. Uday imagined him collecting his bodyguards and vaporizing into the night. He remained on the rug for some time, and it occurred to him that he was always the last to leave such meetings. Each time he seemed to linger a bit longer than the last. Tonight Chadeh’s final words had chilled him to the core. Perhaps if you tire of her I will reconsider.

Yet that wasn’t what kept Uday bolted to the floor.

For the first time ever, he had misinformed a member of the Shura Council. It wasn’t something he’d planned—for some reason he had simply blurted out the wrong number. The database project Chadeh had asked about was, in fact, nearly ninety percent complete. A week, two at the most, and everything would be in place. Uday had been staying up most nights to make entries himself, and he regularly diverted staff from projects more critical to the battlefield.

So why did I imply otherwise?

He committed to redoubling his efforts on the database, but at the same time realized that Chadeh’s other mandates could not be postponed. Tomorrow he would research the effects of acid on the human body. He would send a dual-themed message to the caliphate’s most important agent in France: one granting a sacrificial offering, the other reiterating a demand. Such was a day in the life of the head of the Islamic State Institution for Public Information.

The woman appeared and took away the food tray. She didn’t make eye contact with Uday, and never uttered a word. Something about it seemed stifling and unnatural. He stood, walked outside, and was grateful for the purifying wash of sweet desert air.

TWELVE

Somewhere over India, flying through a turbulent and pitch-black night, Slaton heard Christine’s voice in his semiconscious head.

“What now, David?”

“It’s your decision. The first option is to go to France and get to the bottom of this. I can try to find out why a terrorist I killed fifteen years ago is a senior intelligence officer in DGSI.”

“And if it’s true?”

“Then he’s a threat to us.”

A pause. She knew him well enough not to ask what that meant. “Would you do it alone?”

“I’d ask Israel for help. But the chances are good that they won’t go near it.”

“Even if they were the ones who ordered you to kill this man in the first place?”

“It’s complicated.”

“No, David, it’s insane.”

“Agreed. But we can’t pretend this isn’t happening.”

“And the other option? You and I take Davy on the high seas, sail as far away as we can? We already did that. We could hardly be more remote than we are today. Whoever is behind this … they’ve found us once. They attacked you.”

He remained silent.

“You’re going to make me choose, aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry. You know it’s the only way.…”

Slaton’s eyes blinked open. He saw a flight attendant passing on his right, a stout drink in her hand and a business-class smile on her face. The air route from a remote island in the Philippines to Israel is both lengthy and indirect. Knowing it would take the best part of a day, he’d upgraded to a sleeper seat and intended to use it. He’d almost succeeded over Myanmar, but was interrupted by a burst of turbulence—mountain wave from the Himalayas.

On the tiny television in front of him he saw a map of southern Asia. A graceful arcing line connected Manila to Tel Aviv, and the airplane symbol was reaching the midpoint. In Manila he’d bought a prepaid phone, and sent a text message to a very private number in Israel. It was worth a try, but he doubted Mossad would help. The current director was a calculating man with a strong aversion to risk. His predecessor, however, who had recruited Slaton and run him for years, was more approachable.

Anton Bloch always did what was best for Israel. He was also responsible for Slaton and Christine being in the situation they were in today. For that reason, he thought Bloch might at least listen.

*   *   *

Slaton arrived in Tel Aviv at 11:03 the next morning. Customs was uneventful, and his legacy Mossad-issued passport, three years old but not yet expired, held up as expected. He kept two other identities that Mossad knew nothing about, but for the moment overtness was to his advantage. The Mossad item would serve as his calling card.

As if to prove the point, he was not yet out of the terminal building when a familiar profile caught his attention. Just beyond the first baggage turnstile Slaton spotted the distinctively brusque profile of Anton Bloch.

As Bloch began walking away, without a trace of recognition, Slaton thought he discerned a slight hitch in the former Mossad director’s gait. He wondered if it was a result of what had happened two years ago. Bloch had taken a bullet to save Christine, and nearly died because of it—which was probably why he was the only person tied to Mossad that Slaton still trusted. Bloch was officially retired, yet invariably kept a hand in things. Watching him walk away, with his heavy stride and brooding form, Slaton remembered Christine’s two-word account of the man: endearingly sullen.

At a distance, Slaton followed his former boss through a little-used side entrance, and watched him disappear into a sedan parked along the curb. Thirty seconds later he was sitting beside him. Without a word, the driver accelerated into traffic.

As a greeting, Bloch said, “You get more fit every time I see you.” His voice was unchanged, a baritone grinder that crushed letters into words.

“I’ve been working hard. Lots of sun and fresh air. You seem to be holding up.” It was true. Limp aside, Bloch looked far more robust than the last time Slaton had seen him. His sturdy build had thinned, and judging by the tan on his nearly bald head, Slaton guessed that he too had been spending time outdoors.

“Miriam has acquired a passion for creating healthy food, and my wayward daughter has finally recognized the relevance of a good education.”

“What’s she studying?”

“Political science, God help us.”

“Maybe she’ll follow in her father’s footsteps.”

Bloch dispensed his signature glare. “You always were one of the few who would goad me.”

“I think I’ve earned it. I’m guessing my passport flagged as designed?”

“Allow an old spymaster a few indulgences, David. But don’t worry—when I received your message I was very discreet. Aside from Director Nurin, only one technician, who you will soon meet, is aware of your arrival. The rest of Mossad still thinks what they have long thought—that David Slaton, the legend, paid the ultimate price for his country. There is even a cryptic star in the lobby of the main office that many believe is a memorial to you.”

“How uplifting.”

“Be thankful—someday it will be true.”

Slaton didn’t reply.

“Will you tell me what this is about?” Bloch asked.

“I told you in the message—Ali Samir.”

“But you said nothing other than the name. You dealt with Samir a very long time ago—what relevance could he have today?”

“Have you recalled the files on the mission?”

“As you asked, yes.”

“Then I’ll explain when we can look at them together.”

Bloch frowned but did not argue.

“I take it we’re not going to Glilot Junction?” Slaton asked, referring to Mossad’s new headquarters facility.

Bloch gave a mirthless chuckle. “Certainly not. A nondescript house in a quiet neighborhood is the most hospitality you can expect these days.”

“How is the director?”

“Nurin is as ever. He tells me what he wants to tell me, and most of it is the truth—at least, as far as he knows it.”

“Is your technician at the safe house?”

“Yes. A very attractive young woman who knows a great deal about computers and nothing about legendary assassins—not unless I ask her to research it. I’ve told her you are an unimportant nuisance. I also mentioned that you are happily married and will be immune to her charms.”

“Was that necessary?”

“You know how my mind works, David—remove every possible complication.”

Slaton loosely tracked their progress, and saw that they were heading west toward the coast. The Ayalon Highway gave way to a secondary road somewhere south of Jaffa. The city seemed unchanged, notwithstanding construction barriers that fronted rising sandstone apartment buildings and expanding businesses, all of which spoke of a strong economy. The landscape was endurance itself, arid and dusty, carob and acacia trees battling for moisture among patches of brown dirt. He had not been to Israel in some time—was it two years already?—yet after thirty minutes he felt the connection, the intimate familiarity. Yet while Slaton had spent many years here, his associations were always fleeting, even as a child. A year on the kibbutz, then school in Stockholm. Training sessions in the Negev, followed by a mission in Hamburg. His regular repatriations approached something migratory, a bird finding its way to an agreeable season. All the same, Israel was and would always be his homeland. The place where his journeys began.

The car nosed toward a tall and elegant building, then circled to one side. At a gated parking-garage entrance, the driver entered a code. The door lifted and the car pulled inside, ending at one of four matching elevators. Slaton and Bloch got out, and without a word spoken the car accelerated away. Judging by the other vehicles in the garage—all European, with Italy and Germany well represented—Mossad was not facing budgetary shortfalls.

Proving the point further, the elevator rose to the ninth floor out of a possible ten—penthouses, apparently, were either out of reach or deemed indiscreet—to deposit them at the private entrance of a sprawling condominium. There was an expansive main room, backed by a kitchen that was a sea of black-steel appliances. To either side Slaton saw deep bedrooms through open doors. The furniture and decorative accents were all first class.

“Safe houses were a little more rustic in my day.”

“Don’t worry, we haven’t lost our heads. The place isn’t ours—only a loaner from a sayan who is unavoidably out of the country for a time.”

Sayanim were one of Mossad’s long-held advantages—civilians who gave assistance to the Jewish cause, material and expertise, with no questions asked. “How long do you have it?” Slaton asked, staring out a twenty-foot-wide window that offered a stunning view of the sun-bleached Mediterranean.

“Our benefactor is ten months into a twenty-month sentence, a very comfortable lockup in Florida.”

Slaton stared at his old boss.

Bloch waved his hand dismissively. “A minor indiscretion involving taxes. I hear he is using the interlude to write a novel.”

Slaton heard someone push back a chair in the room to his right.

Bloch leaned toward him and said in a hushed voice, “Talia doesn’t know your background … you can choose whether to keep it that way.”

She materialized from the side room, and did not disappoint. Talia was in her late twenties, tall and rail-thin. Her hair was long and black, framing stunning features and a pair of almond-shaped hazel eyes.

“Talia, I would like you to meet David.” The two shook hands, Slaton smiling inwardly as Bloch expanded to Talia, “It’s not his real name of course, but he usually answers to it.”

“You operational types are always so obtuse,” she said, adding a smile that seemed to brighten the room.

“I extracted Talia out of Research Administration for a few days. What she doesn’t know about computers is not worth knowing.”

She looked appreciatively out the window. “The view is far better than the bunker where they usually have me chained. I might get used to this.”

“You shouldn’t,” Bloch admonished. He turned to Slaton and said, “Talia is a prodigy. She is better at what she does, David, than you are at what you do.”

“And what is that?” she asked.

Bloch answered, “David has a very sharp eye and a steady hand. He is a first-class stonemason.”

“A stonemason,” she repeated.

“I’m not that good, but I do have a passion for it. I recently spent time restoring some sixteenth-century work in Malta—now there were some artisans.”

“Is that why Anton has brought you here? To build walls?”

Slaton grinned.

“Never mind,” she said. “The two of you can have your little secrets.”

Bloch, stoic as ever, said, “All will become clear in time. I think we should get to work.”

*   *   *

For all the transgression of the Americans, Malika acknowledged their one great contribution to civilization: pizza that was delivered to one’s door. It was cheap, involved little effort, and on this night permitted her to avoid the ocean of cameras watching over Paris.

She lifted the cardboard lid and pulled out the last piece, then shoved the empty box across the dining room table in her flat’s kitchenette. The meat-covered slice dripped grease onto the table, and as she attacked the pointed end, a message flashed to her secure phone. She tapped the screen and called it up, at the price of an oily stain on the phone’s screen. It was a message from Raqqa. She’d been hoping for another, one from the other side of the world. That communication, or soon the absence of it, would have considerable effects on her near-term planning.

She studied the text. It began with an address in Saint-Denis, and ended with threatening language, both to be relayed to Argu. Chadeh was getting impatient for the information he’d been demanding for weeks.

She considered whether to rephrase the message before forwarding it to Baland. As it was, the wording was terse, unyielding, and held a slight suggestion of violence. Seeing nothing she could improve, Malika sent it off into space. She relished making Baland sweat.

She was getting quite good at it.

THIRTEEN

They began in the kitchen, and only when everyone had been issued a coffee cup did Talia lead them to what she referred to as “the command room.” A state-of-the-art communications suite had been installed, computers and wires strung in an untidy bird’s nest across the sayan’s rich hardwood cherry and tanned leather. Talia settled behind the main workstation, and Bloch and Slaton took chairs on either side.

“Please call up the files on Samir,” said Slaton.

Talia did, and seconds later a classified Mossad mission report blossomed to the screen.

“It’s been a long time,” said Slaton, “but as I remember we had no high-res photographs of Samir.”

“Things were different fifteen years ago,” Bloch remarked. “There were fewer cameras, and our more elusive targets were good at avoiding them. Samir never went through an airport, never got a driver’s license or identity card—at least not in his true name.”

Slaton said, “I relied on my spotter for the ID.”

“Ezekiel,” said Bloch.

“Yes. He saw Samir up close during the pre-mission reconnaissance. I’d like to call him in on this.”

“I only wish we could. He was killed during a mission in the West Bank three years ago.”

As ever, Slaton felt the tiny knife in his gut. It was a sensation he’d not felt in some time, but a regular occurrence through his years with Mossad. “I’m sorry to hear it. Show me what you have then.”

“This is the only photo on file,” said Talia, tapping out a series of keystrokes.

A foggy image filled the screen. The mission to eliminate Ali Samir had been one of Slaton’s first after being designated a kidon—a Mossad-trained assassin. He was quietly inserted into Gaza to eliminate the fast-rising Hamas lieutenant, a man held responsible for a string of bombings along the coast. The picture had been taken near a souk as Samir sat on the patio of a teahouse. It was the only image known to exist at the time, and one that Mossad had gone to great lengths to obtain and verify. Six weeks after the photo was taken, from a range of four hundred meters, Slaton had shot him dead at precisely the same table.

Without being asked, Talia zoomed in on Samir, but the face only became more blurred.

“Can it be enhanced?” Slaton asked.

“With time, perhaps marginally. The resolution of the original is very poor. It looks like it came from a security camera or something.”

“So it wouldn’t be any use for a match?”

“You’re referring to facial-recognition software?”

“Yes.”

“No, definitely not. The detail is insufficient, and the angle of the shot is awkward.”

“All right, David,” said Bloch. “I’ve been exceedingly patient. I’d like to know what this is all about.”

Slaton produced the memory stick from his pocket and set it on the desk. Talia inserted it into a port on the computer without remark.

As she managed the new content, following security protocols, Slaton said, “Someone tracked me down in the Philippines.” He gave a brief recap of the contrived meeting with Christine at the playground, the ambush on Esperanza, and finally recovering the memory stick.

The screen blinked and the three photographs appeared side by side. “They’re all apparently taken from news articles,” Slaton said. He let Bloch and Talia study them for a time before asking, “You see the problem?”

Talia deferred to Bloch, who finally said, “Surely you are not suggesting that Samir somehow survived.”

“I am.”

Bloch blew out a snort of exasperation, then referenced the captions of the articles. “And today he is a senior ranking officer at DGSI? Really, David, I have given you a long leash over the years, but this? I think the equatorial sun may have gotten the better of you.”

“It’s him, Anton.”

Sensing the tension, Talia said, “I can verify the authenticity of the news articles.”

“Go ahead, but I think you’ll find them valid.”

Bloch said, “We have only the one picture of Samir when he was alive. How can you extrapolate that to these other photographs?”

“I’m not,” Slaton said. “There’s another picture.” He looked at Talia, and saw no point in keeping up pretenses about his background. “The sight picture from that day, Ali Samir in my crosshairs—I can see it like it was yesterday.”

“But that would mean—”

“Yes,” Slaton finished. “I missed.”

Bloch rubbed his hand over his chin. “I’ve gone over the reports from that mission, including the one you filed. Immediately after the shot there was a moment of chaos at the teahouse. At least three witnesses saw Samir go down. In your after-action report you claimed that you didn’t get a good look at the results because you were busy breaking down your weapon for egress. Ezekiel had the better view. He was certain you’d scored a hit.”

“I saw that much—I remember taking one look through my scope. The bullet struck Samir in the upper chest, left center. I decided against a follow-up because it was a public place and there were too many people moving. I hit him.… I know that much. But chest shots aren’t always fatal.”

Bloch shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the idea.

“There is another reason to think he’s still alive,” said Slaton.

Here the former Mossad director was ahead. “What brought you here today. These men who tried to kill you two days ago were given this memory stick. It means someone else is aware of your link to Samir.”

“Obviously.”

“Do you understand the leap of faith you are asking me to make, David? If he did survive, how could a terrorist like Samir emigrate to France and join the national police force? Surely they vet their applicants, do background checks.”

“Of course,” said Slaton. “But a country the size of France—they must hire over a thousand officers each year to the various divisions. Identities can be created or assumed. I’ve been racking my brain, and I remembered a few things from Samir’s mission file. His mother was Algerian—she spoke fluent French, and had spent time in Lyon when she was growing up. We also discovered that Samir had spent a year in Paris with relatives when he was a teen.”

“The records are vague on that point,” said Bloch, who’d clearly gone over the file himself in the last day. “We never discovered exactly where he went or who he stayed with.”

“Even so, the ties were there. Think about it, Anton. If Samir did survive our attempt against him—would it not have presented an ideal opportunity for him to be reborn elsewhere?”

Bloch shook his head. “Place a terrorist operative inside a European police force, then wait patiently for him to rise through the ranks? Hamas has never been an organization prone to playing the long game. We’ve seen them try to recruit individuals who are already established in security organizations … but to plant an operative who will take years to become useful? That requires considerable foresight and patience. I dare say, it could come from our own playbook.”

“So maybe they’re learning. Or maybe this has nothing to do with Hamas at all.”

Bloch was silently thoughtful, and Slaton sensed awkward undercurrents. He looked at Talia, and said, “Can you give Anton and me a moment alone?”

“Certainly. My coffee needs refreshing.” She got up and left the room.

*   *   *

As soon as Talia was gone, the two men took seats in a pair of heavy chairs that were angled to promote conversation, soft leather creaking beneath them. A well-stocked bookcase dominated the wall behind them, weighty and dense leather-bound volumes, as though knowledge itself would preside over their discussion.

“Will you take this to Nurin?” Slaton asked.

“If you like. But don’t expect much. I see no solid evidence of what you suggest, and certainly no compelling reason for Israel to become involved.”

“That’s what you’ll tell him. But what do you believe?”

Bloch steepled his hands under his chin. “Someone is confiding that a rising star in French intelligence bears a resemblance to a Hamas bomb maker long thought dead.”

“Which rules out Hamas itself as the source.”

“Almost certainly.”

“Do you think someone is trying to draw me out? An enemy of Baland who wants me to finish what I started?”

“I can’t see it that way. From what you told me, those men on the derelict ship might have gotten lucky. You were the target then, and I think that will continue to be the case. All this business about Ali Samir, his ghost dangling like a lure—it only exists to move you onto the killer’s ground.”

“Paris.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Slaton considered it with his customary detachment. “It could be Samir himself.”

“I’m not so sure. If such a senior man at DGSI wanted you dead—he wouldn’t have sent the crew you described to the Philippines. The French have units who are far more capable.”

Slaton pushed back into the soft leather. It was a good point. He was glad to have Bloch’s insight, which was certainly more impartial than his own. “If I go to Paris, set up surveillance—it wouldn’t be easy. As Zavier Baland, he’s got the entire police force of France on his side. It might be difficult to get near him.”

“I’m still not convinced this man is Samir,” said Bloch, “but for the sake of argument, I’ll concede the point. You should consider the alternate scenario. If Baland isn’t aware you are coming, and doesn’t realize his identity had been blown … his guard might be down.”

Slaton considered it in silence.

Bloch said, “Of course, David, you realize there is a far easier way to deal with all of this.”

“We could send the information through diplomatic channels to France. Let them sort out Baland’s background.”

“Precisely. You can go back to your boat and your family, and sail away into the sunset.”

Slaton gave Bloch a severe look. It was just like the old days. The subtle manipulation. By suggesting the entire matter could be walked away from, he was saying just the opposite. This was the director at his persuasive best, nourishing doubts like so many weeds in a garden, waiting for them to take root. Which told Slaton that at least some of his suspicions about Baland had struck home.

He argued, “But France would ask the same questions you have. They would want hard evidence, of which there is none. The only real proof is an old sight picture in my head. The problem for me is that someone knows I’m out there. They want me to come to France and settle an old score. If I ignore it and try to run, it doesn’t mean they’ll stop. They found me once, so there’s a good chance they can find me again. And next time my family could be put at risk under circumstances I don’t control.”

“All true,” Bloch said, cocking his head in a blatantly noncommittal gesture. “Then again, you always were a perfectionist, David. I think the idea that you might have missed that shot bothers you.”

Slaton felt suddenly restless. He got up and paced to the far side of the room. He said, “You realize I have no choice in this.”

Bloch nodded. “Knowing you as I do, I would be shocked if you didn’t go to Paris to get to the bottom of this.”

“So then the question is simple. Will you back me?”

“You know I no longer speak for Mossad. I can take it to the director, but I suspect we both know what his answer will be. There are no visible gains for Israel—only risks. Give me until tomorrow. I’ve set up a room for you here, and I’ll ask Talia to stay the night. She can access everything we’ve got on file.”

Bloch went to the door, pulled his coat from a polished brass hook, and shrugged it onto his wide frame. “When I present this to Nurin, I will emphasize that you are acutely aware of the delicacy of the situation. Having one of our former assassins running around France, seeking out a high-ranking official—it necessitates a high degree of separation. If anything goes wrong, you will be completely on your own.”

“I’m used to it.”

Bloch cocked his head. “Yes, I suppose you are. I’ll have an answer in the morning.”

FOURTEEN

Five thousand miles east, in Slaton’s distant and deadly wake, an emerging investigation was hitting its stride. The bodies on Esperanza had been discovered the previous afternoon by a survey crew who’d visited the old ship to perform an inspection—two months earlier a group of fishermen had reported the hull was leaking fuel and spoiling the nearby reef. The government, in its plodding way, was finally getting around to looking into the matter.

In the fading afternoon light, the crew had circled the ship and seen no sign of fuel oil. The lead man, a conscientious sort, decided to go aboard for a closer look. He’d no sooner reached the main deck than he sensed far greater ills. He smelled the problem before he saw it, and after stumbling across the first body on a catwalk, quite literally, the man had quickly retreated.

The Philippine Coast Guard was alerted by radio, and by midnight four bodies were being removed by officers of the National Bureau of Investigation—the Filipino equivalent of the FBI. Landside investigative forces did their best with little hard evidence, but did get one break right away: From a room key discovered in one man’s pocket, they were able to identify the hotel in which the victims had been staying three days earlier. It was quickly determined that the group had booked four nights but, for reasons unknown, stayed only one before ending up dead on a half-sunk wreck in the South China Sea. More headway was made when passports were discovered in the room and all four men were identified as French citizens.

This brought DGSI into play, and the same question was raised on both sides of a nine-hour time-zone divide: Why had four young men from Marseille, who did not appear to be of strictly Gallic heritage, ended up bullet-riddled on a shipwreck in the disputed Spratly Islands?

On the Paris end, the matter was noted by a certain senior officer in the command section. Whatever Conseiller Zavier Baland might have added to the investigation, he kept to himself.

*   *   *

Slaton spent much of that evening looking over Talia’s shoulder. He asked her for information on Zavier Baland, and she opened a virtual floodgate. At least, that was the case since the day he’d signed on with the police nationale. The last fourteen years of his professional life were an open book, indeed a fairy-tale upward trajectory that was now nearing the apex of France’s counterterrorism establishment. Prior to that, however, Baland’s life was considerably more opaque, and this was the period on which Slaton asked Talia to concentrate.

“Here is a birth certificate from the official records in Lyon,” she said, the document appearing on her screen.

Without asking how she’d acquired it, he said, “Do you think it’s legitimate?”

“No way to tell. Birth certificates get lost and have to be replaced. They’re notoriously easy to create and alter, and standards vary wildly from country to country—even within countries.”

“And driver’s licenses and passports are sourced from them.”

“Correct.”

He took what he could from the document. “Forty-two years old. That would be about right for Samir. The mission briefing I saw fifteen years ago listed him as being twenty-six. We never had an exact birth date because we could never find any official records in his name.”

“That’s often the case in Gaza, even today.” Talia next unearthed a record of Baland’s French driver’s license. “According to this, his license was first issued when he was nineteen, in Paris. As you know, we suspect Samir may have spent time there as a teen. He could have been trying to establish himself in France even then—if so, a driver’s license would be an important step.”

“What about school records?”

“Nothing yet. I’ve been trying to obtain his original application to the national police, which would include the names of the schools he attended. So far I don’t have anything.”

“You mean there’s no record of his application?”

“No … I mean I haven’t been able to hack into the database. We are talking about the French national police, David. There’s a good chance I won’t be able to break that one—at least not in time for it to be of any use.”

“Okay—but we’re running out of places to look. What about marriage records?”

“I found that right away. Baland got married seven months after he was hired onto the force.”

“What can you tell me about his wife?” Those words had barely escaped Slaton’s lips when a wave of guilt washed in. Was this not the very thing he himself was trying to avoid? The question he hoped others would not ask about him? What of Baland’s daughters? Should they be vetted as well?

Talia said, “She’s French all the way—born and raised in Nice, nothing suspicious in her background.”

Slaton was glad Talia had already gone down that path without his asking. Happier yet that it seemed a dead end. He thought again of the briefing he’d had on Ali Samir—Mossad had never learned if the young terrorist in Gaza was married, but the absence of such information was hardly unusual. “Okay, it’s almost midnight. Let’s give it a rest.”

Slaton went to the kitchen and began rummaging through a well-stocked refrigerator. He found two beers, and Talia joined him. They tapped bottles, but neither bothered to toast anything.

They walked out to a balcony with a spectacular view. Front and center was the Mediterranean, a great void that seemed exceptionally settled tonight. On either side the yellow jewels of greater Tel Aviv glittered up and down the coastline. The night air was cool and damp.

“Thanks for your help today,” he said.

“It’s my job.”

“You’re good at it.”

“How would you know? You’re not an information specialist.”

“Trust me—I know.” He took a long draw, and said, “I want to ask your professional opinion on something … but don’t feel obligated if you see a conflict of interest.”

She looked at him speculatively. “That’s a strange way to begin—but go ahead.”

“I live with my family on a sailboat. We’re about as off-grid as you can get, but apparently someone found us anyway. I’d like to know how.”

“Do you have any electronic connection to the outside world?”

“Only one, a satellite internet account. We rarely use it, but occasionally there’s no choice when we need information on weather or ports of entry. I set up the account as carefully as I could, and keep up payments using an alias. I thought it was pretty secure.”

He gave her a few details about the service, and she responded with a minor excursion on ISPs and cybertracking.

“So that was it then,” he said.

“Most likely. I can tell you that Mossad has close ties to software technicians in at least one big telecom. Chances are, we’re not the first to think of it.”

“I’ll cancel my service immediately.”

“Technology is always a double-edged sword.” She recommended a satellite provider he’d never heard of, and gave him tips on how to configure the electronics on Windsom for better security.

“Thanks. I’ll take your advice.”

“My best advice is to remember that there’s no sure thing when it comes to communications security … not anymore.”

“I don’t think there ever was.”

She hesitated, then said, “You are going to France, aren’t you.”

“Yes.”

“Then I’d like to ask you something, and don’t feel obligated to answer if you feel a conflict of interest.”

He looked at her and grinned. “Go ahead.”

“If it comes down to it … would you kill this man to keep your family safe?”

He looked out over the shimmering city and the black sea beyond. “That’s not how I look at it. For years now I’ve tried to stop killing to keep them safe. I wish it had stayed that way.”

“But since it hasn’t?”

“Then I’ll do whatever is necessary.”

Slaton felt her eyes on him and their gaze intersected along the balcony rail. Talia was stunning in the half-light, her dark hair glimmering and her gaze deeper than the sea beyond. She turned toward the main room, but then paused in his periphery, a vague form in the dim light. Slaton heard a soft brush of fabric as she half turned, and smelled the scent of her perfume. Floral and spice. She said in a hushed tone near his ear, “I hope that someday I can find someone like you. Someone who loves me as much as you do them.”

Slaton remained still, his eyes steady on the sea under a calm and moonless sky. He sensed her walking away, heard the sliding door open behind him. A rush of warm inside air spilled out over the balcony. He said, “Talia?”

“Yes?”

“Before I leave tomorrow—I want to know where Baland lives.”

FIFTEEN

The raid in Paris came at seven the next morning on an untidy flat along Rue Fontaine. The police used a battering ram on the wooden door, although the frame was so rotted a good kick with a tennis shoe would have done the trick. Twenty armed men in full battle gear stormed through the breach, and they had no trouble overwhelming three sleepy Moroccans and a naked woman of indeterminate origin. Not a single shot was fired.

When the all-clear was given by the tactical team, a contingent of investigators and evidence technicians followed across the shattered threshold. In the lead was DGSI Conseiller Zavier Baland.

It didn’t take long to realize that the tip was a valid one, although hardly the coup they’d hoped for. Two Kalashnikovs were found beneath a bed frame, and a shoe box in the closet held six boxes of ammo, two empty magazines for the AKs, and a rusty grenade. The grenade caused a brief stir, and a temporary evacuation, but order was quickly restored when the leader of the bomb squad, brought along for just such contingencies, determined that the grenade was in fact a remarkably accurate novelty item meant for lighting cigarettes—pull the pin, release the lever, and an inviting flame flickered. One computer was confiscated for later analysis, but it had been powered up when they arrived, and on first look contained nothing more threatening than a first-person-shooter video game.

Interviews with neighbors revealed that the group had been renting the place for roughly a year, and that one other young man was an occasional resident. He was quickly identified, and arrested within the hour as he pulled warm baguettes from the oven of a nearby boulangerie. The only other find of note was two kilos of midgrade hashish stashed in a dresser drawer. While not the point of the whole affair, the drugs were a welcome find, as they made detention of the suspects that much easier.

By ten o’clock that morning the place had been well turned over, and Baland stood on the sidewalk in front of the building to declare a minor victory over terrorism to a brigade of reporters. He mentioned explosives and weapons at least three times, and let slip that the suspects were likely of Moroccan heritage. He did not bring up the matter of drug trafficking, and deferred when asked if the terrorists had put up a fight. Baland stretched a largely factless briefing into a powerful five-minute sound bite that would lead newscasts across France for the balance of the day.

*   *   *

When Bloch arrived back at the safe house, in midmorning, Slaton was in the bedroom packing. He hadn’t brought a bag on his journey from the Philippines, wanting as few leads as possible back to Christine. Not surprisingly, Bloch was one step ahead—Slaton had opened the closet door last night to find a selection of bland and unfashionable clothes, all in his size and with commercial labels, along with a tan suitcase. It caused him to remember the former director’s words—remove every possible complication.

“Nurin wants no part of this folly,” Bloch announced.

“No surprise there,” Slaton said as he folded the last shirt.

“He won’t obstruct if you choose to look into it, but Mossad cannot condone action against French citizens.”

“In other words, I’m welcome to hunt down Baland—but if I screw up I’m on my own.”

“The clothes in front of you are the end of his support. I’ll do my best to intervene if problems arise, but understand that my hands may be tied. Use caution.”

“That’s your briefing? Be careful?”

Bloch shrugged. “It’s not like the good old days.”

“Honestly, Anton, I don’t remember the good old days being so great.” Slaton shut the bag emphatically, tugging the zippers more forcefully than necessary. He looked his old boss in the eye. “There were a lot of times when I felt like I was operating on my own.”

Bloch appeared unmoved, but said, “Strictly off the record—is there anything else you might need?”

“I’ve already arranged my travel. Alitalia to Rome, then a connection to Turin. I’ll figure out the rest later. My flight leaves in three hours.”

“Documents?” Bloch asked.

“I’m good. I’ll use the passport I arrived on to get to Italy. After that I’ll use another I’ve kept in reserve.”

“Let me guess … Swedish?”

Slaton didn’t react to Bloch’s prescience.

“It always was your most convincing language.” He tossed a manila envelope on the bed. “It’s the least I could do.”

Slaton picked it up, and inside saw a stack of euros and a phone. He checked the phone and found it preloaded with a few contact numbers.

“Does Nurin know you’re undermining him?”

“Of course not. Talia requisitioned the phone. The money is my vacation set-aside. Miriam has already informed me that our holiday this spring will be an epicurean tour of Italy experienced from our kitchen.”

Slaton nodded. “Thanks.”

“Let me emphasize, David—none of this is traceable. Once you walk out that door you are alone.”

“Fair enough. But if things progress, there’s a chance I might need one last bit of assistance.”

“Dare I ask what?”

Slaton told him.

“Surely you jest.”

Slaton’s steady gaze told Bloch otherwise.

The old spymaster sighed. “I make no promises … but what would you need?”

“With any luck, nothing at all. But in a worst-case scenario … I was thinking an Arctic Warfare Covert, in the case, with a variable Schmidt and Bender and a full box of ammo. Also a Glock 17, two mags.”

Bloch closed his eyes, trying to either remember or forget Slaton’s request.

Slaton picked up the suitcase. “That’s it then.”

“I am in a position to grant you one further advantage. Nurin would never approve of it, but Talia is available—she is still officially on loan, and won’t be missed at her regular workplace for the next few days.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me—it was her idea.”

Slaton thought it might be true. He also thought it was an ideal way for Bloch to keep a distant eye on his progress. Without mentioning his suspicions, he walked out and found Talia in the main room.

“Thank you,” he said.

She looked at both men in turn, before saying to Slaton, “45 Avenue Pasteur, Courbevoie.”

Slaton nodded once, then turned toward the door and was gone.

SIXTEEN

Uday sat facing a computer in the rear annex of an ancient mosque, his fingers weary as he played the keyboard. All around him were cleaning supplies and oil lamps, and against the far wall prayer rugs were piled neatly in a stack. The sweet smell of burning candles saturated the air.

When the results of his latest commands lit the screen, he heaved a frustrated sigh and leaned back in his chair. The server that had been giving them trouble for weeks was still only running at twenty percent capacity. It was hardly surprising—Uday had the unenviable job of keeping the most attacked computer network on earth from crashing.

The first problem was the physical destruction. Bombs were taking out comm nodes with increasing frequency, to the point that he was sure someone in the West had figured out a way to locate and target them. Servers were also being electronically fried, which was probably the work of the Americans—he’d heard that their F-22 fighters had an amazing radar system, and suspected that if the jets flew close enough they might be able to focus enough RF energy on the local systems to do physical damage.

Then there was the electrical grid. It was getting more suspect by the day. The diesel problem he’d discussed yesterday with Chadeh was a primary worry, but at least something they could manage. Last night someone had dropped an airburst bomb of some sort, and what looked like silver Christmas tinsel rained down on a makeshift substation, sending all of Hamat into darkness. The Crusaders at their devious best.

His newest problem, however, might soon make the others pale in comparison. Hacktivists were infecting his media campaigns more quickly than he could track the damage, let alone repair it. Something called Ghost Security had been the first to engage, an army of nameless hackers across the world who never worried about attribution, and who ignored the restrictions legitimate governments placed on electronic chaos. The Anonymous network stepped in after the Paris attacks of 2015, decimating long-established channels for funding and media exposure. Telegram, the encrypted-messaging app they’d so long relied upon, was becoming useless, and replacements were increasingly suspect. Uday had watched their recruiting websites become inundated with eager volunteers this week, only to have the vast majority prove to be ghosts created by online radicals. Last month he’d published an online security guide, telling prospective jihadists which apps to use to avoid detection. Within a week a devastatingly inverse version of the document was sweeping across the web.

Uday had a few decent technicians, including a precious handful who’d had some manner of cyber training. For a time they’d kept ahead of things in a game of electronic Whac-a-Mole, creating new Twitter feeds and messaging sites faster than anyone could wipe them out. But the endgame was increasingly clear—they could never outsmart all the world’s hackers. And without the internet to fuel fundamentalist flames, ISIS would quickly degrade to what the West held it to be: an isolated medieval tribe whose only product was brutality.

For Aziz Uday, it was all just another day at his impossible office.

“I have six more men inputting data,” said Anisa, the most able programmer on his team, as she arrived from the prayer room. Had the mosque remained active as a place of worship she would not have been allowed inside, at least not in the presence of men. The entire building had been requisitioned some weeks ago, becoming the main data center for ISIS. The resident mullahs had been relocated, with apologies, to nearby mosques.

“How many does that make?” Uday asked.

“Sixteen altogether, and that’s our limit—we’re out of keyboards.”

“How far have we gotten?”

“Ninety-four percent complete with the primary personnel database. Of course, that number is a moving target. We take in new recruits every day, and the raw data often takes weeks to reach us.”

Uday nodded. “I suspect some of the paperwork never reaches us at all.”

“We are concentrating on entries and not deletions. The files contain at least a thousand martyrs who have moved on to Paradise.”

“I don’t want to remove anyone—simply annotate their martyrdom. God willing, their profiles might still be useful.”

The project had been born last summer out of a request from the Shura Council for the names of those who’d perished in battle over the previous year. Records concerning next of kin—always fertile ground for recruiting brothers and cousins—could not be located, and it was soon discovered that the paperwork had been obliterated by an American bomb some months earlier. After much handwringing, it was Uday who suggested to the council that all records be digitized and placed in an electronic database. It was the kind of thing legitimate governments did.

Uday quickly regretted his suggestion. The council agreed it was a worthy undertaking, but at the same time lamented a lack of wherewithal to purchase more computers or electronic storage. That being the case, ISIS’s chief information officer was faced with a mountainous new task: With no increase in either budget or personnel, he was to acquire paperwork on every existing soldier of Allah, every incoming recruit, every vetted foreign contact, and store it in a single, secure electronic database. The project plodded along for half a year. Then, for reasons Uday did not understand, it seemed to find new emphasis in recent weeks, Chadeh inquiring about the status at every meeting. He wondered if it had to do with the new pivot to European operations.

“Did you mention the generators when you spoke with Chadeh?” asked Anisa.

“Wha … oh yes,” he stuttered, redirecting his thoughts. “But I wouldn’t expect miracles.”

“Miracles are a thing of God. I pray for no more than a few reliable kilowatt-hours.”

“Tell me about our latest videos. Are they finding traction?”

“Better than those of recent months,” she said. “The one claiming credit for the Grenoble bombing is circulating particularly well. Not exactly viral, but it has a high rate of being repeated on all platforms.”

“Finally a bit of good news,” he said.

“I think we should spend more time managing the social media. Committing so many hours to this database is pushing everything else aside.”

“We will be done soon, and then we can focus on the rest. It will be a simple matter to update the personnel list once each month—add the new arrivals, annotate who has been martyred and who has deserted.” Uday immediately sensed a mistake. Desertion was a taboo topic, something that didn’t exist in the caliphate’s earthly Paradise.

“The cowards are but a handful,” she retorted, “and we should keep their files most accurate of all. Once things have settled, they must be found and punished.” Anisa gave Uday a hard look that demanded a response.

“Of course,” he said. “But rest assured. If we do not keep up with them, God will hold them accountable.”

Anisa seemed satisfied by his logic, and she disappeared into the hallway.

Uday turned back to his screen, and no sooner had he begun typing than a message notification blinked. It was from Malika, a reverse flow in the delicate tributary Uday had built. On brevity alone, he couldn’t avoid reading it:

ARGU WILL HAVE RESULTS IN FOUR DAYS

As he dutifully configured the message for relay, Uday wondered what it was all about. He knew Chadeh was demanding something from his well-connected spy, but the details had escaped him. As he hit the send button, Uday was struck by the critical nature of his position. Had he been of a more scheming nature, it would have registered long ago: Every single communication between the Islamic State and its most critical spy in Europe passed through his fingers.

He remembered as a young boy learning about the Persian Royal Road, one of the first mail networks, instituted by Cyrus the Great. In those ancient days it had taken scores of messengers and horses a week to carry a document across the empire. Now instant messaging and e-mail had speeded things to nearly the speed of light, but information still traveled predictable routes.

And trusted messengers were as vital as ever.

It occurred to him that since Malika’s agent, Argu, was so important, it might be wise to set up an emergency means of communication. Thinking Chadeh would agree, Uday took the initiative, typing and encrypting his first message to Malika that had not been dictated from above.

PROVIDE BURNER TO ARGU AND SEND NUMBER

EMERGENCY USE ONLY

He read it through twice, and decided it was good—specific, with no real risk introduced. The moment he sent it, Uday felt a peculiar sensation. His hands seemed almost paralyzed over the keyboard. He pulled them away, balled his hands into fists a few times, and the numbness passed.

He quickly shrugged it off and got back to work.

SEVENTEEN

Slaton was patient in his travels, taking a full day to reach Italy, then another to wend his way to Paris. After a night in Turin, he utilized two trains, two taxis, and a bus, in each case taking every measure to leave as slight a footprint as possible. Although he could not know it, his final leg on a French TGV train was in fact the reverse of the route Zavier Baland had taken to Grenoble six days earlier.

The train pulled into the Gare de Lyon shortly before dinner, and Slaton took a cab to a small but restful hotel overlooking the Seine and the Île de la Grande Jatte, the narrow island that separated Baland’s neighborhood in Courbevoie from greater Paris, and so too the headquarters of DGSI. Slaton generally preferred such modest rooming houses over chain hotels whose corporate reservation systems and high traffic levels did nothing to promote the privacy he craved.

He checked in under the name Paul Aranson, in line with his new passport, and as the hotel’s agreeable new guest from Sweden he asked specifically for a room overlooking the river. The desk man was happy to oblige, and while waiting for a key Slaton engaged the concierge in a discourse about nearby restaurants and points of interest, not because he was hungry or bored but simply to establish a rapport with a young woman whose services might soon be needed for less conventional requests.

He took in the layout of the lobby, and studied a walking map on the wall that, in spite of its cartoonish appearance, he suspected was quite accurate. He noted roads and transportation hubs, and plotted the main boulevards from Courbevoie by which one could walk across the Seine toward Levallois-Perret.

One of the few details Talia had so far extracted on Baland was his habit of walking to work—he left slightly before eight on most mornings. Wondering how she’d determined this, he decided the most likely scenario was that she’d managed to locate and track his phone. Whatever the source, Slaton took it as fact—he had seen Talia work, and was glad to have her in his corner. Soon, however, a darker answer intervened. Could Mossad have had second thoughts and begun its own surveillance of Baland? He’d seen it time and again over the years, teams from competing agencies tripping over one another, often blowing an important op. One more possible complication, he thought.

Slaton was handed a key, and he assured the man at the desk that he didn’t need help with his bag, but thanked him all the same. He went past a tiny elevator and climbed a narrow set of stairs to the third floor. The room was comfortable and clean, and the view first-rate, a reaching panorama of the Seine winding its way east under the Pont de Courbevoie. He turned on the phone Bloch had given him, hoping it was secure as promised, and fully expecting that Mossad itself would track him once the device was powered. It was the way of the new world.

He saw one message from Talia. It contained no new background information on Baland, but did provide a detailed schedule of his appointments and meetings that reached into next month. Slaton grinned. She’s got hold of his phone. It was priceless information. Certainly meetings would be canceled and lunch reservations altered, but the essential fact remained—a leading DGSI officer had been careless.

Slaton studied Baland’s calendar. At eight tomorrow morning he saw a staff conference, presumably at the headquarters building since no other location was mentioned. Lunch the next day was at one o’clock with DGSI director Claude Michelis, a place called Le Quinze in the ninth arrondissement. A weekly press conference was set for three that same afternoon. Baland’s schedule tonight was clear.

Slaton turned off the phone and began unpacking his bag. Shirts went neatly in the closet, toothbrush by the sink. Trivialities to be sure, but rituals Slaton maintained when acting in his trained capacity. A grasp at normalcy in a role that so consistently precluded it. When everything was put away, he set his plans for the evening. Shower, a change of clothes, seek out a decent dinner in the heart of Paris—some of an assassin’s chores were less burdensome than others.

If only Christine and Davy could join me for just a few hours.

That fleeting thought only magnified his frustration. For a year he’d not gone more than a day without seeing them. Now he felt the old darkness closing in, albeit in the City of Light. Safe houses and countersurveillance. False identities and zeroed sight pictures. A brief internal debate ensued. Should he go outside right now and hail a cab? In twenty-four hours, more or less, he could be back in the tranquil South Pacific, the three of them sailing wherever the trade winds blew. But the opposing argument was devastating: How long could that last?

In the end, Slaton was compelled by his greatest strength, and on occasion his greatest weakness: Beholden to precision, he could never allow fate to intervene when control could be had. The answers he needed were clear, and they could only be found in the fabled city outside.

Dinner alone it was.

Afterward he would take a long and watchful stroll, absorbing the lights and fresh air, and making at least one pass down a particular nearby street. Then a thoughtful survey back toward the river, a last check of his phone, and finally a good night’s sleep.

All so as to be stationed discreetly in the vicinity of 45 Avenue Pasteur by seven fifteen the next morning.

EIGHTEEN

Breakfast was taken from a neighborhood boulangerie, rolls and a tall coffee, and Slaton carried it less than two blocks to reach his destination. He’d scouted the area methodically last night after drawing mental lines between Zavier Baland’s home and his office. There were any number of routes Baland might take on his way to work, but one particular intersection seemed a necessity before the options broadened.

There were never absolutes in predictive surveillance. Baland wouldn’t walk to work every day. Not when it was raining or when he had a breakfast meeting across town. Not when a sick child had to be taken to a doctor’s appointment. A given target’s habits often took weeks, even months to establish. That being the case, Slaton was fully prepared for failure. If Baland did not appear before nine this morning, he would go back to his room and contact Talia for updates. Then he would return tomorrow morning a few minutes earlier.

He scouted out positions along Avenue Pasteur, ending at the intersection of the far busier Boulevard Saint-Denis. By 7:25, with a newspaper and breakfast in hand, he was scanning the busy sidewalks from a bench in the Parc de Bécon, a charming municipal garden that graced the banks of the Seine. He occasionally referenced his phone, even though it was not powered up—it was fast becoming a more typical pastime to stare at a screen than to bury oneself in the terrible truths of Le Monde.

With a good line of sight down the length of Avenue Pasteur, Slaton visualized the face he hoped would appear. Instead of the recent pictures, however, he found himself going back fifteen years. The kills came back often enough in his dreams, so he rarely conjured them at will, but the old sight picture was unshakable in his mind: Samir alone at a table, smiling at a pretty waitress. Reading a newspaper and sitting perfectly still. Slaton could almost feel the tension in his finger, the mechanical action and recoil. Then two seconds of chaos. After taking one glimpse at the aftermath through his optic, he’d broken down his gun and egressed. A hit, yes. But had Samir survived?

8:01.

Slaton canvassed the buildings around him. Across the street was a six-by-ten array of apartments, each with two windows, and rows of trellises and planters filled the roof above. On the opposite corner he saw a different kind of roof, full of ductwork and ventilators, and a pharmacy at street level. A building acutely to his right was under construction, a warren of good hides for a shooter, but also busy work crews who were at this hour beginning their day. Slaton admonished himself for getting ahead of things. One step at a time.

8:06.

He noticed a man approaching on Avenue Pasteur. The timing was right, as was the height and build. The stride suggested a man in decent shape, about the right age, and on his way to work. Purposeful, but not in a rush. He was wearing an overcoat and carried a small attaché.

At seventy yards Slaton was curious.

At sixty he was interested.

He had exceptional eyesight, and as the man paused at the crosswalk, forty yards away, there was no longer any doubt. He was looking at Ali Samir—alias Zavier Baland.

*   *   *

At that same moment, as Slaton sat watching Baland, a single eye was locked firmly on him through the lens of a small camera. Not seventy yards from where he sat, across Boulevard Saint-Denis, an amorphous figure lay prone on an ill-kept garden rooftop. Soon her method of observation changed: she put down the camera, trading its viewfinder for the magnified scope on a compact rifle.

The watcher had arrived as she had for each of the last three mornings, by way of a fire escape ladder in the back alley. The garden around her was little more than a skeleton of pottery and dirt, a few wistful brown stalks remembering September. It all would be spectacular again in May, but whoever tended it—no doubt one of the tenants in the flats below—had clearly surrendered for the season.

The watcher was virtually invisible as she lay squeezed between rows of wooden planting boxes. She was good at shooting from concealed positions, and had done her share of it. New, however, was the flutter she’d felt in her stomach forty minutes ago. That was when she’d seen the tall man across the street take up a bench with a commanding view of the intersection. There was a second tingle as she’d watched him linger over a newspaper and coffee, yet she told herself it might be nothing at all. The problem was that she’d never set eyes on the man she was looking for—few had, and many of those were no longer of this earth. According to legend, the kidon had been killed … twice, actually … but rumors to the contrary lingered. She had to be sure.

She’d gone to great lengths to flush him out, knowing a better chance might never come. There had still been no word from the men she’d dispatched halfway around the world. Not that she was surprised. The flash drive had been her insurance. If it was the kidon, and if he came to Paris seeking Baland, this was where he would start. She knew because this was where she would have started. Baland, in all his obstinate predictability, had made his own hunter predictable.

But is that who I’m looking at? Or is it only the hope of so many years?

She’d taken one distant photo, but now she studied his face behind the aiming reticle, the thin cross centered on his head. She shifted to his chest and saw no bulkiness to suggest body armor. If it was him, why would he bother? He thinks he is the hunter.

With a glance at her watch, she looked down at a more acute angle. Right on schedule, the soon-to-be chief of DGSI appeared at the corner. Baland paused for traffic, then crossed the street into the park. She watched the man on the bench intently through her Zeiss scope and curled her finger around the trigger. She studied his face intently, but his features gave away little. He might be Israeli, but given his fair hair she would have guessed him to be a Swede or a German. Whatever he was, his food wrappers and newspaper went into the trash as Baland passed no more than twenty feet from where he sat.

The man in her viewfinder stood and began walking toward the park. The flutter became a wave. After so many years, could it really be true? Was this the man she’d been looking for? It wasn’t a certainty, not one hundred percent. In that moment, however, she decided it was enough. If it was the kidon, Baland might never reemerge from the park. And if that came to pass—her best chance would be lost.

Her finger began the subtle pressure on the trigger. The man was moving at a casual walking pace, and so she added a small leading correction. More pressure, her finger on the cool metal. The noise from the street below seemed to disappear. Her breathing paused. Then, in the instant before the expected recoil, her view was obliterated.

She pulled back from the scope and saw an aqua-and-white city bus drawing to a stop, its bulky frame ruining her line of sight to the path. She let loose a venomous string of hushed expletives. There was nothing to do but wait. She tried to predict where her target would reappear. After what seemed an interminable pause, the bus finally pulled away. Seeing no one with her naked eye, she used the scope to scan the path until it disappeared beneath a canopy of trees. She saw no one. Her chance was gone.

Malika muttered in Arabic and began breaking down her weapon. She tried to tell herself it might be for the best. She hadn’t been completely sure. Ninety-five percent, at best. Yet if it was the kidon, might he be reaching for his own weapon at that moment? Perhaps he would be stymied by some similar roadblock. Or he might only be laying the groundwork for tomorrow or the next day. Wasn’t that how a professional would go about it?

So many questions.

At that moment, however, Malika was certain of two things. The man she had just seen was an operator. And he was following Zavier Baland.

NINETEEN

Slaton heard the rattle of a bus behind him as he tracked his target into the park. He followed Baland around a long fountain, and then down a tiered garden that stepped toward the river. Baland made no apparent attempt at countersurveillance, and at the river he turned left, aiming, Slaton was sure, for the Pont de Levallois. DGSI headquarters was not yet in sight, but Slaton knew where it was, and the bridge became a necessary funnel. Another opportunity noted.

It all went as expected, and Baland disappeared ten minutes later into the concrete-and-glass fortress that was 84 Rue de Villiers. Slaton continued walking south. He pulled out his phone, and after a turn toward the river placed a call. Talia answered immediately.

“I found him right where we thought he would be.”

“That was fast,” she said. “What do you think? Could it actually be Samir?”

“It’s him.”

There was a pause on the Tel Aviv end, then she said, “All right. I should inform Anton before you act.”

“I’m not sure I’m going to act.”

“What do you mean?”

“None of this feels right to me, Talia. Who’s responsible for my being here? Who sent those men and the information on the drive?”

“If you’ve really found Samir, and he’s working at DGSI … what difference does it make?”

“Every difference in the world.” Slaton reached the Seine and turned along the Left Bank. “I think this is a setup against me. But it’s possible Samir is being targeted as well.”

“Who would want that?”

“In my case, there must be a hundred suspects. Samir’s list is probably longer. The problem is cross-referencing the two—I can’t imagine who would come after both of us.”

“So what will you do?”

Slaton told her.

“David … you can’t be serious.”

A moment of silence told her he was. He said, “You can inform Anton, but I don’t want any interference.”

“I’ll make sure he understands.”

“Have there been any changes to Baland’s personal calendar for the next two days? When we last spoke he was set for a one-on-one lunch with the DGSI director tomorrow at a place called Le Quinze.”

“Yes, his calendar still shows it.”

“Good. If there are any changes, let me know right away. But assuming things remain the same, I want you to tell Anton to send me the things we discussed.” For thirty seconds Slaton provided detailed instructions—the address of the hotel in which he was staying, and the precise schedule and means of a transfer. Then he asked her a technical question.

“Baland’s phone?” she said. “Yes, I think I can manage that.”

Slaton explained exactly what he wanted done, then said, “Thanks, Talia. Send me an update tomorrow morning. I’ll call when I’m finished and let you know how it went.”

“What if I don’t hear from you?”

“In that case … you’ll know how it went.”

*   *   *

Uday’s impure thought came while Sarah was washing the dishes after lunch. She was wearing a full robe—such pretenses were necessary for a man in his position—yet inside their home her head was uncovered, leaving her long raven hair flowing freely over her back. The robe left much to the imagination, yet even through the dense fabric he discerned the familiar lines of her slim figure, and saw her graceful movement as she set clean plates on the counter. Never had he taken such pleasure in simply watching a woman perform a chore.

Uday could take it no longer.

“Woman!” he bellowed. “Come here.… I have need of you!”

She froze for an instant, then turned and looked at him, her face the same blank mask he’d seen on the day she was delivered to him by a squad of Chadeh’s minions. Sarah obeyed. A shuffle of hesitant steps brought her across the room as if floating on air. Uday couldn’t take his eyes off her. She stopped short of where he stood, next to the mattress that lay on the floor. Her head fell bowed in supplication, the translucent olive eyes he knew so well pointed at the ground. She spoke in the girlish voice that so weakened him. “How can I please you?”

There was a long pause before she raised her eyes to meet his. Then Sarah lunged at him and tackled him onto the bed. She pushed Uday onto his back, straddled him, and began pounding her fists on his chest. “You are such a bastard!” she tried to say through her laughter.

He made a halfhearted attempt to deflect her blows. “You must show more respect to a man of my exalted position! I am the Bastard in Chief of Daesh Information.”

Her assault paused. “Well, here is some information, O high and mighty one … you will get nothing until you are nice!”

Uday bucked his hips and Sarah fell to the other side of the bed. He rolled on top of her in a reversal, and was about to start tickling her when he heard a gasp. He went still, and saw a twist of pain in her expression. He immediately rolled away. “I’m sorry, darling—did I hurt you?”

She forged her grimace into a smile, then touched her right forearm. “No, it wasn’t you. It’s only my arm—it still hurts a bit. I’m sure it will pass.”

The thugs who’d delivered her had been rough, injuring her right arm, and even months afterward it bothered her. The day after her arrival it had been severely bruised, but she’d refused to see a doctor—a luxury few could imagine these days.

“I wish you would let me track that man down. I could have him brought before a court and—”

“No, Aziz, you mustn’t! It would only bring suspicion. I want nothing to jeopardize what we have.”

He touched her arm gently, in the way a sculptor might touch his favorite work.

“There, you see?” she said. “You can be nice.” It was no longer her girlish voice, but that of the confident woman who’d burst into his life like a second sun.

“You have taken my heart,” he said.

“No, not taken. You gave it to me, Aziz. And for that I thank God every day.”

He smiled, not considering for a moment that she was referring to a God different from his own. Uday still prayed occasionally, as did she. But when they were together religion was irrelevant; they were like fish from different depths who wanted only to revel in the same sea.

It had begun two months ago, Chadeh’s goons delivering her on a cold and rain-swept night. She’d been taken as a spoil of war, a slave from a dwindling Christian neighborhood. They’d marched her into his house by the elbows and forced her onto her knees in front of him. They asked if she was acceptable, and he’d looked down and seen her beaten figure the first time. She was clad from head to toe that night, her burqa sodden and dirty as though she’d been dragged through the mud. In those first moments he had seen neither her face nor her body, only a hunched and filthy form that was curiously still. Not knowing what to do, Uday had thanked the men and told them he was glad to have her. They seemed disappointed, and only later did he realize why—they had hoped he would reject Chadeh’s gift, leaving Sarah to them.

Uday sent the men away, but even after they were gone Sarah remained motionless. When his hand touched her elbow to help her rise, she jerked away in fear. Uday had retrieved a blanket, knelt in front of her, and wrapped it around her shoulders. Only then did he lift her veil for the first time. When he did, he was stunned by her beauty. Even more so by the defiance in her eyes. Then Uday had done what seemed the only decent thing—he smiled at Sarah. Her defiance softened ever so slightly.

He gave her hot tea that night, and watched her eat ravenously. He provided her a clean gown to wear and surrendered his bed, sleeping on the couch in his workroom. It continued that way for some time, Uday caring for her. Then, on the seventh day, she had dinner prepared when he arrived home after a long day at work. On the tenth she smiled at one of his feeble jokes. That same week they went outside together for the first time. Sarah followed him to the market, and afterward they stopped for tea. They talked for hours about everything except the war, until an officer of the Hisbah, the caliphate’s religious police, ordered Sarah to cover her eyes. She did so immediately, but a furious Uday told the man who he was dealing with and sent him packing. Even so, it was the last time Sarah had gone out in public.

So they carried on in their tiny house, and each day Uday fell more endeared with Sarah. He also became more frustrated with their situation. They agreed to live in the present—for now she was safe, and that was all that mattered. It was in the fifth week, after a wonderful lamb kebab and a pilfered bottle of wine, that Sarah had come to him late one night. She’d given herself to him willfully, even enthusiastically, and if there was ever any doubt it ended there. The two had become lovers in an increasingly despondent world.

Now they lay together languidly on the old mattress, limbs intertwined, talking with what seemed like an old familiarity. She kissed him and put her head on his chest, and he drank in the scent of jasmine in her hair.

“You were gone for so long today,” she said.

“A project at work is keeping me very busy.”

“What does it involve?”

He pushed up until he could see her eyes. “There … I knew all along you were a spy.”

She giggled and buried her face in his shirt. Jasmine again.

“It’s actually something I will tell you about,” he said. “But only when the time is right.”

“I don’t want to know anything about the Daesh!”

Uday opened his mouth, but then stifled the words that were rising. He wanted desperately to confide in Sarah—tell her his wild idea that might set them free. But it seemed only a fantasy. After a thoughtful moment, he asked, “You have told no one of our relationship?”

“Not even my mother … pray that she is still alive.”

“I’m sure she is fine. She must have made it to Jordan. At times I wish you were with her, but if they hadn’t detained you as you tried to leave the city … I would never have known you.”

She maneuvered beside him and kissed him on the lips. Soon they were breathing heavily, her hands fumbling as she unbuttoned his shirt. It all came to an abrupt end when someone pounded on the front door.

Sarah went rigid, and they both looked at the door. More pounding.

“Uday!”

“It’s all right,” he told her. “Go to the kitchen.”

She did, and he fastened a few of his shirt buttons on the way to the door. He opened it to find Anisa. “Uday, you must come quickly!”

“Why?”

Anisa looked past him toward the kitchen, but only for a moment. “I don’t know, but Chadeh is furious.”

TWENTY

Slaton watched the man from the window of his room, and decided he was quite good. He arrived in a nondescript Fiat, either dark blue or black—it was hard to say in the midwinter gloom. He might have been a katsa, a case officer, from the embassy. If Mossad was being particularly cautious, which they probably were, the man might even be unofficial. Whoever he was, he had sent Slaton a text to announce his impending arrival. In a minor stroke of bad luck, all the parking spots in front of the small Courbevoie hotel were occupied. He’d dealt with it well, continuing around the block without the slightest hesitation. On his third lap an ideal spot opened up when a delivery truck pulled away.

From the third-floor window, Slaton watched the man get out. He was dressed precisely in accordance with the instructions sent through Talia: denim pants, dark gray jacket, brown shoes. He was the correct height and build, and while his hair was perhaps a shade too dark, it was cut to the perfect length. A very fresh haircut, Slaton reckoned.

The driver paused on the curb, and casually locked the Fiat’s doors using his key fob. After the usual chirp and double flash of the parking lights, he set out in the general direction of the hotel entrance. At that point the man fell out of view from Slaton’s perspective, his location a mystery aside from one point of certainty—he had not passed under the big green awning to enter the hotel.

Slaton was in the lobby sixty seconds later, where he allowed a passing glance in the wall-length mirror: denim pants, dark gray jacket, brown shoes. He walked outside, went straight to the car, and held out an empty hand as he approached. The Fiat chirped on cue. Slaton opened the small trunk, pulled out a common black roller bag, then dropped the lid shut. He again mimed using a fob, and the car magically locked. He turned back toward the hotel, and on his way to the entrance could not help venturing a guess as to where the driver was holed up. Slaton registered three possibilities: a dark alcove in the building next door, a convenience store window across the street, and a nearby alley. The Mossad man might be hidden in any of them.

Slaton pretended to pocket his keys, then retraced his steps through the lobby and up the stairs to the third floor. He was back in his room three minutes after leaving. He put the suitcase on the bed, unzipped it, and threw back the lid to find a heavy plastic case, sided by a second package encased in bubble wrap. He opened the case and found the component parts of an Arctic Warfare Covert. He assembled the gun and performed a thorough inspection. Satisfied, he broke the weapon back down and reseated each piece into its respective foam notch. Slaton went back to the window and, without so much as a glance outside, he pulled the floral-print drapes closed on one side.

He went back to the plastic case, which had just fit in the roller bag, and set it next to the room’s couch. The couch concealed a small fold-out bed, and Slaton pulled off the cushions and partially lifted the folding frame of the bed. This exposed a cavity backing to the wall, into which he placed the case containing the rifle. It was a tight fit, but when everything was put back together, the gun case was completely invisible. The deception would never hold against a committed search, but Slaton had no reason to expect one. More to the point, he was sure the housekeeper would not stumble across it in the course of her daily cleaning. Just to be sure, he used a bathroom towel to dust the floor on either side of the couch, and made sure there was no trash along the floorboards behind it.

Slaton took the second package from the roller bag and removed bubble wrap to reveal a Glock 17 and two spare magazines. He checked the weapon and found the action smooth. He seated a magazine, jacked a round into the chamber, and set the gun on the nightstand. The empty roller bag went quite naturally into the closet next to his tan Mossad-issued suitcase.

Satisfied, he went to the window and looked down at the street. It had been ten minutes. The Fiat was long gone.

*   *   *

Sitting at the tiny table in her flat in Monceau, Malika read the order to provide Argu with a backup phone. She frowned as she might have for an eviction notice. Until now Baland had been exclusively under her control, and the idea of potentially cutting herself out did not sit well. Still, if she were in Chadeh’s position, she would have done the same thing.

Her relationship with the Islamic State had not been born of the usual motivation, which was to say blind religious subservience. She and the caliphate were bound by something nearer an arranged marriage, forced together by circumstances out of either’s control, and with the potential for either mutual harmony or ruin.

It had begun five years ago, on the day a rough-edged and dirty teenage girl had departed the hopelessness of Gaza for the only society on earth of greater dysfunction—the wreckage of Syria. Malika hadn’t told anyone she was going, including the busy recruiters of ISIS. She had simply traveled alone to the Turkish border, and from there walked south.

The caliphate happily accepted yet another refugee from the back-firing Arab Spring. She was screened by an ISIS officer in the remains of a shattered villa. He asked her if she was a good Muslim, and Malika said that she was. He asked her if she wanted to marry a fighter, and she said that she did. At that point Malika made her one and only request. She would acquiesce to becoming a bride on one condition—she wanted to marry a sniper. The man processing Malika had looked at her oddly, and she expanded that she wanted to marry the man who had killed the most infidels. It was a highly unusual request, but colored in a certain hue of fanaticism. The ISIS recruiter had liked that.

So it was, within two weeks of entering Syria, Malika was wed to a killer. His name was Arwan, 120 pounds of bone and sinew who could hold a gun with the steadiness of a vise, and who was reputed to have sixty-five kills to his credit. He said he was twenty-one, but Malika suspected he was younger than she was, eighteen at best. Yet what he lacked in physical presence, he made up for with an intensity the likes of which Malika had never seen.

In dealing with his new wife, Arwan was neither cruel nor kind—if anything, he seemed monumentally distracted. Not surprising, really, for a young man who should have been in school, but who instead spent his days hiding in cramped spaces and shooting people from great distances. He was rarely home, spending days on end in the field. This in itself Malika took as her first lesson—Arwan, the caliphate’s most celebrated living killer, was imbued with an inordinate degree of patience.

But not as much as me, she’d thought.

In the few days when they were together, Malika cooked for Arwan, cleaned whatever room they called home, and when called upon performed as a wife should. After a month she decided it was time for the next step. She told Arwan over breakfast one day that she too knew how to shoot. She said she wanted to learn his craft. He’d laughed at first, but Malika had stared at him long enough, her dark eyes drilling in until he realized she was serious.

That same afternoon, with a rifle in Arwan’s hand, they walked away from town in silence—far away, because ammunition was precious, and not to be wasted teaching wives which end of a gun was which. Arwan took up a position and set his example, sending five rounds into a hand-drawn target at fifty meters. Malika did the same to a second. When they walked closer and looked, her grouping was more tight. Malika had beamed. Arwan had stood expressionless. What he did next Malika would remember for the rest of her life.

“Take my hand, Malika.”

She looked at him curiously, saw his outstretched hand.

“Take it.”

She did so.

“Now squeeze, Malika. Squeeze my hand as hard as you possibly can.”

“As hard as I—”

Her words were cut off by a whimper as he crushed her hand in his own. “Do it!” he demanded.

Malika began to respond in kind. Her hand was in agony, but she fought back, cursing his ridiculous game. Bones crushed nerves, and blood vessels bulged. Her anger rose with each new stab of pain. He upped his intensity, and so did she. Malika was a physically strong woman, likely stronger than he was. She knew she was inflicting pain on him, yet his face remained strangely impassive. This angered her further, and she squeezed with every ounce of strength. She heard cartilage snap, and was sure bones would be next. Arwan’s face remained still, no different from when he drank his morning tea. Her own was no doubt chiseled in agony. Then Malika felt the first tears on her cheek.

Finally, she could take it no more. She yanked her hand out of his grasp. Malika stared at this boy she had married. His face remained unchanged, and his voice was calm as he said, “Have you ever killed a man, Malika?”

She didn’t answer as she flexed her hand to work out the pain.

“Have you?”

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes!” she said eagerly.

Arwan’s eyes narrowed. “Are you prepared to lay in a ditch full of sewage for twenty hours? Can you hold perfectly still while vermin chew your ankles?”

She looked at him blankly.

“There are many kinds of strength, Malika. Find them all, and then you can do something.”

With those words, Arwan’s second lesson was complete. Others soon followed. From that day in the tawny scrub, shooting under a hot summer sun, their relationship altered. Lessons on killing blunted traditional marital conduct. Husband and wife became teacher and student. It went on that way for three months, until one cool fall evening when an officer had come to her door and informed Malika that she was a widow. She made a point of grieving, and in truth she was sad, but less for her and Arwan’s joyless future than for the tactical knowledge he had not yet imparted.

Impatient to carry forward with her plan, Malika volunteered for the front lines as a sniper. The commander had laughed. Undeterred, she’d taken the forever young Arwan’s rifle and walked to the front lines. She killed two Peshmerga fighters that first day, six within a week. The commander changed his mind. For six months she honed her deadly craft, and by grace of God survived unscathed.

With her bona fides thus established, Malika sought out the highest-level officer who would see her, a colonel named Chadeh. She told him she wanted to go to France. She said she spoke fluent French, which was nearly true, and a bit of English, and that she might be very effective in coordinating attacks on European soil. Chadeh didn’t laugh, but he denied her request. He told her she was needed in Syria.

Malika made two more requests to go to France in the following months. Both were rejected by Chadeh, who was rising in the command structure. She did not make a fourth. At that point, Malika took matters into her own hands. One late-spring day, she leaned Arwan’s rifle against the wall of a beaten room in Raqqa. Malika had then gathered a few clothes, all the money she had, and started walking toward the Turkish border. When Chadeh heard from her next, in two months’ time, it was a phone call from a bistro on Rue de Rivoli.

Malika got up from the table and went to the curtained window. She pulled back the dreary cloth and looked out across the street. The afternoon sky was overwhelmed by heavy clouds, Monceau going grim in winter’s pensive half-light. She saw a half-dozen familiar cars parked along the street, and a few new arrivals. The people she saw, if they were spies, did not behave as such. They strolled lazily on the sidewalk or loitered in plain view. What worried her was the chance of others she might not be able to see.

She backed away from the window, and considered a host of new complications. An hour ago she’d seen a news report from the Philippines—she’d been keeping half an eye there. Four Frenchmen of Mediterranean extraction had been found dead under highly suspicious circumstances. The Far East was not a direction in which Chadeh normally looked, yet if he made the connection he might become suspicious. Malika already knew what to say if the matter came up—she would claim to know nothing, and he could hardly prove otherwise. On that ground, she decided she was safe. More maddening was the issue of a backup phone for Argu. Malika decided that was a battle she couldn’t win. She went to the door and slipped on her coat.

Twenty minutes later, on a smelly backstreet in Monceau, she purchased a burner at a convenience store. She of course paid cash, and on impulse bought a large bag of crisps and a soda. She covered the two blocks back to her flat quickly, once averting her face from a passing policeman, and later ducking into a used furniture store when a siren approached on a crossing street. Back in her room, she used a pair of scissors to cut the phone out of its infernal plastic packaging. She activated the handset, then recorded the number as a contact in her own phone.

She would include that number in her next message to Raqqa. Until Argu had the device in hand, however, Malika remained in control. She didn’t need much more time. Her plan had been years in the making, and this morning—she was increasingly sure—she had finally seen her target. Her first chance to finalize things had slipped away, but it hardly mattered.

Malika knew another chance would arrive very soon.

TWENTY-ONE

Uday located the new command center, and was ushered inside by a guard. The place had been set up only yesterday, in the shell of an ancient Christian church—regardless of faith, houses of worship were generally left untargeted. Inside he found an agitated Chadeh backed by a half-dozen others, most of whom Uday recognized. The mood was less that of a meeting than one of a tribunal.

Chadeh briefly explained the problem, then asked, “When did we send Malika the information on these four men?”

Uday had had the foresight to bring his laptop. He took a seat at a table and was soon referencing his communications log. “I sent her a contact number for the cell in Marseille almost two months ago.”

“And now these men end up dead halfway around the world? What was she thinking?”

It was a purely rhetorical question, but with Chadeh hovering behind him, Uday felt an urge to reply. “You believe Malika is responsible for this?” Much of the Shura Council was in attendance, and Uday felt everyone’s eyes on him. For lack of a better target, the messenger was being blamed. He felt compelled to keep talking. “I can’t say if she ever made contact with these men. The South China Sea is not an area of operations we’ve discussed with her … and I know nothing of any missions there.”

“We keep contacts with groups in Indonesia, Malaysia, and Thailand, do we not?”

“We have loose associations, yes, but our footprint in the Philippines is virtually nil. The place where this happened, on a coral reef in the middle of the sea … I can think of no reason Malika would have sent recruits there.”

“Do we know who was responsible for their deaths?” one of the council members asked.

Chadeh said, “Perhaps they were engaged by a Special Forces unit. The Americans are active in that region.”

Uday referenced the most recent press release. “There have been no arrests, but the authorities say evidence leads them to believe that drug smuggling was involved.”

“Drugs?” Chadeh repeated. He paced about the room, and his mood seemed to brighten. “Yes,” he said, “that makes more sense. These recruits we unearth in Europe are useful, but so many are no more than impressionable criminals. They meet true believers in jail who steer them into our fold, but some give us nothing but trouble.”

Uday sensed the crisis ebbing. He said, “If you wish, I can contact Malika and ask if she knows anything about this.”

“Yes, a good next step,” said Chadeh. “And when you do, tell her to keep up the pressure on Argu. We must have his information by tomorrow.”

“Very well.”

One of the others said, “Perhaps it is time to tell Uday of our plans. We will soon need his team’s expertise.” The man who’d spoken was a recognized hafiz, meaning he had memorized the entire Quran. An impressive accomplishment, to be sure, but Uday had always been struck by the narrowness of that learning—such men often had no idea how the outside world functioned.

Uday watched Chadeh take a silent poll, before saying, “Leave us and wait outside.”

He was happy to comply.

*   *   *

Uday stepped through the great doors of the church, and outside he encountered the same guard who’d let him in. The guard nodded and offered him a cigarette. Uday took one, and without a word between them the two stood side by side in the gathering midday heat. Somewhere in the distance an explosion rang out, but neither flinched. Uday remembered hearing the first blasts of the war, so many years ago. At the time he’d thought it was distant thunder. Now the inverse had taken hold—the last rumble from a storm had been lost on him, and he’d been caught by surprise when rain began sweeping down. Such strange acclimatizations war brings.

Five minutes later he was summoned back inside. Only three people remained, Chadeh and two council members. Uday hoped his expression did not betray what he felt—that he would rather be anywhere else at that moment.

Chadeh said, “We are in agreement. As I recently mentioned, attacks in Europe will take on increasing importance in our overall strategy. We will soon launch a broad series of assaults. The skills of your team will be necessary to maximize their effectiveness.”

For the next ten minutes Uday listened as the three council members laid bare an audacious plan. Argu would soon provide critical information. When paired with Uday’s personnel database, it would be nothing short of a declaration of war. Uday finally understood why his project had found new emphasis.

“Will there be attacks using radiation?” he asked, sensing a connection to Grenoble.

“There are no bounds—we will use whatever can be leveraged. France’s weaknesses will soon be laid bare, and an army lies in wait to exploit our advantage.”

“Surely you recall how the Americans reacted to 9/11,” commented the hafiz. “A few thousand dead, and they went straight into Afghanistan—where they remain mired to this day. The French crusaders will take the same course. Hit them hard enough, and they will rush to our ground for the battle of the Apocalypse. When they do, followers of the Prophet from across the world will unite to bring us victory.”

Uday stood speechless. He looked at each of the three men in turn, thinking, Do they not realize what such an escalation will bring? They looked back at him expectantly, as if waiting for affirmation of their grand scheme. All Uday could say was, “May God be with us.”

Those words were instantly echoed around the room.

*   *   *

Baland decided to go home for lunch with his wife. He would normally have walked the entire way, but a light drizzle persuaded him to take the Métro across the river. From there he detoured to intercept his usual path. More than once he’d been reprimanded by his security minders for keeping such predictable habits. It was poor operational security, they said. Baland wished he could tell them how wrong they were.

The signal surprised him when he saw it, understandable since he’d seen it only once before. On the back side of a particular street sign near Boulevard Saint-Denis a circular sticker had been applied, the trendy logo of a surfboard manufacturer. There were a million such decorations across Paris. Part advertisement, part urban graffiti, this one had no doubt been ignored by a thousand passersby that morning. There was a fleeting moment of apprehension, and Baland slowed to take a good look at the sticker as he passed. On its circular edge, at the two o’clock position, a distinct notch had been cut out.

He kept going for another hundred yards, then took out his phone and called his wife. With a heartfelt apology, Baland said that he could not meet her for lunch after all. “Something has come up at work,” he explained, and heard disappointment in her voice when she replied, “That’s all right, darling. We’ll have dinner waiting.”

They exchanged a few words about the girls, and agreed to have a date soon. Baland ended the call and pocketed his phone. He pulled out his gloves, put his head down to the drizzle, and walked briskly to the bus stop at Bellini.

TWENTY-TWO

The meeting with Malika was a standing contingency, reserved for either critical situations or when all normal dead drops were thought to have been compromised. Baland didn’t like either prospect, but he tried not to speculate on the reason for the summons.

They would make contact at the Palais de Chaillot, where, in June 1940, a smug Adolf Hitler had been famously photographed alongside the Reich’s chief architect, Albert Speer. Baland spotted Malika on the very terrace where the Führer had gloated in victory, standing along the stone balustrade with the Eiffel Tower in the background. The plaza today was far busier than it had been then, throngs of tourists taking photographs, street merchants hawking trinkets, and a discreet police contingent roaming the perimeter. Malika had no doubt chosen the place for its highly public nature. Baland disliked it for the very same reason. No tourist would ever recognize him, but he was a relatively high-profile figure in the law-enforcement community, and in any case, there were too many cameras for his liking.

The two made eye contact when he was halfway up the stairs from the Jardins du Trocadéro, and on reaching the terrace he diverted away, implying that she should follow. He went to the entrance of France’s national maritime museum, the Musée National de la Marine, and bought a ticket. Without pausing, Baland went inside and began to wander. After ten minutes he took a seat on a bench in a conspicuously unpopular room dedicated to model ships encased in glass. Malika caught up two minutes later, and together they sat in study of a scale crafting of a thirty-four-gun frigate, the work of one Jean-Alain Picard, that had likely not seen so committed a pair of admirers in all its centuries.

“I don’t like this,” he said straightaway. “Direct meetings are dangerous.”

“You have a problem,” she replied.

“Believe me when I say I have many problems.”

“Not like this. A man was following you this morning.”

This caught Baland off guard. He averted his eyes from Monsieur Picard’s tiny mast and sails. Up close Malika was as he remembered, although each time he saw her she seemed a bit heavier. Probably the Parisian food, he thought. She was dressed in casual Western clothing, bulky and layered for the season, which only added to her thickened appearance. Her black eyes held his gaze unswervingly, some underlying anger evident as always. During their first encounters in Paris, Baland had thought this was how she regarded the world, but in time he’d come to view it as a resentment reserved for him alone.

“Following me?” he said. “Who?”

“The man who has come to Paris to kill you.”

“What—” Baland cut himself off, realizing his voice had risen. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed. There were only two other people in the pass-through display room, a young Asian couple distracted by their cameras as they composed shots of every exhibit. “What are you talking about?” he asked in a distinctly lower tone.

Malika produced a photograph, and it took a moment for Baland to comprehend what he was looking at. He recognized his own silhouette on a sidewalk—if he wasn’t mistaken, the east side of Boulevard Saint-Denis.

“When was this taken?” he asked.

“This morning.” She pointed to a man sitting on a bench in the picture’s background. “I think it is the Israeli. The kidon.”

Baland’s suspicion was instantly supplanted by a jolt of fear. Israel had a handful of assassins in its employ, but there was no doubt which one Malika was referring to. “Slaton?” he said in a hesitant voice. “How can you be sure?”

“He followed you to work from Avenue Pasteur. If I’m right, you are lucky to be alive. You should be more careful.”

“I am not a spy, I am a policeman.”

“You are what you were born to be.”

He gave her a severe look. “What makes you think this is him? There are no pictures of the man. I know because you forced me to search his background—and I have the best intelligence assets in France at my disposal. According to the files, the man born as David Slaton died years ago in England.”

“And you believe that? Other rumors suggest he met his end more recently in Geneva, although a body was never found.”

She waited, but Baland didn’t respond.

“That’s what I thought,” said Malika.

“What do you propose we do about it?”

“There is only one way to deal with such a person.”

“You cannot be serious! The risks would be far too—”

“You should want him dead more than anyone!” she hissed.

Baland looked at her, and the vehemence in her argument made him understand. “No,” he said pensively, the truth beginning to dawn. “Not more than anyone. It was you … you have brought him here.” She averted her gaze, and he knew he was right.

“Yes,” she admitted. “But you unwittingly did your part. Do you not recall the other research you performed for me last month?”

Baland thought about it. “The satellite account? The one my technicians tracked to a sailboat in the Philippines?”

“Your technicians are very good. Raqqa came up with the initial lead—they have many helpful sources across the region. Clearly in this case, their information was accurate. See how well we can all work together?”

“That was reckless, girl! Stupid and reckless!”

She looked at him anew, more critically. Baland sat rigid, his gloved hands anchored in his lap.

She said, “Given what he did to you—I’d think you would beg to pull the trigger yourself.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “You realize what a precarious position you are in. Slaton is here, so the situation must be dealt with, for both our sakes. If you can put him in a certain place, at a certain time—I will finish things.”

“What do you propose?”

Malika had clearly given the idea some thought, and what she presented was a surprising blend of caution and practicality. “The important thing is for you to not be predictable until it is done. This man is hunting you, but we must choose his moment. Until then, you can go nowhere you are expected.”

“I have to go to work—surely DGSI headquarters is secure.”

“Yes, keep your appointments there. But nowhere else … and we should create the chance soon.”

He nodded, and said, “There might be an opportunity tomorrow.” He explained his idea, and she agreed that Slaton might see it as an opening.

“I will visit the place today. If I see any problems, I’ll contact you. Otherwise—be ready.”

Baland frowned. It seemed a rash plan, even reactionary. But Malika was right on one count—as long as this kidon was skulking around Paris, he would have to avoid public engagements, and certainly his family. All at a time when he was striving for normalcy. The idea of requesting a security detail from DGSI crossed his mind, but it exited just as quickly. That would require him to explain why an Israeli assassin was gunning for him, which of course was out of the question.

“All right,” he said resignedly. “What other business is there?”

“The raid in Saint-Denis, the Moroccans … Raqqa wants to know if it was helpful.”

“Yes, that was good. A step in the right direction.” The flow of information with Raqqa had long been going in both directions. Baland metered out France’s secrets to Malika, doing his best to minimize the damage. In return, he was given information about select ISIS assets in Europe, a means of furthering his advancement at DGSI. Now only one more rung remained on that ladder. He was silent for a time as he considered where to take the conversation. With face-to-face meetings rare, it seemed an ideal time to address the sword hanging over him.

“Where does this end?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“What do you mean?”

“Merde! I am not a fool, Malika! If I should become director, we both know that our relationship will become decidedly one-way. What will your handlers want then? Information to sabotage France’s every operation against your Islamic State?”

“Certainly not—that would be far too obvious. Even your internal monitors, blind as they are, would recognize the leak. The sharing must continue in both directions, exactly as we have done.”

Baland stared at her. “The men in Raqqa,” he said searchingly, “do they understand the leverage you have over me?”

Her face contorted into what might have been a smile, her thick cheeks bulging and lines crinkling around her eyes. “No. They have no idea.”

“Do they know who I am?”

Malika shrugged. “If they do, it is not because I told them.”

“I’ve never understood—why have you taken up with them, Malika?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Religion?”

She laughed out loud. Leaning closer, she said, “Don’t imagine that by eliminating me you can eliminate your problem. These men in Syria might be zealots and barbarians … but they are not fools. If they don’t know your identity, they could probably figure it out based on the information you’ve given. They also might uncover our connection. There is no turning back. You can only trust that as long as you are reasonable, we will continue to be so. Our arrangement so far has been mutually beneficial. The only loser is France herself, and what do any of us care about that?”

Baland remained still.

Malika slid a cupped hand onto the bench near his hip. “Take this.”

He looked down and saw a cheap phone, white plastic with a sliding cover. He palmed the device and slid it into his pocket.

“Use it only in an emergency,” she said. “It is a direct line to Raqqa. The number is loaded.”

“Raqqa? Should I take this as a lack of confidence on your part with regard to hunting Slaton?”

She gave him a withering look. “It wasn’t my idea. They consider you an irreplaceable asset.”

“Will there be further attacks soon?”

She shrugged. “I would only be guessing. But I can tell you they are getting impatient for the information you promised. It’s been over a month.”

“Yes, I know. A report like that takes time to research. The department head has assured me it will be on my desk today.”

“Deliver it tomorrow morning then, our number-three drop.”

“In the morning? But you just told me to—”

“Take a company car if you are worried about your safety! Just make sure you get Slaton to show himself.”

Baland looked at her sourly. “He already has once. Perhaps you should have targeted him with something more than a camera lens this morning.”

There was a momentary impasse.

He picked up, “This is a complication of your making, and it comes at a very awkward time.” Baland studied her openly. “So tell me … I know how you found this assassin, but how did you entice him to come here?”

Malika grinned. “That was simplicity itself. I sent him your picture.”

An incredulous Baland listened as she recounted what had happened in the Philippines. He remembered the recent request from the Philippine authorities for information on the men. Baland hadn’t known what to make of it at the time, but now he saw a perfect fit. “Who were they?” he asked.

“The usual ISIS cannon fodder—a bunch from Marseille whose names were given to me by the Emni. I had a free hand to assign them as I wished. There was a chance they might have done the job, eliminated Slaton themselves. As it turned out, it will be up to us.”

Baland looked at her with grudging respect. She was a clever girl. Clever and vengeful. “You took chances in Grenoble,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I saw you there, on a CCTV capture—you really should be more careful. I watched you reach into the bomber’s pocket and activate the switch.”

Now it was Malika who sat speechless.

“Who was he? Another of your endless supply of martyrs? Apparently this one was having second thoughts.”

Malika opened her mouth, but then stanched what she was about to say. “I told him it was God’s will,” she replied tersely.

Baland nearly laughed. “And to kill this kidon? Will that too be God’s will?”

Malika didn’t reply. She got up, rounded Monsieur Picard’s frigate, and disappeared into the next exhibit.

Baland remained on the bench for some time, thinking about what he’d learned. Events were accelerating, and soon they would reach a point where they could not be stopped. He realized the photograph was still in his hand, and without looking at it he slipped it into the inner pocket of his jacket. Right next to a new phone.

Slaton. That was a complication he had not expected. He looked all around the room, and wondered where the Israeli might be at that moment.

It was like grasping at air.

TWENTY-THREE

Slaton left his room early the next morning, and before sunrise was in the vicinity of Le Quinze with a café américain in his hand and a Glock 17 in his pocket. He passed in front of the restaurant only once, regarding the interior layout through its darkened glass windows. He saw a maître d’ stand, a cherrywood bar, and tables that were widely spaced—an establishment where discretion was more valued than the number of guests who could be served.

After pausing briefly to review a menu posted near the door, he rounded the block completely. Slaton then moved one street south and did it all again. In an ever-expanding perimeter he noted buildings and walls and pathways, and within twenty minutes he had a mental map more relevant than anything Google could provide. Comfortable with the field of play, he set out back toward his room. He was not yet to the river when his phone trilled. Slaton saw who it was, and picked up. “Good morning, Anton.”

“You need to abort this nonsense.”

Slaton grinned. “You know what I’ve always liked about you, Anton? You’re the only person I know whose social skills are more stunted than my own.”

“We are not comfortable with this plan.”

“Nor am I—but you and Director Nurin have no say in the matter. He chose not to get involved.”

“When you asked for weapons, I thought you might act quickly and cleanly. What you presented to Talia is madness.”

“I admit,” said Slaton, “it’s going to take some nuance.”

“Nuance? That is hardly your specialty.”

“I’ll make it work. Are there any changes to Baland’s schedule?”

“David—”

“Are there any changes?”

“No. According to Talia, nothing that will affect your plans.”

“Good. Tell her the timing of the message she sends is critical.”

Bloch was silent for a time, and Slaton imagined him laboring to think of valid arguments. What he said in the end was, “All right, then … I wish you luck.”

*   *   *

We are done!

Those three words, spoken ten minutes ago by his assistant, Anisa, had washed Uday’s thoughts onto new and dangerous shores. The database project was complete.

It was Chadeh who had pushed the project over the finish line—he’d kept his word and delivered manpower, twenty individuals of varying capability who’d brought completion virtually overnight. Uday had long ago given up trying to understand the schizophrenic dictates of the Shura Council, but in this case he knew exactly why they’d prioritized the project. A new wave of attacks against France was imminent.

Uday had felt fear before—no one who’d lived in Syria in recent years had not—but this time it settled differently, a cold ballast in the pit of his stomach. The strikes he’d been briefed on yesterday, if they were half as destructive as Chadeh hoped, would kill thousands of civilians. France, likely supported by a coalition of Western powers, to include the United States, would be forced into a ground war. And when they came to eradicate what remained of the caliphate, there would be no half measures. What use were thirty thousand ISIS fighters with small arms, committed as they might be, against a modern army ten times that strength? Apocalypse indeed. The surviving ISIS strongholds would face annihilation.

Uday fought to regain his focus. Only four members of his team remained in the mosque, the rest having been sent home with the job done. In a workroom littered with empty coffee cups and overflowing ashtrays, four sets of eyes fell on Uday. They all knew what had to come next. Under the watchful eye of Anisa, Uday applied an encryption algorithm, then fed the database into the most secure, air-gapped hard drive available. He electronically destroyed the working source files, and saw to it that any temporary memory devices were incinerated in the room’s tiny pot stove, the heater that kept everyone warm using the only reliable source of fuel—discarded computer printouts.

The end result could be attested to by everyone present: a complete electronic lockdown of their new database. It contained identity information on every known member of ISIS, both within the caliphate and beyond. Names, addresses, passport numbers. Phone numbers, ages, units of assignment, family ties. That done, Uday looked around and saw four weary but smiling faces.

“You have done well,” he told his team, all of whom had worked through the night.

“This is something we have long needed,” Anisa added. “We can reference it for unit assignments, payroll records, even notification of next of kin.”

Another technician, the newest recruit and therefore the optimist of the bunch, piped in, “This could eventually form the basis for a system of medical records.”

Uday nodded, and said something encouraging. His empty gaze, however, seemed to bypass them all. Only he knew the truth. The information they’d gathered would have but one use in the near term, and countless innocent souls in both France and Syria would die because of it.

He looked at Anisa, then around the room. “We have worked very hard for this. I want you all to take the rest of the day off. Enjoy our victory. It will be of enduring help to our caliphate, inshallah.”

There was no argument. Uday said he would stay a bit longer to shut things down. Anisa was the last to leave, and as she reached the door Uday said, “Tell the guards outside that security should be increased. This room now holds the our most precious secrets.”

A visibly tired Anisa promised that she would.

Moments later Uday was alone. He turned back to his computer, and once more felt the weight inside him, deep and burdensome. With the monitor staring at him in its soulless gray hue, he addressed the keyboard and began to type.

TWENTY-FOUR

The ops briefing that morning had been on Baland’s schedule for two days, and because it was entrenched deep within DGSI headquarters he had no reservations about attending. Israeli assassins might be lurking along the shoulders of the Seine or on the boulevards of Courbevoie, but there was certainly no more secure place in Paris than the fortress where he sat drinking tea at five minutes past eight.

This was not to say that Baland hadn’t taken precautions since his rendezvous with Malika. He’d slept in his office last night on the surprisingly comfortable couch, something he’d done before while navigating late-night agency crises. Baland had considered telling Jacqueline to take the girls to her sister’s in Rouen, but he doubted they were in danger, and the greater distance between them would only add complications. He was the one Slaton would be hunting. All the same, he had insisted Jacqueline drive the girls to school today.

His assistant had cleared his schedule for the day, regrets given to his German Bundespolizei counterpart who’d been penciled in for an evening cocktail at a nearby hotel, and Baland relished the excuse to cancel an afternoon interview with a minor television station. The only outside event he did not alter: his lunch date at Le Quinze with director Claude Michelis.

So prepared, he sipped his Earl Grey and flicked through a newspaper until the director arrived—as was his custom, precisely ten minutes late. The first thing Michelis did was curl a bony finger, drawing Baland to a quiet corner of the conference room.

“Good morning, Director,” said Baland.

“Good morning, Zavier. You look well, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“That you slept in your office.”

Baland’s first thought was to wonder how Michelis had found that out. His second was to remind himself that the director was the director for a reason. “This thing in Grenoble,” he said on the fly, “it’s been bothering me. At least here, if I’m unable to sleep, I can do something productive.”

Michelis set a fraternal hand on his shoulder. “This briefing might put us both to sleep, but I suppose it’s ground that has to be covered. We weren’t prepared for Grenoble, and the president himself has directed me to make radiological threats our top priority.”

“A wise decision,” Baland found himself saying. A middle-aged woman approached the lectern, and he turned to go back to his seat.

“I’ll see you for lunch,” said Michelis.

“I look forward to it.”

The director was spot-on—the morning’s briefings were indeed coma-inducing. Everyone first endured the department’s specialist in radiological terrorism, a woman who delivered a lecture on gamma particles and shielding in a flaccid monotone. Next came a bespectacled man who championed a new organizational structure, represented in an unremitting series of Venn diagrams.

Thirty minutes in, Baland stifled a yawn and flicked through the long-awaited report that had reached his desk yesterday afternoon. He’d studied it thoroughly in his office last night, which did nothing to promote sleep. A comprehensive profile of France’s vulnerabilities to terrorism, it covered electrical grids, dams, nuclear power plants, and at-risk public venues. Transportation and commerce were given an entire chapter, and Appendix B catalogued armories where conventional weapons and explosives were stored, along with conceivable security weaknesses for each site.

As individual scenarios, much of what he saw was well-trod ground. Taken collectively, however, the information in the two-hundred-page binder in his hands, which was labeled at the highest level of secrecy, was overpowering. It demonstrated profound weaknesses in France’s security arragnements, and included the most current threat assessments—susceptibilities to dirty-bomb attacks had even been updated for a dozen high-profile sites. The Eiffel Tower, Versailles, Disneyland Paris—all had been freshly reexamined this week using information gleaned from Grenoble. There were also a handful of new scenarios, including a hypothesis that a toxic-waste holding pond, located at a chemical factory upriver from Paris, could be breached and diverted into the Seine with catastrophic consequences—only a small car bomb was needed. A computer simulation of a chlorine gas attack inside the Châtelet Métro station was chilling in its body count. In sum, the report was a wake-up call, and would prove invaluable in assembling defensive measures for years to come. And if such information ended up in the hands of the enemy? he thought.

That would be utterly devastating.

An increasingly conflicted Baland flicked through the bound pages like a battlefield commander going through a casualty list. Having personally commissioned the study at Malika’s insistence, he’d done his best to slow-roll its completion, making at least three changes to his original request. Baland had tried to buy time, hoping for some escape from his situation before the report was delivered. Now, with the document in hand, there seemed little recourse. He would have to send it on to Raqqa.

He imagined redacting select pages, or even entire chapters. That was no more than fantasy, really. Or was it? Baland checked his watch. He had two hours to work with before the delivery. Much of that would be needed to requisition a car, drive to a point near the dead-drop location, then generate a way to be alone without alarming his security detail. He could never sanitize the report in that amount of time. But what if I only deliver part of it? he wondered. Malika and her ISIS minders would be furious, complicating things further.

As if that was possible.

Baland decided it might work. He could deliver what they wanted, but in piecemeal fashion, a few choice sections to begin. Enough to convince them of the value of his information. But then he would take a new tack, perhaps demand money for the rest. Yes, he thought, they’ll understand that. He could haggle over a price for days, even weeks. Malika would threaten him, of course, but her handlers in Raqqa would be smitten by the value of his information. They would tell her to tread carefully. In the end, Baland would earn just a little more time. Time to find an escape hatch from his fast-sinking life.

He flicked through the report, wondering which sections to extract. As a senior officer, he would never be challenged about what was going home in his leather attaché. He was leafing through idly when an addendum near the back caught his eye. It had been one of his added requests, an afterthought … or so he told himself. Now those thirty-odd pages struck a long-buried chord of interest. He pulled them free from the binder, then added the table of contents from the front. That would whet their appetites, he thought. A terrorist’s shopping list.

The removed sections went discreetly into his attaché. Forty pages lighter, the binder was little changed in bulk or appearance. Another speaker arrived at the podium, a liaison from the interior minister’s office here to advocate the synergies of interdepartmental cooperation. The very word “bureaucracy” was sourced in French, and it was alive and well in the fortress of Levallois-Perret, and so too, Baland presumed, in the other seats of power: the nearby Ministry of Defense, and the National Gendarmerie on Rue Saint-Didier. The strike in Grenoble had been a seminal moment, standing out among attacks of recent years. It had afflicted the psyche of France herself, and police agencies and counterterrorism forces were responding with predictable myopia. Everyone was sidetracked looking over their collective shoulders for another radiological strike.

Everyone except Zavier Baland, who knew that the next string of attacks, in which he was unassailably complicit, would be very different indeed.

TWENTY-FIVE

Malika made the pickup at a little-used dead-drop location, a soon-to-be-insolvent used book store whose out-of-print volumes collected more dust than customers. Behind a gap in a certain shelf she was surprised to find a thick envelope instead of a digital drive. She made one minor purchase, a yellow-edged study on Charles de Gaulle, and cursed Baland all the way back to her apartment. On arriving she slammed General de Gaulle into the trash bin and removed a sheaf of papers from the envelope.

She shuffled through and found forty pages—two extracted sections, it appeared, of a much larger dossier. Malika slapped the unbound pile onto the table. What is he playing at now? Not only had Baland partially fulfilled his mandate, he had done so in the most cumbersome way possible. Malika would be forced to photograph everything, page by page, then transmit the images to Raqqa. She glanced at the clock on the wall. 10:43. There was no way she could do it all now.

She had far more important things to tend to.

*   *   *

Uday walked hurriedly through a souk, one of the malleable marketplaces that rose each morning amid Raqqa’s sandstone squares. He’d spent two hours behind his keyboard, and the heaviness that had enveloped him was gone, replaced by something new—urgency.

The scene all around him was a desperate one. Downtrodden vendors stood by their carts more out of habit than hope. Gone were the bread and spice stalls that had been here only a few years ago. The scent of fried pastries was missing for lack of any way to cook them. An old man sat listlessly on an empty crate that had probably once held chickens. Next to him, tellingly, was the one enterprise on the square that was doing a brisk business—a cart that held all manner of military uniforms. There was no common denominator—desert camo ensembles were interspersed with black special-ops vests, and even a handful of jungle-green patterns had found their way into the mix, albeit at a substantial discount. Uday thought it a perfect representation of the economics of war, displayed on one listing, donkey-driven wagon.

For all the chaos around him, he felt increasingly disengaged from his surroundings. Like the market, his mood had altered, and he was sure it would never be the same again. Dread, anxiety, a compulsion to protect. Uday didn’t know the exact moment, but at some point in recent weeks his obsession with jihad had been supplanted by something far more influential. He was hopelessly in love with Sarah.

Because of it, he saw a terrible choice looming.

He paused at a flower stall, thinking it an enigma that after so many years of war people still bought and sold flowers. The stand was run by a smiling teenage girl, and without considering what bombed-out garden they might have come from, Uday pointed to a bouquet that caught his eye. The girl happily pulled the bunch free, and he watched her pluck a few dead leaves from the arrangement.

Uday found himself watching her, and noticed that she occasionally glanced up at the sky. This was a relatively new phenomenon, albeit one with little practical value—the drones were virtually invisible, and fighter-bombers rarely heard or seen before their loads struck home. Even so, like small animals who’d seen too many of their brethren taken by hawks, the survivors invariably found their eyes drawn skyward.

She handed over the bouquet of yellow and red blooms. Uday had no idea what they were. He had never been a man bent to passion, and held little enthusiasm for long walks or lingering dinners. The only time anyone had ever put his name and the word “inspired” in the same sentence, it had involved a coding algorithm. Still, in recent weeks he’d begun to see things in a new light—one whose spectrum at the moment involved yellow and red.

He reached into his pocket for money, but recoiled as if by electric shock when he realized he’d dipped into the wrong one. Uday switched to the other side and retrieved a U.S. twenty-dollar bill—the caliphate’s fantasy of its own currency had never gained traction. He handed it to the smiling girl behind the cart and didn’t wait for his change.

He elbowed through the crowds, trying not to crush the flowers, and on turning the final corner Uday saw his building in the distance. Sarah was on the front steps, using a broom to beat a small rug. Last week he might have felt relief at the sight of her. Today it brought only apprehension. She didn’t notice him right away, and he paused to watch her in her chore. Even fully covered, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Soon they were inside together, and he presented the flowers. Sarah lifted her niqab and he saw a beaming smile. Uday exchanged the flowers for an enthusiastic kiss, and he watched her fill an old plastic bottle with water and begin to insert the flowers. She placed them one by one, delicately and with an occasional turn. When she looked at him again Uday forced a smile, but one that left the rest of his face untouched.

“What is wrong?” she asked, walking over and taking his hand. She was beginning to sense his moods.

He collapsed onto their old couch and she sat down beside him.

“Things are happening so quickly,” he said.

Her hands went to his shoulders, and she began squeezing knotted muscles. He felt the tension drain away. “When I first became involved with the movement it seemed virtuous, a struggle that would affirm my beliefs. I thought I could use my expertise to help the caliphate grow, to help common people return to the ways of the Prophet. But now…” His words trailed off. “Now I see these leaders for what they are—common men who contort Islam for their own selfish interests. They order others to sacrifice while they bicker about who gets the best villas and vehicles, who deserves the most protection. I hear whisperings that some are even hiding money, saving for the day when everyone must disappear. But the most troubling thing of all”—he turned to look at her—“is that I am in love with my Christian slave. It is strictly forbidden, yet how can what I feel for you be wrong?”

“It’s not wrong, Aziz. No more than what I feel for you.”

“Our leaders demand strict interpretation of Sharia law. I use my skills to upload videos of beheadings and crucifixions. I can’t remember the last time we discussed giving food to the poor, or putting old women in houses. We once did those things. The misery our movement has caused, most of it imparted upon fellow Muslims—I don’t see how it can be right.”

He looked at her as if searching for answers.

“If you are expecting me to denounce them, to tell you how much I hate the Daesh—I won’t do it. They killed my father and brother, and my poor mother suffers. But I forgive them, Aziz. That is how I keep my own faith, and without it I am nothing.”

“So you would never rise against them?”

She looked at him questioningly. “If you are asking whether I could raise a hand to harm them—no, not even the caliph himself. But I would sacrifice anything to end the suffering.”

“Suffering,” he said. “There will soon be much more of that.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighed. “I learned yesterday that new strikes are being planned against France. The council are blind—they tell one another that God is on our side, and scheme to lash out at the West like children throwing stones at a pack of wild dogs. Sooner or later, the dogs will turn. But these new attacks—I think there might be a way to stop them.”

She looked at him with a confluence of emotions he couldn’t read. Pride? Fear? She took his hand, and said, “The choices you make are between you and God, Aziz. No one else can tell you what to do.”

“Actually,” he said, reaching into his pocket for what would save them, “I have already made my decision. But I had to hear yours.…”

*   *   *

Claude Michelis was leaving his final meeting of the day when his phone vibrated with a message. It was from Zavier Baland.

Running late. Can we make lunch 1:30 instead of 1:00?

Michelis sent a reply to say that was fine, and got an immediate response.

Thanks, Chief. I’ll call Henri and have him hold our table.

The director sighed and looked at his watch. It was twelve thirty. He hoped it didn’t go any later. He was getting hungry.

Michelis’ reply did not, in fact, ever reach Baland. For reasons he would never understand, his message terminated in a luxury condominium in Tel Aviv. Zavier Baland was equally unaware of the hijacked thread. He, however, would realize something had gone very wrong within sixty seconds of arriving at Le Quinze.

TWENTY-SIX

Le Quinze was bustling on the lunch rush, and Baland found the ever-solicitous Henri presiding behind his maître d’s podium.

“Good afternoon, Monsieur Baland. Your table is waiting and your guest has already arrived.”

“Thank you.”

Baland followed Henri through a maze of partitions that was clearly designed to enhance privacy—the reason, along with the food, that the restaurant had risen in popularity with actors, statesmen, and, perhaps most tellingly, a recent influx of wealthy Russian mobsters.

Turning the final corner, Baland was surprised to see someone other than Michelis at his usual white-linened corner table. “I’m sorry,” he said, leaning toward Henri, “but I was expecting Director Michelis.”

Henri half turned and gave Baland the same look he might have if he’d just been told Bastille Day had been canceled. “But monsieur, I was told very distinctly that—”

“It’s all right,” interrupted the man at the table in English. “Monsieur Baland doesn’t recognize me, but we are in fact old acquaintances.”

Baland locked eyes with the man, whose hands were out of sight under the table, and saw a slight nod toward the opposing chair. “Yes,” he said hesitantly, keeping with English, “it’s all right, Henri.”

A relieved Henri disappeared, and Baland settled cautiously into the chair and took stock of the man across from him. He appeared rather tall, and wore a casual jacket and collared shirt. He looked fit and tan, and a pair of unusual gray eyes were keenly active.

“Do you know who I am?” the man asked.

“I have no idea,” Baland lied. The photograph Malika had given him was still in his pocket.

“Really? Either way, I’ll have to ask you to keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Will you not extend me the same courtesy?”

Surprisingly, the assassin did, his hands appearing on the white tablecloth. His eyes drilled Baland, and he nodded as if some great internal question had been answered. “How did you do it?” the man finally asked.

“Do what?” replied Baland.

“Escape Gaza. Settle unnoticed in France.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about. If—”

“Please, Ali. Let’s not waste time.”

Baland played his next facial expression with the greatest of care. Gradual understanding, as if old points of fact were connecting. “All right. You have made a mistake, but I think an understandable one.”

“Which is?”

“I won’t explain without knowing who I am dealing with.”

“You’re dealing with someone who will gladly kill you for one wrong answer.”

*   *   *

Malika preferred rooftops for many reasons. Elevation was always an advantage, particularly in urban areas, where steep angles removed traffic and pedestrians from lines of fire. It also allowed a raptor’s view of the surrounding streets and buildings, giving maximum awareness of possible threats and escapes. Today, unfortunately, the rooftop was not her friend.

Her mistake had been arriving late, shortly after noon. She’d wasted too much time in her flat dealing with Baland’s partial dossier. She had tried taking photographs of the pages using a proper camera, but had trouble getting acceptable images without a flash. She’d reverted to her phone with mixed results. The test image she’d launched to Raqqa had come back unsent, and for twenty minutes Malika fussed with the phone’s settings and resolution controls before successfully transferring a page. Then she had looked at the clock.

She’d arrived at Le Quinze in a rush, but then spent twenty minutes maneuvering onto the roof without being seen. There she’d assembled her weapon of choice, a Remington CSR sniper rifle. Also contained in her three-foot-long cardboard box, the label of which suggested a lighting fixture, was an H&K UMP, a compact semiautomatic in case close work became necessary.

Once in place, Malika had immediately begun watching the entrance of Le Quinze. She would normally have taken time to study the surrounding area. Just as with the rubble warrens of Mosul and Ramadi, angles should have been figured and escape routes mapped. The weather was taking a noticeable turn for the worse—heavy skies held the promise of rain, and the midday light seemed more akin to dusk. The wind was picking up as well, and she wished she’d been able to make estimates of where gusts accelerated between buildings and where eddies seemed to fall.

There hadn’t been time for any of that.

Baland’s car had arrived right on schedule, at one o’clock, and in those critical moments Malika’s watchfulness had gone into overdrive. She’d held her breath as he crossed twenty feet of open ground to reach the restaurant’s door, her weapon searching, her finger poised. She was positioned classically as a countersniper—high above the presumed target and looking outward for an assassin. With Baland acting as bait, she had scanned every window across the street, stepped her eyes to each car parked along the curb. Malika waited for the Israeli to appear, confident that if he did, she would see something. A glint, a muzzle flash, even the telltale barrel.

It had now been five minutes since Baland passed through the door. Still nothing had happened. Had she been wrong about Slaton coming here? Might he be nearby, waiting for Baland to come back outside? She decided the answer to both questions was no. He was here, somewhere. But he had found another way.

Which meant the rooftop was a mistake. It was entirely the wrong place to be.

*   *   *

Baland did not flinch, but neither did the man across the table. The gunmetal-gray eyes seemed almost aqueous, enveloping the entire room at once. Baland too was taking in as much as he could. His back was not quite squared to the entrance, and in the periphery, over his right shoulder, he could see people coming and going.

He narrowed his gaze, and said, “I think you might be Israeli—is that it?”

No answer.

Baland produced a slight smile. “Since you called me Ali just now, I know who you think I am—Ali Samir. And so you are wondering how a terrorist hunted down by Israel, many years ago now, has been reborn as a senior officer at DGSI.” He shifted slightly in his seat to have a better view to his right, never taking his eyes off Slaton. “A searching mind might even imagine that you were the hunter on that fateful day.”

Finally a reaction, the eyes regarding him with something distant. Perhaps a remembrance of my face through a telescopic sight? he wondered.

“I’ll neither confirm nor deny that.”

Baland nodded. “Of course. Any other answer would have given me doubt. So I know who you are. Therefore, I will return the favor. I am not Ali Samir,” he said, adding a pause to give emphasis to his next words. “I am his identical twin brother.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Slaton’s attention faltered on the critical word. Twin.

Of all the possibilities, this was one he’d never considered. It did, however, answer the most vexing question: How could a man he killed fifteen years ago still be alive? Unfortunately, Baland’s solution, in equal measure bewildering and elegant, sent a tide of new questions streaming into his head.

“Identical twin?” Slaton repeated. “How did you end up here?”

Baland’s reply seemed measured. “It was really quite simple, although over the years I have often asked myself that same question. My brother and I were born in Gaza. My mother was Algerian, but had family in France. Gaza was as difficult a place then as it is today. When my mother learned she was pregnant, she told my father she didn’t want to raise a family there. He eventually agreed, and they began legal maneuvers to emigrate, applying for French citizenship. The process went favorably, and approval seemed imminent. As they prepared to leave, an unexpected complication arose. Keep in mind—at that time in Gaza there was no such thing as prenatal ultrasounds. I’ve been told my mother never even saw an obstetrician.”

“No one was expecting twins.”

“Precisely. When my brother and I were born early, as often happens with multiple births, the problems began. It required alterations to the emigration process. Paperwork had to be rerun, and that took time.”

The waiter interrupted to take their drink orders. Baland ordered sparkling water, Slaton coffee. As soon as he was gone, Slaton asked, “When was this?”

Baland’s gaze drifted over the room. “I was born in 1977.”

“Gaza was still under Israeli military authority.”

“Yes. The situation in the Sinai would soon be settled by the Egypt-Israel Peace Treaty, but Gaza was left as ever—a loosely administered territory. When the emigration paperwork finally came through there were mistakes. Approval was granted to leave, but only one child was included. With those papers in hand, my parents decided to send me ahead to France while they sorted through the rest—my aunt, a French citizen, came and took me to Lyon. Two weeks later everything changed. The Israelis undertook a mission against what they called a terrorist stronghold. An errant rocket struck my parents’ bedroom. They were both killed instantly.” Baland paused. “Errant,” he repeated. “That was the word used in the official press release.”

“And your brother?”

“He was in a different room and survived the explosion unscathed. Ali was taken in by my father’s side of the family. After that…” Baland hesitated. “Honestly, you probably know more about him than I do. As far as I know, no serious attempt was ever made to reunite the two of us, in either France or Gaza. There were a few letters back and forth, an occasional phone call. But in the end, everyone simply carried on with what was. Days became weeks, and weeks became a lifetime. I suppose you could say I sit before you today as a product of that never-ending conflict. A victim of fate, as they say.”

“Or perhaps a beneficiary.”

Baland nodded reflectively. “I have always wondered why I was the one sent ahead. Every day I think about how different things might have been.”

“So you’ve been in France your entire life?”

“Since I was eight weeks old. After my parents were killed, when it was clear I wouldn’t go back, my aunt filed paperwork for my citizenship. She decided it would be simpler to claim me as her own child. No questions were raised, and from that point I became a Frenchman in every way. Aside from being the product of parents I never knew, it was all quite legitimate.”

Slaton leaned back in his chair to consider Baland’s story. It was like something from a classic novel. Twin sons divided at birth into diametrically opposed circumstances. And how different their outcomes had been. All the same, there was more to be explained. “In the last few days I’ve researched your background. Your rise through the ranks has been remarkable, and you have a curious ability to envision the enemy’s next move. It’s almost as if you have some kind of … how should I say it … insider information?”

Baland was about to reply when his face went ashen. His eyes pinned on something to his right.

“What is it?” Slaton asked.

Baland stuttered, then said, “There is a woman, over my right shoulder—” It was the last word he got out before the shooting began.

*   *   *

Slaton spotted her right away. Four tables away, moving quickly—a thick-set young woman in a brown parka. She had a machine pistol, possibly a UMP, tucked tight against her ribs. It was rising in their direction.

Slaton’s Glock was available beneath the table—he’d had no idea what to expect from Baland—but he would be dead before he could get it clear and raised into a firing position. He dove to his right as shots came in a fusillade, rounds thundering in as he crashed into an empty table. Slaton reached up and pulled the heavy table over for cover.

The room around him went to madness: sprawling patrons, the clatter of china and silverware hitting the floor. He arced his gun in the direction of the threat, but before he could get a bead, another string of rounds laced into the wall just over his head. Slaton curled his hand around the table, and sprayed fire in the general direction of the woman, keeping his aim high to avert unintended casualties.

The UMP was on full automatic now. Splinters flew from the table in front of him, plaster from the wall behind. Frozen in place, and with the assailant closing in, Slaton prepared to make his stand. He would have one second, maybe less, to acquire the woman and put her down. He set his legs, and was one heartbeat from moving when the report of a third weapon intervened. To his right he saw Baland returning fire from a crouched position.

Then, as quickly as it had all begun, the assault paused. Slaton leapt up, the Glock’s barrel searching. There was no sign of the woman, but he saw a splatter of blood on the fabric-covered wall she’d been near. He scanned for other threats, his eyes and barrel sweeping in unison like a radar. He saw nothing to raise an alarm. Then he noticed Baland. The DGSI man had lowered his gun and was staring at Slaton. Which made no tactical sense whatsoever.

Two more shots rang out, muted and distant. The woman’s gun, but outside now. In a room paralyzed by fear, Slaton was the first to move. He scrambled to his feet and rushed for the back door. He hit the alley behind the restaurant and immediately turned right—he already knew a left turn would lead to a dead end.

He pocketed his gun at the top of the alley, never slowing as he rounded the corner onto Rue de Clichy. There were no telltale disturbances—no blood on the sidewalk, no shocked passersby looking over their shoulders or backed against walls. Slaton sprinted onward.

He saw his objective fifty meters away: the Place de Clichy Métro station. He flew under the ornate wrought-iron entrance and quick-stepped down the stairs, his eyes reaching ahead. At the mezzanine level he rounded a bastion and arrived at the ticket stile. The crowds were modest, and he used an already-purchased day pass to sail through. Arrows on the wall indicated a split—one platform for the east-west number 2 line, another for the north-south 13. He could see a portion of the eastbound platform, but couldn’t tell if a train was present.

A mother hurried past, a young boy following.

There was no time for contemplation. He turned toward the eastbound platform and found a train waiting. By the time he reached the first car the platform was empty. Everyone had boarded and departure was imminent. He didn’t see the shooter. Had she already gotten on? It was no more than pure conjecture. A matter of instincts and odds. The door of the car in front of him began to close. Slaton jammed his shoulder in the gap and pushed aboard.

His lungs were heaving, and as the train pulled away his eyes stepped over each rider in the car—sorting faces and body types, whatever was in view. None were the assailant. He never bothered to reference the map near the car’s ceiling—the next station was Rome, then Villiers. Slaton had three stops beyond that committed to memory. The car accelerated. The Rome station would appear through the windows in three and a half minutes. He leaned back against a partition and caught his breath, wondering if he’d guessed right.

It was the quickest and most anonymous way to get clear of Le Quinze. Slaton knew because he himself had already run that decision matrix. Cabs, buses, moving on foot—all had drawbacks. He eyed the door that led to the forward cars, but decided against moving. There were too many people here, too much that could go wrong. The safe play was to monitor the platforms at successive stops. If she was on the train, she wouldn’t stay for long. Two stops, three at the most. The police weren’t fools—they would make the same assumptions he had. They would send alerts to down-line stations, review CCTV footage.

Slaton, however, had a head start on the police. If she was here, he would find her. And if he found her he would get answers. Most prominent: Who else wanted Zavier Baland dead? He edged toward the door and waited for the train to slow. He was beginning to catch his breath.

It would be an hour before Slaton discovered the rest of what had happened. Before he learned what he would have encountered had he gone out the front door of Le Quinze: DGSI director Claude Michelis splayed on the gray sidewalk, his lifeless eyes staring up at a snow-heavy sky.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Malika lurched into her flat cursing under her breath. She dropped her gun on the kitchen table and went straight to the bathroom. In front of the mirror she gingerly pulled her right arm through the sleeve of her coat. Blood covered the shirtsleeve underneath, and she removed that next. It was a new adventure in pain.

“Bastard!” she muttered. What was Baland thinking?

She’d never been seriously injured in any operation. Malika had stepped on nails in a warehouse along the Euphrates, and fallen through a rotted roof in Haditha. She’d a spent nearly a year in the worst killing fields on earth and come through virtually unscathed. Only to be shot in a Michelin Star restaurant in Paris!

Her shock kept spiraling, the physical and psychological trauma combining into something greater than their sum. The hand of her injured arm trembled, and two fingers had gone numb. Would that pass when the swelling receded? Or was it a handicap she would have to deal with for the rest of her life? She tried to raise her arm to the light for a better look, and a bolt of lightning seemed to strike her shoulder.

She slapped her good hand on the tiled wall.

For twenty minutes she did her best to clean the wound at the sink. Eventually, she could make out the bullet’s path—not a clean entry and exit wound, but a ragged tear in the flesh at the top of her outer arm. She tried to take solace that the bullet hadn’t struck anything vital, no bones shattered or arteries clipped. She at least wished it had been the other man who’d gotten the better of her, a trained assassin. That she might have expected. But it had been Baland—she’d seen it with her own eyes.

It seemed a blur at the time, but now she tried to replay the engagement. She had gotten off a full magazine, that much she knew. Had any of her rounds hit the Israeli? He’d lunged for cover at the outset, but apeared uninjured when she got a clean look at him half hidden behind an overturned table. Then, amazingly, in the moment when she was settling her sight and pulling the trigger, Baland had opened up on her. She’d been hit by his first shot, and it sent her reeling, altering the odds instantly. There had been no choice but to run.

She turned on her phone long enough to check for messages. There was nothing from Baland. She sure as hell was going to leave one. They’d agreed he would carry a gun, which was normal for a counterterrorism officer. They had guessed correctly that Slaton would make his attempt at Le Quinze, although being seated at Baland’s table was hardly the stealthy approach they’d expected. The plan had been for Malika to take Slaton first, then Michelis if possible. Somewhere in the melee, Baland was to have sent a few poorly aimed shots in her direction.

Their fluid plan had disintegrated quickly. Malika realized that Slaton was inside the restaurant, and Michelis, her secondary target, had not yet arrived. She’d done her best, but the kidon spotted her seconds too soon and found cover. How had it all gone so wrong? Thankfully, there had been one stroke of luck at the end—she’d nearly run over Michelis on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Two quick taps on the trigger, and utter failure gave way to half a victory.

She began to think more positively. Things had gone wildly afield, but Michelis was dead and she had not been captured. Or worse. She turned her phone back off, then went to the room’s only window and fingered aside the curtain. She saw nothing suspicious on the street below. Of course there was only one option: She had to keep out of sight and let the coming storm pass. She had just gunned down the director of DGSI and, as far as the French knew, also tried to kill his heir apparent.

Malika had done her best to avoid cameras on her approach to Le Quinze, but these days it was impossible to spot them all. The one-bedroom flat she’d booked the usual way, through a vacation-rental website—false name used and payment wired in advance, no face-to-face contact whatsoever. She ventured outside only when necessary, and typically on the back side of the clock, hoping to avoid encounters with neighbors. As far as she knew, she’d succeeded. Altogether, Malika decided there was no safer place than where she stood right now. She had enough food for a week, two if she went on a diet. The biggest complication—Slaton had escaped.

She went to her suitcase, retrieved gauze and surgical tape—at least she’d had that much foresight—and did her best to bandage the wound. She was able to stop the bleeding, but it hurt like hell.

Once again, her thoughts drifted to the man the world knew as Zavier Baland. He would be at headquarters by now, overseeing the search for an unknown female assailant.

“Idiot!”

With nothing to do but wait, Malika went to a drawer in the kitchenette and retrieved the papers Baland had left at the dead drop that morning. He’d even managed to screw that up, offering only a fraction of what he should have delivered. She was slack-jawed by his audacity, and at first suspected he was angling for money. Now, however, Malika wondered if there might be something more.

She sat at the table gingerly, and her foul mood began to dissipate. She’d spent an hour this morning trying to transfer Baland’s information. Now, with more time, she studied the pages in detail. What she saw was a list of prospective targets—and not just any list. It was a detailed itemization of Jewish interests in France—synagogues, community centers, businesses—and the vulnerabilities of each to attack.

Chadeh and his bunch would be tantalized, which was certainly Baland’s intent. Yet she suspected the isolation of Jewish targets would be lost on the leaders of ISIS. They hated the Jews, to be sure, but no more than they hated the world’s Christians or Buddhists. Probably less than the apostate Shi’a of Persia. So what then was Baland’s game?

Malika set the papers down, then got up and wandered back to the window. She once again pulled back the curtain, and very carefully looked up and down the street.

*   *   *

Slaton saw little more than a silhouette, and it disappeared after only a few seconds. It was all he needed. He had successfully tracked the woman from Le Quinze.

He’d caught a glimpse of her getting off the train at the third stop, Monceau. He had recognized the bulky coat she should have gotten rid of, and even understood why she still wore it—to conceal the UMP underneath. Definitely not a pro. She walked too quickly once she got outside, and he saw by her gait that she was injured. He’d followed her two blocks from the station, and watched her enter the building now before him.

Slaton had checked his watch the instant she’d gone inside. After ninety-eight seconds, a light snapped on in a third-floor window. Ten seconds more than he would have estimated for the third floor, but well within tolerances. And probably further confirmation that she was injured. Since then, he’d twice seen her pull back the curtain to peer out at a gray afternoon. That was another mistake, although Slaton didn’t dwell on it. Amateur or not, she was committed. That counted for a great deal.

In a shadowed alcove he switched to a full mag on his Glock, then walked far enough away to be out of sight from the flat’s lone window. The neighborhood was residential, and on midafternoon there were only a few other people in sight. Slaton crossed the street and fell in behind a middle-aged woman carrying a shopping bag. As she neared the entrance, he hoped she would turn inside, but she passed the portico without slowing. Seconds later he saw that it didn’t matter—the gate giving access to the stairwell was chained open.

He climbed quickly to the third floor, the Glock in hand. There was no one else in the narrow corridor, and he approached the only door that correlated to the geometry he’d seen from the street. Number 14. Slaton backed to the wall next to the door and listened. He heard a few noises from within: a chair scraping across a wooden floor, uneven footsteps. Then a stifled cough, female and husky. Definitely the right flat.

He studied the door: two and a half meters tall, one wide, probably solid-core, with a lock that looked reasonably stout and a frame of average strength. Because it was Paris, there was likely at least one secondary lock on the inside. Altogether, an arrangement that might give way to one well-placed kick. Or one that could take five or even ten. Under some circumstances, not a problem. Very problematic, however, when one was engaging a machine pistol with a handgun.

Slaton considered the window in front. She checked it regularly. If he had the Covert in hand, he could set up shop across the street and finish things cleanly. As it was, it would take at least an hour to retrieve the rifle from across town and get in position. Where might she go in the meantime? A hospital, perhaps, if her injuries were life-threatening. She could leave to seek help from a friend, or even make a rash attempt to depart Paris. No, Slaton decided, he had her cornered now. He couldn’t lose that advantage.

As he stood with his back against the thin wall that separated him from a killer, the woman’s face was replaced by two others: out of nowhere he thought of Christine and Davy. Slaton closed his eyes. What the hell am I doing here? This is not my battle. In the silence of the hallway, his thoughts seemed to recalibrate, like a slate wiped clean. A new option came to mind—a plan more strategic than tactical in nature.

He moved silently to the stairs and stepped quickly down. He crossed the street once more, and took up a vantage point in the recessed entrance of a nameless rooming house. He pulled out his phone and placed a call.

*   *   *

Talia answered right away. “I saw what happened in Paris, David. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Before she could get out another word, he said, “I need to talk to Anton right away.”

Sixty seconds later Bloch was conferenced in on the call. Judging from the amount of static, Slaton guessed they were at different locations. He said, “Are you following what happened in Paris thirty minutes ago?”

“Yes,” replied Bloch, “in a general way.”

“Good. I want you to send two katsas from the embassy right away.” Slaton gave the Monceau address.

“David, nothing has changed. Whatever is occurring there, Mossad cannot be part of—”

“Everything has changed! Tell the director I’ve tracked down the assailant responsible for this latest attack. I’m standing outside her safe house as we speak.”

“What are your intentions?” Bloch asked guardedly.

“Not what they were five minutes ago. You, Nurin, and I need to talk. When he hears what I have to say, he will want to get involved.”

Bloch went silent.

“Anton, at the very least I’ve got a known terrorist cornered. It’s a street address that would be worth a lot to the French right now. Nurin will understand the value of that—just as you would have when you were in charge. All I’m asking for is a surveillance team to take over the watch.”

“All right, I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll be in touch after the surveillance team arrives.”

Bloch began to ask something else. Slaton ended the call.

*   *   *

Media outlets swarmed over the scene at Le Quinze. The latest battlefield in France’s undeclared war was quickly cordoned off, but distant video shots of the shattered dining area, bathed in rolling flashes of blue light, dominated television and smartphone screens across Europe.

Within the hour, the French minister of the interior, Jacques Roland, delivered an unprepared and emotional statement from a sidewalk near the on-site command center. In terse words he confirmed that DGSI director Claude Michelis had been gunned down in broad daylight, an obvious assassination. Another senior officer of the agency, the much-decorated Zavier Baland, had helped beat back the attack by returning fire and, according to several eyewitnesses, wounding the assailant.

Roland went on to vow that the cowardly attack would only backfire in the end. He assured the world that DGSI would spare no effort in finding the perpetrator, and hinted obliquely that France would be compelled to orchestrate strikes against any terrorist organization held responsible, and in the usual disproportionate manner. The death of the much-respected director would not go unanswered.

When Roland backed away from the microphone, the loudest question shouted was, “Who will take the place of Director Michelis?”

To that the minister looked into the sea of lights and cameras, and mouthed a one-word answer. Tomorrow.

TWENTY-NINE

The Mossad team from the embassy, a man and a woman, arrived thirty minutes later. Her name was Neumann, his Feld, and Slaton led them to a bicycle rack around the corner from the building in question.

There the katsas arranged themselves not in a triangle with Slaton, but three abreast on the sidewalk. It was a nuance that an untrained would never have noticed, but to Slaton spoke volumes. They had put him on the right, and Feld on the opposite side. If anything went wrong, Slaton had a 270-degree field of fire. Feld held down the same on the opposite side, and their arcs intersected for complete coverage. It had nothing to do with anyone’s marksmanship, nor who was in charge, but was simply a practical intersection of geometry and common sense. The kind of precaution that cost nothing, and once in a career might save someone’s life.

“There hasn’t been any change since I got here,” Slaton said. From where they stood all three could see the face of the building in question. Slaton pointed out the particular third-floor window. He otherwise didn’t tell them how to do their job. After some deliberation, he gave them the number he’d been using to contact Talia and Bloch. “If something comes up, don’t call the embassy and don’t call me—only this number.”

“All right,” said Neumann, who was acting as spokesperson. “Can you tell us who we’re watching?”

“I don’t have a name. It’s a woman, and as far as I know she’s alone. The good news is, I don’t think she’s going anywhere.”

“The bad news?”

“She’s dangerous, definitely armed, and wounded.”

The two Mossad officers exchanged a glance.

“I think you can expect an all-nighter,” Slaton added.

Without comment, Feld walked around the corner and disappeared. Neumann smiled amiably for the sake of anyone who might be watching, and said, “Don’t know who you are, but you really screwed up my plans tonight.”

“Sorry. But believe me when I say, I’ve been there.”

“I’m guessing you have.”

They talked for another minute, Slaton describing the inside of the building, as far as he knew it, and taking a few more happy barbs. Then Neumann leaned in and kissed him, first on one cheek, then the other—a French custom virtually mandatory for two friends parting on a residential street in the eighth arrondissement. She walked away jauntily and disappeared around the corner. Slaton went the other way.

He was half a block away when he turned back and looked over the scene. From where he stood neither katsa was in sight. His attention was drawn to another building, the one directly across the street from where their suspect was holed up. On appearances that block of apartments was a virtual mirror image of the one they were watching. His eyes held each window from the second floor up, and casually roamed the roofline. He studied angles and lines of sight from a number of those points to the window presently under surveillance. It hadn’t come to that—not yet—but he always liked to be prepared. After a minute, he still saw no sign of the two Mossad officers.

Slaton turned away and set out for his room in Courbevoie.

*   *   *

Slaton considered moving to a different hotel, but with no reason to believe his location had been compromised, he decided that the risks in moving—to include carrying a sniper rifle in a roller bag over Paris streets that were teeming with police—far outweighed any benefits.

From his rented bed he turned on the television and followed the coverage of the latest attack. A massive search for a lone female assailant had so far turned up nothing. Slaton happily saw no indication that he was being sought for questioning—he had been sitting next to Baland, who according to news reports was one of the assassin’s two presumptive targets. The other, of course, was DGSI director Michelis, who’d been shot dead outside the restaurant.

Here Slaton saw further warning flags.

He replayed everything in his mind. Baland’s incredible admission of being Ali Samir’s twin, then his cool reaction to the attack. Moments before the woman appeared, Slaton remembered suggesting to Baland that his foresight in intelligence matters had verged on prophecy, implying rather obviously that he had a source. Baland had been considering a reply to that very question when he’d astutely picked out the shooter.

Slaton tapped a finger thoughtfully on the remote control in his hand. Finally, he pressed the mute button, turned on his phone, and placed the expected call to Tel Aviv. Talia answered on the first ring.

“Is the surveillance team in place?” she asked.

“Yes, they’re in position. Convey my thanks to the director for making that happen.”

Another three-way conference began when Bloch said, “Nurin allowed that much, but he is not happy with the risks you are taking.”

“Neither am I. When he finds out what I learned, though, I suspect he’ll run a new cost-benefit analysis.” Slaton covered his entire meeting with Baland, all the way to its inglorious end.

Bloch’s first remark was predictable. “Ali Samir had an identical twin?”

“It answers a lot of questions.”

“It also means Baland is not the traitor we thought.”

“Quite possibly—which makes me glad I didn’t shoot first and ask questions later.”

“What was your impression of him?”

“Initially he seemed surprised to see me, but once he realized who I was he didn’t seem overly concerned. It was almost as if he was expecting me.”

“Am I to take that as an accusation against Mossad?” said Bloch. “I can assure you, David, no one but the director, Talia, and me, knew of your plans.”

“No, that’s not what I’m suggesting. Talia, have there been any changes to his schedule in the last twenty-four hours?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve been watching closely. Baland canceled three appointments today. The only one he kept outside the DGSI building was Le Quinze. It seems fortuitous, does it not?”

“Very much so. And I see other curiosities.”

“Such as?” Bloch queried.

“So far I’m not being mentioned in the news reports of this attack. Baland knows who I am. Does it make sense that I show up for lunch, threaten him, and when all hell breaks loose he doesn’t even try to bring me in for questioning?”

“A valid point,” said Bloch. “What purpose could he have for keeping you in the shadows?”

“I don’t know. It’s not a stretch to say that Baland might have saved not only his own life, but mine as well. He spotted the attacker before I did, then wounded her before I could get off an accurate shot.”

Silence ran until Bloch said, “I will try to convince Nurin to look into this. If Samir did have a twin, as Baland says, then perhaps we can verify it.”

“How? You won’t find hospital records for that era in Gaza. Chances are, he was delivered by a midwife in his mother’s bedroom.”

“True. But there might be other ways.”

“All right, do what you can.”

“What will you do now?” Talia asked.

“I think Baland and I should pick up our conversation where it left off.”

“How could you get near him? He’ll have an armada of security.”

“I’m guessing he’d be willing to meet me again—it’s just a matter of arranging it with discretion.”

“Any ideas?”

“I’ll think of something on the fly.”

“All right,” said Bloch, “but remember—”

“I know,” Slaton cut in, “keep Mossad out of it.”

Talia filled the ensuing silence. “There’s one other thing we should consider.”

“What’s that?” Slaton asked.

“Director Michelis has been killed, and Baland is being credited with beating back the attack and wounding the assailant. Very soon, France will have to name a new leader of its counterterrorism force. I think we can safely say who it’s going to be.”

THIRTY

As both a participant in the recent mayhem and the overseer of the investigation into it, Baland knew the remainder of his day would be spent recounting his story. The first in line to hear it, no surprise, was Minister of the Interior Roland, who had abruptly ended a tête-à-tête with his British counterpart in response to the crisis. They met in Roland’s office.

“This is a terrible turn of events,” said a clearly shaken Roland. “Claude was a fine man.”

“I thought very highly of him,” Baland agreed.

“I don’t have to tell you, finding this attacker is our top priority. I’ve been told we’ve uncovered only one marginal clip from a camera in the Métro. Apparently her head was turned down at the critical moment. There’s been considerable internal speculation that this could be the same woman responsible for the bombing in Grenoble.”

“I’ve seen the clip,” said Baland. “The quality of the footage isn’t good in either case. It’s a neat and tidy concept, but in my mind no more than wishful thinking.”

“I suppose you’re right. Even so, I want your directorate to pursue every angle.”

Baland gave the minister a curious look. “You want my—”

Roland held up a hand. “Please, Zavier, don’t be coy.” He got up from his chair and lit a cigarette. Smoking was officially off-limits inside the headquarters building, but no one was going to challenge the minister in his own office. He moved tentatively behind his desk, and said, “Claude came to me only last week—in effect, he handed in his notice.”

Baland tried to look surprised, but in truth he’d sensed it for months—a weariness in Michelis, the vacant look in his eyes during staff meetings and the doodling in the margins of signed procurement requests. Perhaps it was the hopelessness of what he was being asked to do. “I hope you told him to reconsider,” he said, only realizing afterward how silly it sounded.

“Now … I wish I had. But honestly, I didn’t try to change his mind. I’ve felt for some time that DGSI is in need of new vigor, someone with fresh ideas. He put your name in for the job, Zavier. I’ll have to run it by the president, who isn’t bound by my recommendation, but there’s no one better. I think he’ll agree.”

“I’m honored,” said Baland. And he truly was.

“You can’t tell me you haven’t seen this coming. Aside from your stellar operational record … well, I can only be direct … you are a Frenchman with Algerian blood. You can mend fences in ways we’ve never had. I need that. France needs that. These troubles in the Arab world, thousands of miles away, are metastasizing into our society. We’ve got to put a stop to it, and you are uniquely qualified to take us in that direction. I assume you would accept the position if offered?”

“It would be my duty as a Frenchman.”

Roland smiled. “Very well. I will convey the word internally that you are today the interim chief of DGSI. It will take a few days to make things official. We should put together the usual change-of-command ceremony—I think Claude’s was on the terrace fronting the Place de la Concorde.”

Baland could only nod through his distraction.

Roland asked a few questions about the Le Quinze tragedy, and Baland might have answered them. Then, with a resolute grin, Roland ordered him back to work. Baland didn’t remember stepping onto the elevator, nor walking into the leaden afternoon outside the Interior Ministry.

He saw a car and two security men waiting at the curb—something he would have to endure from this point forward. The directorship had long been in the back of his mind, but its sudden arrival seemed disorienting. The question of how and when to tell Jacqueline the good news he sidestepped for the moment.

With his advancement imminent, there was a great deal to consider. He put aside Malika and her controllers in Raqqa, and also the French minister of the interior. In that moment, as he stepped across the broad sidewalk of Rue de Saussaies, one face dominated Baland’s thoughts: the kidon.

He slipped into the backseat of the car, and felt the smooth acceleration. At the first corner he cracked open the window and a cool breeze rushed inside. There were two unsmiling men in the front seat, and the one not driving glanced over his shoulder at the slightly open window. If he had security concerns, he kept them to himself.

Baland checked his phone and saw no messages from Malika, not that he would expect any on his government-issued line. There were, however, more than a dozen emails from the office. He slipped the phone back into his pocket without opening any of them. Baland felt increasingly caught between two worlds, and he desperately needed to reconcile that division. On one hand he was about to assume a great responsibility for the republic, a position he’d long viewed as the summit of his ambition. On the other he was funneling information to the very enemy he’d sworn to fight.

The enemy.

By the time the car pulled into the gated parking area at DGSI headquarters, Baland’s priorities had been well recalibrated. He opened the door, stepped over a puddle of slush on the curb, and strode into the building that would soon be his.

*   *   *

Darkness fell quickly, and in the deepening shadows the two Mossad katsas had settled into offset positions. They watched the window from widely different angles, and one had a view of the back of the building, which was the only other way out. They both noted the peculiarity at the same time.

“What was that?” the lead officer said quietly into her mic.

“I saw it too,” came the reply, “but I don’t know. I think that’s four times now.”

“I counted five.”

She decided it was a worthy development, and called the number she’d been given. A gravel-edged voice answered in Hebrew. Because it was a voice she’d never heard at the embassy, compounded by the slight delay in transmission, she reasoned she was talking to someone in Tel Aviv. The importance of their op advanced another notch on her mental ledger.

“We saw something strange,” she said. “There’s dim background light in the apartment, but we’ve started to see occasional strobes … maybe one every minute for the last five minutes.”

“Like the flash of a camera?” asked the heavy voice from Israel.

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Is it ongoing?”

After a pause, the katsa said, “Yes, I just saw another one.”

“Have you detected anyone else in the place?”

“Can’t say for sure without equipment to look through the walls. But if I were to guess, I’d say no. It’s just the woman.”

“All right. Keep watching. And we definitely need to know if she leaves.”

“If she does, do we follow her?”

A hesitation. “I don’t think she has anywhere to go. But yes, if she leaves, stay with her. And be ready—this may be a long night.”

THIRTY-ONE

Uday walked purposefully through a maze of darkened buildings. He had received his instructions from an agitated Chadeh two hours earlier: Drop everything and find out what had happened in Paris that afternoon. In particular, the council wanted to know if Malika was involved.

Uday had immediately tried to contact her, but got no response. That hand tied behind his back, he did his best to research things, all along wondering why Chadeh was so concerned. Was he worried that their link to Argu had been compromised? Could the late Director Michelis have possibly been Argu? No, Uday thought dismissively. The notion that ISIS might have the director of DGSI in their pocket was unimaginable. Whatever the crisis was, he would learn soon enough.

The building chosen for the meeting had once been a primary school. No child had set foot in the place for years, yet the playground remained intact, and children were encouraged to use it during daylight hours to maintain the image. The school’s largest room had seen varied uses over the course of “liberation.” For two months it had served as a clinic, then a pullback on the western front caused the staff and patients to be summarily kicked out, and within twenty-four hours it was stocked from floor to ceiling with ammunition and explosives. Once the arsenal became depleted, and as the heathen Kurds came closer, the building was transformed into an ad hoc mess hall for fighters. Then the Kurds had been pushed back a bit, and the food moved closer to the front lines. Tonight, in a fleeting session, the school would find a new use: it would become the seat of the government itself.

Chadeh was waiting expectantly when Uday arrived.

“What news do you have from Paris?” asked the senior man impatiently. He was seated on an ornate carpet atop what looked like a small stage, the kind of platform from which children might present a school play. On the wall behind Chadeh were colorful flowers cut from construction paper, each bearing a child’s name. Above them all an outsized poster of the caliph, his finger raised in admonition, glowered down on everyone. Chadeh was bracketed by two men who Uday thought looked vaguely familiar. Had he been more of a politician within the organization, he would have asked for an introduction. As it was … the sooner he imparted what he knew, the sooner he could leave.

He said, “According to news reports, DGSI director Michelis has been shot dead by a female assailant. She also made an attempt on another high-ranking officer of the agency.”

“Which one?”

Uday checked his notes. “His name is Zavier Baland.”

“And Baland was not harmed?”

Uday hesitated only slightly. “No, he was untouched. Apparently he returned fire and wounded the attacker.”

“Could it have been Malika?”

“The national police have only released a general description. But based on that … yes, it could very well have been her. I tried to contact Malika, as you requested, but she’s not responding. If she was the attacker, then she’s injured … or possibly worse.” He watched an exchange of glances between the men on the carpet, then asked with an even voice, “May I ask why this is so important?”

After a hushed conversation, Chadeh said, “As you know, Malika has been running an agent named Argu for some time. She has never told us his identity, but we suspect it may be Zavier Baland … the man who shot her today.”

Uday cocked his head, trying to contain his astonishment. “I see. Yes, a relationship like that—it would increase the odds that she was involved.”

“There can be no doubt!” one of the other men said acidly.

“Do we have any idea why this has occurred?” Uday asked.

Chadeh frowned, a barely discernible expression amid his wild beard. “That is the question we have all been asking. Allowing that it was Malika, by every account she was the instigator of the attack. Yet she has been running Argu very successfully as an agent. It makes no sense that she would destroy such a valuable asset.” After a pause, he said reflectively, “I fear Baland’s actions make far more sense—he tried to kill the woman who coerced him into becoming an agent.”

Uday, who was not prone to thoughts of conspiracy, was surprised by what came to mind. “It is being suggested in news reports that Baland might succeed Michelis as director. As things stand, Michelis is dead, and you’re telling me that Argu is in our pocket. Aside from Malika being injured, is this not an ideal outcome?”

“What are you suggesting? That Malika and Baland conspired in this attack?”

Uday shrugged. “I think we should keep a favorable view. Methods aside, the result seems ideal. Baland is more a hero than ever, and his upward path is clear. The only complication I see involves Malika herself. She is in a perilous position. Assuming she survived, if she were to be captured by the French authorities … I dare say she knows enough to destroy Argu. Does she work with anyone else in France, any of our established cells who might render aid?”

“No. Malika only involves others when it suits her. She prefers to operate alone, and does as she wishes. The few times I have tried to steer her…” Chadeh left the rest unsaid, then unleashed a string of muttered expletives. “It is always the way with these insolent Palestinians!”

The man to Chadeh’s right whispered something in his ear, and the chief of the Emni nodded. “You make a good point.” He locked his gaze on Uday. “As God will have it, we may or may not be able to reach Malika. As you say, there is a chance she will be captured by the police. We must establish a method of contacting Argu directly.”

Uday could barely contain himself. “Actually, I only recently instructed Malika to do precisely that … it seemed a wise precaution. She has given Argu a single-use phone in case of emergency.”

For the first time ever, Uday was sure he saw Chadeh smile. “God be praised! Once again, you prove yourself worthy, Aziz.”

Uday said nothing. A reaction probably mistaken for humbleness.

“The time to use it is upon us. You can call Argu directly?”

“Yes—although I doubt he will answer. He surely keeps the phone in a secure place. We will have to wait for him to return our call—it could be a matter of hours, even days.”

“Very well. If we don’t hear from Malika by tomorrow morning, you must try to reach Argu. We need to hear his version of events, and establish a more permanent method of contact. Be sure he understands his position. He has long been in Malika’s grasp, but that control may be lost. You must convince him we have detailed records of the intelligence he has provided—enough that there can be no escape.”

Knowing the state of the caliphate’s recordkeeping, Uday doubted this was true. Indeed, Argu’s very identity remained a matter of some speculation.

“Also,” Chadeh continued, “if Malika has survived, order Argu to do what he can to keep her from being arrested. It would be in everyone’s best interest.”

“Of course,” said Uday.

The three men across from him engaged in a whispered discussion, leaving Uday to his private thoughts. In an increasingly common exercise, he tried to push them away. Across the room he heard snippets about God’s will and prayer, what seemed compulsory expressions when these men met. There might have been a time, very long ago, when it was authentic. Cursed by a Western education, Uday recognized the group before him all too well from his studies of history. These were men whose true faith had lapsed and mutated, ending in self-aggrandizement. Men who’d become gods unto themselves.

Chadeh dismissed him, and Uday walked outside.

The desert air was like freedom itself. The muscles in his back and neck were clenched, only in part from sitting behind a keyboard all day. As he struck out toward the mosque he referred to as his office, the seditious thoughts invaded again. They were recurring with greater frequency, building each day, planks added to a fast-rising lifeboat that would carry only two people—him and Sarah.

The latest revelation only served as fuel: He and Malika had together been the conduit for all communications with Argu. Now, with Malika at least temporarily out of the picture, Uday was alone. For what might be a very brief window, he was the Islamic State’s sole link to its most important agent. A man who was clearly being blackmailed for information. And a man who would soon be the most important law-enforcement officer in the Republic of France.

THIRTY-TWO

“I don’t like this,” grumbled Mossad director Raymond Nurin. “I don’t like any of it.”

The debate between Anton Bloch and his successor was a long and spirited one. Nurin had made the crosstown trip to the condo where Bloch and Talia were set up, and with the cool Mediterranean night as a backdrop, the two men diverted their conversation to the balcony. For her part, Talia was happy to adjourn to the communications room.

It was not an overstatement to say that the future of Franco-Israeli relations was at stake. The French had suffered yet another terrorist attack today, and a former Mossad assassin who had inserted himself into things, with Mossad’s knowledge if not their endorsement, had apparently tracked the perpetrator to a room in Monceau. For Nurin it was a veritable minefield.

“How sure is Slaton that it’s really the attacker in this apartment?” he asked.

“Not one hundred percent,” Bloch allowed, “but very close to it.”

“Have either of the embassy katsas seen her since taking up watch?”

“They’ve spotted a woman at the window twice, but they have no reference from which to make an ID. Slaton is the only one who’s had a good look at her.”

Nurin put both hands on the balcony rail, one of them holding a half-spent cigarette. This was a new vice, as far as Bloch knew, and he wrote it off as a response to the stress of the job. He’d never taken up the habit himself, and it seemed a victory of sorts.

A gust of wind swept in from the sea as Nurin asked, “Do we have any idea who she is?”

“None at all. I made a few discreet inquiries, and I’m convinced the French don’t know either. There’s speculation it could be the woman from the Grenoble attack, but it’s nothing more than that.”

“And now it appears she’s using a flash to take pictures?”

“It’s been ongoing for the last hour, strobes that are spaced as if she was photographing … something.”

“Documents.”

“Most likely.”

“She’s transmitting them.”

Bloch nearly smiled. The two men were quite different physically—Nurin being the human equivalent of a blank sheet of paper—yet their minds seemed to process in parallel. Maybe it comes with the job, he thought, before saying, “I had a word with Talia about that. She confirmed that to intercept the images would be technically feasible. We could be talking about a landline, Wi-Fi, or a cell signal, but any of those can be captured. The problem is, this woman has been at it for hours.”

“Most of her work is already done,” Nurin said, completing the thought.

“In all probability. As you know, intercepting signals is a considerable commitment of time and hardware—not the kind of thing we can put together on a moment’s notice, particularly on foreign soil.”

“So she killed Michelis, tried to kill his successor, then goes back to her safe house, apparently wounded, and begins photographing and sending documents?”

“All measures of conjecture,” Bloch allowed, “but yes, that seems to be the case. The question is, what do we do about it?”

“Can there be any question?”

“No, I suppose not. We have to tell the French what we know … by whatever means reflects most kindly upon us.”

“And therein lies the problem.”

“Agreed,” said Bloch. “How can we explain that one of our retired assassins just happened to be having lunch with Baland when the shooting broke out, and that he followed this attacker to her safe house?”

“We could tell them where she is without any explanation.”

“And they’ll raid the place,” Bloch said. “But tomorrow, or perhaps the next day—”

Nurin’s eyes went skyward. “They’ll want to know where our information came from. Without a good answer, Mossad falls under suspicion.”

“And not without cause. We did know Slaton was going after Baland, and…” Bloch hesitated. “I should tell you there was a small measure of assistance.”

“Assistance?”

Bloch saw no need to mention the phone or the cash he’d given Slaton, which seemed inconsequential. But his more serious transgression had to be confessed. “Slaton said he might require a weapon or two. I have an old contact who works out of the Paris office.”

Nurin’s head sank low, until it looked like he was inspecting the rail. “You arranged weapons for him without my consent?”

“Yes.”

“And they were delivered using embassy assets?”

“I can assure you it was done discreetly, and the weapons are entirely untraceable.”

The director dropped the butt of his cigarette and put a toe to it. He pushed out a long sigh that drifted from the ninth-floor balcony into the night sky. “Is that all?”

“I think it’s enough.”

“Where is Slaton now?”

“He said he was going to try to reach Baland.”

“Reach? As in—”

“Talk to him,” assured Bloch.

“Why does that not infuse me with confidence?” Nurin replied snarkily, his lips looking as if they’d bit into a lemon. “Slaton has put us in a terrible position.”

“Has he? I think he’s done us a great service. The incoming director of DGSI is the secret twin of a long-thought-dispatched and very violent terrorist. I see a great deal of potential in that.”

“And a great deal of risk,” Nurin countered.

“I admit, it’s a difficult call.” Bloch pivoted to go back inside. “I’m glad it’s not mine to make.”

*   *   *

The large man named Didier was attentive as he stood on the sidewalk in front of Zavier Baland’s home. He did not return nods to passersby, and watched every car that came up the street, although there was little traffic at this hour. It never escaped his notice when lights came on in the windows across the street, or when raised voices broke the silence, nor was he distracted by the smell of fresh bread from the house behind him. Having been on duty for three hours, he remained alert, disciplined, and kept his eyes moving in a full 360-degree swing. On this night, as it turned out, that wasn’t quite enough.

He heard it before he saw the source—a high-pitched whirring noise that reminded him of the robotic vacuum cleaner he’d given his wife for Christmas. The sound was definitely getting louder, closer, yet in spite of his alertness, he saw nothing on the friendly sidewalks around him. Then he looked up, and there was a flash of movement before something struck him on the head.

Didier recoiled, and his hand went instinctively to his sidearm. Everything settled, and he saw what had hit him. It was hovering at eye level only a few feet away. He knew perfectly well what he was looking at—they’d had no end of briefings on the things.

“One, Three,” he said into his microphone. Didier was part of a four-man surveillance team. There was one man in the alley behind Baland’s house, and the two senior officers were in a white-paneled van fifty meters up the street, staying warm while they monitored the feeds from a pair of cameras.

“Go ahead, Three,” said the team leader.

“I’ve got a—” Didier’s words were cut off when the tiny craft jerked to one side. Having had enough, he took a quick step forward and swatted it out of the air like a huge mosquito. It tumbled to the pavement in a clatter of lightweight mechanization, ending near one of Zavier Baland’s wintering rosebushes. “I’ve got a drone,” he finished. “The damned thing hit me.”

“Is it a threat?”

Didier looked at it. The drone was the size of a Frisbee, and probably weighed less than a can of soda. He knew that far bigger models were available, large enough to carry cameras, fireworks, even riot-inducing banners. Some could ostensibly be modified to carry handguns or small explosive charges, although nobody had crossed that line yet in France. The techs in the office loved their what-if scenarios.

“No, there’s no threat. It’s a really small one—probably a kid somewhere.” Didier scanned the sidewalks and nearby windows for a teen with a controller in his hands. The only person in sight was an old woman walking a schnauzer. The propellers on the drone had gone still, but a tiny green light shone brightly in the center. His training kicked in, and he looked up and down the street, then at the house behind him, thinking, What better distraction? He saw nothing suspicious.

“I’ll come take a look,” said the team leader over the comm link.

Two houses away the back door of the unmarked van swung open, and an athletic man jumped out. He came next to Didier and looked down at the drone.

“Looks harmless enough.”

“The damned thing hit me,” Didier said a second time. He rubbed the spot on his scalp where it had made contact, but felt no marks.

The leader went closer and poked the drone with the toe of his boot. When he did, both men saw what they hadn’t before: Attached to the underside by a metal clip was a folded piece of paper. They exchanged a look, and the leader removed the paper. Holding it by its edges, he carefully unfolded it. In the wash of a streetlight both men saw a message in handwritten English:

FOR ZAVIER BALAND

THANKS FOR THE WARNING

9

The two security men looked all around, this time at not only sidewalks and windows, but also rooftops and alleys.

“Who is Nine?” Didier asked.

“No idea.”

They both looked up at the house they were guarding.

“Should we have a look around?” Didier asked.

“No. Stay put and keep your eyes open.” The leader walked up the path and knocked on the front door.

THIRTY-THREE

“Do you know who ‘Nine’ might be?” asked the man in charge of the security detail.

Baland studied the message, and said, “No, it means nothing to me. You’re saying it arrived attached to a drone?”

They were together in the study, Baland having excused himself from dinner with his family. Earlier he’d given Jacqueline and the girls a gentle version of what had occurred at Le Quinze. They all took it as well as could be expected, but having armed men now surrounding the house did nothing to lighten the mood. That being the case, when the team leader came to the door, Baland had told them it was a routine check-in, knowing full well it wasn’t.

“And you didn’t see where it came from?” asked Baland.

“No, I’m afraid not. I didn’t want to bother you with this, sir, but the way the message is worded—I thought you might have some insight as to what it meant.”

Baland shook his head.

The security man said, “I’ll have to pass this up to my commander.”

Baland looked at his watch. It was 7:52. The security team was DGSI’s own, and the man who would soon be director said, “Whoever sent it must be nearby.”

“Probably, although we have been briefed that some of these drones can be programmed to fly preset courses. They go beyond the controlling transmitter’s range using GPS.”

“Even so, before you call in reinforcements, let’s try to deal with this ourselves. You and your men do a quick sweep across the street. Don’t disturb anyone unnecessarily—I have to live with these people. Just check the backyards and rooflines. Ask anyone you meet if they’ve heard or seen anything strange.”

“Very well. But I should call in extra personnel to—”

“No,” Baland cut in, “that’s not necessary. Just leave one man in front, and the rest of you try to figure this out. We’re already paying enough overtime tonight. I won’t take manpower away from units with better things to do.”

“Sir, I really think it would be better if—”

“Be quick about it!” Baland said decisively, and turned away.

The detail’s leader didn’t argue any further. He used the radio to relay the plan to his team.

Soon Baland was watching it all unfold from his front window. There was a brief huddle with all four men, then one became a fixture on his sidewalk while the others got busy across the street. It gave Baland the chance he needed.

He went to his second-floor study, and from the bottom drawer of his desk he extracted the burner phone he’d taped into a recess. He turned it on, looked at the screen, and was stilled for a moment. There was one unanswered call. Baland shook away his surprise, and was soon quick-stepping downstairs with renewed urgency.

In the kitchen he gave Jacqueline very specific instructions, and he kissed each of his daughters good night. Two minutes later Baland was out the back door. He bypassed the still-broken swing and the finely trimmed hedges, and fast disappeared into a deepening night.

*   *   *

Four minutes after Baland left his home in Courbevoie, a phone rang in Raqqa. So deep was the handset buried in his backpack, Uday almost didn’t hear it. When the ring did register, he practically fell off his chair trying to reach it. To begin with, he was surprised that a mobile signal was available—coverage had been acutely unreliable in recent weeks. The second and more unnerving shock, made clear by the special ringtone, was which of his phones was receiving the call.

He checked once over his shoulder to make sure he was alone in the room. Satisfied, he swept up his backpack, reached deep inside, and pulled out the special handset he’d begun carrying for just this contingency.

“Bonjour,” he said, his range of French expended in a single word.

The caller began rattling away breathlessly in the language, and realizing his error, Uday interrupted with, “Wait! Please … is English possible?”

“It is,” said the agent named Argu.

“We must be quick,” Uday said, again looking back toward the main hall.

“We have sixty-three seconds,” said Argu, “or so I’ve been told.”

Uday closed his eyes, feeling stupid. Think! I must think clearly!

Argu said, “I saw that you tried to contact me earlier. I assume it has to do with Malika. I don’t know what her condition is or where—”

“No!” Uday said, cutting Argu off. His next words seemed to burst forth, as though they’d been held inside him under great pressure. “My name is Aziz Uday, and I am in charge of the Islamic State Institution for Public Information! I wish to defect with a woman, and I can bring valuable information with me!”

Uday thought he might have heard an intake of breath over the line. He wished he’d rehearsed the rest of what he had to say. At the very least, he knew he had the man’s attention. But there was still one hurdle to climb. “If you help me,” he said with all the conviction he could muster, “I believe your connection to Raqqa can be buried forever.”

The silence on the other end of the line was resounding.

THIRTY-FOUR

By nine that evening Le Quinze was predictably cordoned off by yellow tape, investigators going over the scene to extract every shred of evidence. From a distance Slaton saw evidence vans, camera crews, and clusters of bystanders. Bright lights had been trailered in, putting half a block of Paris into daylight. Even from fifty yards away he could discern the dark stain on the cobbled terrace, a marker of where Director Michelis had been gunned down.

Slaton expected Baland to arrive from the direction of his home, and took up his post accordingly. Much like the previous morning, he spotted him walking up the sidewalk two blocks away. Slaton maneuvered to let the DGSI man pass, then fell in behind him. When Baland was half a block short of the restaurant, Slaton saw him hesitate on the sidewalk. He took this as a positive sign, and at that point began a survey of the street.

Urban traffic, Slaton had long ago concluded, is an eminently predictable thing. Cars and trucks move in tight clusters, compressed by the effects of traffic lights, obstacles, and points of congestion. His preference in street craft was to approach an unsuspecting contact at the height of a rush, when noise and motion were at their most distracting. Traffic surges also provided visual and aural screens to any third party who might be watching, and if anything went wrong, the impending break in flow maximized the possible avenues of escape. Each element small in its own right—but Slaton never gave away any advantage.

“Thanks for coming,” he said as he approached Baland from the shadow of an old granite wall.

Baland turned and saw him, looking more relieved than startled. “We should go elsewhere,” he said straightaway, clearly uncomfortable with their proximity to the investigation.

Another test passed, Slaton thought.

He’d wondered if Baland would even come—Slaton had, after all, gunned down the man’s brother—but he suspected they had more common interests than were yet apparent. He led Baland away in silence, two quick turns back toward the Seine, and then down an embankment.

“I came alone,” said Baland as they descended a long flight of stone stairs.

“I know.”

The river spread out before them, dark and indifferent. Baland looked all around, seeming distracted. “I’m glad I deciphered your message correctly—it was very minimalist. And the drone was most creative.”

“It did the job. Although I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”

“Really?”

Slaton looked at the Frenchman—he could only think of him as such, regardless of where he was born—and reminded himself to not underestimate the man.

“You weren’t harmed in the attack?” Baland asked.

“No. And thanks for calling out the threat—you were very astute to see her coming.”

“I began my service as a policeman, did I not?”

Slaton gave Baland an inquiring look.

“Ah, yes,” said Baland. “Our conversation at the restaurant. Just before it was interrupted I think you mentioned that I seemed to have … what was the phrase … insider information?”

“Maybe that was harsh. Let’s just say you have a great talent for predicting France’s misfortunes.”

“Actually, you were more correct the first time.”

They took up a gently curving path along the Left Bank. Baland’s eyes, black in the dim light, studied him with a strange equivalence. “You are getting information,” Slaton said.

“In a sense. But more problematic is that I am giving it. I am being blackmailed.”

“By who?”

“The simple answer would be to say ISIS.”

“And the more complicated answer?”

“I will put it like this … aside from my failing old mother, there has long been but one person who knows I am the brother of Ali Samir. That person has threatened to expose me unless I regularly supply intelligence to the leadership in Raqqa.”

“I see,” said Slaton. “For a man in your position, a relationship like that would be a career-ender.”

“Prosecutors would no doubt call it treason. If it came to light, I would spend the rest of my life in prison.”

“So why are you confessing this to me?”

“We’ll get to that—but trust that my reasons are selfish.”

Slaton didn’t pursue the point. “What kind of information have you been giving them?”

“As little as possible. Yet each week they demand more, and lately they have been making specific requests. Only this morning I gave the operative who runs me certain portions of a highly classified dossier—France’s vulnerability to terrorist attacks. Details of our greatest weaknesses are now in the hands of our enemy.”

Slaton expelled a long breath. “That’s very bad for you.”

“Information has traveled both ways. I have regularly been given intelligence on second-tier operatives here in France. Small terrorist cells, people to watch for at the immigration counters—dropouts mostly. Men and women who have returned disillusioned from Syria, or malcontents in France who were either denied the ability to travel, or who never had the fortitude to attempt it. Altogether, pawns from the banlieues who are sacrificed to advance the caliphate’s greater cause.”

Slaton understood immediately. “Small victories to aid your rise within DGSI.”

“Yes.”

“The way you present it … it sounds as if this middleman running you, the one who knows of your relationship with Ali Samir, isn’t directly under the caliphate’s control.”

“Correct.”

“Who is it?”

“Someone you have met—the woman who attacked us today.”

Slaton slowed his pace, then drew to a stop. Baland stopped as well and watched Slaton decipher the code of what he was saying.

“That makes no sense. If she’s running you as a valuable agent, why would she show up at Le Quinze and try to kill you?”

Baland gave a half grin. “She didn’t,” he said, eyeing Slaton directly. “She was there to kill you.”

Slaton stood a bit straighter, and his eyes scanned with more than their usual caution. The river flowed steady and slow, and a pair of young men—immigrants from the Middle East, on appearances—strolled harmlessly nearby. He turned back to study a face he’d first seen so many years ago, squared under his reticle on a still and arid morning. It was different now. Fifteen years of aging, to be sure, but an altogether different countenance. A different person.

“Who is she?” he finally asked.

“Her name is Malika.”

“Was she sent here by ISIS?”

“I can’t say for certain, but on balance … I would say not. I suspect Malika spent time in Syria, but she remains an outsider. A sympathizer with parallel aims. She has run a number of small operations in France, enough to earn their trust. Once she had that, she told the leaders in Raqqa that she could recruit a high-level agent within DGSI. I’m quite sure she never gave specifics about who it was or how she could do it. They were of course interested. In time, her results proved her point—all at my expense.”

“What is it that she has over you?”

“Think about it, kidon. The very same thing that makes her want to kill you. Malika is my niece.”

Slaton stared at Baland. “You mean…?”

“Yes. She is the daughter of Ali Samir.”

THIRTY-FIVE

The photographs from Malika arrived at the Raqqa mosque in a laborious stream. They were first downloaded one at a time through an encrypted messaging application. Once in hand, each file had to be reconstituted as a document, a process brought to a standstill that afternoon by a local network failure. Having given his team the day off, Uday worked alone until Anisa showed up. It was late that night before everything was sorted.

“Whatever this is,” said Anisa, looking through what they’d downloaded, “it appears to be a partial document.”

Uday seemed not to hear.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No,” he replied too quickly.

They were seated side by side, the room an aqueous yellow in the glow of oil lamps. The electrical grid was down again, and their computers were running on a single generator that had been situated three buildings away, connected using every heavy-gauge extension cord they possessed. They’d learned the hard way that the newest drones could spot a heat signature through walls. In a blackout, any operating generator signified something important to the caliphate, which guaranteed attention from the fighter-bombers.

“Actually, I think you may be right,” he said finally. “Chadeh was expecting a larger document.” The images had arrived in scattershot bunches, suggesting a logjam in the routing scheme. The fact that anything at all was getting through was a minor victory for the persistence of their network. For Uday, however, the transmission of these new files held a double-edged meaning. Their arrival meant that Malika had survived.

He considered his conversation with Argu earlier. Uday had confirmed what he’d suspected: Malika’s agent was Zavier Baland. In their short conversation the two had devised a loose pact. But how might Malika’s survival complicate things?

“I don’t like how this came through,” Anisa said, filling the silence. “Our repeater was piggybacking on mobile towers in Aleppo. This data could have been intercepted.”

“Perhaps, but at the moment security is a luxury—we have to take what we can get.”

“Has any of this been forwarded to the council?” she asked as she continued to shuffle through the printed pages. “God has truly blessed us. Malika has obtained incredibly valuable information.” Uday was sure he heard a hint of feminism in her voice as she carried on, “Here is a diagram of a synagogue in Nice. And a Jewish grocery in Paris.”

Uday’s gaze narrowed. “Give me that.”

Anisa handed over the printouts, and Uday flicked through them. “These are all Jewish interests,” he remarked. “Why would Argu send us only this portion?”

“Maybe he hates Jews. Who cares? It is clearly useful.”

“The council was expecting more. Are you sure there was no message regarding the rest?”

“Everything Malika sent is in your hands.”

He considered it. “Perhaps she is holding back the rest intentionally. We have put a great deal of trust in her.”

Anisa glared at him severely. Uday knew she was distilling their discord to a matter of sexism—the inevitable by-product of a society that systematically devalued women. He was happy to let her have the thought, because it deflected attention from the true nature of his worry.

She said, “We should send word to the council to convene an immediate meeting.”

An uncomfortable silence weighed in. Uday knew he held every advantage in this room. Anisa worked for him, and women in the Islamic State never challenged men on matters of importance. All the same, he did not want to antagonize her. Not when he was in such a precarious position himself. “You are right,” he finally said. “This is truly good news at a time when we could use some.”

“Yes … we have all been under a great deal of pressure.”

“Send a runner to Chadeh and ask him to call a meeting tonight—eleven o’clock.”

“Not sooner?”

“No,” he hedged, “we still might receive more data. I want to be sure we have everything.”

Anisa nodded, then disappeared through the doorway sided by prayer rugs.

Uday waited a full two minutes before going to the threshold. He searched the great hall of the mosque. At the far end he saw the cleaning woman, who came most nights, but Anisa was gone. He returned to his workstation and poised his fingers over the keyboard. The commands he was about to enter were irrevocable—once things were set in motion, there was no turning back.

He took a deep breath, then set to work with a fervor. He had built his trapdoor, or at least conceived of it, in recent days, not sure when or if he would ever be able to use it. Now Uday was glad he’d laid that foundation. Thirty minutes later it was done. He lifted his backpack, looped it over one shoulder, and exited the mosque for the last time into a cold and moonless night.

*   *   *

The more Slaton thought about it, the more it made sense. The woman named Malika was Ali Samir’s daughter. It was she who’d sent four men to the Philippines to eliminate him or, failing that, to draw him to Paris. She had been waiting at Le Quinze, knowing Slaton would show himself. Ready to seek revenge against the man who’d killed her father.

Baland stood staring at him, waiting for a reaction.

Slaton said, “I saw you for the first time yesterday. I followed you when you walked to work in the morning. By bringing me to Paris she was putting you at risk.”

“Very much so, which speaks to how committed she is to her vengeance.”

Slaton watched warily as the Frenchman reached into his pocket. He produced a photograph. “Malika gave me this yesterday afternoon.”

Slaton recognized the scene instantly—he was sitting on the bench in Courbevoie. Waiting for Baland. The photo was distant, taken from a high elevation. He remembered surveying the buildings across the street, but doing so with an offensive mind-set. Apparently he hadn’t looked closely enough. “I think I’ve seriously underestimated this woman.”

“You would not be the first.”

“She came to Le Quinze to kill me.”

“Certainly.”

“She failed in that, but managed to eliminate Michelis. That clears the way for your advancement.”

“She is a clever girl.”

Or maybe you’re a clever man, Slaton thought. He was struck by the idea that Baland was the winner in everything that had happened. Yet tactically he couldn’t find a way to hold him responsible for the outcome—Baland had shot and wounded Malika before she’d killed Michelis. If they’d been colluding, that didn’t make sense.

They started walking the path again.

“So where do we go from here?” Slaton asked. “You’ll soon become director, but you’ve been compromised. Do you expect me to sit silently and let that happen?”

“Is this a matter of conscience? Or perhaps a nudge from old friends in Tel Aviv?”

“Believe me when I say that Tel Aviv wants very much to stay out of this.”

“From what I have heard about Director Nurin … I doubt that. Still, there might be a way forward for us all. I’m quite sure Malika has not told anyone in Raqqa of my kinship to Ali Samir.” Baland let that sit, allowing Slaton to consider it.

“You regret your aim wasn’t better today,” Slaton suggested.

“She is my niece by blood alone—I had never set eyes on her until last year. If Malika were out of the picture, a great many of my problems would be solved. It’s how I should have handled things when she first started blackmailing me.”

“That’s very frank.”

“Perhaps. But then, if anyone on earth would understand, I’d think it would be you.”

“Even with Malika removed, aren’t there individuals in the caliphate who could call you out? There’s a flow of information that could be linked to you.”

“I’m not so sure. A leak could be proven, yes—but France’s counterterrorism establishment is a vast machine. There are many possible sources, and a man in my position could do a great deal to ensure that attribution remains clouded.”

“You’ve given this some thought.”

Baland’s voice went to a shrill whisper. “I have awakened every night for a year trying to find a way out of this! It’s as though I’ve fallen into quicksand. The more I struggle, the deeper I get.”

“So,” Slaton said, “if you knew where Malika was right now, at this very moment … what would you do?”

Baland eyed him critically. “I would assemble a raid, of course. I’m sure Malika would resist—it is her nature. She might not be a religious woman, but she is a martyr to her sins. She would never be taken alive.”

Slaton said nothing. He looked out over the Seine in its timeless drift, ripples and eddies marking movement beneath the surface.

“You know where she is,” Baland deduced.

“Am I that bad a poker player?”

“Rather the opposite. You have a special brand of composure. You never lost your nerve in the shooting today—and I noticed that you disappeared immediately afterward. I think you might have caught up with Malika and tracked her from Le Quinze. Followed her to whatever safe house she is using.”

Slaton gave a thoughtful nod.

“Is anyone watching her now?”

“Yes.”

“Mossad?”

Slaton let silence be his answer.

“Then I’ll assume Mossad also knows about my twisted family tree.”

The sidewalk ended—the underpass in front of them was under construction, and a detour arrow pointed up a set of stairs toward the street. They stood facing one another, and Baland said, “I want Malika, but neither you nor Director Nurin has any reason to tell me where she is.”

“No, not really.”

“Then let me give you one.”

For the next ten minutes Slaton listened. At the end, he admitted Baland was right. He had presented Slaton a very good reason for the two of them to work together. An opportunity like none that had ever existed.

THIRTY-SIX

Slaton parted ways with Baland, and as soon as he was alone he sent a text to Talia: He needed an immediate conference call with both Bloch and Mossad director Nurin. Halfway back to his room Slaton got his wish, and he diverted to a riverside overlook to pick up the call.

“Hello, David,” Nurin said. It was a voice Slaton had not heard in over a year.

“Director. Is Anton on as well?”

“Yes,” Bloch replied in his distinctive voice.

Everyone went through an authentication process for security communications before Nurin said, “We’ve had discussions about how to handle this situation in Monceau.”

“I’m sure you have. Has anything changed there?”

“No, our katsas are still outside. We’ve added some manpower to the surveillance op, three more individuals rotating in. By all accounts, the place remains quiet. I would guess either the woman is sleeping, or her injuries have gotten the better of her.”

Slaton didn’t comment on that, but said, “I’m guessing you’ve decided to hand this matter over to the French?”

“Yes. As much as we prefer to take ownership of such opportunities, in this case our only option is to step away.”

“Have you made contact with anyone yet?”

“I just finished briefing our foreign minister. He is trying to contact his French counterpart as we speak. As you know, Mossad prefers to stay in the background whenever—”

“Stop it!” Slaton ordered.

“What?”

“Get on another phone; break this connection if you need to. Do not let that call take place until you’ve heard what I have to say.”

“David—” Anton began, only to be cut off.

“If you let that call go through you will miss the greatest intelligence coup since the Stuxnet virus ruined Iran’s centrifuges! I am going to hang up now. Do not let that information advance through those channels. Call me back when it’s done.”

Slaton heard one syllable of Nurin’s protest before he ended the call.

*   *   *

Uday rushed inside and found Sarah at the stove. She looked up when the door closed and smiled. An expression that vaporized when he said, “We are leaving!”

He went to her and put his hands on her shoulders—not a romantic embrace, but more as if shoring her up.

“What’s happened?” she asked.

“I’ll explain later. For now you must trust me—we have to get out of Raqqa!”

“All right,” she replied in a tenuous tone. “Where are we going?”

“Destinations are unimportant at the moment. The only place we cannot be is here.”

Sarah didn’t seem surprised. They had talked circles around the idea for days, neither saying it in so many words, but both confiding the hopelessness of their situation. They’d discussed at length his insider’s knowledge of the caliphate, and also that his position within it had proved a frightfully tenuous post. Sarah’s own fears were far more basic: At any time Chadeh’s men could come and take her away as easily as they’d brought her here. To where and what neither of them wanted to imagine.

Now, in a moment, it had all burst from the realm of cautious musings to reality.

“What should I bring?” she asked.

He took a step back and looked at her. “Change to your old abaya. Bring nothing else.”

“How will we travel?”

“My brother, Faisal—his truck still runs and he has enough petrol to take us south.”

“South? That is a difficult passage.”

“Which is why no one will expect it. I know where the checkpoints are—I updated the map for our military commanders only yesterday. If we move quickly, we can be halfway to Damascus before anyone realizes that I…” Uday’s words caught there, like a dragging anchor finding a rock.

Sarah looked at him expectantly, waiting for the rest. “What have you done, Aziz?”

Doubts washed over him in a great wave, a fear more palpable than any he had felt through years of war. He looked at Sarah and understood why—the risks he was incurring were not his alone. He stood frozen, suddenly overwhelmed.

Sarah saved him. “Yes, Aziz, let’s do it! Let’s go right now!”

*   *   *

Anisa was running performance scans on the computers in the old mosque. For that reason she was the first to see the attack on their servers. One by one their internal networks were going down. When she finally regained administrative access to one system, she found file after file corrupted. Even their most recent inputs, Uday’s newly created personnel database, had become no more than a stew of electronic rubbish.

At first she suspected the Americans, but then Anisa reconsidered, thinking the hacktivists might be at it again. She got on her mobile phone, which was getting a signal through Aleppo, and navigated to a few of their current Facebook and Twitter recruiting accounts. Every feed had been frozen. Whoever had hit them had hit them hard, comprehensively shut down their networks. This gave rise to a new idea. A handful of social media accounts were managed by individuals in her group using smartphones, and a few others by sympathizers across the Middle East and Europe. Looking at a sample of these accounts, she saw normal activity. Which meant the problem was local—only Raqqa had fallen into cyber darkness. She began digging through code, and within minutes found what looked like malicious commands. Anisa was dumbstruck. An internal problem?

She then remembered her last conversation with Uday.

He’d been acting strangely for some time, and never had he berated her as he had today. She remembered how he’d hesitated to schedule a meeting with Chadeh and the council. They were a frightening bunch, to be sure, but for Anisa the anarchy under her fingertips was even more so. Something told her that Uday might be late for that meeting. Very late indeed.

And if she was right?

Woman or not, the old buzzards were going to let her inside. If things were as she suspected, they needed to know exactly how much trouble they were in.

*   *   *

Slaton was still waiting for Director Nurin to call back. How long had it been? Ten minutes? Fifteen? His eyes were active as he navigated the busy sidewalks of a commercial district, and his neck was getting sore by the time he reached Courbevoie. He knew the precise whereabouts of the only person in Paris known to be gunning for him, but that very fact—that he had been targeted—did wonders to enhance his alertness.

His hotel was within sight when Nurin called back. “Whatever you have, David, I hope it is very good.”

“I take it you were successful?”

“Yes, the foreign minister is waiting for me to call him back.”

“Well done.” Slaton began with Baland’s admission that his niece had been blackmailing him, and that he’d been surrendering information to ISIS. Slaton ended with, “He wants to eliminate Malika before she’s captured.”

“That seems risky.”

“From his point of view, less of a risk than allowing her to be interrogated. Baland is in a good position to manage any fallout.”

Bloch asked, “You’re saying this girl, Malika, is not directly under ISIS’ control?”

“Baland doesn’t think so. He’s also convinced that no one in Syria knows about his connection to Ali Samir—and consequently, that Malika is his niece.”

“You told Baland you followed her to this safe house?”

“No. He figured that out on his own—but I didn’t deny it.”

Nurin said, “I am still not seeing any great intelligence value here, David. Why do I have the Israeli foreign minister sitting on his hands?”

“If you go through diplomatic channels, there’s no telling which police unit will be ordered to haul Malika in. Baland wants to lead the raid himself.”

“And it will end badly for her.”

“Almost certainly. But in exchange for her location, he has something to offer. His contact with the Islamic State has always been through Malika, but she recently gave him a backup, a burner phone in case she was compromised as a handler. After the altercation today that seemed to be the case, and Baland got a call a few hours ago. On the Syrian end was a man named Aziz Uday.”

A pause, and Nurin said, “I recall that name—he is in their technology and media division?”

“He recently became the number one—Aziz Uday heads the Islamic State Institution for Public Information.”

“And you’re saying Uday established contact because they were worried Malika was out of the picture?”

“No, that’s the interesting part. He wasn’t calling on behalf of the Islamic State at all. He wants out.”

“Out?” Bloch and Nurin said in near unison.

“He wants to defect, along with a woman. Uday needs help escaping Syria, and he’s offered information in exchange.”

“What kind of information?” Nurin prompted.

Slaton could not suppress a grin—he envisioned Nurin leaning forward in his chair with a handset clamped to his ear. “I thought you’d be interested. Apparently Uday undertook a project recently to create a new database—a detailed personnel file on every known member of the Islamic State, both at home and abroad. Before he escaped Raqqa, Uday burned his bridges. He destroyed ISIS’ only register of that database … but not before making one copy for himself.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

The search of Raqqa was undertaken with frantic urgency. Doors slammed inward all across town as armed detachments raided apartments and buildings. Nearby farmhouses were next in line, and even fighters had their quarters turned over. In the end, Anisa was proved right. Aziz Uday was nowhere to be found, nor was Sarah, the idolatrous Christian slave he’d been issued.

Anisa sat silently on a case of Turkish motor oil. Chadeh had told her to remain present while the search ran its course, and she watched with increasing apprehension as a look of thunder overtook his already-dark features. One by one, reports filtered in of failure in every quadrant. Chadeh paced the floor of their newest government venue, an automotive garage that had been requisitioned for the night. Tools were scattered about the place, and sawdust carpeted the floor. The air reeked of grease and gasoline. There were three others in attendance—two senior military officers, and a grossly overweight council member who glared at Anisa intensely, weighing, she supposed, either a spontaneous stoning or a roll in the hay. Not sure which would be more unbearable, she simply ignored his stare and said nothing.

Chadeh finally stopped pacing, and asked, “Can we retrieve the personnel information?”

It took a few moments for Anisa to realize he was addressing her, then another beat to get past the implication. By default, she now headed the Islamic State Institution for Public Information. Of course, the promotion would last only until a man could be found, probably one of the technicians she’d trained. Still, she decided to make the best of it.

“I don’t know if it is recoverable. It will take days, possibly even weeks, to get things up and running. From what I’ve seen, this is a malicious attack intended to wipe out data. If it was thorough, the information may never be recovered.” Chadeh glowered at her, and she immediately added, “Of course, we could do it all over again … create a new database that can be made more secure.” Anisa knew, but did not say, that doing so would be a nightmare. The source listings from which they’d compiled the database had been physically destroyed—a matter of security, according to Uday.

Chadeh’s iron gaze was unrelenting. “Might Uday have stolen this information?”

She’d already had the same troubling thought. “It is possible … yes.”

“Which means our enemies might soon have the identity of every member of our army, both inside the caliphate and abroad.”

Anisa did not deny it.

“If he did take it,” Chadeh asked, “what form would it be in?”

She considered her answer carefully. “It would be possible to transmit it—but I don’t think he would have taken that course.”

“Why not?”

“Because if Uday is truly defecting, I think he would keep the data in hand in order to bargain for his safety. Certain intelligence agencies would go to great lengths to help him escape with such information. If it were me, I would carry it on a storage device, probably a flash drive.” She immediately regretted the reflexive phrasing of this last thought, but Chadeh was too incensed to notice.

The next ten minutes were the longest of Anisa’s life. The caliphate’s leaders were worried, and justifiably so. Worst of all, her unit was responsible for the debacle. By the time she left the building, she was hoping they actually would choose a man to take her place, and the sooner the better.

In the meantime, however, she was given two clear assignments to carry out.

Her second priority: Find out how much damage had been done.

Her first: Locate the traitorous Aziz Uday.

*   *   *

Nurin had interrupted their second call, and Slaton waited for him to call back. He reached his hotel, but not wanting to continue the conversation inside, he took a turn around the block, ending on a quiet residential street. He saw a playground Davy would have enjoyed immensely, and in the wash of a streetlight a pair of old women engaged in a good-natured quarrel. He’d originally thought the decision of whether to get involved in Aziz Uday’s defection would be Nurin’s to make. Now he realized it was going one rung higher.

His phone rang.

“I need to know more about the deal,” Nurin said breathlessly. “Baland wants us to give him Malika, but what exactly is he offering in return?”

“To begin, we get first crack at Uday. He told Baland he’s on his way south, toward the Golan Heights. The extraction will be up to us.”

“Golan?” Nurin remarked. “That is an unusual departure point from Syria.”

“Which is why it might be a smart play. I suspect he chose the southern route based on insider knowledge. The caliphate controls only a fraction of the territory it once did. He of all people would know the weaknesses in the perimeter. It’s good for us because we can bring him directly into Israel. Uday has done some groundwork for this escape. Before leaving Raqqa, he claims to have sabotaged the caliphate’s internal networks: command and control nodes, communications lines. That’s going to create a lot of confusion.”

“Once the leadership there realizes what he’s done, they’ll do anything to stop him.”

“I’m sure they will,” Slaton said. “Whoever takes possession of this database will have more information about ISIS than ISIS itself.”

“What is the timetable?”

“Uday is supposed to contact Baland tomorrow to finalize the details of his exfiltration.”

Nurin, ever the negotiator, said, “And if we agree to pull him out? What is our payback?”

“Two things. To begin, Baland insists that both Uday and the database, assuming it exists, must be delivered to him.”

Nurin protested, “Why would we assume such a risk only to—”

“There’s more,” Slaton interrupted, doing an about-face on the quiet street to avoid a busy intersection. “He allows that Mossad can copy the data. For many years now Israel has been perfectly happy to sit back and watch Hezbollah, Levant Front, Assad, and the rest beat one another to a pulp. But even if Israel doesn’t engage ISIS directly, the value of this database to her allies would be incalculable. The goodwill potential with the Americans alone could put relations in good stead for years.”

“Everything you say is true,” Nurin responded. “But how can we be sure this list even exists?”

“You can’t. But then, what are you really risking? If the database is real, you get a copy and then pass it on to Baland. France will have a list of terrorists to sweep up that will keep them busy for months. If it doesn’t exist, you’ll have the chief information officer of the Islamic State to interview for a day.”

Nurin didn’t respond right away, but Slaton could almost hear the directorial wheels turning. He finally said, “Does Baland really believe he can extract himself from this mess he’s found himself in?”

“If you put yourself in his position—it might be worth a shot. Malika is his biggest threat. If we give her to him, and if Uday can be safely retrieved with his information—I think the incoming director of DGSI might have a chance. Better yet, if he does survive, he’ll owe a tremendous debt to Mossad.”

The silence on the phone told Slaton he’d convinced Nurin. Now he had to convince himself. “But there is one problem,” he added.

“What?” Nurin asked.

“Baland’s second request—he wants me to bring Uday in. I extract him from Syria and accompany him back to France.”

“Why you?”

It was a question Slaton had already asked himself. “I don’t know. And I don’t like it.”

“I can understand your suspicion. You killed the man’s brother, and now he wants to put you in harm’s way.”

“That’s pretty much how I see it.”

“Then I must know … are you a volunteer for this mission?”

Once again, it was something Slaton had been debating. A police car approached along the narrow street, its tires hissing over asphalt wet from recent showers. The car never slowed, and the sound dissipated behind him.

On his long flight from the Pacific, Slaton had considered a great many scenarios, wondering what might lie ahead. Rescuing AWOL Islamic State leaders from Syria had not been among them. Christine would tell him to drop the whole affair and come home, if an Antares catamaran in the South Seas could be referred to as such. In the end, Slaton relented. The information Uday claimed to be carrying could deal a crushing blow to ISIS. Which meant it could save thousands of lives. His hands were tied every bit as much as Director Nurin’s. Not for the first time, Slaton found himself dragged into someone else’s battle—but a battle he could not avoid in good conscience.

“Arrange for a jet,” Slaton said. “I’ll be at Le Bourget within the hour.”

*   *   *

When the call ended on the Tel Aviv end, Nurin looked at Bloch, who’d been listening in. He said, “How many ways can this all go wrong?”

“I can think of at least a dozen.”

Nurin sent the phone he’d been using spinning across a table. “This is all your fault, Anton.”

“If you like.”

“Unfortunately, the potential positives far outweigh the risks. There was no choice.”

“None at all. How will you convince the foreign minister to not call his French counterpart?”

“I’ll have to go over his head.”

“Yes,” Bloch agreed, “I suppose it’s the only way.” He then changed course. “Slaton is going to need support.”

“He’ll have it.”

“Have you heard anything more from Gaza?”

“You mean our search for evidence to support this mad idea that Baland and Ali Samir are twins?”

Bloch nodded.

“We’ve only had half a day, but we were able to locate the mother. She lives with her sister and is suffering from advanced dementia. Approaching her would be awkward, to say the least, and I doubt she could tell us much. We looked through the official records for the period, such as they are, but there was nothing useful. Given what we know so far … I’d have to say Baland’s story is plausible. Malika is Ali Samir’s daughter. Baland grew up in France, and he’s being blackmailed because of the connection. It all fits perfectly.”

Bloch remained silent.

“You think otherwise,” Nurin suggested.

“Not necessarily. The facts as we know them fit well. On the other hand, I think we should make every effort to get to the bottom of it.”

“What do you suggest?”

“If there is any useful information, it might not be in Gaza. I think there is one place we haven’t looked.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

That France could not track down a lone female assassin in Paris was an embarrassment to the gendarmerie, a flash point for elected officials, and a source of consternation to the media. On receiving one text message from an unknown number, containing a simple street address, Baland found himself in a position to earn the admiration of them all.

As acting director of DGSI, he had considerable latitude in planning the raid on the flat in Monceau. For a target already proved to be dangerous, the standard response would have been to call in a highly trained tactical team from the national gendarmerie. That, however, would cede control of the outcome, something Baland could not allow. If his judgment was later questioned, he would say time was of the essence, and that they were dealing with but a lone female terrorist.

He commandeered a squad of six well-armed DGSI men, a unit gearing up for an unrelated raid on a Saint-Ouen drug den, and in two unmarked vans they sped through the night toward Monceau. They parked a block away, well out of sight, and Baland ordered his team to wait while he rendezvoused with the lead Mossad officer behind the walls of an adjacent building. The woman had been expecting him, and she assured DGSI’s senior officer that the place had been quiet since early evening. Baland thanked her for her help, then asked her to withdraw her surveillance unit.

He dispatched two members of his own squad to reconnoiter the building. They reached the same conclusions the Israelis had. There were two ways into the apartment: the main entrance in front, and a laddered fire escape in back that spanned all three floors. Baland separated one man and ordered him to stand watch at the fire escape, then disappointed him further by seizing his Heckler & Koch UMP submachine gun in exchange for his own more limited 9mm Sig Sauer.

Baland led the raiding party to the third-floor hallway, and when everyone agreed they had identified the right room, the team listened for a full two minutes. Hearing nothing, he signaled the go-ahead, and a man dressed in body armor came forward with a battering ram.

Baland was first through the breach, UMP at the ready. The tension of the moment was quick-lived, and not a shot was fired. The reasons were all too obvious, yet as a matter of procedure the flat was cleared. Within sixty seconds everyone stood at ease with their weapons at their sides. The worn furniture around them and tattered carpet under their feet went completely unnoticed, as did a vaguely sour smell that seemed infused into the air.

With his team beside him, Baland stood dumbfounded, looking helplessly at a ladder in the middle of the room. Eight feet above, at the top-floor unit’s ceiling, he saw the cutout frame of a skylight. Or at least where a skylight had once been. The plastic dome had been neatly removed, leaving Baland staring helplessly at a star-filled night sky.

*   *   *

The Israeli Air Force flies hundreds of jets, and the country’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs keeps a small airline of its own. Unfortunately, none of those aircraft were in Paris on that cold February night, so when Slaton arrived at Le Bourget Airport it was with instructions to proceed to a fixed-base operator on the east side of the airfield where a chartered Gulfstream was waiting.

The required formalities were undertaken in the flight department lounge. Slaton showed his forged passport to a young woman who’d been expecting him, signed two cursory documents, and without further ritual was led through a set of doors. Fifty yards of red carpet runner later he ascended the stairs of a sleek business jet. Every facet of the experience was smooth and well-practiced, and thirteen minutes after arriving at the FBO, Slaton was airborne. He sat alone in an oversized leather chair, six others going empty around him. Aside from two pilots on the flight deck, there was but one other person on board, a pleasant flight attendant who showed a keen interest in his wine preference.

It all required a mental shifting of gears, but that was something Slaton had grown accustomed to over the years. How many times had he surveilled a bomber’s den by day, then spent an evening tipping cocktails with diplomats on an embassy terrace? Mirroring his thoughts of two days ago, he wished there were some way to share these better moments with Christine and Davy.

“A Bordeaux perhaps?” the young woman asked, interrupting his musings.

It took no more than a smile, and the stemware on the teak table beside him came half full.

“How long is the flight to Tel Aviv?” he asked

“Three hours and fifty-two minutes,” replied the flight attendant, who was certainly French, and who’d introduced herself as Nicolette.

“That’s very precise.”

“Our clientele generally appreciate attention to detail.”

“I assure you, none more than I do.”

Ten minutes later Nicolette delivered a worthy Chateaubriand to go with his Bordeaux. She made an attempt at conversation, but he clearly had a lot on his mind, and she tactfully retreated behind the curtain of her galley. Slaton put the steak under his knife thinking about Aziz Uday and Zavier Baland and ISIS databases, but by the time he was done, with the lights of the Côte d’Azur passing beneath the wing, he had pushed it all aside. Nicolette removed his empty plate, and he looked down at the void that was the Mediterranean.

Slaton wondered what the best season was for cruising these waters. Fall, he guessed, after the human tide of August had receded, but before the Scandinavians came running from winter. October, perhaps. Eight months from now. He conjured a map in his mind and plotted a tentative passage from the Philippines. A run through the Malacca Strait, to begin, then across the southern Bay of Bengal. A watchful approach through the Red Sea and Suez Canal. Then, finally … the sleepy Mediterranean in all its warmth and red-tiled charm.

Eight months.

Slaton reclined in the chair, and minutes later was sound asleep. It was not a consequence of the heavy meal or the wine, nor even the high cabin altitude. By resting now, he was preparing for the next day—a day, he was sure, that would put him in far less civilized conditions.

*   *   *

Anisa took control in the besieged Raqqa mosque that same night. Her first orders reflected a slight inversion of Chadeh’s instructions. They had to get a functional communications network up and running. Only when that was done could frontline units be instructed to search for Aziz Uday.

The first application to regain usefulness was an old version of FireChat, a wireless mesh network that required no internet connections. The messaging system was cumbersome and slow, and had gone unused for months, which was probably why it had been left untouched in the system-wide meltdown—what she increasingly saw as an act of sabotage by Uday.

Unfortunately, FireChat did not reach beyond Raqqa. If Uday had indeed run, he was likely farther afield. Anisa decided to employ one of their little-used high-power radios from the tallest rooftop in town. The German-made units were reliable, but came with one serious drawback—they acted like an electronic beacon to the eavesdroppers in the sky.

For a time Anisa was happy she’d been put in charge of things, but that sense of empowerment ebbed when Chadeh arrived and began watching her every move. The caliphate’s military chief was still seething, and he paced from one workstation to another—helpless to act himself, and not realizing the distraction his glowering presence was creating. Even less helpful were the four men dressed in black he’d brought along, all heavily armed and standing by the door.

And so it was, when the first useful information arrived, Anisa felt a massive wave of relief. A technician at the back of the room—a woman, she noted proudly—announced, “I have a message from the checkpoint near Suluk! They say Uday was seen running through the village. A squad is searching for him now.”

Chadeh ordered superfluously, “Tell them to find him! Stop at nothing!” He rushed to his security detail and whispered sharp instructions. Two of the men disappeared, sprinting out the door. Anisa was sure they’d been told to round up a battalion and join the hunt in Suluk, which was north of Raqqa near the dangerous Turkish border.

Everyone waited nervously for the next ten minutes, at which point another technician said, “I have another sighting.…” A long pause, then, “It’s in Hajin.”

This brought pause. Hajin was east, almost to the old Iraqi border.

A confused Chadeh hovered behind the young man. “One of them must be mistaken,” he said. This time he shouted his orders for everyone to hear, and one of the guards at the door ran off, having been dispatched to assemble a squad and get to Hajin as quickly as possible.

Anisa fired off a message to Suluk asking for an update. Strangely, she got a reply almost immediately. SEARCH STILL IN PROGRESS.

For fifteen minutes everyone waited. Then a third sighting was reported, this by an oil field security detachment outside Dayr az Zawr. Chadeh looked at the lone guard remaining at the door. He did not send the man running. Every spare soldier in Raqqa was already en route to the first two sightings.

Anisa felt an uneasy squirm in her gut. She sent a request for updates to both Suluk and Hajin. The replies were immediate and identical. SEARCH STILL IN PROGRESS.

Her innards went to full-blown seizure. Uday … he has done this. She sat frozen in place, a burqa-clad statue, as she wondered how to tell Chadeh they were busy chasing ghosts.

THIRTY-NINE

Uday and Sarah were, at that moment, in the backseat of his brother Faisal’s road-beaten Toyota Land Cruiser. The SUV had once been registered as a cab, in a time when people had money in their pockets and places to go, and Faisal kept his lighted taxi sign in the trunk and an expired permit sticker in the window on the odd chance he could make a few dollars. The license plate had expired too, but it was one of the few positives of living in Syria these days that things like vehicle registrations and licenses were universally ignored.

The roads south of Raqqa were in abysmal condition: a lack of upkeep, heavy military convoys, and the odd roadside bomb had conspired to turn remote highways into ribbons of black rubble. The Toyota’s headlights bounced an uneven path through the pitch-black desert. They’d advanced ninety miles in four hours, which Faisal claimed as a victory, and were now pressing deep into the lawless expanses of what had once been the Homs Governorate of Syria. On the far horizon Uday saw a group of small buildings, a few with windows glowing dimly from whatever fuel sources remained: oil lamps, generators, candles.

Faisal slowed further as the road degraded to little more than a camel path through the desert. The chassis groaned on every pothole, and he muttered complaints about the damage being done to his longtime means of employment. Uday was silently pleased. His rushed research had so far proved accurate—they’d not encountered a single checkpoint since leaving Raqqa.

“What is that?” Sarah asked, pointing ahead.

Everyone went rigid as two massive shadows materialized out of the night. They were just off the roadbed fifty yards ahead, twin mechanical goliaths. Soon the figures resolved in the headlights, and they all stared at the bizarre sight—in the middle of the open desert, a pair of huge bulldozers.

“At least they are working on the roads,” said Faisal.

“No,” Uday said, having the benefit of insider knowledge. He remembered requisitioning parts for these very machines—and he knew precisely why they were here. “The caliphate does not use such equipment to build. Remember, we are near Palmyra.”

Palmyra. There was no need to say more.

Uday stared out the window and was happy for the darkness. He had no desire to see beyond the machines. To see what he’d been complicit in destroying. Uday had produced countless videos for the caliphate, uploaded thousands of photographs. Many were grotesque and inhumane, bordering on sadistic. Yet it was the images from Palmyra that he’d found strangely haunting, perhaps because they represented something more fundamental—not attacks on bound and helpless humans, but an assault on civilization itself.

He remembered as a schoolboy learning the ancient legends. Hadrian, Tiberius, Solomon—all had walked these same sands over the millennia, visited the same oasis crossroad. The Islamic State had come as well. They did not control Palmyra any longer, but there had been more than one occupation at the height of the caliphate’s reach. Today its fighters were gone, some no doubt having melded into the local populace. At the crest of its domination, however, ISIS had made its terrible mark.

Uday remembered editing videos to put their work on display. Palmyra, one of the world’s most revered archaeological sites, had been declared idolatrous by the caliph. Its ancient stone theater was used as a backdrop for executions, a video Uday himself had uploaded for the world to see. Orders were eventually given to raze every “totem of idolatry.” Structures that had withstood thousands of years of weather and earthquakes and invasions became little more than targets to a cult of religious fanatics who attacked them with dynamite and heavy equipment. Men whose education was drawn entirely from one book, and whose teachers slanted its words into a blueprint for an apocalypse, brought ruin as best they could.

Uday’s hand tensed over the door handle as he watched the great machines slide past his window. Clearly they had been idle since the Islamic State’s pullback. Even so, as the caliphate steadily lost control of territory, he’d heard Chadeh discuss new tactics. Among them—returning teams of infiltrators to places like this, a desperate effort to prove their continued relevance.

He felt a peculiar sensation come over him. “Stop!” Uday shouted.

Faisal stomped on the brakes, and the Toyota skidded to a halt. “What is wrong?”

Uday stared at the nearest bulldozer, only a few yards away. He tried to remember what the mechanic had asked him for over a year ago. What was it?

“Aziz?” Sarah asked haltingly.

Finally he remembered. “Give me a rag,” he said.

“A rag?” replied Faisal. “But what—”

Uday shot his brother a hard look. Faisal reached beneath his seat and produced a stained piece of cloth. Uday took it, opened the door, and walked to the first of the big machines.

It was painted desert tan, a Russian-built behemoth that had been abandoned by fleeing government forces early in the conflict. The caliphate had claimed the earthmovers as a spoil of war, but for nearly a year they had sat idle on the shores of what was then called Lake Assad. In time, the caliph had seen a need and ordered them put into service. Uday was given a list of spare parts to obtain online.

Now he circled the great machine like a bird circling its prey, sharp-eyed and purposeful. Searching for an opening. He thought he saw what he wanted in a recess of the engine bay. Uday went to work using the rag, but quickly realized that his hands weren’t strong enough. He spotted a large wrench on the floor of the driver’s compartment. The wrench’s span wasn’t big enough to grip the housing, so he turned it into a hammer, battering the thick plastic blow after blow. It finally came loose and fell to the dirt, oil spewing onto the ground from a broken line. With his method in place, he had the second bulldozer disabled in less than a minute.

Uday stood back when he was done, completely out of breath. The sleeves of his robe were stained black as he stood back and regarded his work. The two engine oil filters he had ordered from St. Petersburg, necessary for the machines to run, were lying on the ground, their plastic cases shattered and fabric filter rings crushed. Oil oozed from the portals on both engines, dripping down the great treads and turning the sand beneath them black. Leaching back into the very desert from which it might have been extracted.

“Aziz?” Sarah’s voice, wrapped in caution.

He turned to see her standing outside the SUV, a guarded expression on her face.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He dropped the wrench into the dirt, and found himself smiling. “Yes, darling. I am better than I have been in a very long time.”

FORTY

The Gulfstream floated gracefully out of a clear starlit sky, and shortly after three that morning began its final approach to Palmachim Air Base, south of Tel Aviv. Slaton saw the blackness of the Mediterranean sweep past the window, followed by runway lights, and finally a rush of concrete before the tires kissed the earth—arriving within inches of the place and two minutes of the time that Nicolette had promised so many hours ago. That degree of exactitude and sureness, he knew, was about to come to an end.

The jet taxied hurriedly to a quiet corner of the airfield, and when it stopped he saw a long car in the shadow of a hangar. Bloch or Nurin? he wondered. The answer was fast in coming.

“Hello, Anton,” Slaton said, sliding into the limo’s backseat.

“The director sends his regrets,” Bloch replied. “He’s rather busy.”

“I can imagine.”

“A great deal has happened since you left France.”

“You could have sent a message—I’m sure the airplane was capable.”

“I thought it better to let you get some sleep on the flight.”

“Is it going to be that kind of night?”

Bloch gave a wistful sigh. “I think it is what I have come to cherish most about retirement—eight hours of uninterrupted sleep every night.”

“Except tonight.”

“We heard from Baland. The raid was a failure—the girl wasn’t there.”

Slaton’s gaze turned critical. “Did I make a mistake? Was it the wrong apartment?”

“Don’t worry—your instincts for the dark arts remain as reliable as ever. She was definitely there, and stayed for a time. The French recovered trace evidence of gunshot residue. There was also blood in the bathroom, along with some skin and hair that is being analyzed for DNA.”

“I doubt they’ll find any matches.”

“I would stake my dubious reputation against it.”

“So how did we lose track of her?”

“The katsas missed an exit, and obviously she became suspicious. There was a skylight in the roof, and she very conveniently kept a ladder in the flat. The roof in back is very near a neighboring building, and from there half the rooftops in Monceau come into play. I’m sure it was a planned contingency on her part.”

“I missed it too. The mistake is on me as much as anyone.”

“Now is not the time for recriminations. This woman, Malika, was there for a time. I think the response might have been quicker if Baland hadn’t insisted on leading the assault himself.”

“I’ll bet he’s disappointed.”

“He used a far stronger word—Nurin talked to him directly. The French have gone back to searching, but she’s gone to ground again. Another safe house, I would imagine. As far as anyone can tell, she’s working alone.”

“It will be awkward for Baland if she’s taken into custody.”

“Undoubtedly. But that is not our problem.”

The limo was already to the freeway, accelerating quickly on a nearly empty road. The city around them was in a deep sleep. Slaton asked, “Has Baland heard from Uday about the details of this exfiltration?”

“Not yet, but we expect contact soon … assuming he is still alive.”

“Do you have reason to believe otherwise?”

Bloch said, “The Americans run the best signals intelligence in Syria, and we asked them to pass along immediately anything relating to Aziz Uday. It didn’t take long. They isolated radio traffic and messages implying that the caliphate is looking for him—looking very hard.”

“That’s good—it supports the version of events Baland has given us. It means Uday really has defected.”

“That is our view as well. The Americans also mentioned that they’ve recorded an ‘event’ on certain internal servers within Raqqa. Virtually all ISIS comm networks appear to be either down or degraded.”

Slaton considered it. “So their wizard really did throw a wrench in his machine to cover his departure.”

“It would appear so.”

“I think I like this guy.”

“Good, because very soon you may be hauling him out of Syria on your back.”

*   *   *

While Anisa rushed from one workstation to another coordinating the search for Uday, Chadeh convened a meeting with two other men in a quiet corner of the mosque. She watched them discreetly, noticing that they’d taken with them printouts of the information Malika had sent earlier. There was a hushed argument, and the men gestured at different pages. Finally, Chadeh led the group back toward Anisa.

She held her breath as they approached.

“We have come to a decision,” he said. “This information Argu has sent us—it is useful. Unfortunately, any value will be lost if Uday manages to reach the West. We must initiate the first wave of attacks immediately.”

“Attacks?” Anisa repeated.

“We must strike these targets before the authorities are alerted. Use any cells or individuals in France who can be contacted.”

“But the database has been—”

“Enough!” Chadeh said, cutting her off with a slashing motion of his hand. “Your glorious database has proved a failure in the worst way. Surely other methods remain to contact our recruits in Europe.”

She thought about it. “There might still be paper files in the trash cans—unless Uday has seen to those as well.”

“Yes, that’s good. I can order commanders to spread the word among frontline units. Many of those from Europe will have contact numbers for friends and family members.”

Anisa nodded, conceding that Chadeh had a point. They were going back to square one, but it might be possible to muster a small force quickly. “How many teams will we need?” she asked.

Chadeh handed over the printout, and she saw certain paragraphs circled. “We have identified seven targets to be attacked, God willing.”

“So be it. I will work through the night. By tomorrow afternoon the orders will be sent.”

“No. You are to have this done by morning. That is not God’s will—it is mine.”

*   *   *

The Toyota was an hour beyond Palmyra when its headlights illuminated a fork in the road.

“Which road should I take?” Faisal asked.

“Have you seen any route numbers?” Uday asked.

“Road signs?” Faisal laughed. “You are not in England anymore, my brother.”

Uday tried to recall the route he’d traced with his finger over a map on a computer screen. He knew the caliphate still ran one roving checkpoint in this area, but he couldn’t remember exactly where it was supposed to be today. “Steer left,” he said, “away from Damascus.”

A straight line would have given a three-hundred-mile run from Raqqa to the Golan Heights, but his chosen route was necessarily longer to avoid villages and known trouble spots. The ground they’d traversed so far had until recently been controlled by the Islamic State—although “control” was a strong word anywhere in Syria these days. Map or not, Uday knew they were at the limits of the caliphate’s reach. Soon they would be crossing sparsely populated desert, and any encounters there would likely be with a local tribe, the sort who were happy to take a “transit tax.” Less likely, but of greater risk, was to run into Hezbollah or a squad of Assad’s thugs. The risks down any road here were measurable, although not much different from what Bedouin had faced since the days of Christ: tribal mistrust, difficult terrain, and a place where lines on maps were meaningless.

“Are you sure we have enough petrol?” Uday asked.

Faisal, who rarely had a care, flapped his hand in the air. “I am sure we can reach Nawa. There I will find more … have no worries. My brother is a big man, nearly a member of the Shura Council.” He chuckled, and when he looked in the mirror Uday and Sarah both smiled at him. As soon as Faisal looked away, Uday’s humor dissipated.

He said, “You realize that you can never go back to Raqqa.”

“Yes, I know,” Faisal replied, echoing their earlier conversation. He was a bachelor who’d moved to the city on Uday’s coattails, and seeing the limitations of driving a cab, he had done well administering a food-distribution center under the caliphate’s banner. In Nawa, Faisal would have to find something new. But then, he always did. The brothers had been raised on the tan shores of the Gulf of Oman, and from there launched into the world. They kept in touch with their extended family, cousins mostly, who asked guarded questions about what the brothers were doing in Syria. Uday was sure Faisal would be welcomed back in Muscat if it came to that. He, however, had his sights set farther west.

Uday’s ardor for the caliphate had long ago been beaten down by the brutality of the regime. It was his feelings for Sarah, however, that had put the idea of desertion into his mind. Once that choice was made, he’d tried to consider every consequence. He could think of only two people in Raqqa who might suffer reprisals for his defection. Both were in the car with him now.

He felt Sarah take his hand, and when he met her gaze Uday didn’t like what he saw—a woman trying to be brave.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I have planned everything.”

“How can we get across the Israeli border?” she asked in a hushed voice as the SUV groaned over deep ruts.

“I am making arrangements. If we can safely reach Nawa, I have friends there who will give us shelter for a day or two—Druze who are not aligned with the government.” The Golan had a well-earned reputation as an independent region, a place where tribal alignments were more fluid than in other governorates. Certain groups there even favored Israel, and the seemingly endless war in Syria had driven growing numbers across the border to apply for Israeli citizenship. It was dangerous territory, to be sure, but laced with an air of opportunity. “A man is going to come. He will guide us across the border.”

“But we are talking about Israel. They watch the Golan closely, and the U.N. keeps a buffer zone. How can we get through such defenses?”

“That is the beauty of it. The man who is coming to lead us out—he is Israeli. He will take us to safety.”

Sarah nodded thoughtfully, and he thought he might have seen a softening in her expression. Then all at once it went to stone. “Look!”

He followed her gaze through the front windshield. Two heavy trucks were blockading the road ahead. Both flew the black flag of the Islamic State.

FORTY-ONE

To his mild surprise, Slaton was not delivered to Mossad headquarters. The car traveled north along the coast highway to Haifa, followed by an easterly turn into darkening hills. In a few hours the sun would rise, and Slaton knew perfectly well what would be beneath it: Mount Meron, with its uneven green cliffs presiding over the smooth Sea of Galilee. He was familiar with these hills, having spent time here as a teen. Indeed, these were the grounds where he had learned to stalk and shoot small game, innocently honing skills that would one day be leveraged by Mossad to a very different end. Soon after they’d turned away from the coast, Bloch told Slaton what he already knew: This would be the staging point for an extraction op across the Golan Heights.

Civilization disappeared behind them like an apparition, and when the car reached the safe house, there was not another light in sight. Bloch and Slaton got out, and under a dome of stars they set out along a curving gravel path. When the track straightened, Slaton saw a modest house at the end backed by a large detached shed. Halfway up the straightaway, two men materialized from the siding, Uzis slung across their chests. Everyone nodded cordially—or at least as cordially as was possible under such circumstances. Two minutes later they entered the house.

The three men who were waiting inside reminded Slaton of himself not so many years ago. Young and fit, each with the kind of stony gaze that wasn’t a product of mere training.

Bloch introduced them to Slaton from left to right. “Aaron, Tal, and Matai. They know who you are.”

Handshakes were exchanged all around. Aaron was tall and leanly built with a tight professional haircut, Tal dark and intense. Matai, with shaggy black hair and a careless smile, looked as though he ought to be teaching college English—causing Slaton to suspect he was the most dangerous of the bunch.

Aaron, obviously in charge of the unit, led everyone to another room and began a briefing. “We’re extracting two individuals from Syria across the Golan border. Is that still the big picture?”

“For now, yes,” Slaton said.

“Can I ask where this information is coming from?”

Before Slaton could respond, Bloch said, “No.”

Aaron frowned.

Slaton intervened, “I’ve met the source who’s in direct contact with our defectors.”

“And you trust him or her?”

“Absolutely not. When I go into harm’s way, I never trust anyone who’s not standing next to me.”

Aaron’s expression brightened. “You really are him,” he said. “The one we all thought was dead.”

Slaton didn’t reply. Aaron didn’t pursue it. They diverted to a room full of guns, explosives, body armor, and comm gear. Slaton gave a low whistle. “You guys are serious about this.”

“About staying alive? You’re damned straight.” For five minutes Aaron briefed everyone on what was available.

Slaton once more shifted gears: Chateaubriand and Bordeaux had given way to full magazines and flash-bang grenades. At the end, he had only one question. “How will we move?”

“I was hoping you’d ask that.”

*   *   *

Aaron led Slaton and Bloch outside, then down a dirt path to the shed. It was too small to be called a barn, but big enough to contain a vehicle or two. Aaron took a grip on a large swinging door, pulled it open, and tugged a hanging cord to snap on a light. Slaton stood looking at four large ATVs. They were painted in a desert camo pattern and tricked out for weapons carriage.

“Nicely done,” he said.

“The Syrian side of the border goes mostly to desert, so we decided staying off-road was to our advantage. I figure these are good for a twenty-mile penetration. If the retrieval is deeper than that, we might have to revisit the concept.”

Each of the ATVs had two seats, and the tactical math did not escape Slaton. Four of them, two people to extract—even if one of the ATVs had a mechanical failure or was damaged, everyone had a seat. It was exactly how he would have planned it.

He asked, “Have our border patrols been alerted to this op?”

“No,” answered Bloch. “In order to maintain secrecy, we’ve decided to wait and see which sectors will be in play. We’ll notify only those checkpoints that have a need to know, and even then at the last minute. We’ve coordinated with the IDF to cancel any roving patrols scheduled for our crossing window. You’ll have drones overhead for the entire mission, and the operators are already busy logging the current positions of Syrian border units. There hasn’t been much activity in recent months. The Golan is a relatively quiet frontier compared to the rest of Syria, and the government has cut patrols to a bare minimum.”

“Tunnels?” Slaton asked. He knew Hezbollah had dug extensive networks along the border with Lebanon.

“None that we know of—and we probably would know.”

Tal came out of the house and called Aaron inside, leaving Bloch and Slaton alone near the shed.

“Okay,” said Slaton, “so all we need now is someone to rescue. Which means a call from Baland.”

“It would appear so. Hopefully our man Uday has made his way south.”

They began walking back to the house. Halfway there, Slaton paused on the dirt path, and said, “I’ll catch up with you in a minute.”

Bloch kept going without question.

Slaton turned a lazy half circle, sensing again what had struck him earlier. Familiarity. The hills and dry air, the brush of a night breeze across scrubland. Sweet nocturnal scents that would soon be beaten into submission by the sun. At his feet were clumps of weeds he’d seen before, some native species he remembered pulling from vegetable gardens long ago.

The land around him wasn’t the only bit of déjà vu. The shed, the house, the hard men he’d just met—that was a homecoming of another kind. Sometime in the next twenty-four hours he would be part of a special-ops team crossing a very unfriendly border. It wasn’t what had been on his radar when he’d left Palawan.

Or was it?

How many times had he put the old ways behind him, only to find himself drawn back in? At some point he had to wonder if it was a fundamental flaw in his character. Some magnetism to that ferrous life built on adrenaline and danger, even violence. No, he argued internally, I’m not setting out to kill anyone tomorrow. I’m here to rescue a man with information that might save lives. Even Christine would approve of that.

That was what he told himself. Again and again.

He looked into the still-lit shed. Near the combat-rigged ATVs he saw a toddler’s tricycle, a happy Red Rover with an oversized front wheel. Next to that, a plastic Hula-Hoop and a ball. In years past he would have viewed such objects as no more than visual clutter. Now, gladly, he understood their importance. Perhaps all too clearly. The incompatibility of his two existences, which he’d hoped would lessen over time, seemed more distinct than ever.

Slaton drew deeply on the sweet-scented air. He went to the shed, jerked the cord to turn out the light, and dragged the big door shut. By the time he reached the house his thoughts had recoupled. Get this done, and in twenty-four hours he could be on his way back to join his family. And the more time he spent with them, he reasoned, the more places like this would become a distant memory.

*   *   *

There were four guards at the checkpoint, and even in the wash of the headlights Uday could discern long beards and dusty clothing. All were clad in black, and each man carried a rifle, although not in a threatening manner. They stared at the oncoming Toyota SUV as if it had arrived from outer space.

“What should we do?” Faisal asked. His hand was on the gearshift lever, the engine idling.

“Be calm,” instructed Uday. “Put your hands where they can be seen, and let me do the talking.”

The Toyota came to a stop, and one of the men approached the driver’s-side window with a flashlight in hand. The beam paused at Faisal’s open window, then shifted to the backseat and bounced back and forth between Uday and Sarah. The soldier’s face was dirty and scarred, and a sudden smile put a set of rotted teeth on display.

“Welcome, and God be praised. We expected you earlier.”

Uday felt Sarah’s stare, but ignored it. “We were delayed. You have what we require?”

The guard waved, and two of his companions approached. One was struggling under the weight of two jerry cans, and based on the effort he was expending they were certainly full. The other man carried a wicker basket.

“Faisal,” said Uday, “unlock your petrol door.”

Faisal’s left hand went down to the floorboard, and they all heard a faint clunk as the fuel door opened. The man carrying the cans unscrewed the cap and began fueling the Toyota.

The second guard came to the window. He pulled an expensive-looking phone from the basket and handed it through to Uday. He then provided three large water bottles, followed by a package of flatbread and carved meat. “You have done well,” said Uday. “It will not be forgotten. Tell me your names, brother.”

The man who seemed to be in charge spouted off four names, and Uday looked at him intently as if trying to remember them.

The leader said, “We have heard nothing from headquarters since your message—that was many hours ago.”

“I know,” Uday replied. “The Americans have once again blocked our radio and phone networks.”

“One day the crusaders will set foot in our caliphate … then we will teach them something.”

“The end of days is imminent, God willing.”

“Is there anything else you need?”

“No,” Uday replied. “And don’t bother calling for instructions. The network won’t be available until well after daybreak. You and your men should stand down for the night, get some rest.”

“They will be most grateful.”

The man doing the refueling finished, and he carried away the empty cans.

The leader waved his hand, and one of his men mounted the truck on the left, started it, and backed out of the road to create a passage.

Uday said, “We must continue south from here, toward Nawa. Do you have any information on government patrols?”

“Nawa?” the man repeated.

“I cannot discuss specifics, but trust me when I say our mission is a vital one. You know this area, and anything you can do to aid our safe passage would be a great help.”

“The government has been busy elsewhere in recent weeks. Hezbollah are staying close to Damascus. Whatever you do, keep to the roads—the Bedouin have been getting nasty, but they rarely leave the desert. I suggest Route 110, then after Bawidan there is a rough road. It will take you southwest to Nawa. This time of year it should be in good condition—your vehicle will have no trouble.”

Uday thanked the man, and implied that Chadeh himself would be informed of his helpfulness. Faisal soon had them under way, the Toyota’s headlights once again bouncing aimlessly over tawny desert scrub.

“That was very clever,” Sarah remarked.

“Clever means nothing until we are safe.”

“Still … I am impressed.”

“Until a few hours ago I headed the Institution for Public Information. You know what they say—information is power.”

Uday looked down and regarded the phone they’d given him. It was a satellite device—probably the only one the unit had been issued. He turned it on to find the battery fully charged. They really had made an effort. He quickly obtained a signal, and after a deep breath, Uday began typing numbers. His finger hesitated over the green send button. He realized it was the middle of the night in Paris. His finger slipped away.

As tempting as it was, the call could wait. Uday wanted Zavier Baland to be wide awake when the final arrangements were made.

FORTY-TWO

For the balance of that morning, Baland guided the hunt for Malika from his old office in DGSI headquarters—decorum had never been a strong suit, but even he realized it would be poor form to appropriate Michelis’ suite before his funeral played out. Because it was a small room, analysts cycled in two at a time. Presently he was facing a captain from the national gendarmerie, who was the forensics lead at the flat in Monceau, and a woman from his own command center.

“Do we have any fingerprints yet?” Baland asked the evidence man from behind a desk that seemed suddenly inadequate.

“More than we’d like,” said the captain. “At least twenty discrete sets.”

Baland raised an eyebrow.

“The place has been rented out weekly for the last year, so it’s not really surprising. Based on the condition of the prints, and the fact that one set consistently overlays others on high-use surfaces—things like tap handles and doorknobs—we think we’ve distinguished the ones that belong to our suspect.”

“Let me guess,” Baland ventured. “They don’t match anything in our databases?”

“I’m afraid not, which seems inconceivable when one considers that we have fingerprints on two hundred and ten million people. We’re not sure how this woman arrived in France, but it obviously wasn’t through any official point of entry.”

“Are you suggesting she’s not one of our homegrown insurrectionists?”

The captain, who exuded the manner of a typical Parisian, did not answer right away. Baland knew that a great number of his countrymen, even those in the law-enforcement community, still grappled with the idea that sons and daughters of the republic could be every bit as violent as the hordes of refugees who’d been flooding in.

“We will cover every possibility,” the man finally said, “including that she could be an undocumented resident of France. A DNA analysis is ongoing—we should have the results soon.”

Baland steepled his hands under his chin. “The very fact that she left hair and blood evidence behind tells me she’s confident we won’t find a match. All the same, keep at it.” His head turned inquiringly to the woman from the command center. The beaten look on her face told Baland all he needed to know, but as acting director he felt compelled to go through the motions.

She said, “We checked the rental documents for the flat, but it’s a stone wall—everything was done online using untraceable funds. In the field we’ve had the usual sightings, but all have so far proved to be false leads. I expect that will continue until we get a better photograph of our assailant. We’ve interviewed at least a hundred taxi drivers, and checked CCTV footage from every public transportation hub within two kilometers of the flat. The woman has simply disappeared.”

Baland nodded thoughtfully, then gave his analysts the best pep talk he could muster. At the end, he said, “And make sure everyone understands that new leads are to be sent straight to me.” The tone of these last words was nothing less than a warning, and having installed that in their minds, he sent the two back to their respective grindstones.

Alone in his office, Baland leaned back in his chair. He clasped his hands behind his neck, stared up at the ceiling, and wondered how the hell he was going to find Malika. The first idea that came to mind was something near fantasy: He could slip quietly out of the building, walk across town to the next scheduled dead drop, and leave her a message. It could actually work, assuming she was still mobile and willing to venture outside. He could tell her he was sabotaging the search for her, and insist on a meeting. Unfortunately, she was very likely harboring reservations at that moment, due in no small part to the fact that he’d shot her during their last meeting. On top of that, he himself was frozen in place. He’d already been forced to explain to the head of DGSI internal security why he’d slipped out of his house last night, giving the lame excuse of “a little fresh air” to gloss over the truth—that he’d ditched his protection detail in order to rendezvous with an assassin.

He regretted not pressing Malika in previous meetings about who she associated with in Paris. Certainly there were others in her orbit, evidenced by five bodies recovered from the Grenoble attack. Too late, Baland realized he should have deployed a DGSI team to track her quietly. He had long considered it, but always discarded the idea, fearful of how Malika would react if she spotted any kind of surveillance.

He pushed away his recriminations, knowing they were only a distraction. Malika could be anywhere in France right now, injured and angry. She knew enough about Baland to ruin him.

And worst of all?

She might understand the direction in which his aim had been off at Le Quinze.

He was ruminating on it all when a call came through on his private phone. He didn’t recognize the number, and felt a surge of anticipation. He picked up and instantly recognized the voice of Aziz Uday.

*   *   *

At the same time that Baland was taking a call from Syria, a handful of other phones around France were making parallel connections.

In a shoe repair shop in the Reuilly, nestled comfortably along the Right Bank, the proprietor’s son listened in silence as his orders from Raqqa, expected for months, finally came through. He was to round up his partner and undertake an assault on a Jewish grocery store a short distance up the river. Far across town, an out-of-work waiter in Montparnasse was cashing his unemployment check when he received an encrypted text message: he was to activate the cell he commanded, assemble the suitcase bomb they’d been working on, and deliver it without delay to a nearby Jewish community center.

For the leadership of ISIS, the process was not without snags. When a burner phone in the glove box of a taxi in Toulon went unanswered, a backup recruit across town had to be contacted to get things moving. An aspiring martyr in Bordeaux, who they’d hoped would steer the cement truck he drove for work into a bagel shop, had changed his mind, or more accurately his religion, having taken up with a stunning Catholic girl in recent months. It was discovered that a cell leader in Caen had been sent to prison, a wrathful young man whose anger was no doubt cresting at that moment, but whose usefulness to the caliphate could only be banked.

In the end, however, Chadeh had his wish. Seven cells, each consisting of between two and six individuals, began preparing for assaults on targets across France. All were to take place in the coming forty-eight hours.

FORTY-THREE

With “what” and “how” settled, the Mossad team in the foothills of the Golan Heights waited through the predawn hours to finalize “where” and “when.” Bloch took the call they were waiting for at eleven thirty that morning. Everyone at the safe house stood watching as the former head of Mossad was briefed by Zavier Baland. The conversation lasted less than two minutes. Slaton had a vision of Baland on a balcony, or perhaps the roof of the DGSI building, doing his best to stay out of sight and talk in hushed tones. It was a testament to the circuitous nature of modern communications that Aziz Uday, the once-removed source of the information, was less than a two-hour drive from where they stood.

“So far so good,” said Bloch after ending the call. He walked to the kitchen table, which had been taken over by a large topographical map. The map was already peppered with information: borders had been highlighted, Syrian army outposts marked in red, and potential corridors of ingress and egress were charted like so many deep-water channels through treacherous shoals. “Our defectors expect to be in Nawa by dusk.”

Aaron cracked open a water bottle and set the cap on Nawa for reference.

“They plan to leave town on foot at midnight, and move due west,” Bloch continued. “By one o’clock tomorrow morning they should be at least two kilometers clear of Nawa, and from there they want to forward exact coordinates by phone.”

“Phones can be tracked,” Aaron said. “We should prearrange a geographic point—an old barn or a derelict pump house.”

“We are not talking about professionals,” Bloch countered.

“We’ll make it work,” Slaton interjected.

Aaron asked, “Are we still extracting two subjects?”

“Yes, your primary objective is a man named Uday. We’ve also agreed to bring out a woman on his request.”

Aaron again. “Do we know why he included her in the deal?”

Slaton liked this question, and had been about to ask it himself. A relationship between the two might affect either’s behavior during the op.

“No,” said Bloch, “but we should assume she’s his girlfriend—he was quite insistent that she be included.”

“Nawa is twelve kilometers into Syria,” said Aaron, plotting on the map. “If we stage near the border, and run over open desert—it’ll take between twenty and thirty minutes to get there.”

Slaton said, “Maybe less if we can find goat trails or old army roads.”

“Army roads?” Tal inquired.

“When we kept the Golan Heights after the Six-Day War, the Syrian regime didn’t like it. For years afterward they ran military exercises up and down the border. It was no more than saber-rattling, but their corps of engineers put down a pretty extensive network of unimproved roads. They’re no longer maintained because the government has far bigger problems than Israel these days. But the roads are still there.”

Aaron said, “Point noted. Now that we know where we’re going, we should get fresh drone pictures. If any of these roads look clear and usable, we’ll take advantage.”

There was no dissent, and soon everyone had new assignments: Slaton and Aaron were responsible for mission planning, Bloch concentrated on intel, and Tal and Matai were assigned to equipment prep.

With everyone busy, Slaton buttonholed Bloch. “Did Uday mention the database?” he asked.

“Yes, he says he’s carrying it.”

“We need to tell the others about it.”

Bloch gave him a severe look.

Slaton stood his ground. “I’ve been on too many missions where things were kept from me. I can tell you unequivocally—secrets do not promote success.”

Bloch relented. “All right, we will tell everyone Uday is carrying valuable information—make it a primary objective, if you want. But we can’t divulge the nature of the data.”

Slaton decided it was a reasonable compromise. “All right. So let’s get to work.”

Slaton went to the big map, and found himself alone for a time. Once again, it seemed all too familiar. Brown and tan topographic information, threat markers, coordinate grids. There were a lot of moving parts to this mission, and they would hopefully be held together by the binds of training, knowledge, and even chutzpah. All the same, Slaton knew better than anyone the most important determiner of success.

Luck.

FORTY-FOUR

Uday’s plan went wrong minutes after they reached Nawa. It was a warm midafternoon, and Faisal slowed the weary Toyota on the outskirts of town. Enduring rows of olive groves gave way to a sleepy collage of low earth-tone buildings. They were one- and two-story affairs mostly, flat roofs topped by dish antennae, and in the gaps between the homes tough-looking trees sprouted desperately from the hard earth, their scant foliage offering little in the way of shade. Faisal veered onto a road that led to the heart of town, jogging left and right in an increasingly urban setting. That was when the trouble began.

A turn around a sharp corner revealed a checkpoint.

“Look!” said Faisal.

A hundred yards ahead, four men stood casually around a truck. They seemed interested in the approaching Toyota, but hardly alert. All wore uniforms, yet no two seemed to match; one wore a helmet, another a beret, and two had different-colored kaffiyehs wrapped around their heads. It was the flag flying from the truck that cemented who they were—a yellow standard with green script, the first letter of “Allah” reaching up to grasp an assault rifle. This was Hezbollah, the self-proclaimed Army of God.

“Turn around!” Uday ordered.

“It’s too late; they have seen us! If I turn away they will only become suspicious.”

Uday knew his brother was right. On either side of the road were homes with walled courtyards. There were no side streets or driveways into which they could divert. They were trapped, and worse yet, none of them had papers. On Faisal’s suggestion, they’d discarded their ISIS-issued identity cards in the desert hours ago, everyone agreeing there was more danger than value in keeping them. Now they faced a genuine roadblock, one Uday had not prearranged.

“We will talk our way through,” said Sarah.

“No, talk is not enough,” Faisal countered. “Quickly, give me all your money!” He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket—fortunately Syrian pounds and Turkish lira, and not the Islamic State’s failed gold dinar.

Sarah’s pockets were empty, and Uday pulled out a meager handful of Syrian pounds. He handed them to Faisal realizing he should have brought more—the first obvious flaw in his rushed escape plan.

Fifty yards from the checkpoint, Uday saw a fifth soldier. By then every set of eyes was on the approaching SUV. The two in the center brandished their weapons threateningly, and a third raised his hand in a classic halt signal. The Toyota slowed, and Uday saw Faisal slip the money into the small leather folder that had once held his credentials for driving a taxi. His brother had done this before.

The traffic cop, who was evidently in charge, approached Faisal’s open window. Up close his uniform was dusted in brown, so too his untrimmed beard and ragged hair. A commander who’d been in the field for some time.

“Papers,” he said, no rising inflection to denote a question. He held out a hand, and said, “Tell me where you have come from.”

“Damascus,” said Faisal, handing over the leather folder.

The man looked inside, paused a beat, then said, “Damascus? You took a very indirect path.”

Faisal shrugged. “I am afraid I got lost.”

Uday didn’t like the trajectory of things. He gripped Sarah’s hand, and felt her squeeze back. He couldn’t read the man’s reaction to the cash, but he noticed that the folder was still in his hand. He’d also not shown it to the men behind him. Is that important? Uday wondered. A feeling of helplessness overwhelmed him, and for the first time he regretted getting Sarah involved. He should have taken a less perilous escape route. He should have brought more cash.

“You are from Raqqa,” said the officer accusingly. His eyes were on something on the windshield, and Uday realized it was the old taxi sticker. It had been issued by the Syrian government, and was probably coded for a particular city.

“The vehicle is from Raqqa, yes,” said Faisal. “But we are from—”

The man cut him off with a wave, and those behind him tensed perceptibly. The leader gave a signal, and one of the men who’d been standing back came forward with a mirror mounted on a stick. He began to inspect the undercarriage.

The man in charge shifted to the back window, bent down, and stared at Uday, then Sarah. He circled to the rear of the SUV.

“This is not good,” Sarah whispered.

“I know,” said Uday. He quickly pulled out the sat phone. A voice call was out of the question, so he pecked out an urgent message to Baland. He was about to put the phone back in his pocket when Sarah said, “Give it to me!”

He gave her a cautious sideways stare.

“Give it to me, Aziz!”

The harshness of her tone surprised him, but with the men busy searching, he slid the handset across the seat. He watched Sarah tap the screen a few times, then slip it into the folds of her abaya.

Before Uday could ask what she was doing, the leader came back to Faisal’s window, and said, “Open the tailgate.”

Faisal reached for the remote unlocking latch.

“No!” the man shouted. “Get out and do it yourself.”

Faisal got out warily and went to the back. The Hezbollah squad stood back as he unlocked the tailgate and swung it open. The leader ordered him to uncover the compartment beneath the floor. Faisal did so, and when no explosions resulted, the leader closed in, pushed him aside, and performed an inspection.

Uday knew there was nothing incriminating in the vehicle—they themselves were the contraband.

The leader shut the tailgate and came back to Uday’s window. “Get out!” he ordered. “We are taking you for further questioning!”

Before Uday could protest, Sarah said in a loud voice, “Enough of this! Does Hezbollah have nothing better to do than accost innocent travelers? We have come to Nawa to see my sister. You should let us pass!”

The leader seemed put off by her tone, but only for a moment. He yanked open the rear door, dragged Uday out, and sent him stumbling across the dirt siding. He ended up next to Faisal. The man reached for Sarah, but she saw it coming and exited the opposite door, doing what little she could to keep control of the situation. Uday had never seen this side of her—nor had he ever been more proud.

Sarah walked around the car to face the commander. With a look of defiance on her exquisite face, she said, “Where are you taking us?”

He replied by slapping her on the cheek, then pushing her toward Uday. It wasn’t a forceful shove, but Sarah seemed to lose her balance and went tumbling against an old cobbled wall. She let out a yelp as she struck the wall, and came to rest in a heap.

In a move he would later reflect on as chivalrous, if grossly inadvisable, Uday lunged at the commander. Two soldiers seized him by the arms, and one sank a rifle butt deep into his ribs. Uday grunted and doubled over in pain. When he finally lifted his head again, he met Sarah’s gaze. He saw that she was all right. She then gave Uday an almost imperceptible nod.

The technician in him tried to decipher what she was saying, and his best guess was: The phone is still on.

He was only half wrong. The phone was still on.

But that wasn’t what she was trying to tell him.

FORTY-FIVE

Slaton had few recollections of his father, who had died when he was a boy. One of his sayings, however, he remembered well: Dreams are forward-looking. Nightmares only relive your past.

Slaton was looking down on himself as he played the memory game with Davy, the two taking turns uncovering tiles stamped with pairs of animals. Giraffes, lions, zebras. The field of play was tremendous, an array consuming the entire table in Windsom’s salon, at least a thousand pieces. Davy seemed unbothered by the complexity—on the contrary, he was unstoppable, unearthing matching pair after matching pair as fast as his tiny hands could collect them. As the array dwindled, Slaton got his chances, and on every opportunity he turned over the same tile—the one with Ali Samir’s picture. Try as he might, a match never came. At the end Davy had run the board, and Slaton was left staring at two tiles. He turned over the one with Samir’s picture. Then he turned over the other and found it blank.…

“David!”

A distant voice.

“David!”

Slaton blinked his eyes open. Anton Bloch was standing above his bunk, a look of concern etched on his face—even more than usual.

“Yeah … what’s wrong?”

“We have a problem.”

*   *   *

It was requisite, Slaton had always thought, that to become director of Mossad one must have a penchant for understatement. What they had was far more than a “problem.”

The team gathered in the kitchen around their mission map. Bloch aside, the others looked much the way Slaton felt—fuzzy and sleep-interrupted. With the mission scheduled to begin just after midnight, they’d all expected to sleep into the evening. It wasn’t an easy thing to do, given both the violation of circadian rhythms and the nature of the mission. Bloch had been prepared, providing no-go pills for each member of the team—essentially a high-dose ration of Ambien. All four of them partook, and it did the job. Now they’d all been awakened out of a hard sleep, but yawning and shoulder-scratching aside, no one asked for a go pill. That too was an option in any special ops pharmacy, but it was hardly necessary. They were about to breach one of the most heavily guarded borders on earth, and thereafter engage Israel’s most hated and persistent enemy. That was enough to get everyone jacked up.

“It happened less than an hour ago,” said Bloch. “Uday was taken into custody by Hezbollah.” His grimace seemed to deepen, spreading across his face as if by some tectonic process.

“Hezbollah?” Slaton remarked. “Are you sure?”

“Nearly so, and it’s not a surprise. As you’re all aware, Hezbollah has long been aligned with Syria’s Ba’athist government. They’ve helped fuel the civil war by contributing thousands of fighters. In recent months, some units have taken up patrols along the border with Israel, freeing up government troops to deploy elsewhere.”

“That complicates things,” Slaton remarked.

“Welcome back to our little corner of the world.”

“Where did this happen?” Aaron asked.

“They made it to Nawa, but were picked up at a checkpoint.”

“How do we know?”

“The satellite phone—Uday fired off a short message as they were being taken into custody. Thankfully, Baland called us right away. We were able to capture and isolate the signal. We discerned a muted female voice for about twenty minutes, then the connection was terminated. We think it was the girl, judging by the audio, so Uday must have given her the handset. Apparently her name is Sarah.”

“Do we know if she still has the phone?”

“Unknown. She might have ended the call for tactical reasons, or perhaps the battery was getting low.”

“Or someone searched her and found it,” Slaton suggested.

“Very possibly. Talia is working on it. As long as the phone remains turned on, with some battery power, she thinks she can track it—not continuously, but an occasional ping that can be triangulated.”

Aaron said, “Even if we know where the phone is, we can’t be sure that’s where they are.”

“True,” Slaton seconded. “And we can’t be sure they’re all together.”

“I agree,” said Bloch, “there are serious gaps in our understanding of the situation. I can tell you we’ve been monitoring communications channels closely. There has so far been no increase in message traffic to the outpost in Nawa. To me that implies they were taken by a local crew—I doubt they even realize who they’ve got.”

Aaron exchanged a look with Tal and Matai. “And who do they have?”

Bloch didn’t even glance at Slaton—he could no longer sidestep the question. “The principal we are trying to rescue … his full name is Aziz Uday.”

After a pause, Aaron said, “ISIS … a leadership position.”

“Correct. Aziz Uday is, or I should say was, the head of the Islamic State’s information and technology section. For reasons that are not yet clear, he wishes to defect.”

Someone cursed in Hebrew, before Aaron said, “Okay. That means the longer we wait, the greater the chance that Hezbollah will find out who they’ve got. Looks to me like we either gear up and go at sundown…”

“Or we don’t go at all,” Slaton finished.

Slaton exchanged a look with each of the other three. There was never any hesitation. “Smash and grab?” he said.

“Smash and grab,” Aaron replied.

“Fair enough.” Slaton readdressed the map. “So let’s try to figure out where they are.”

FORTY-SIX

Their hostages were, as verified by a Predator drone that was loitering four miles overhead, somewhere inside a sprawling two-story villa on the outskirts of Nawa.

“At least that’s where the phone is,” Aaron remarked.

Bloch gave an overview. “We’ve been watching the villa continuously for the last hour. There are three vehicles in front, all military, two guards outside. The good news is that we know this place, and it correlates to our situation. Hezbollah has been using this villa for months as a base for a regular contingent that rotates in and out of town.”

“And the bad news?” Tal asked, knowing like any good operator that was coming as well.

“There are usually close to twenty men in these units. We also believe the villa serves as their armory—they’ll have no shortage of guns or ammo.”

Before anyone could grumble, Slaton said, “Having weapons available isn’t the same as having them in hand. As long as they aren’t expecting us, we’ll have a brief window when we can work quietly.”

“Reinforcements?” Aaron asked.

“The nearest Hezbollah unit we know about is thirty kilometers away. There are government units closer, including a remote outpost five kilometers away, north along the border. A contingent roughly the same size.”

“That gives us fifteen minutes after any alarm is raised,” Slaton said.

Bloch turned taciturn. “And here I should remind you of something. Each of you knows the importance of this mission. Director Nurin—on the instructions of the one man above him—has given strict orders. This is not a strike against either the Syrian government or Hezbollah. If you come under attack, you are authorized to return fire. But remember—the objective is to bring three individuals to safety with the least amount of collateral damage.”

“Three?” Slaton was the first to remark. “I thought we were bringing out Uday and a woman.”

“Yes, as did I. In going over the feed from the phone, however, we’ve identified a third person working with them. It is only conjecture based on captured audio, but it may be Uday’s brother. Whoever it is, if this man helped them flee Raqqa, he would be at dire risk if left behind. I think we have an obligation to include him. Plan to bring back three—if it turns out to be two, all the better.”

Bloch waited, and no one protested. “Good.” He looked pointedly at Slaton, and then Aaron. “If things get difficult, it is essential that you prioritize. Uday must be extracted. The girl and this other man are of secondary importance—do not risk his safety for them.”

“I think that’s a mistake,” said Slaton.

“Why?”

“Because Uday himself is a secondary objective.”

Slaton stared at Bloch, but not as intensely as did the other three.

Aaron, speaking for Tal and Matai, said, “Whatever you two are talking about, I think we have a damned good need to know.”

Bloch nodded. “Yes, David and I have already discussed this. You should all know that Uday claims to be carrying some very valuable information.”

Matai asked, “As in papers or a computer?”

“Possibly, but we don’t know for sure. It’s most likely an electronic file carried on a memory device. I can’t divulge anything about what these files contain—but trust me when I say it is vital we obtain them.”

Aaron suggested, “Any of them might be carrying it.”

“Or for that matter,” added Slaton, “it could be sitting in that building on the desk of a Hezbollah captain.”

“I agree, these are all possibilities. Hopefully once we have Uday, he can tell us.”

The team was wide awake.

“All right,” said Slaton, “three hours until dusk. Let’s do this.”

Everyone began their private preparations. Soldiers everywhere had their rituals: weapons checked and loaded, holsters tight, batteries charged. Lucky charms pocketed and “last letters” placed in footlockers. When Slaton finished with his gear, he found himself trying to remember his parting words to Christine. I love you both—that was what he should have said, but he remembered something less profound. Something along the lines of, I’ll be back before you know it. At the time it had seemed enough.

He walked outside, pulled the phone Bloch had issued him from his pocket, and studied it thoughtfully. He dialed Talia, and she picked up right away.

“Hello, David.”

“Hi.”

“I’ve still got a good ping on Uday’s sat phone,” she said.

“Good … although that’s not why I’m calling.”

Slaton hesitated there, until she said, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good. I just have a favor to ask.”

“Sure, what can I do for you?”

“Remember when I told you about the satellite connection on my boat?”

“Yes.”

“Did you track it down?”

A hesitation.

“It’s okay,” he added.

“Yes, Anton thought we should know where your wife was.”

“He was right. Do you still have a lock on it?”

“No, I haven’t been following it … but I’m pretty sure I could find it again if I tried.”

“Try.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I want you to send a message for me.” He gave her a specific address.

“Okay. What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Tell them I miss them, and that I’ll be home soon. And mention to my wife I that was thinking we should cruise the Med this fall.”

“Okay, I can do that. Anything else?”

“No, I think that about covers it. Thanks.”

FORTY-SEVEN

The Golan Heights was born as a volcanic plateau, a great table of inner earth rising above the Sea of Galilee and the Jordan River. Dozens of volcanic cones give evidence of its creation, and the resulting basalt plain stretches eastward deep into Syria. On flat and relatively featureless terrain, the forests of past eras have been replaced by scrub and low-lying brush, and in a few quarters beaten into farmland. It is a place with little cover, hardpan surfaces, and has long been sparsely populated. For Slaton’s team, it was a topography that translated directly into one word—“speed.”

The ATVs had been purchased as stock models, but their recreational lineage ended there. Engine performance had been boosted, and on a decent road they could eclipse seventy miles an hour. Thin steel decks had been added front and rear for carrying gear. The tires were special run-flat variants, and light armor had been welded over vital points on the engine. The exhaust system was sound-suppressed, and rerouted to minimize IR signature. For tonight’s mission, which demanded speed over unimproved terrain, optional roll cages had been installed. The vehicles were staged forward on an Army flatbed, and unloaded within a mile of the border as dusk was taking its grip.

At that point, Slaton and the others got a final update from the drone before making their dash into Syria. The planned route avoided not only Hezbollah outposts and minefields, but all known inhabited structures. Farmhouses, villages, and even storage sheds were kept two hundred yards distant.

The Golan Heights border was established by the U.N. in 1974. Erring on the side of caution, two lines of demarcation were drawn—to the west was a boundary designated “Alpha,” and to the east “Bravo.” The buffer zone between them had been monitored by U.N. troops ever since.

“The sector we’re going through is watched by Fijians,” said Aaron. “They’re actually pretty good, as far as U.N. troops go, but I found what looks like a useful gap.”

“Okay,” said Slaton, as he quietly watched the others. Matai was triple-checking his weapons, and he saw Tal rolling his neck as if warming up for a big game.

Aaron continued, “Once we get across Bravo there are a few farms, but most are fallow this time of year. Outside that, the terrain will be rough.”

“Then you should lead,” Slaton said. “You’ve got the most time in one of these seats.”

“Right—so let’s do this.”

*   *   *

They departed in loose formation into a moonless night. Slaton was impressed by the quietness of the ATVs, especially at high throttle settings. Everyone wore night-vision goggles, necessary to avoid the thicker stands of vegetation and hidden wadis. Each man also wore comm gear, although as quiet as the ATVs were, talking was impossible as they bounded over the rock-hard landscape.

The buffer zone was quickly behind them, and Slaton followed Aaron’s lead as they skirted groves of mature olive trees and grainfields waiting patiently for spring. They stopped twice in the first ten minutes, once to let two cars pass on a crossing road, and again when Aaron spotted two young boys walking on a distant path. Slaton wished they could have waited until the early-morning hours, when most people would be asleep, but their hand had been forced.

Thirty cautious minutes later they reached the outskirts of Nawa. Aaron slowed the convoy as the first habitations came into view, and they parked half a mile clear in a dense stand of brush. All four men rendezvoused at the top of a gentle hill, Aaron and Slaton in the center, Tal and Matai on the flanks. Everyone was alert for the slightest deviation in sound or movement.

Slaton said over the tactical frequency, “Drone updates?”

Bloch responded immediately, and in less than his usual forceful tone—even thirty miles away, he too sensed a need for quiet. “No change. The phone is still giving a signal from the targeted building, twelve hundred meters from your present position. I see no police or patrols in your quadrant. One vehicle checkpoint remains on the north side of town.”

“Okay,” Slaton said, “that’s as good as we’re going to get.”

They struck out in tight formation, Tal and Matai keeping wide, and Slaton taking the point. They trotted low through the scrub with MP7s—everyone’s assault weapon of choice—poised and ready. Tal also carried a short-barrel shotgun on his shoulder in case the need arose for close-quarters work. Slaton veered away from a home that was ablaze with light, and on reaching the first street they shouldered to a wall but kept moving, pausing only occasionally in shadows to look and listen.

The town was quiet but alive. Music flowed from some unseen window, and a few cars could be heard in the heart of town. The scents were there as well, a tang of cooking meat on one brush of wind, the stench of a backed-up sewer on the next. The sensory static of civilization. Five minutes later they saw their objective: the once-grand villa that had been commandeered by Hezbollah and transformed into a militia outpost.

The team had spent hours studying the place, two stories of earthen brick and barrel tile. They’d memorized the shape of the courtyard wall, the location of every door and window, and had a good idea of the interior floor plan. Now everyone saw it all firsthand. The villa’s windows were mostly lit, and at that moment there was no one outside. Everyone’s ears strained for sounds. The occasional distant voice interrupted the night, but in every case the tones were calm and conversational. They all heard a chair get pushed back across a tile floor somewhere inside. There was still no moon, and aside from the splash of a streetlight on the southern edge, the exterior looked dark and impenetrable.

Aaron looked at Slaton, and whispered, “Looks a lot different from our daytime, God’s-eye reconnaissance view.”

“I know,” Slaton replied. “But then it always does, doesn’t it?”

*   *   *

Uday was alone in the small interrogation room. He was sure Sarah and Faisal were nearby, probably in a similar space—one door, no windows, a small table that separated two chairs. He’d been questioned by an officer for nearly an hour, and had no doubt the others were being asked the same questions. Where are you from? How do you know one another? Why are you traveling to Nawa?

Thankfully they’d had the foresight to go over it once, on a long stretch of road after Palmyra. The story of a hired driver and a young couple running away from Damascus to escape a forced marriage. It was plausible, but Uday didn’t delude himself—their one-play act, no matter how well performed, would only buy time. Up to this point, things had been relatively civil. Uday, unfortunately, had been in charge of videography for ISIS—more than almost anyone on earth, he knew the depths to which interrogations could sink. He also knew where they inevitably ended, countless pixelated images of butchery burned into his mind. There was actually some small comfort in knowing the endgame. Very soon, he, Sarah, and Faisal would encounter men who were far less reasonable. Men who were better interrogators than they were liars.

That he had not already been transferred to a more secure facility he took as a minor victory. His greatest fear was that he and Sarah would be separated. For that Uday had no plan, and he knew they would use it against him. He wondered what had come of the phone—he’d seen Sarah conceal it in her gown. The militiamen would have searched her by now, but that was an image Uday didn’t want to dwell on. He tried to remember whether there had been anything incriminating on the handset. He’d used it only to call Baland, but the device had been given to him by a frontline ISIS squad. What might they have installed? Verses from the Quran? Pictures of the caliph? He should have taken the time to sanitize the phone’s memory, just as he’d always done to equipment acquired by his division in Raqqa. How far away that seemed now.

He was regretting yet another mistake, hunched forward with his head in his hands, when the door burst open. Uday saw a Hezbollah officer he’d not seen before, backed by two guards.

“Aziz Uday,” he said.

Uday felt a tightening in his chest, and his hands squeezed his thighs. He’d thought they might identify him, but not so quickly. “I don’t know that name.”

The officer, who was significantly older than the previous interrogator, only scowled. “Take him!”

The two men rushed to Uday and each grabbed an arm. They lifted him to his feet, and although he didn’t try to fight, his legs seemed unresponsive. “Sarah!” he said hoarsely.

There was no reply.

He was dragged down a hallway, his feet trailing behind him, then out into the night across a dirt parking apron. A big SUV was waiting twenty yards away, both doors on the right side open invitingly. He got his feet beneath him and tried to see inside, hoping against hope to find Sarah already there. Then, quite unexpectedly, the man on his left suddenly released his grip.

Uday twisted in that direction as the other man kept going. But only for an instant. All at once the second guard let go as well. Uday stumbled momentarily, then got his balance and stood straight. The second man crumpled to the ground like a bag of wet sand. Unsure what was happening, he looked back at the first guard. He was on the ground as well, silent and motionless, with a small round smudge on his forehead. Something dark was pooling beneath him on the ground. In the same instant that these facts were coalescing in Uday’s muddled brain, the limo began to disintegrate before his eyes. The front windshield burst outward, glass spraying into the sky. A man slumped from the driver’s seat and fell to the dirt. He too remained still.

A breathless Uday saw two dark figures approaching. They were thickly built and moving fast. Their weapons swept rhythmically, side to side, and both wore night-vision gear on their heads. His nontactical brain could hardly keep up, but a vague hope arose.

One of the figures spoke. “Aziz Uday?”

Uday nodded.

“Come with us! We are here to take you to Israel!”

FORTY-EIGHT

Slaton had spoken to Uday in English. This had been one of their easier pre-mission decisions—Bloch had gleaned through research that Uday had attended school in England.

“Let’s go!” Slaton ordered.

Uday seemed hesitant, and didn’t respond right away. This too was expected. Because he was a technician, this was likely his first combat exposure. He was overwhelmed by the rapid-fire sequence of violent sensory inputs. When Slaton grabbed his arm, Uday tried to pull away. The stonemason’s grip wasn’t to be broken.

“No!” Uday pleaded. “We must get Sarah and my brother!”

“We’ll take care of it,” Slaton insisted. His tone was hushed. Other than one shattered windshield, no alarm had been raised, their sound-suppressed weapons working as advertised. He began pulling Uday across the dirt lot. Aaron backed away with them, his head sweeping left and right in search of threats.

“You have the personnel data?” Slaton asked.

“No, that’s what I’m trying to tell you! It’s on a memory stick—Sarah has it!”

Slaton didn’t stop moving, but forced Uday’s eyes to his own. “Which room is she in?”

“I don’t know. We were separated. But they’ve discovered who I am—they were going to take me elsewhere.”

Slaton keyed his mic. “The girl has the data,” he transmitted. “Find her fast. The third man too if you see him—it’s Uday’s brother!”

Tal and Matai acknowledged, and Slaton watched two hulking figures dash with guns raised through the doorway Uday had just exited. Slaton planted Uday behind a solid courtyard wall, and in the same moment he heard the muted mechanical clanks of suppressed MP7 fire, staggered in controlled semiautomatic groupings.

“Stay with him!” Slaton ordered Aaron, and didn’t wait for a response before sprinting toward the entrance. Then on the radio, “One’s coming in support, same door!”

He burst through the entrance with his weapon ready. Down a long hall he saw two bodies down, both enemy. The end of stealth was imminent. Tal emerged from a doorway pulling a woman by the elbow. He directed her eyes toward Slaton, who was nearest the exit, and gave the woman a slap on the ass that would have made a horse bolt. Slaton held out his hand like he was asking her to dance, and she sprinted toward him. Slaton had just touched her hand when he saw flashes of motion at the top of the hall.

He trained his MP7 there and saw two hostiles with rifles, but Tal was in his line of fire. At that same moment Matai burst from another room with a man in tow. There was shouting and flailing, a flurry of moving bodies. Slaton had no shot, so he used his body to shield the woman and shoved her outside. The instant they cleared the doorway Slaton heard an exchange of fire—unsuppressed rounds now mixed with the clank of the MP7s.

With the woman clear of the hallway, Slaton pivoted against the doorjamb. He trained his weapon down the hall, ready to give supporting fire. He saw Tal already moving. Another Hezbollah man was on the ground, motionless. Also on the floor was the man Matai had been trying to rescue. Matai was on one knee, and Slaton heard his report on the comm link. “This is Three. The brother took two rounds, one in the head. He’s done.”

“All right, egress!” Slaton ordered, leaving regrets for later.

Tal and Matai ran toward him, keeping to one side to leave Slaton a clear line of fire. Their tactical awareness proved invaluable seconds later when two more green-clad figures appeared at the end of the hall, both brandishing weapons. Slaton dropped the one in front with two quick shots, then the second with a single tap.

The instant Tal and Matai hit the doorway, voices rose from the connecting hallway, frantic shouting in Arabic. Slaton extracted a flash-bang grenade and tossed it toward the intersection. He didn’t wait to see the results, but heard it go off as he sprinted away. Tal and Matai were already ahead with the girl.

They all ran across the courtyard to the wall where Aaron was protecting Uday. Slaton was the last to arrive, but before anyone could speak, the sound of an engine rattled the night. A big truck somewhere nearby.

“We must get Faisal!” Uday shouted.

“He’s dead,” Slaton said. It was a cruel but necessary reply—not because it was the truth, but for the shock it would induce on Uday. A stunned captive was always easier to handle.

Slaton heard Aaron coordinating with Bloch on the comm link. They were discussing the best egress route. He turned to Sarah. “You have the memory stick?”

She stared at him, and he wondered if she spoke English.

“Do you have—”

“No!” she said suddenly.

Slaton felt a clench in his gut. “Did they take it from you?”

“No—I knew they would. So I hid it.”

“Hid it? Where?”

Sarah told him in heavily accented English.

Slaton keyed his mic. “One here! Everybody hold on—we’ve got a problem!”

*   *   *

The hurried meeting convened two minutes later between the chassis of two rusted-out cars in a scrapyard. Tal and Matai watched the perimeter while Slaton and Aaron hunkered low with Uday and Sarah.

“It was the place where they stopped us,” she said.

Slaton pulled out a map and a flashlight, doing his best to not let the light spill from their hide. They all heard shouting in the distance, but according to Aaron, who spoke fluent Arabic, their adversaries seemed stalled in confusion.

Sarah dragged her finger along a road on the map. “Here—this road.” Her finger stopped. “This first square—they stopped our truck there. When we got out, a man pushed me, and I fell down easily. There was a wall. I hid the stick under a loose stone.”

Slaton looked at Aaron. “The location checks—we first picked up the phone’s signal in that square.”

Aaron looked out into the night. “Two hundred meters from here, back through town.”

Slaton took only seconds to make his call. “I’ll go. Sarah will have to come to show me the exact spot. You three take Uday to the ATVs, then circle west.” Slaton tapped a spot on the map outside town near a minor wadi. “We’ll meet back up there.”

Aaron stared at Slaton, but didn’t argue. The logic was clear. They would try to get the memory stick, but if Slaton and Sarah failed, the others would at least bring out Uday. A partial victory, but a victory all the same.

“Do you want to take Tal?” Aaron asked.

“No, just the two of us. Less conspicuous that way.”

Everyone heard more shouting in the distance, and the big diesel they’d heard earlier began moving. The response was organizing.

“Not much time,” Aaron said. “In twenty minutes this place will be crawling. We’ll try to create some distractions and draw them in a different direction.”

Slaton looked at Sarah. “Can you do this for us?”

She locked eyes with Uday for a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”

Slaton eyed her briefly, and saw one problem. “You’d better hide that.” He pointed to the front of her abaya. Somewhere in all the running and pushing, a necklace with a Christian cross had worked its way free at her neckline. Sarah tucked it back in, but not before kissing it once. Slaton hoped she’d added a prayer with the kiss.

“All right, then,” he said. “Let’s go!”

FORTY-NINE

Slaton led Sarah down a narrow street. He knew where the square was, having studied the town’s layout in preparation, and was sure he could find it without referencing the map. Bursts of gunfire sounded behind them, north of town, punctuated by the occasional explosion. The sporadic nature of the exchanges suggested that Aaron and the others were so far having success keeping the Hezbollah fighters, and any government troops who’d joined them, tactically off balance.

Sarah was doing well, moving quickly but not in a way that would draw attention. A learned skill, he supposed, for a Christian girl growing up in the Islamic State. Rounding a corner, he saw a pair of men in the distance; both were armed and running north. Slaton kept Sarah, who was dressed conveniently as a local, between him and the two soldiers. One of them might have glanced their way, but soon both disappeared behind a building.

The square came into view, and Slaton guided Sarah into a shadowed corner. “Is this the place?” he asked.

“Yes. There, at the far end—the low wall.”

Slaton looked and saw the wall at the far end of a wide open square. He also saw a new problem—ten or twelve civilians milling about precisely where she’d pointed. He saw two rifles, but it wasn’t a military unit in any sense of the word.

“Who are they?” she asked.

“Probably locals. They heard the gunfire and they’re wondering what’s going on.”

Slaton lifted his weapon and sighted it on the group.

“You can’t just shoot them!” Sarah protested.

“I’m only looking.” Slaton stepped his reticle through the crowd one by one. He saw two AKs, and an old man carrying what looked like a scimitar. Great, he thought, we successfully engage Hezbollah, only to get beat down by a freaking neighborhood watch.

He said, “Could you find it quickly?”

“Yes, I think I know the exact place.”

“So if I fire a few rounds in that direction, get them to scatter for a minute or two … could you retrieve it?”

“But you might hit someone by accident.”

Slaton took his eye away from the scope, and said in a level tone, “I don’t hit things by accident.”

“You can’t know that—there are children out there.”

Slaton tried not to roll his eyes. “Look, I really am a pretty good shot. Now get ready to—”

“No, there is a better way!”

Before Slaton could respond, Sarah turned and dashed into the square.

He backed into the shadows, cursed, and trained his gun on one of the men who was holding an AK. His finger poised on the trigger.

Halfway to the crowd, Sarah began shouting as she ran. Whatever she said, it was in Arabic, a rudimentary language for Slaton. He caught a few words, but missed the meaning. Soon every set of eyes in the crowd was on her. Slaton watched a mother grab a young teen and haul him off by the wrist. A young woman was next, and soon it became a stampede. Twenty seconds later the square was completely empty. He watched Sarah kneel near the base of the wall, and used his scope to scan for threats as she ran back toward him.

She skidded to a stop in front of him no more than a minute after she’d gone. Sarah held out her open hand, and in it was a white memory stick.

“Okay,” he said, “that was good.” Slaton took the stick and pocketed it. When Sarah turned to go, he said, “What did you say to them?”

She smiled. “Only the truth. I shouted that the Israelis were invading.”

*   *   *

The rendezvous west of town almost went well. Using his NVGs, Slaton spotted Aaron and the others in the shallow wadi. Uday had apparently been given a short course in driving an ATV, because the fourth vehicle, the one Slaton had been driving, was parked with the others in a stand of brush fifty yards away. They gathered in the wadi’s natural recess, and Slaton told everyone they’d recovered the data. Aaron briefed the egress plan. It all took no more than thirty seconds—but that was thirty seconds too long.

The first burst sent everyone to their bellies in the natural trench, and soon heavy fire was raining in all around. Slaton pushed Sarah’s head low. The incoming barrage was coming from their left flank. Aaron ventured a look with his goggles, and had no trouble identifying the source.

“There’s a Hilux stopped on the road,” he said, referring to the Toyota truck that was a favorite of militias and warlords across the world. “Looks like it’s mounted with a fifty-cal.”

“Range?” Slaton asked.

“Twelve hundred, maybe a little less.”

Rounds pinged off nearby rocks. “The gunner’s not bad.”

“Unfortunately.”

Both men looked at the ATVs. It would take thirty seconds to reach them over open ground, twice that to mount up and get clear.

“Do you think he’s seen them?” Slaton asked.

Before Aaron could answer, one of the ATVs rocked under a hit, the seat bursting in a cloud of fabric and foam.

“Yeah, maybe so,” said Aaron. “I’m not sure where this guy came from. We pulled the bulk of the force north of town.”

“I expect they’re all headed our way now.” Slaton peered up over the ledge and spotted the technical. “The driver was smart to park so far away. At a thousand-plus meters our MPs are worthless. All they have to do is keep us pinned down and wait for help.”

“We brought one long gun,” Aaron said.

Slaton looked at Matai’s ATV where an HTR 2000 Barak was mounted. He exchanged a look with Aaron, who said, “You’re the shooter.”

“Right.”

Slaton began moving. He crawled the first ten yards, but the ATVs were on relatively high ground. He jumped up and made a dash for the weapon. There was a brief lull as the gunner adjusted his aim; then rounds began pounding the desert all around. Tiny explosions of dirt and stone filled the air, and stands of brush got shredded. Slaton lunged for the rifle, pulled it free, then sprinted back and literally dove into the wadi. Back in cover, he instantly began moving perpendicularly, away from the others. The best shooting platform he could find was a flat stone shelf at the edge of a rise. The telescopic sight was made for night work, and he had no trouble acquiring the gunman on the Toyota’s high bed. The man was partially masked by an armor plate, but his head was clearly visible. That was all Slaton needed.

The earth was still exploding to his right, but Slaton tuned it out. He felt the familiar calm settle. His breathing slowed, his muscles relaxed. In the green glow of the scope he registered smoke coming from hot-barreled .50-cal. Slaton used it to estimate windage. Old equations came into play, bullet drop and crosswind corrections. Tried-and-tested rules he’d used countless times before.

In places like Gaza.

On targets like Ali Samir.

He began the slow pressure on the trigger, not squeezing for an instantaneous shot, but giving the rifle a say in the matter, a steady window in which it could do its work. The gun kicked, and Slaton quickly reestablished his target in the scope. He found the Hilux, then the .50-cal. There was no longer anyone behind it. A hit, most likely, but he really didn’t care. The incoming fire had stopped, and no one else was taking up the gun mount. For the next two minutes that was all that mattered.

He pulled away from the sight, and with his naked eye he saw two trucks coming up the road behind the Hilux. They roared right past the Toyota, never hesitating.

“Go, go, go!” Slaton shouted.

Aaron was already prodding their charges toward the ATVs, while Tal and Matai covered the rear. Small-arms fire began crackling in the distance. Suddenly a grenade exploded fifty yards away, on an angle toward town. Slaton reckoned it had been delivered by either Tal or Matai—not a strike against the enemy, who were well out of range, but an effort to confuse them and avert their eyes. A little fog of war.

The trucks were getting closer, and all at once they stopped and men began pouring out of each. Whether they were Hezbollah militants or government troops was immaterial. Within seconds they all began shooting from a range of two hundred yards.

Slaton and the others had covered barely half the distance to the ATVs when the fusillade began. At first there were only stray rounds, hunting and ranging, but soon the barrage began to thicken and gain focus. Something slapped Slaton hard on the back, and he realized there was no one around him—he’d taken a round in his vest. He regained his balance and ran directly behind Sarah, hoping to shield her. A scream from behind caused him to stop and look back. He saw Tal rolling on the ground. Slaton reversed and helped him to his feet. Tal was bloodied and grimacing, but his legs started churning again. By the time they reached the ATVs, Slaton was dragging Tal along, a strong hand under his armpit. The first RPG hit, erupting a shower of dirt.

Aaron had already done a damage assessment on their vehicles. “One bike took a hit! The others look operable!”

The very contingency they’d considered ahead of time.

Everyone mounted up, Aaron and Matai each with one of their subjects, and the injured Tal quite literally riding shotgun next to Slaton. In a loose line they rocketed out into open desert, drawing a fresh hail of gunfire. Soon the barrage began to lessen as magazines ran empty. Two minutes later they were out of range.

Aaron throttled up and took a straight-line course back to Israel.

Speed was life.

FIFTY

Gabrielle Baland was sleepy, and trying to stay awake through her favorite television novella, when she heard an insistent knock on her door. She blinked and ran a hand across her thinning pewter hair. She wasn’t expecting anyone, certainly not at this hour, but all the same she rose to answer it.

She looked at her door and was surprised by how far away it seemed. What would once have been a few effortless steps had become something of a project. Gabrielle crossed the flowered carpet as quickly as her seventy-six years allowed, shuffling past walls full of framed memories, and using counters and chairs as handholds. She lived in a pensioner’s flat, one bedroom and a kitchen centered on a small main room, a few fusty pieces of furniture that would certainly outlast her.

On reaching the threshold, she propped herself straight using a cane from the hat rack—her arthritis medication had run out, and her knees were acting up. That thought in her head, she opened the door hoping to see the delivery boy from the pharmacy. Instead, Gabrielle encountered an unfamiliar woman of about forty. She was dark-haired and tall, and smiled in a most engaging manner.

“Madame Baland?” the woman queried in flawless and pleasing French.

“That’s right.”

“My name is Jeanne Arnette. I was a friend of your son’s many years ago.”

“My son?”

“Why yes, Zavier.”

The woman seemed attentive when Gabrielle said, “Oh, yes … my Zavier. Have you heard from him?” she asked hopefully.

Jeanne Arnette gave her a curious look. “Actually, no—I was hoping to locate him through you.”

Gabrielle shrugged, and her mouth went to an upturned U. “I’m sorry, but I can’t really tell you much. He’s become a very important man in Paris, or so they tell me. I haven’t seen him in years.”

The woman standing outside her door seemed to deflate a bit, and said, “I’m sorry, madame. I myself have not seen him since we were children, but a mutual friend mentioned that you lived here and … well, I thought it might be fun to catch up with Zavier. I hope there was not a falling-out between you?”

Gabrielle sighed. “I suppose you could call it that.” She heard voices on her television chattering in the background. It occurred to her that her show had become very boring. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

The woman smiled. “Why yes, that would be very nice, thank you.”

*   *   *

Baland sat alone in his office. He was staring at the far wall, where a map of the Middle East hung crookedly—it had been dislodged earlier that day when he’d taken down a photograph of his daughters. There was a better map in Michelis’s office, so he’d left the old one where it was. Oddly, it struck him that the blue and brown cartography seemed more true now that it was off-kilter.

It was well within Baland’s mandate to request a satellite feed from Syria. If he was lucky, and the orbital gods were with him, he might be able to watch the mission in Nawa play out in real time. The problem was that he couldn’t make such a request without an explanation. The truth, of course, was out of the question—that he had dispatched an Israeli assassin to collect an ISIS defector who knew far too much about the incoming director of DGSI.

So Baland sat in his office and waited. Waited while somewhere in a cold and faraway desert events took place that would shape his future. How has it come to this? he wondered. His fifteen-year career, once seemingly destined for the stars, was wobbling on the precipice of failure. No, he thought, not failure. If his secrets were divulged, it would be nothing short of treason. A lifetime in prison. How does a man explain something like that to his daughters?

The girls were increasingly in his thoughts, as was Jacqueline. Their marriage hadn’t been perfect, but who could claim that? He’d had a good run: challenging job, steady pay, good family life. All put at risk the day Malika had come into his life. As if that weren’t enough, she’d brought Slaton to Paris, who in turn had introduced Mossad into the equation. And there it was, he thought. Everything come full circle—Israel. The country responsible for murdering his parents so many years ago was again his tormentor. Malika and Uday, even the kidon—Baland could deal with all of them. But how could he conceal his catalogue of deceits when an entire country was involved?

He pushed away from his desk and padded over to the map. He stared at the small brown strip of land between the Mediterranean and the Dead Sea, birthplace of so many of the great religions. Hanging tilted on his wall, it looked terribly insignificant. And perhaps it was.

He circled his desk, trying to re-form his scattershot thoughts. It was like trying to put back together an exploded grenade. With a trace of discomfort, that imagery stayed with Baland a bit longer than it should have.

*   *   *

The team paused for a detailed accounting of injuries at the first stop, which came immediately after they crossed the Bravo line into the U.N. buffer zone. Tal had taken a round in his right arm. He was in moderate pain, but the bleeding was under control. Slaton and Aaron had suffered damage to their vests but, tomorrow’s bruises aside, had come through unscathed. Uday and Sarah had escaped with no more than scrapes and contusions, and for him one minor shrapnel puncture in his hip. Uday also complained of sore ribs, which he attributed to taking a rifle butt to the stomach earlier in the day. Matai was miraculously untouched.

The moon had risen in the east, looking down with equal benevolence on the land of the Jews, the land of the Shi’a, and, somewhere far to the north, what remained of the Islamic caliphate. The team got back under way at a more sensible pace, and when they arrived at the safe house Bloch was there to greet them. At his side were an emergency-room physician and his assistant, both of whom immediately went to work on Tal.

“Mossad keeps a medical team on staff now?” Slaton asked as he dismounted, watching them lead Tal away to the safe house.

“They’re contractors,” Bloch said. “One of Nurin’s more practical initiatives.”

“That’s one point of view,” Slaton said flatly. He shrugged off his vest, lifted his shirt, and inspected the damage in the ATV’s side mirror. He saw a large red welt on his back. A roll of his right shoulder guaranteed pain tomorrow. He made a more deliberate inspection, and was happy to find no other injuries. He’d seen it before—operators so deep in the grip of adrenaline they didn’t recognize serious wounds until they collapsed in the debrief.

On the way back to the safe house Slaton encountered Aaron and Matai, and the usual salt-edged post-firefight banter ensued. Aaron good-naturedly accused the legendary sniper of doing nothing more than laying down cover fire, while Matai mumbled something about boots and quicksand. Slaton took it all in the spirit in which it was intended, and gave back in good measure.

He caught back up with Bloch, and found him talking to Uday in the main room. Sarah was standing to the side looking shell-shocked. Slaton walked over to her with all the calmness he could muster. Their relationship to this point had involved a good deal of shouting and pushing—nothing short of abuse under any other circumstances.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, adding a less than convincing smile. “Thank you for helping us.”

He returned her smile. “You did well. It was quick thinking to hide the data stick, and you were clever in getting it back.”

She shrugged. “I’ve been living under the Daesh for over a year now. One learns how to get by.”

Slaton nodded. “I’m sorry about Faisal.”

Her brow furrowed back to despair, and the resulting lines seemed more etched than they should have been in such a youthful face. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “I know what would have happened to us all if you hadn’t come.”

“Did you leave family behind in Raqqa?”

“No, my father and brother…” The lines grew ever deeper. “I have only my mother now. I pray she is in Jordan. As you know, we are Christians,” she added, as if that explained something. Tragically, it did.

“Well … you’re safe now.”

Uday and Bloch came closer.

“You have the memory device?” Bloch asked.

Slaton retrieved it from his pocket and held it out in an open palm. Everyone stared.

Contained within the little plastic stick was an invaluable roster of terrorists. Information that would soon be leveraged by Western intelligence agencies to decimate ISIS and its networks. There was likely no more valuable ounce of plastic and circuitry in all the world.

Slaton held it out as if it were a stick of dynamite.

Bloch took it in hand very much the same way.

FIFTY-ONE

With the strike orders from Raqqa disseminated, pockets of activity took place across France.

A cell of three students in Toulon, who’d been given a suicide vest months ago along with two semiautomatic weapons, arranged to meet by simple text message. In the corner of a charming café they sipped their last espresso before Paradise and discussed how best to attack the headquarters of a popular Jewish newspaper. A pair of unemployed cousins from Paris’ eighteenth arrondissement cloistered themselves in their grandmother’s basement, where they retrieved and loaded two hidden handguns for an attack on a kosher grocery store. The best technicians of the bunch, a crew of four North Africans who’d been schooled by an expert on how to cook explosives and build a truck bomb, coordinated among themselves by coded phrases via e-mail. Having stockpiled material for over a year as they waited their chance, their orders were to destroy the largest synagogue in Lille.

After considerable trial and error, all seven of Chadeh’s groups made final preparations before assaulting their assigned targets. In a mélange of hastily produced suicide videos, magazine loading, and prayer, all set about their duties in earnest, this a consequence of the closing words of their directive from Raqqa: It would please God most if they could expedite their martyrdom.

*   *   *

Slaton didn’t let Uday and Sarah out of his sight. As detainees went they were cooperative, even eager, delighted to give everything they knew about the Islamic State. Director Nurin conceded reluctantly that the pair had to be surrendered to France, but his instructions were clear: Mossad was to make the most of every second the two were in hand.

A pair of senior Mossad interrogators arrived at the safe house and began interviewing Uday and Sarah separately. With considerable foresight, the man talking to Uday supplied an aerial photograph of Raqqa, along with a black Sharpie, and for nearly an hour the former head of the Islamic State Institution for Public Information circled points of interest—meeting places, safe houses, and the mosque where ISIS’ computers were at that moment housed—like a tourist planning a holiday.

Liking how things were going, Mossad took its time feeding and clothing their two guests. That leisurely pace ended when a new message from Nurin arrived: Baland had been advised of the mission’s success, and was impatient to get Uday and Sarah on French soil.

Bloch copied the flash drive before giving it back to Uday, and transport was arranged to Palmachim Air Base. During the drive, Slaton took a call from Nurin, who explained how he wanted things handled. Slaton would accompany their charges back to Paris, and deliver them to Baland with a message. After that, Slaton’s involvement in the affair would be at an end. With more than a few doubts, Slaton acquiesced.

When no more excuses could be manufactured, the same Gulfstream that had brought Slaton from Paris departed on the reciprocal journey. Not surprisingly, they were still in the company of Nurin’s interrogators. Under Slaton’s watchful eye, the gentle inquisition was kept alive on the flight to Paris, until an exhausted Uday fell asleep somewhere over Italy. This was not unexpected, and as Uday got his first rest in days, the pilot was quietly asked by one of the Mossad men to take a brief tour of Spain, adding another two hours to the journey in the hope that their interviews might carry on just a bit longer.

*   *   *

As the Gulfstream chartered by Mossad wheeled above the Pyrenees, Anton Bloch was preparing to go home after an all-night shift—the kind of schedule he had not endured since his own tenure as director. His role in the odyssey terminated at Mossad’s Glilot Junction complex. There he signed off on a mission report, ensuring its authenticity, and also took the time to inquire about Tal—the surgery on his injured arm was complete, with a favorable prognosis for full recovery. Bloch quite literally had one foot out the main office door when someone called his name from behind. He turned to see Talia tracking after him.

“We have a problem, sir!”

Bloch took a deep breath, then let it out in a controlled manner. How many times have I heard those words? He looked around and, noting a few early risers in the lobby, continued outside to the courtyard before asking, “What kind of problem?”

“The katsa from Paris reported in two hours ago—the one who interviewed Gabrielle Baland.”

He frowned. “Two hours ago? And I am only now hearing about it?”

“Based on her report, I wanted to check on a few things.” She explained what Zavier Baland’s mother had said in the interview, then presented Bloch with a printout. “This took some effort, but we dug it out. It’s the passenger manifest from a flight—Air France from Paris to Cairo.”

He took the paper in hand. “And why is this important?”

“Check the date.”

Bloch did so: September 15, 2002. He blinked as he stared at the paper, trying to catch up with what Talia was implying. A most implausible theory began rising in his mind. “This is not definitive in any way,” he said in a low voice.

Talia, seeming unsure if Bloch was saying this to himself or to her, said, “No. But if there is even a remote possibility—”

He held up a hand to cut her off.

“Go home quickly and pack a bag!”

“Let me guess—warm clothes?”

“Yes.”

Within the hour Bloch and Talia were boarding a second chartered jet, the pilots having filed a flight plan to Paris that would be flown in a far more direct manner than the previous sortie. As the jet’s wheels began rolling across the tarmac, Bloch hung up his phone after a lengthy call. There had been no chance to go home and pack his own bag.

On the opposite side of Tel Aviv, Mossad director Raymond Nurin stuffed a tie in his pocket, ignored the bent collar on his shirt, and bypassed the dormant coffeepot in his kitchen as he strode to the front door. The limo waiting outside in the soft predawn had a perfectly good mirror in which he could make himself presentable, and there was a bottomless pot of coffee in his office. He would likely need both before the day was done. Having been awakened and briefed by Bloch on this new development, he reckoned that at some point today he would be faced with a very uncomfortable decision. One that would likely necessitate a meeting with the prime minister himself.

FIFTY-TWO

Slaton looked out the Gulfstream’s window as they approached Le Bourget Airport. It was nearly noon in Paris, and the weather was horrendous. The captain had announced before beginning the descent that a severe storm was rolling in from the North Sea, and that the ride would be turbulent. The airplane bucked and twisted through the sky on their final approach. Even after the wheels touched down, Slaton felt crosswinds buffeting the airframe, and rain reduced visibility out the window to no more than a few hundred feet.

The jet came to a stop on a quiet corner of the airfield, its engines winding down in relief. Once the turbines fell still, the prevailing sound came from a pulsing, wind-driven rain that was peppering the aircraft’s hull. The crew provided umbrellas, but they were useless against the deluge. Slaton sloshed across the tarmac beside Uday and Sarah, and they were met by a four-person entourage—to his trained eye, a competent security contingent. Zavier Baland was not among them. Without so much as a cursory customs inspection, France’s newest three arrivals were ushered into the first of two cars, and without hesitation the driver launched into a street that looked like a river.

Slaton was happy to have crossed the first hurdle—he would not have been surprised if the security team had turned him around and sent him packing, back to the Gulfstream for a return trip to Israel. They were on Baland’s turf now, Uday and Sarah effectively in DGSI’s custody. Yet Slaton was still being included. Better yet, he’d not yet been frisked—he was still carrying the H&K VP9 he’d been issued for last night’s mission. It was an undeniable comfort in the face of one thought he couldn’t shake—that Baland’s life would become much more simple if the limo in which the three of them were riding went not to Levallois-Perret, but to a quiet ditch in the countryside.

Traffic slowed as they reached Boulevard Périphérique. An exhausted Sarah appeared to be sleeping—her eyes were shut and her head lolled against the far window. Never one to squander an opportunity, Slaton said to Uday, “I’m guessing you know who we’re going to see.”

Uday looked at Slaton uncomfortably. “Until recently I could only speculate on Argu’s identity—Malika never told us. But Chadeh recently confessed to me that he believes Argu is Zavier Baland, the man who will soon oversee DGSI.”

Slaton gave no response.

“What will he want from me?” Uday asked as he stared into the gloom.

“The personnel list, of course. And more privately … perhaps a signal that you won’t betray him.”

Uday’s gaze remained outside.

“I’m only giving you fair warning. Baland helped you escape the caliphate, but he’s also done great harm to his country. It might prove a difficult secret to keep.”

“But not impossible,” Uday suggested. “Chadeh suspected Baland, but I doubt many others were aware of it.”

“Maybe you should tell him that. I’m guessing Baland will want to speak with you privately. You should think about it now … how you want to handle your relationship.”

“I only want to live in peace with Sarah.”

“I hope that works out for you,” Slaton said. “But your own history isn’t exactly pristine. You were a senior commander in ISIS.”

Uday sank deeper into his seat. “Do you think Baland and I might reach an accord?”

“No business of mine. But if you’re asking my advice, I’d say you have a lot to bargain with. Not only are you giving him the personnel file, but you undertook a digital slash-and-burn campaign before you left.”

“I must also tell him about the new wave of attacks that are imminent. They are based on information he recently gave the caliphate.”

This was news to Slaton, and he looked at Uday curiously.

“I explained everything to the Mossad man who was questioning me.”

“Okay, that’s good,” Slaton said, deciding that Bloch could fill him in later. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the glossy photo of Raqqa on which Uday had circled the mosque. “You could also give Baland this.”

Uday took the photo in hand. “What will he do with it?”

“Do you really have to ask?”

There was a lengthy pause. The rain became a torrent, the car’s wipers overwhelmed at their highest speed.

Slaton said, “I’ve been wondering about this agent who recruited Baland—Malika. What do you know about her?”

“I was told she was a black widow who traveled to France of her own accord.”

Slaton was familiar with the term “black widow”: the wife of a fighter who’d been martyred to the cause.

Uday went on, “She said she had a way to force information from a high-ranking French official.”

“What was in it for her? Did she ask for money?”

“Not really. There were a few transfers, but mostly for operational expenses.”

“Operational?”

“Malika has become very important in Europe. Her work went far beyond Argu. For example, she organized the recent bombing in Grenoble.”

“She was responsible for Grenoble?”

“Yes. She herself recruited the martyr for that operation.” A sad smile creased his lips. “Malika knows the persuasiveness of God.”

Slaton weighed whether to tell Uday the truth—that Malika was less a disciple of God than a vengeful daughter. He decided that secret wasn’t his to give, and in doing so he felt an unexpected wave of relief. The fates of Baland and Uday were increasingly intertwined, yet Slaton was fast becoming an outsider. The mystery of Ali Samir had been solved, and the terrorist’s daughter, who’d lured him here, was being hunted down. Very soon, he would be on his way back to the South Pacific.

He looked outside, and in the distance saw the modernist edifice of DGSI coming into view—panels of reflective glass in a concrete frame, all blurred by sheets of rain. There were two guards in the front seat, and Slaton saw the one on the passenger side, a thickset dapper man, murmur something into his collar-mounted microphone. He guessed the man was talking to the lead car, which was blazing a path fifty yards ahead.

In that moment Slaton felt an old and trusted caution. Not imminent danger, but an approaching boundary. In two minutes he would be inside one of the most secure facilities in France, effectively in Baland’s hands. At that point, Slaton would lose control.

Sarah seemed to rouse from her slumber. He turned to her and Uday, and silently mouthed to each, It’s okay. Both looked at him curiously as he edged forward in the seat. He unzipped the front of his jacket, and set his feet firmly on the floorboards.

“Turn left at the next street!” Slaton ordered. His command was reinforced by the H&K, which appeared between the two headrests. The barrel was steady on Dapper’s temple. The driver could see it clearly in the mirror.

“Hands where I can see them!”

The dapper guard placed his hands on the dash. The driver, professional that he was, already had both on the wheel. “If either of you talk into your microphones, I will kill you!” His eyes were fixed on Dapper. “Take the next left turn!”

As expected, Slaton saw two sets of darting eyes. The driver complied, and the lead car disappeared the instant they rounded the corner. Slaton realized he would only have seconds to work with. “Faster!” he ordered. “Take the next right!”

The driver again did as asked. As soon as they rounded the second turn, Slaton looked back. There was no sign of the lead car. His eyes held the panorama of what was around them. Relatively busy streets on midday, a combination of businesses and apartment blocks. It would have to do.

“Stop!”

“What are you doing?” Uday asked.

“Don’t worry.”

The car came to a halt.

“Put it in park, turn the engine off!”

The driver did so.

“Keys!” Slaton held out his empty left hand.

The driver finally spoke. “Our orders are to—”

Slaton whipped his left elbow into the driver’s head, the H&K remaining steady on his partner. It was a sturdy blow, but only an attention-getter. The keys dropped into his hand. He saw a mobile phone on the seat next to Dapper.

“Give me the phone!” he said. “Very carefully.”

The man frowned, but complied. Slaton wanted to take their guns, but there wasn’t time to do it safely. The second car had to be closing in.

With his eyes locked on the guards, he reached for the door handle and began backing outside. He said to Uday, “I’m going to shut down this phone. Tell Baland I’ll turn it back on in exactly one hour. He will call me.”

Uday said he understood.

Once outside, Slaton held the H&K more discreetly, tight against his chest in the open fold of his jacket. He locked eyes very briefly with both Uday and Sarah. “Good luck to you both.”

Neither responded, but everyone in the car was watching Slaton as he darted behind a parked delivery truck a few steps away.

As soon as he was out of sight, the two men in front threw open their doors and bustled out to the curb. Their hands went into their jackets, gripping their weapons but not drawing them. They ran to the delivery truck, but in no time were spinning circles on the sidewalk, their eyes scanning helplessly.

A sudden metallic clatter on the limo’s hood drew everyone’s attention, and one of the men drew his gun and trained it instinctively on the source. His weapon came back down just as quickly. Caught on a stilled wiper blade, the plastic fob and metal key hung limply on the rain-splattered windshield.

FIFTY-THREE

Perhaps the scar would be minimal, Malika thought as she studied her wound in the dim light of a naked bulb. Working by the reflection of a broken mirror, she changed the dressing for the third time. Just as she was finishing, the sound of a siren rose outside.

From the tiny slatted vent that served as her window she looked out across the rain-wet streets of Clichy-sous-Bois. She saw nothing unusual, which was to say she saw tenements and smoking street grills and countless young men loitering in packs. Hearing a siren here was like hearing a seagull at the beach. Malika turned away not even waiting for the sound to fade. If Baland had found her, he would never be so overt.

The room was little more than an attic, a no-questions-asked hideaway above a taxi garage in one of the most distressed banlieues of eastern Paris. The garage was owned by a grizzled old Tunisian whose son was in prison—according to the French for trafficking guns, according to the old man for having parents from Africa. The attic was always open to friends of the caliphate, particularly those taking flight from the flics. For more than a year now, Malika had been a frequent flyer.

She retrieved the dog-eared newspaper the old man had slipped under her door, and noted it was today’s issue. There was an article on page 2 about the continuing search for Claude Michelis’ assailant. The police expressed boundless confidence, this in spite of little new evidence. She crumpled the newspaper and fed it into her pot stove—she was running out of fuel, and the damp, drafty room made her yearn for the desert.

She settled on the bed, the mattress folding around her like a taco, and began eating from a tin of cookies. They were sickeningly sweet, but she kept at it. Lately she seemed hungry all the time, and she wondered if she might be getting diabetes. It wasn’t easy, keeping the weight on. Her youthful metabolism fought to rid her of every calorie, but so far she’d managed. The worst had been putting on fifty pounds to begin with, a binge she’d begun in Gaza two years ago.

It had been surprisingly effectual. Who from her old village would recognize her now? The anonymity her new shape permitted her was even more useful than she’d imagined. With her drab dress, poor hygiene, and tangled hair, she was invisible on the streets of Paris, and on the better avenues given a wide berth. Her redoubtably surly nature only amplified her isolation. Men ignored her, women tilted up their noses. All precisely as she wanted.

She wondered how long it would take to reverse the process. Six months? A year? She didn’t like the idea of plastic surgery, but her hooked nose ought to be dealt with, and a bit of dental work seemed inevitable. All the better when the time came to disappear. She had enough money for it—she’d been skimming ISIS operational funds for over a year now. It wasn’t any great amount, but that was also by design—large accounts would only draw attention. She’d set aside enough to live on. Two years, maybe three. Enough to be reborn once her raison d’être was fulfilled.

Her thoughts turned to Slaton. She had necessarily bunkered up for the last day and a half, letting her wound heal while the police spun their wheels. But she couldn’t wait forever. Her plan, years in the making, was tantalizingly close to success. There was an excellent chance that he was still in Paris. If so, it was time to finish the job.

And Malika knew exactly where to start.

*   *   *

Baland was caught off balance by Slaton’s disappearance, but tried not to lose his advantage. He spent a full thirty minutes with Uday and his girlfriend, asking the most pertinent questions, before ushering them out of the office—it was nearly time to make a phone call to an assassin.

He had used the more spacious director’s suite for the meeting, even if wasn’t officially his, for the gravitas it conveyed. Once he was alone, Baland strolled to the wet bar in the corner. He picked up a decanter of amber liquid and held it to the light, then removed the top and drew in the aroma. The scent brought recognition: a nice double-malt Scotch Michelis had been particularly fond of.

He wondered what had spooked Slaton. A number of answers came to mind, but none were more than speculation. He supposed such men had overdeveloped cautionary instincts. Baland considered putting in an order to triangulate the call he was about to make, but decided against it. He remained in a delicate position, and wanted no chance of the conversation being recorded.

Standing pensively at the bar, he used his private phone to place the call at the prescribed time. Slaton answered right away.

“I’m not tracing your phone,” Baland said straightaway.

“It’s not my phone. And I didn’t think you would.”

Baland pulled a tumbler from the shelf, and from a full ice bucket he began distractedly transferring ice cubes one by one. The clinking sound must have carried over the phone, because Slaton said, “I thought you were a good Muslim.”

Baland poured a brace. “Voilà! You now know the full catalogue of my secrets.”

“Why don’t I believe that?”

Baland tipped back the glass once. The Scotch really was good. “Uday and I had a long conversation.”

“Good. Have you reached an accord?”

“We are in general agreement. His past aside, he has done France a great service. The caliphate is reeling, and will soon be more so. He tells us that new attacks have been ordered on French soil, but with his help we may be able to forestall the worst of it. We are treating his arrival as a straightforward defection, the details of which will remain clouded. Uday and I have agreed it is in our mutual best interest to keep my relationship with the caliphate quiet.”

“I hope you can keep it that way—but that’s between the two of you.”

“Is it?” Baland asked. “You know as much about me as anyone.”

“I have no interest in you or your past dealings.”

“And Mossad?”

“What about them?”

Baland thumped his glass down firmly, a rattle of wet ice. “I am not a fool! Mossad had sole custody of Uday for fifteen hours. Don’t tell me he wasn’t interrogated!”

“He was.”

“So you see my dilemma. Director Nurin will someday try to leverage my misfortune for the good of Israel.”

“Probably. In his shoes, wouldn’t you do the same thing?”

Baland didn’t reply.

“Look, it’s very likely that someday you will hear from Mossad. But we’re talking about Israel, not some band of organized criminals masquerading as a religious movement. Israel and France keep largely parallel interests. I’m sure that in your new capacity you’ll someday come across information that might reflect poorly upon Israel. A scheming mind might even expect you to search for it … as insurance, one might say.”

Baland’s eyes narrowed. “You really have cut the cord, kidon.”

“I’ve had strong differences with Mossad in recent years … but Israel will always be my homeland. What I’m saying is that arrangements can be made. Deals can be forged.”

“Can they?”

“Trust me—Director Nurin revels in them.”

“So he will keep my little secret for a price? Why should I believe it?”

“From what I can see, you don’t have much choice.” Slaton paused before adding, “But as a display of goodwill, the director wants me to pass along that Israel will not share the ISIS personnel database for one week. That should give you time to vet the list and act accordingly. In return, Nurin asks that you restrict the dissemination of what you find during that period to France and her former colonies.”

“In other words, he doesn’t want me to tell the Americans.”

“Like I said, Nurin is a deal maker. Israel could benefit greatly from passing this information to certain allies. I’m only the messenger, but it does seem like they deserve something for the risks they’ve taken.”

“And you, David? What of the risks you have taken?”

“Irrelevant. My part here is done.”

“What about Malika? She’s still out there.” Baland let that settle for a few beats. “She brought you here, and has already tried to kill you once. Can you and your family be safe while she remains at large?”

The silence this time was extended, and Baland found himself envisioning the fluid gray eyes he’d seen at Le Quinze.

“What do you know about my family?” Slaton said in a level tone.

Baland knew he’d hit his mark. He poured a second brace and wandered to the wide window that provided the director’s office a reaching view of Levallois-Perret. “You have a wife and a son very far from here. I know because Malika asked for my help in tracking down a certain satellite account in the middle of the Pacific. Only recently did I realize who it involved.”

“So we both have good reason to be rid of Malika. But you have the police forces of an entire nation at your disposal.”

“And you are the kind of man who leaves little to chance. If the two of us pooled our abilities … certainly Malika would never escape. She is the last problem we both face.”

“What do you propose?” Slaton asked.

“First that we find a way to lure her out. Then the two of us can devise a strategy to finalize things.” Slaton said nothing, which Baland took for assent. He continued, “I think Uday might be of use in finding her. He has long served as Malika’s go-between—chances are, he has more information than he realizes. I’ve procured rooms for Uday and Sarah at The Peninsula. They will remain under heavy guard, but I think at this stage in our relationship it would be useful to treat them more as guests than detainees.”

“A few nights in a five-star suite? That sounds like something right out of Director Nurin’s playbook.”

“I will take that as a compliment. This afternoon I must extract everything possible from Uday regarding these new attacks—it is my duty to make that the priority. I will also be in touch with the Defense Ministry regarding a certain mosque in Raqqa. But later, I think, we should convene a more quiet conversation. Let’s meet tonight at seven, in the lobby of The Peninsula. Uday and Sarah will join us. If we can together find a way to deal with Malika, everyone will be better off.”

“All right, I’ll be there. But there’s one thing you should understand very clearly.”

Baland stood staring at the building’s forecourt far below. The blue, white, and red tricolor snapped rigid on its pole. “And what might that be?”

“That glass you’re looking through is not as thick as it ought to be.”

Baland stiffened.

The connection went dead, and his eyes darted between distant buildings. He saw people milling about the streets and in the windows of nearby office complexes. The tree-lined Boulevard du Château was thick with parked cars, as was the distant Hôpital Américain. He stood rooted in place, his basal instincts in seizure as he awaited a tiny projectile to penetrate the glass. Then his policeman’s brain took hold and convinced him otherwise. Baland slowly took the phone from his ear.

“No,” he whispered to himself. “Malika might do it that way. But you won’t because you have no reason.”

*   *   *

Eight hundred yards distant, Slaton backed out of a nook between cement columns in a fourth-floor parking garage. He headed straight for the stairs, pocketing his most recent purchase, a small but powerful set of binoculars. He turned off the phone he’d stolen from Baland’s guard, removed its SIM card and then its battery. On the way to street level he dropped one piece in the trash bins of three successive floors. His Mossad-issued phone remained off as well—he’d been carrying it too long for continuous use.

Slaton hit the sidewalk in full stride and turned west. Choppy gusts and a sheeting rain lashed his dark blue windbreaker, and his hair was soon matted and disheveled. The jacket was a thin item, purchased one year ago for use on Windsom during tropical rain showers—little use against a tempestuous North Sea squall. As he made turn after turn, carefully checking the streets around him, the irony did not escape Slaton: At that moment, the South Seas could not have seemed farther away.

*   *   *

Far outside of the City of Light, and three miles aloft, the chartered jet carrying Bloch and Talia suffered through a holding pattern thirty miles south of Le Bourget Airport. A line of storms was passing over the airfield, and the pilots, in a decision Bloch thought conservative, had decided to wait things out.

“We need to land now!” he complained to the flight attendant.

“I’ve passed along your concerns to the pilots,” the young man said, “but they tell me the weather is too severe at the moment. It is a matter of safety.”

Bloch was about to argue the point when Talia touched his hand and raised a finger, as if to say, Wait a minute. As soon as the flight attendant had gone, she said in a hushed tone, “I know we’re not supposed to do this, but we must be holding at a low altitude … it works.” She waved her phone at him. “We have a signal.”

Without even looking to see where the flight attendant was, Bloch took out his own phone and turned it on. He had three bars of reception. Better yet, the Gulfstream didn’t appear to be falling out of the sky.

“Thank God!” said Bloch. Slaton’s number was already loaded, and he immediately placed the call. It ended in frustration ten seconds later.

“He must have turned his phone off!”

Talia looked crestfallen. “I’m sure he’s only being cautious.”

Bloch didn’t reply, but he knew she was right—for someone in Slaton’s position, it was a perfectly reasonable act. Only hours later would they realize how regrettable such precautions could be.

FIFTY-FOUR

The woman walking her bichon frise under an umbrella took no notice of the man, nor did the small tour group rolling amoeba-like toward the Arc de Triomphe. He meandered up Avenue Kléber at six forty-five that evening with little conviction in his stride and an aimlessness in his path. With his head under the hood of a light jacket, he seemed almost bewildered, taking a number of sudden turns, but always ending up back on Avenue Kléber. Anyone watching would have written him off as a disoriented tourist—this part of town was full of them on the best of days, and the inclement weather had imposed itself on everyone. Perhaps an American expecting a travel-brochure Paris of lights and riverside strolls, but who’d instead been subjected to the vagaries of a freak storm.

It was curious, Slaton had always thought, how something as simple as rain could revise tradecraft. It brought coats and hats into play, and countless upturned umbrellas. People who hadn’t exercised in years darted across sidewalks and leapt over puddles. Electronics—things like earbuds and radios and cameras—could be shorted out by the moisture, and their performance was invariably degraded by reduced visibility and increased background noise. Conversely, electronics were easier to hide under raincoats and hoods. Taken together, it was an all-new gallery of advantages and disadvantages waiting to be employed on either side of the game—offense or defense.

Right now, Slaton was strictly defending.

For nearly an hour, in an ever-shrinking pattern, he had walked the surrounding area taking in sights and sounds and smells. Noisy transportation hubs and silent bank guards. Fresh-baked cake in patisseries and garbage in the bins behind them. Every sensation seemed to heighten as he neared his objective—the hotel named The Peninsula.

Slaton still couldn’t say what had alerted his instincts in the car. Something Baland had said? Or Uday? The continued elusiveness of Malika? There was no clear answer, only an edge of caution he hadn’t sensed in a very long time. An edge of caution he invariably trusted.

He’d so far seen nothing out of place on his approach to the hotel. If anyone was following Slaton, they either were very good, or had a large team in support. He’d kept his phone turned off, but there were still ways one could be tracked—CCTV cameras, for one. His countermeasures were rudimentary at best, and in this new age of comprehensive urban surveillance, walking the streets of Paris was akin to walking across a Hollywood movie set.

He saw The Peninsula in the distance at 6:54. One could hardly miss it. The hotel was as grand a façade as existed in Paris, a mix of classic and contemporary themes in an imperishably opportune location. Within easy walking distance were the Champs-Ėlysées and the Arc de Triomphe, the latter encircled by Place Charles-de-Gaulle, the most famous roundabout in all Europe.

Slaton kept to the opposite side of Avenue Kléber, the leafless trees along the boulevard giving nominal cover. Like the weather, the seasons too had their say in tradecraft. The hotel entrance came into view, and right away Slaton didn’t like what he saw. A black limousine was parked on the street directly in front, and on the sidewalk next to it stood Uday and Sarah. They were talking with a thickly built bald man in a loose-fitting overcoat. The man had security written all over him. Slaton watched closely, and after an extended conversation, Uday and Sarah were ushered into the car.

Because the windows were tinted, and because rain and gloom were cloaking the fast-fading light, he couldn’t tell if anyone else was inside the car. He scanned the sidewalks and hotel entrance, but saw no sign of Baland. He also saw no other guards, which seemed incomprehensible given Uday’s importance. The bald man closed the door, and began looking up and down the street expectantly.

Looking for me, Slaton thought.

He checked his watch. 7:02.

He turned into the recesses of an alcove. It was a quiet space, and what he saw on the inset door told him all he needed to know: the name of a small bank, along with a FERMĖ sign, guaranteed that the alcove was his until nine o’clock the next morning.

7:05.

From the shadows he watched the bald man take out a mobile phone and place a call. Slaton’s suspicion escalated another notch. Baland had proposed a meeting at the hotel, yet Uday and Sarah were about to leave. It all felt wrong. He watched the bald man walk away with the phone still to his ear. He strode under the steel-and-glass awning fronting the hotel, passed between twin stone lions, and disappeared into the lobby.

*   *   *

Slaton began moving again. His first inclination was to go straight to the limo and talk to Uday, but a flash of motion behind the tinted driver’s window convinced him otherwise. There was at least one other man.

He crossed the street three cars behind the limo. Keeping his head down, which was quite natural in the rain, he retraced the bald man’s path into the hotel. Once inside, Slaton scanned the expansive and finely trimmed lobby. He spotted him in a quiet corner, still talking on his phone. Slaton pulled back the hood of his jacket and walked directly toward him. He was larger up close, at least six foot three, and the buttons of his suit strained across his chest with every move. When he saw Slaton coming, the man pocketed his phone and raised a hand as if hailing a cab.

Slaton’s gray eyes were expressionless, and he was the first to speak when they merged. “Where is Baland?” His tone was no more than curious, the inflection inquiring.

“Conseiller Baland has sent a car. Your meeting must take place at headquarters.”

“Headquarters,” Slaton repeated, appearing relieved. “All right, but I’ll need to use the toilet.” Immediately behind them was a hallway, two clearly marked restrooms at the end. When Slaton took his first step in that direction, the bald man seized his arm. Slaton allowed it for an instant, long enough for the grip to go firm. He felt thick fingers clamping his biceps, as he knew they would, and creating a distinct pivot point. He then subtly leaned away, which unsettled the big man’s balance, effectively drawing him from the lobby into the narrow confines of the hallway.

The bald man opened his mouth as if to say something.

At that precise moment, Slaton rotated and slammed an elbow into his clean-shaven temple. It was a targeted blow, but not quite sufficient. The guard tipped against the marble-tiled wall like a felled tree, but he remained upright on wobbling knees. Slaton put a hand over his crown, jerked his head away, then slammed it into the stone. The man instantly went slack and crumpled to the floor.

Slaton first checked to see if anyone had noticed. Confident he was in the clear, he dragged the man deeper into the recesses of the hall. Between twin doors labeled for men and women, he saw what looked like a service closet. Slaton tested the handle and found it unlocked. Inside were bathroom supplies: a broom, a mop … and five seconds later, one thoroughly unconscious Frenchman. Slaton already knew which pocket to search. He retrieved the bald man’s phone, then quietly closed the door. Walking calmly back to the lobby, he thumbed to find the call log and tapped on the most recent.

Baland answered in French.

“What the hell is going on?” Slaton replied.

A pause. “Where is—”

“Tell me what’s going on!”

“I sent a car to bring you to headquarters with Uday and Sarah. We have to discuss—”

“Why isn’t Uday being protected?” Slaton broke in. “He’s a valuable asset, and the men you put on him are not DGSI. They’re amateurs.”

Another pause. The call suddenly ended. Slaton stood staring at the phone. Seconds later a flourish of motion caught his eye. Outside, movement near the car.

The driver had gotten out. He looked agitated and alert as he stood at the street-side door. With two open palms he gave a “stay right there” gesture to Uday and Sarah in the backseat. Slaton expected the man to come running inside to help his partner. Instead, he rounded the rear of the limo and set off down the street on a dead run.

In a terrible rush, Slaton suddenly understood. “No … no!”

He sprinted toward the entrance, but far too late. He’d barely cleared the hotel’s front doors when the bomb went off.

FIFTY-FIVE

Slaton was hurled to the ground by the blast, glass raining down all around him. The sound was deafening, and he lay stunned for a time. He blinked his eyes open and struggled to his knees, trying to get his bearings in a cloud of smoke and dust.

He should have heard screams and car alarms, but for a time there was only the crash of a relentless cymbal, a pounding in his head. He willed himself to his feet, encouraged that he succeeded, and did a quick personal inventory. Shards of glass and debris carpeted the marble around him, but he could find only a few minor scratches. One sleeve on his jacket was torn, but he saw no blood beneath.

The smell hit him next, a chemical, sulfuric tang, along with the first hints of burning flesh. He turned his attention outward and saw vortices of dust curling through the air, obscuring the world beyond and muting the surviving streetlights. The rain was still coming, already cleansing, and as the smoke and dust dissipated, Slaton noticed what was directly in front of him: a full-scale carving of a sitting lion, its stone head on the ground at his feet. By pure chance, the sculpture had absorbed the blast in his direction, a tiny cone of protection in the sphere of destructive energy.

Far less fortunate were Uday and Sarah.

Only moments ago he’d seen them in the limo. The car was barely recognizable, a twisted heap of metal. A massive crater marked ground zero, and bits of burning debris were strewn across the boulevard. Slaton saw bodies on the distant sidewalk, some writhing, others ominously still. Dozens of passing cars had been stilled in the street. He saw a policeman giving aid to a survivor as he talked on his mobile. Sirens were rising in the distance. The emergency response here, so close to the signature landmarks of Paris, would be quick and overwhelming.

Slaton walked unsteadily toward the street, his legs barely compliant. He stepped over leg-thick tree branches that were smoldering like spent matchsticks. Two blocks away he realized the guard’s phone was still in his hand. He crossed the street easily—traffic had seized, no movement in either direction—and sent the phone spinning into the back of an open-bed truck that was filled with construction refuse.

Slaton turned up the opposite sidewalk. One by one his senses came back online, and he gradually picked up his pace. The sirens behind him seemed to fuse into a single wail. As if Paris itself was crying for help.

*   *   *

The first of Chadeh’s attacks occurred, by sheer chance, only minutes after the bombing at The Peninsula. Two young men walked into a kosher grocery store in Reuilly, removed handguns from beneath their long raincoats, and began firing indiscriminately. A clerk and a manager were the first killed, and six customers perished in the aisles. A quick-thinking stock clerk, a young girl of Moroccan extraction who was in fact a Muslim, ushered the three remaining customers out the back door. Seeing the place empty, the terrorists inadvisably emptied their magazines, taking out windows and a wine display before venturing outside. Whatever luck they enjoyed to that point ended abruptly when they encountered the wrong off-duty policeman, an officer from a special weapons and tactics team who was a champion marksman, and who happened to be carrying his service weapon. Four bullets, all in one direction, ended the affair.

Before news of the crime even reached a police dispatcher, the second attack commenced in Toulon. Three young men rushed a newspaper office, only to be stymied by a heavy lock on the front door. Two carried semiautomatic weapons, and the third wore a suicide vest under his bulky jacket. A frantic debate ensued about whether the bomb might breach the steel door, and as the three shouted among themselves, fate intervened once again. This time it was in favor of ISIS.

A small bus carrying a group of Jewish students from a nearby college, there to take a tour of the newspaper’s offices, parked directly outside the entrance. The driver of the bus saw what was happening, but all too late, and one of the terrorists shot him in the head. The bomber ran onto the bus, and with a scream of “Allahu akbar!” he pressed the switch that snuffed out thirteen young lives. The only mercy for France was that his collaborators were among them.

*   *   *

Baland held a news conference within the hour in the media room of DGSI headquarters. He confirmed that seven people were dead in the bombing at The Peninsula, including both occupants of the car carrying the explosives. Twelve bystanders had been injured. He assured frazzled Parisians, as verified by new first-responder protocol, that no radioactive material had been involved. He also addressed attacks in Reuilly and Toulon, before pivoting to his most delicate briefing point.

In an announcement that had been preapproved by his superior, the minister of the interior, he warned that reliable intelligence suggested further attacks might be imminent. In a confident tone, Baland promised his countrymen that security agencies across northern Europe were working tirelessly to interdict any planned strikes, and that no one in his section would rest until every plot had been stopped.

In the final segment of his briefing, Baland acknowledged that the Islamic State was almost certainly responsible for the day’s mayhem. He also let slip that the woman being sought for the murder of Director Claude Michelis, whose ties to ISIS had been proved, was being studied as a suspect in the bombing at The Peninsula. This last comment took much of France’s leadership by surprise, not the least of whom was a flummoxed minister of the interior, and would generate considerable debate that evening in official halls around Paris. In that moment, however, fixed steadfastly under the strobes of so many cameras, the director-select was certainty itself, and few doubted him in light of his past prescience on matters of terrorism.

Baland preempted any questions by leaving the podium abruptly, but he did lob one afterthought within range of the microphone bouquet.

“Expect no changes to the ceremony the day after tomorrow. I will take command of this department from the Place des Invalides at nine o’clock Saturday morning. The cowards can do nothing to stop that.” His jaw resolute and his stride determined, Zavier Baland left the media room with the air of a man on a mission.

*   *   *

Slaton approached his room carefully.

With heightened senses, he looked up and down the hall, seeking the slightest deviation. He pulled the H&K before moving inside, and cleared the small room in seconds. His bed had been made and clean towels were racked in the bathroom. The only addition he noted was a mint on his pillow. With nothing obviously amiss, he went to his suitcase. He’d left it on the dresser, the two halves shelled open to put all his possessions on display—a veritable invitation.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and turned it on. It vibrated to announce a message, but he ignored that momentarily to call up a photo of the suitcase he’d taken earlier. In the image he compared three specific markers to what was before him now: a bent collar on one shirt, the orientation of his toothbrush, and a half-buried sock that lined up perfectly with the top left side of the case. Had anyone gone through his things, no matter how carefully, they could never have reconfigured all three in precisely the same manner. The suitcase looked exactly like the picture.

Slaton set his gun on the dresser.

Has caution got the better of me? he wondered. The answer was fast in coming. Certainly not. The acting director of DGSI had just tried to lure him into an explosive-laden car. Then there was Malika, who’d brought him to Paris with but one aim. Caution was paramount.

His ears had stopped ringing from the blast, and his only injury of note was a minor laceration on the back of one hand. He went to the bathroom mirror. His hair was wet and disheveled, and his shirt had a tattered sleeve and blood on one cuff. Slaton began unbuttoning his shirt, and he was reaching for the shower handle when he remembered the message. He pulled it up and saw that it was from Bloch: CALL IMMEDIATELY.

The connection went right through, and when Bloch answered, Slaton said, “I’m okay.”

A pause, then, “Why wouldn’t you be?”

“You haven’t heard about the bombing?”

“Bombing? I’ve been traveling—what’s happened?”

Slaton gave Bloch the bad news.

“Dear God … Uday and Sarah, you’re sure they were in the car?”

“Positive. I was supposed to be with them, but when it became clear that wasn’t going to happen, someone settled for two out of three.”

“Baland.”

Slaton was momentarily put off. “Yes … but I would have expected you to say Malika.”

“Something has come up on our end—I’ll explain later. How do you know it was Baland?”

“He arranged the meeting, and I was talking to him right before the blast. He hung up on me when he realized I wasn’t going to get in the car. Seconds later, the driver ran away and the bomb went off. It was a complete setup.”

“Apparently so. But a man in his position will have no trouble blaming others.” Bloch almost said something else, but his voice seemed to cut out. Slaton thought he heard Talia whispering in the background. Bloch said, “Apparently there is more. A second attack has occurred in Paris, and another in Toulon.”

Slaton blew out a long, steady breath. “Okay, so where do we go from here?”

“Israel’s Paris embassy. As I said, we have new information. It is imperative that we talk in a secure place.”

Slaton pulled the phone slightly away from his ear. “You’re here? In Paris?”

“I told you, I’ve been traveling. Talia is with me. What I have to tell you will reinforce what Baland has just done. Thirty minutes?”

Slaton hesitated as he tried to make sense of things. It was hopeless. “All right. Thirty minutes.”

“And be very careful, David. You are now a marked man.”

Slaton ended the call with Bloch’s final words pounding in his head.

He was still in front of the mirror. The smell of the blast clung to his clothing, a tainted blend of smoke and death. He turned on the tap and leaned into the basin, scrubbing his hands and pulling water onto his face. After toweling down and changing into fresh clothes, he wedged the H&K back into his rear waistband, covered by the loose tail of his shirt. The steel frame felt hard on the small of his back—cold, bulky, and undeniably reassuring. He surveyed the room: a suitcase full of clothing, a few toiletries in the bathroom, an empty roller bag in the closet. The Arctic Warfare Covert remained hidden in the frame of the folding bed, along with the Glock.

Bloch was right. One moment of madness at The Peninsula had changed everything. That hail of glass and steel served as a private declaration of war. Baland had tried to kill him. Slaton didn’t understand why, but he would find out soon. He considered whether Baland would order the police of France to hunt him down, as he’d already done with Malika. Given the day’s chaos, it would be simple to drum up a justification for his arrest.

Still, Slaton saw problems with an all-out manhunt. Unlike Malika, who was tied to ISIS, Slaton had Israel in his corner. Reluctant as they might be, Bloch and Nurin would not stand in silence if he were declared an enemy of France. He reasoned that Baland would try to kill him—but he would do so under the radar. All while trying to stamp down a new string of ISIS attacks.

He began to view things more positively: in the coming days DGSI would be monumentally distracted, battling ISIS on its home ground. That gave Slaton a narrow window in which to operate.

He looked all around and made decisions.

Does Baland know about this room? Probably not. But he would uncover it soon enough. Slaton gave it a day, no more than two.

Should I take everything or leave it in place? He looked around, saw nothing that couldn’t be replaced, and decided to leave it all where it was. When Slaton locked the door behind him seconds later, he had no way of knowing how vital that decision would be.

FIFTY-SIX

Baland met the recently elected president of France for the second time at 11:34 that evening. The leader of the republic looked weary as he wandered the room shaking hands and gathering the latest information. France was under siege, and while there had been an executive briefing an hour ago, the president evidently felt a need to visit the command center—a show of support for the troops, if thirty technicians and senior officers could be referred to as such.

When he reached Baland, the balding and thickly built president said in his famous baritone, “I have great confidence in you and your department, Zavier.”

“Thank you, sir. We will not rest until France is secure.”

Baland felt a supportive hand on his shoulder, and could not deny a brief jolt of exhilaration. How far I have come, he thought. The hand pulled away, and after a few words to the woman next in line, the president excused himself, Baland was sure, to retire to his private suite in the adjacent wing of the Élysée Palace.

The room regained its momentum, everyone going back to keyboards and phone calls. A third attack had only recently been interdicted: A suspicious young man seen loitering outside a Jewish community center in Montparnasse had been confronted by a pair of policemen. He’d tried to run, but was quickly caught, and within the hour an unarmed suitcase bomb was uncovered in a nearby apartment, along with two other suspects. All in all, a noteworthy victory for good police work.

Baland was increasingly struck by the dichotomy of his position. His mission for the last fifteen years had been to stop this very kind of thing, and he’d taken to it wholeheartedly. He’d earned the trust of coworkers and had a family to protect. But now? Now he had personally given the enemy a target list that was playing out before his eyes. If this had to happen, he thought, at least it is happening to the Jews. They will never be my countrymen.

But how many more attacks would there be? He began doodling on a scratchpad the names of possible targets from the report he’d given Malika. He came up with almost thirty that had not yet been struck, but certainly there were more. He’d already seen a preliminary download of the personnel list brought out by Uday, and those numbers were staggering: over three hundred individuals and small cells across France, and half again as many in nearby Belgium. He supposed there was some mathematical model to calculate the permutations. The more critical estimate, however, was far more simple. How long until it is all brought back to me?

He’d been lucky so far. The exclusivity of Jewish targets had not been an absolute, thanks to the bombing at The Peninsula that he himself had coordinated. Baland had intended that most of his problems would be resolved in one cataclysmic moment. The men he’d hired for the job were no more than thugs, and he’d expected they would perish in the blast. Both had unfortunately survived, and one was already in custody—unconscious, but expected to recover. One more loose end in his fast-fraying existence. All thanks to one man.

Slaton …

Baland’s errant thoughts were interrupted when an Air Force colonel stepped to the front of the room. He began a briefing on a mission under way from a forward air base in Turkey, and Baland listened with great interest. He was suppressing an urge to ask the colonel for targeting details when Charlotte LeFevre, who would soon head up his technology division, rushed into the room and made a beeline for him.

“Sir, I have news on another case.”

“Not now,” said Baland, as he decided to engage the colonel privately after the briefing. “What we are doing here takes absolute priority.”

“But this is very unusual,” LeFevre said.

Baland felt her insistence as she stood by his shoulder. “Does it relate to this woman who tried to kill me? Or one of the recent attacks?”

“Actually, both.”

He finally gave LeFevre his undivided attention.

She handed over a report titled “Lab Analysis,” along with a case number. “What is this?” he asked, waving the paper at her.

“The lab report on the woman who killed Director Michelis. We recovered DNA material from the apartment she was using as a safe house.”

Baland looked at the bottom of the page. “This says there was no match to any of our databases.”

“Which was true when the report was drafted.”

He looked at the date. “That was only yesterday.”

LeFevre produced a second lab analysis. “This is a report on the remains of the bomber from Grenoble. It also had no match in our database.”

Baland’s impatience got the better of him, and he barked, “Tell me what you’re trying to say!”

“These two samples have an unusually high degree of commonality. We think it very likely they are brother and sister.”

FIFTY-SEVEN

The Israeli embassy was situated on Rue Rabelais, for Slaton conveniently located in the nearby eighth arrondissement. By no coincidence, it was but three streets removed from the Élysée Palace, where, at that moment, the leadership of France was reacting to a terrorist assault of unprecedented scope.

Slaton arrived in a taxi, and was dropped at the embassy’s front entrance in the middle of a downpour. He had no trouble being admitted to the building—Neumann, the lead katsa he’d met outside Malika’s flat two night ago, was waiting to collect him.

She greeted him cheerfully, and said, “I hope whatever we’re doing tonight will turn out better than our last adventure.”

“If that’s an apology, it’s not necessary. We all underestimated her.”

She escorted Slaton around a stanchion, and they bypassed the security station under the watchful eyes of three screeners. Slaton had not been here in years, and he saw that major renovations had taken place. The most obvious improvements related to security: Upholstered office dividers had been replaced by a maze of ill-disguised steel barriers, blocking access to the consulate’s more sensitive areas, and the new windows fronting the street looked thick and multilayered. There were also more cameras than in a Vegas casino, and no effort was made to hide them.

He followed Neumann through winding corridors, finally ending in a wing whose splendid trimmings suggested something beyond analysts’ offices and visa queues. Portraits of former ambassadors lined the hallway above gilded Louis Quinze furnishings, and in a central rotunda was a fine oil rendering of the Old City of Jerusalem. Neumann turned in to a well-equipped conference room, undoubtedly the ambassador’s domain on better days. Bloch and Talia were waiting on one side of a long table. Bloch looked weary—retirement had clearly insulated him from grueling workdays. Talia, on the other hand, appeared ready for a dinner date. Their eyes settled on him, and for a fleeting moment Slaton wondered how he must appear. Probably like I’ve just come from a bombing, he thought.

Neumann closed the door, but she remained in the room and took a seat, meaning she’d been cleared in on Bloch’s “new information.” As was the tendency in operational settings, the greetings were perfunctory, and Bloch set the course.

“Regrettably, the French police have confirmed your assessment, David—Uday and Sarah are dead.”

“Have they questioned the guard or the driver who ran off?”

“The driver has disappeared, and the man discovered in the service closet hasn’t regained consciousness. Apparently you were a bit too enthusiastic in your efforts—not for the first time, I might add.”

Slaton didn’t apologize. “Will he survive?”

“The doctors think there is a good chance.”

“Has either man been identified?”

“No, but the French are certain the one in the hospital is not DGSI.”

“They were amateurs,” Slaton said.

“Very possibly, but for the moment it is a dead end. We have more important concerns. In our interviews with Uday, we learned that Baland provided a secret DGSI report to ISIS documenting France’s susceptibilities to terrorism.”

“Baland mentioned it to me.”

“I suspect he did not tell you the entire story. Baland apparently provided only a small part of the greater report. What he gave up was telling—it exclusively involved Jewish interests in France.”

“What?”

“In the last few hours it’s already begun to happen. Attacks in Toulon, Montparnasse, and Reuilly, and only moments ago a Jewish museum in Montmartre. ISIS is wasting no time. I would imagine they see Baland’s information as perishable, given Uday’s defection, meaning they will strike as many of these targets as possible in the coming days.”

Slaton sat in silence. Baland had indeed held back on him.

“That is not the most troubling news,” Bloch continued. He looked to Neumann, who picked up.

“I recently paid a visit to Gabrielle Baland,” she said.

Slaton’s eyes narrowed as he tried to associate the name. He drew a blank. “Is that Baland’s wife?”

“His mother—it was relatively easy to track her down. She’s a widow in her late seventies, lives in Lyon. I went to see Madame Baland, explaining that I was a friend of Zavier’s from school days who wanted to catch up with him. She said she hasn’t seen her son in years.”

“Was there a falling-out?”

“Very much so. She knew he was living in Paris, and that he held an important position. But they are completely estranged. No birthday cards, holiday visits, or phone calls—no contact of any kind.”

All at once Slaton thought he saw where this was going. “You said she hasn’t seen him in years. Let me guess … fifteen?”

Neumann nodded.

Talia said, “We recorded their conversation. You should hear it firsthand.”

She addressed a laptop on the table, and soon muted voices captured by a hidden microphone began playing. Talia turned the screen so they could all see it, providing an English translation of the conversation.

Neumann: “I am sorry to hear that you and Zavier had a split. How long ago was it?”

Mme Baland: “Twelve years? No, fifteen I think. It seems like a lifetime.”

Neumann: “I don’t wish to pry, but was there some event that precipitated your estrangement?”

Mme Baland: “There was never difficulty between Zavier and I. But the troubles began right after he returned from Egypt.”

Neumann: “Egypt? Was he there on holiday?”

Mme Baland: “I never knew. He left very suddenly, and when he returned … I sensed a change in him. I saw Zavier only twice before he left Lyon, and even then we barely spoke. I asked him what had happened, but he wouldn’t tell me. He was simply a different man.”

Neumann: “A different man. You say that with conviction, as if—”

Mme Baland: “Would you care for more tea, dear?”

Talia stopped the recording.

Neumann said, “From that point she no longer wanted to talk about her son. I didn’t feel like I could press any harder.”

“There is more,” Bloch added. “Talia was able to extract a record of his travel. On September 15, 2002, Zavier Baland traveled from Paris to Cairo on Air France. He returned five days later.”

Talia said, “It matches perfectly. When he returned, Baland became estranged from the one person in France who knew him well.”

Neumann added, “I learned little more from the interview that night, but as I was leaving his mother turned very cautious. I think she knows what happened. In those critical days so many years ago, her son left her forever and was replaced by … something else.”

The room went silent, and Slaton saw three sets of eyes on him. Each was convinced.

“We went back and searched where we could,” said Bloch. “Baland moved to Paris one week after returning from Cairo. We tracked down his first landlord, and ascertained that he changed his address with a number of government agencies. One month later he applied for a position with the national police force, and was hired soon after.”

Slaton stared at Bloch, trying to wrap his mind around it. “You’re telling me the man I shot in Gaza fifteen years ago was the real Zavier Baland?”

“It would appear so,” said Bloch. “You might recall, the mission you undertook to kill Samir was weeks in the making. There must have been a leak—we’ve had our share. When Samir realized we were coming after him, he somehow convinced Baland to travel to Gaza, by way of Egypt, and traded places with him on the morning when you were waiting. Effectively, your marksmanship helped him escape Gaza and take up a new life.”

A profound silence descended on the room.

Talia broke it with, “And if all of this is true … it means the terrorist Ali Samir recently sent information to ISIS regarding Jewish targets in France. Information that is being acted on as we speak.”

“And in just over twenty-four hours,” Bloch added, “he will become the new director of DGSI.”

FIFTY-EIGHT

Baland walked back into DGSI headquarters, having taken leave from the ongoing hunt at Élysée Palace. He made a few inquiries downstairs, ensuring that everyone knew he would be in his old office—even if his thoughts had slipped from the search, he could not ignore it completely.

He sank heavily behind his desk, and made no attempt to check his messages. In the guise of Zavier Baland, Ali Samir sat alone reflecting deeply on what LeFevre had just told him. They are brother and sister.

No words had ever affected him so profoundly.

Jalil, he reflected. My only son.

He had never known the boy—never even seen him, in fact. His wife had been pregnant when he’d escaped Gaza, and she’d given birth two weeks after attending the funeral he had so artfully arranged.

No, he corrected, I have seen him once.

That mental image stormed into his head. The CCTV video of the bombing in Grenoble. He remembered watching Jalil walk back to the car. Remembered seeing his sister press the button to activate his suicide vest. It seemed a singularly callous act … but had he not done much the same to his own twin brother? Perhaps. Malika, however, had been explicitly cruel. Not only had she killed Jalil, but in her final actions she had demonstrated a complete lack of faith in him.

She probably had her reasons. Jalil had been raised by his mother, no doubt made into a lamb. But Malika—she was something else. She is every bit as ruthless as I am, Baland thought, more with disbelief than pride. He’d had no hand in her upbringing, at least not in any proper way. He had been too busy constructing bombs to be a father, a talent he’d resurrected today at The Peninsula.

Yet still she is like me.

The door to his office suddenly opened, and Baland stirred back to the present. He recognized a man named Trevant, who was in charge of building security.

“Pardon, Monsieur Director,” Trevant said, prematurely using the title. “I thought you were at the Élysée command center. I have come to update the security keypads. If you wish me to come back later—”

“No, not at all,” Baland said, waving him in. There were two secure fixtures in the room, a small wall safe and one drawer in the heavy desk. Both had locks necessitating a fingerprint scan and a four-digit code to gain access.

Trevant said, “I have already reprogrammed the units in the director’s suite with your fingerprint, and I cleared the old code. You may create a new one whenever you wish.”

“Yes, I remember how to do it.” Baland watched the man connect a small electronic device to the wall safe. “You are working late tonight, Trevant.”

“Not at all, sir. I work two of these shifts every week.”

Baland should have known that … the keepers of DGSI security worked in the dead of night. How much more have I missed? He felt a darkness come over him, something he’d not felt in a very long time. He looked at the computer screen beside him and saw e-mails piling up in his in-box. Some would have seemed important a month ago. He pushed away from his desk and watched the man work.

“Tell me, do you have children, Trevant?”

A hesitation. “Of course, sir. Two boys.”

“Are they good?”

Trevant laughed uneasily. “As good as any, I suppose. One of them wants to be a policeman, but the other … he finds a bit of trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

Trevant paused in his task. He smiled awkwardly at the man who was so many steps above him. “He stays out too late, I think, and has difficulty holding a job. But Luc will straighten out—he has never been arrested or anything like that. I look after him, and someday, God willing, he will look after me.”

After an uncomfortable silence, Trevant went back to his lock. A series of beeps punctuated the stillness, and he said, “Voilà! You have two days in which to move any secure items to your new office.”

“Yes … thank you.”

Trevant was gone minutes later, and Baland reached down and opened the secure drawer in his desk. It was full from front to back with files. Only one interested him—directly at the head, the all-important binder. He extracted the same section he had earlier, and paired it with Uday’s addition. With well-manicured fingertips he neatly squared it all on the blotter in front of him. Forty printed pages, and on top of that the well-traveled memory stick. The same information Chadeh had held for a brief time in Raqqa.

“Is this what it has come to?” he whispered.

He’d had a good run in France and nearly succeeded. Nearly carved out a respectable life. But now, with all that was happening around him, it was folly to think his secret would not be exposed. Since the day Malika had first cornered him on the Pont Neuf, he’d known this day would come. Baland had postponed the reckoning to the best of his ability, but with each passing day his options seemed to narrow. He was like a juggler who’d gone beyond his comfort level. Too many knives in the air. He might silence Slaton, but how many others in Mossad knew the truth? So, too, a handful of zealots in Raqqa. And of course there was Malika. He could never contain a secret so widely dispersed.

He felt an old fury rise from deep within. Malika, his fratricidal daughter, had been instrumental in his ruin. But she was not its source. That went undeniably further back. To a childhood spent in dusty streets cleaning up after violence, and so many years thereafter making others do the same. It all rushed back in a torrent of hate. Just when he’d thought they were out of his life forever, the old oppressors had returned to seize him by the throat. The directorship. Jacqueline and the girls. A mostly honest career. All would soon be lost to the tormentors of so many generations of his people.

The Jews.

I never really escaped, he thought. We have only come full circle.

The man who’d tried not to be Ali Samir for so very long regarded the information in front of him. If nothing else, the last fifteen years had granted him opportunity—a chance to hurt them in Europe more than anyone since Hitler. He flicked through the pages and saw endless opportunity. Chadeh’s first wave of attacks had to be nearing its end, and with Uday having ruined ISIS’ comm networks, no others would be ordered soon. Baland, however, was in a perfect position to pick up where Chadeh left off.

His longtime constraint—his sense of duty to France—had effectively been displaced. It occurred to him that he would first have to claim the directorship, but that would happen just over a day from now. After that, he could order attacks against Jews with one hand, and mismanage the French response with the other. For a week, maybe two, he would have free rein in running both sides of the campaign. Baland thought back across history and wondered if there was any precedent. A war in which one man commanded both armies.

He inserted the memory stick into the computer at the side of his desk. The old hatred burned brighter as the screen flickered to life. The execution of his plan might have to wait another day, but the planning could begin immediately.

The only question was where to begin.

FIFTY-NINE

“The only question is where does this end?” said Bloch from his chair in the embassy conference room. “In just over twenty-four hours a ceremony will be held in which Ali Samir takes charge of DGSI.”

Slaton said, “That can’t be allowed to happen.”

“Certainly not.”

Talia said, “What I don’t understand is the motivation. Baland, or Samir, or whatever we call him—what is he after?”

“A point worth considering,” said Bloch.

“You know what’s really mind-bending?” Slaton offered. “I don’t think Malika realizes who he is. She believes she’s been running an op on her uncle, when all this time—”

“My God!” Talia blurted. “It’s actually her father.”

Bloch said, “It explains why she has been so ruthless. To her, Baland is a traitor to the cause her father died for.”

“That makes sense,” Slaton agreed. “But it brings up something else. Aside from being blackmailed by Malika, Samir has been playing by the rules since putting his brother under my gun sight. For fifteen years he’s been a model policeman. Could he really have waited this patiently for a chance to strike against Israel? And in such an indirect way? In Gaza, Samir never attacked France or Western interests. He was at war with Israel, plain and simple.”

“What are you suggesting?” Bloch queried. “That he has become a responsible citizen?”

“The way he sacrificed his brother—I don’t think it started out that way. But by everything we know, he’s been on the level since he came to France. He’s got a wife and two daughters. Give any man an opportunity for a positive, productive life, even one who starts out as a reprehensible terrorist … he just might take it.”

Silence prevailed, until Talia said, “If we give this information to the French, what will they do?”

“Actually,” Bloch said, “I have already discussed that option with Director Nurin. Our evidence is compelling, but it is not overwhelming. Baland will fight it. He’ll say the idea of an alternate identity is as absurd as it sounds. Remember, he is not without influence. He has already eliminated two of his most damning witnesses, and as we speak there is no evidence to link him to the deaths of Uday and Sarah. If he can eliminate Malika before she is interrogated, and perhaps the two men he involved in the bombing—he might survive with his reputation intact.”

“And he’ll know it was Israel who threw him under the bus.”

“Director Nurin used a more crass phrase, but his conclusion was the same.” Bloch steepled his hands on the conference table before locking his gaze on Slaton. “The government of Israel has taken a narrow view of this situation. Our duty above all else is to protect Jewish interests. If Ali Samir is reborn as the head of French counterterrorism, the damage he could inflict, both here and in Israel … it is incalculable.”

“But would he go back to his old ways?” Slaton asked.

“That is the unanswerable question. We are talking about a man who only hours ago received a long list of willing jihadists. Men and women awaiting the call to duty.”

Bloch leveled his most severe gaze. “Nurin has made his decision. Ali Samir must be stopped, and we cannot be certain the French will take timely action.”

Slaton looked at Bloch, then Talia. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Bloch said, “I realize you are no longer employed by Mossad, David … but yes. The new director of DGSI must be targeted. The potential for damage outweighs any risks.”

“Not counting the risks taken by me.”

Bloch frowned. “You should know that a second kidon is en route, in case you decline.”

Slaton stared at his old boss. He stood and crossed the room to a nicely stocked wet bar. Pulling a water bottle from a bucket of ice, he twisted off the cap and tipped it back once. “When am I to kill him? Thirty hours from now? The ceremony when he takes command?”

“I shouldn’t tell you your business, but it seems the obvious opportunity. You already have the right weapon.”

Slaton felt strangely at ease. He was beholden to neither Israel nor France. He considered the reprehensible things Ali Samir had done during his time in Gaza. He considered the straight road the man had driven since. Then he remembered The Peninsula, and Uday and Sarah. He avoided dwelling on the discomforting intersections between Samir’s life course and his own. Finally, he thought about Christine, and what advice she would give him. Unequivocally, he knew what that would be.

“No,” he said. “I won’t do it. I’m sure your other kidon is as good a shot as I am.”

“I doubt that very much … but I’ll inform the director of your decision.”

Slaton had never before turned a mission down, and while he felt no obligation to Mossad, his duty to Israel did leave room for regrets. The divergence he’d faced for so long was rearing up again. Duty to his family versus duty to his homeland.

Bloch said something to Talia, but Slaton was so engrossed in his inward thoughts it didn’t register. She began working her laptop as Bloch said, “There is one other thing you should know before you leave.”

He beckoned Slaton behind Talia so they could all view her screen. Slaton saw a black-and-white video of a woman peering through a small rectangular window. He couldn’t see her face, but he instantly recognized her by nothing more than body profile and the way she moved—he had followed Malika for some time after the shooting at Le Quinze.

“Where was this footage taken?”

“Not was,” said Bloch. “This is a real-time feed.”

“You know where she is? Right now?”

“Yes. We’ve known for the last—” Bloch checked his watch. “—six hours. It was only recently, however, that we realized who she was.”

Bloch got up and walked to the room’s only window. There he drew back an unusually thick slat—Slaton suspected the window covering itself was some manner of electronic baffle against eavesdropping, augmenting the bulletproof glass. He followed and looked over Bloch’s shoulder.

“Across the street,” said Bloch, “the building on the left. You can see a series of five narrow windows, no more than vents really, along the second floor. The center window is directly across the street from our main entrance.” He let the slat fall.

Slaton gave him a questioning look.

Bloch explained, “The violence France is experiencing is not without precedent. We have long understood that our Paris embassy is a target. We keep excellent surveillance inside the building, of course, but one of our brighter technicians reviewed the security plan and suggested monitoring the surrounding area. A small team was brought in for a visit, people very much like you—tactically oriented, one might say. We asked them where they would set up shop if they wanted to surveil, or perhaps even target our facility. The window I just showed you was everyone’s first choice. Until three months ago, the entire second floor of that building was a warehouse for a small technology company. When the company was bought out, the space fell vacant, and we took the liberty of installing a few cameras. There are others in adjacent buildings, and one or two on nearby rooftops.”

“That bright technician is going places,” Slaton said.

“I told her the same thing.”

Slaton looked at Talia, who appeared uncomfortable. “It was only common sense,” she said.

Slaton pulled the slat back a second time, and studied the lay of the surrounding area. Fragmented thoughts rushed through his mind, one by one falling into an intriguing pattern, like ten pieces from ten different puzzles joining miraculously. He challenged what was brewing in his head from every conceivable angle, and he did see flaws. Every plan had them. But the risks were far outweighed by opportunity.

Bloch said, “We’ve been watching her very closely. So far there is no sign she’s carrying a weapon.”

“She has one … something small,” Slaton said almost to himself. He kept looking outside, transfixed not by the scene, but by an idea.

“If you like,” said Bloch, “we can arrange a departure for you through the back entrance. You can fade away unseen very easily. On the other hand, I assume you are carrying the handgun we provided. If you would like a silencer in order to—”

“I’ve changed my mind,” said Slaton. “I’ll take out Baland at the ceremony.”

Talia and Bloch looked at one another, then at Slaton.

He dropped the slat, and said, “But I do it my way.”

Bloch knew better than to argue. “What can we do to help?”

Slaton actually grinned as he looked at Bloch. “To begin … I’d like you to come out on the sidewalk with me and have a cigarette.”

The former director of Mossad was rarely surprised, but clearly Slaton had got the better of him. “Neither of us smoke,” Bloch said.

“True. But Malika doesn’t know that.”

SIXTY

To drop a thousand-pound bomb from miles in the air is an undeniable act of brute force. To employ such a weapon with maximum effectiveness, however, requires a certain degree of artistry, particularly when four of them are to arrive at the same point in a span of two seconds.

The artisans that night were two French Air Force pilots who’d been tasked to fly their Dassault Rafale fighters from an air base in Turkey, where they had been forward-deployed, into the arid skies above Syria. The tasking order had arrived unexpectedly—the most important ones always did—and appeared sourced from the highest levels. A high-value target had been identified in Raqqa. It was an unusual mission from the outset—the target was a well-known mosque, which would normally have been off-limits. That being the case, the pilots undertook their preflight planning with the greatest of care.

The first variable, they realized, was that the walls of a house of worship would not be fortified like those of a military facility. Surveillance footage confirmed that there was but one level to the mosque, no basements or upper floors to complicate their equations. The blast was to be optimized to destroy equipment, electronics apparently, although any personnel inside were considered fair game. There was the usual concern for civilian casualties in surrounding buildings, but no specific limitations had been placed on the strike. This told the pilots two things: Whatever lay inside was important, and someone was very certain of their intelligence. Taken altogether, the pilots agreed that a payload of four one-thousand-pounders was just the thing.

The mission began smoothly, and the Rafales were eight miles distant when the target came into view on their weapons displays. Gliding through the black void of night four miles aloft, the pilots set a shallow dive with their jets arranged in an offset wedge formation, roughly half a mile apart. They hit their “pickle” buttons almost simultaneously, and for eighteen seconds the four bombs guided and glided toward their target. They ran as two sets of two, the lead bomb in each pair 650 milliseconds ahead of its partner. All that was straightforward, like four batted balls heading for the same fence in a ballpark, notwithstanding that their inertial and GPS guidance packages would cause them to converge on one particular seat.

Greater nuance lay in the fusing. The leading bombs—they had been dropped in pairs to protect against a lone failure—were fitted with delay contact fuses. Fifty milliseconds after penetrating the outer wall, which would place them well within the void of the main building, the bombs would unleash their fury. The trailing projectiles operated on an entirely different principle. They would guide initially to a point slightly beyond the first pair, and assuming they survived the shrapnel and debris sent up by their predecessors, which was highly likely, radar altimeters would begin a brief countdown. Ten meters above the ground, and centered on the original blasts, firing signals would be cued and airbursts initiated. Quite literally, explosions on top of explosions.

That was exactly how it all happened. The former mosque in Raqqa, and present home of the Islamic State Institution for Public Information, was obliterated in less time than it took to tie a shoe.

The most unforeseen consequence—fortuitous or not, depending on one’s perspective—began ninety seconds before the first bomb arrived, when a man walked out of the targeted building. The caliph of the Islamic State was two streets removed from ground zero when the blasts struck home, and he was knocked flat on his ass by the concussive wave. As a stunned but uninjured caliph was picked up by his security detail, everyone had a good idea what had just happened. No one mentioned the irony of what stood between them and the mosque: Shielding them from the explosions was the neighborhood’s oldest and most stalwart building, an Armenian Catholic church.

Less fortunate were those inside the mosque, including the entirety of the governing Shura Council. They had gathered at the mosque for a briefing on their faltering computer networks, and chief among them was ISIS’ beleaguered military commander. Unlike the caliph, Wael Chadeh never knew what hit him.

SIXTY-ONE

The hard rain had gone to drizzle, but the wind refused to yield. Slaton and Bloch stood hunched on the sidewalk in front of the embassy, illuminated in the wash of a subdued streetlight. Their collars were turned up and the wind was at their backs. A pack of Marlboros had been donated by a security screener, a matronly woman who was happy to rescue the visiting contingent from an unnamed sister agency in Tel Aviv who professed a dire need for nicotine.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve done fieldwork,” Bloch groused, putting the cigarette between his meaty lips.

“It comes back fast,” said Slaton.

“Remind me why I am standing in the rain at one thirty in the morning.” Bloch took a long draw, and immediately stifled a cough.

“Because I need a decent night’s sleep.”

Bloch stared at him a few beats, and in the interval a cab rushed past and splashed mud onto his black Oxfords. “You know, I’ve made my living getting into people’s heads. I’m good at sensing motivations, predicting what men and women will do in given situations—so good that they made me director of Mossad. I must tell you, David, over the years … you have vexed me more than any of our enemies.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Chances are, it’s why I’m still around.” He paused before expanding on why they were outside. “I want Malika to know I’m still here. I want her to stay awake all night watching this front door. While she does, I’ll be inside getting some much-needed sleep.”

“And in the morning you will be sharp and she will be fatigued? Do you really need such an advantage to eliminate her? We have a live video feed on this woman—constant eyes on an unsuspecting target. I know it is your rule to seize every advantage, but this seems extreme even by your standards.”

Slaton looked at Bloch, and could not contain a grin. “I appreciate your confidence in my talents for the dark arts. But there’s more to it than that—I’ll explain later. For now, I have two requests. I’m going to need a fresh phone. And tomorrow I want some help. You said Nurin had sent another kidon, in case I balked at the job.”

“Yes.”

“Is he here in Paris?”

Bloch smiled this time, enjoying a small victory. “She is in the neighborhood.”

Slaton smiled back. He’d helped train two female shooters in his time with the service. They’d been among the steadiest he’d worked with. “Perfect. I may need her assistance.”

The former director dropped his cigarette on the ground before reaching its end, and snuffed it out with a toe. “Approved. But whatever game you are playing, David, remember … Israel is to be kept at a distance.”

“You can tell Director Nurin the feeling is mutual.”

A gust of wind whipped up the urban valley, and Bloch looked skyward. “Is there anything else?” he asked, irritation back on display.

“No, you should go inside now. Nobody stands out in the rain after their smoke is done. I’ll catch up with you in a minute.”

Bloch disappeared through the front entrance.

Slaton kept his free hand in his pocket, a perfectly natural stance on a cold and rainy night. The true reason was more purposeful. Talia was monitoring the room across the street on the live feed. While they’d still seen no evidence of a weapon, if Malika suddenly produced one and raised it to the window, Slaton had to know immediately. Warning would arrive as a vibration to the phone in his hand.

He never looked directly at the window in question, but he knew exactly where it was. Indeed, it was the focal point of geometry running through his head. Angles and distances to every curb, trash can, and parked car, and one wintering urban sapling, particular attention given to what would still be here in the morning.

He looked up and down the street, a few last mental snapshots captured, then took his final draw. Slaton had never been a smoker, but like many things he was not genuinely interested in, it kept a place in his repertoire. He knew how to operate bar-code scanners in stores, how to run a jackhammer, how to bus a restaurant table. He could drive a front-end loader, and knew that hotel vans typically departed lobbies at the top of every hour with drivers who didn’t give a damn whether you were a guest when you tipped in advance. Smoking was core curriculum, and he could carry it off like a pack-a-day regular.

He looked up at a mist that swirled down through the streetlight’s aura and brushed against his face. The moisture felt good, almost cleansing. He tried once more to imagine why his plan wouldn’t work. Like Bloch, he too was a student of human habits and motivations, although Slaton’s view was more narrow than most—he took things only as far as necessary to put a specific vital organ under a gun sight for the necessary few seconds. Physical vulnerability—that was his customary endgame.

Tomorrow, however, was going to be altogether different.

*   *   *

Fifty yards away, at the window across the street, Malika watched the man in the dark jacket intently. Even through the darkness and rain, she could tell it was the kidon—this was the third time she had seen him.

At the moment he was in an extremely vulnerable position. She hadn’t expected that. He appeared relaxed, pacing casually back and forth across the same few yards of concrete. When his cigarette reached its end, he didn’t light a second. Probably because of the rain.

Within seconds of flicking away the stub, he turned back inside, and Malika watched him disappear into the glowing warmth of the embassy lobby. She checked her watch and noted the time. Then she settled back, took a deep breath, and got as comfortable as she could on the cold concrete floor.

SIXTY-TWO

Six hours later Slaton walked out of the embassy into an indifferent morning. The wind and rain were fading, trying to hold on, as the sun hid behind the clouds. He carried a small attaché borrowed from the former chargé d’affaires, a man whose current status at the embassy was indeterminate, which told Slaton he was certainly Mossad. The attaché was quite empty, but it advanced the image he was after—a man on the move who had business at hand.

Slaton had gone no more than ten paces on the puddled sidewalk when he put his new Mossad-issued phone to his ear as if answering a call. He stopped abruptly, the way people did for calls of such importance that walking at the same time was inadvisable. He meandered back and forth on the same square of cement for a full two minutes, then pocketed the phone and resumed his westerly trek.

He kept a casual pace, and acted out a simple countersurveillance routine along the way. He arrived at his hotel some thirty minutes later, damp and disheveled and self-assured. At the front desk Monsieur Aranson of Sweden engaged the concierge in a brief back-and-forth about the weather, and she asked if he was enjoying his stay. He assured her that he very much was, thank you, and bid her a pleasant good morning before rambling across the lobby and disappearing into the rising stairwell.

As soon as he was out of sight, Slaton broke into a vertical run, taking the steps three at a time. Inside his third-floor room seconds later, he quickly retrieved the Arctic Warfare Covert from its hiding place, and also the Glock 17. He set the Glock on a table and removed a small screwdriver from his pocket—another acquisition from the embassy. With a deftness that would have impressed any surgeon, Slaton broke down the gun, removed the firing pin, and had the Glock reassembled in less than a minute. The screwdriver and pin went into his pocket. He palmed a full magazine into the weapon, then racked the slide to charge a round into the chamber.

The handgun he placed in the attaché, and that went unlocked onto a midlevel closet shelf. He went to the room’s large main window, outside of which was an exterior fire escape, and unlatched the window lock, then nudged the frame ajar a fraction of an inch. He carried the roller bag with the sniper rifle to the door, then paused to study the room. Struck by one imperfection, he went back and repositioned one of the two upholstered sitting chairs, pushing it against the wall by the window at a forty-five-degree angle. Returning to the door, he again looked over the room and was satisfied.

Slaton shouldered into the hall with the roller bag in hand. He locked the door behind him and made his way to the stairwell. Before reaching the lobby, he diverted into a rough-edged hall and walked a weaving passage through the service corridor—he had learned on the day he arrived that it led to a back door. Luck was with him, and he encountered no hotel staff along the way.

He exited into the alley behind the hotel. It was open on either end of the block, but instead of turning Slaton held a straight line to the service entrance of the opposing building. Having observed the place for days, he knew that back door was unlocked during business hours, and that it accessed a hallway where the establishment’s toilets were located. Seconds later he emerged into the hub of a busy café. Patrons gathered around bistro tables, taking espressos and croissants. The line at the counter was three deep. No one gave a second glance to the casual, athletic man carrying a suitcase who left unhurriedly through the front door, hailed a taxi, and disappeared into the rush on Boulevard Saint-Denis.

*   *   *

After spending most of the night crafting attacks against Jewish interests across Europe, an exhausted Baland reported for work the following morning to learn the status of the ongoing battles.

At the Élysée command center the mood had brightened. Only one new attack had been reported overnight, giving hope that the worst was behind them. Also to the positive, the mosque in Raqqa had been bombed hours ago, and the initial battle-damage assessment confirmed that the place had been flattened. There were no apparent survivors, and ISIS message traffic had fallen off precipitously. A few analysts went so far as to suggest that elements of the caliphate’s leadership could have been inside. Such claims were maddeningly difficult to verify, and the degree of the victory would take weeks to ascertain, but clearly Uday’s information had been accurate.

The buoyant mood in the command center faded just after nine o’clock that morning when a senior officer from Baland’s cyber unit delivered sobering news. From the trove of Uday’s personnel list, certain phone numbers had been given special scrutiny, and a day-old message was uncovered. Overnight, the encryption had been cracked, revealing a grave directive: A cell of four young men in Lille had been instructed to assemble a truck bomb, which they’d been preparing for months, and obliterate the city’s main synagogue.

The Élysée command center went into action, every element of France’s police and intelligence establishments focused as one. Within thirty minutes signals intelligence had pinpointed the receiving address, and an oversized assault team launched a raid on a small home in Roubaix. What they found was alarming: four unmade beds, signs of a hasty departure, and residue from a sizable stash of explosives. Worse yet, in a small attached garage they discovered a laboratory, precursor chemicals, and tracks where a heavy vehicle—a work truck, according to neighbors—had recently departed over a sodden driveway. The working estimate was that the crew were carrying enough explosives to level a city block.

With a fair understanding of the weapon, as well as the target, authorities placed Lille and the surrounding townships under virtual martial law. Incredibly, nothing was found. The cell of four men, along with a truck carrying over a hundred pounds of TATP, had simply disappeared. Orders were given for the net to be widened.

In a private thought, Baland suspected they were chasing the last of Chadeh’s attacks, and he would eventually be proved correct. In that moment, however, as he sat quietly in a chair at the back of the room, he silently cheered the cell on, hoping they succeeded spectacularly. With a strange new detachment he watched people around him, men and women he’d once considered his countrymen, as they worked frantically to avert the strike. He observed their procedures in the way a chemistry student might critique a peer’s laboratory demonstration—seeking faults in the process.

As it turned out, the joint team in the Élysée command center had it mostly right. They were looking for the right people and the right weapon—but in altogether the wrong place.

SIXTY-THREE

The essential reason the cell could not be found was that its commander, a transplanted Egyptian, was clinically psychotic. He had arrived in France as a student five years earlier, but dropped out of school and overstayed his visa. He’d quickly fallen in with a group of three other young men in Lille, each a societal orphan in his own right, and risen to become their de facto leader. A group of lost boys, they were precisely the kind of castaways targeted by jihadi recruiters. Once established in the fold of ISIS, however, they proved an unusually patient bunch, plotting their bombing for the best part of a year.

It was only recently that the leader’s mood swings had begun. On good days he was a man of thoughtfulness and some cunning who could steal a truckload of fertilizer from a farm without it being missed. On others he claimed to have lengthy conversations with God. Yesterday he’d been drifting toward the latter persona when the order had come through: They were to immediately cobble together their bomb and attack a synagogue in Lille.

The group had always known it might happen this way, a sudden call to action. It was the leader who balked first. He told the others that men in Raqqa should not dictate what target they struck or when. There was general agreement at first, but as they all watched the news it became clear that a broad wave of attacks was indeed being unleashed against France. French authorities had gone into a martial tizzy, and when it became clear that one strike had been interrupted by police, the cell in Lille realized that if they didn’t act quickly their chance might be lost. The three underlings deferred to their leader, and in a moment of divine inspiration, he gave them the good news. God had told him what they needed to do.

They worked throughout the night, taking advantage of the horrendous weather conditions, and by early the next morning everything was in place.

*   *   *

In keeping with his promise to minimize Israel’s involvement, Slaton had not used embassy computers to plan his assassination. He did, however, need internet access in order to begin his preparations.

He began at a midgrade hotel, where he made an inquiry about reserving a banquet room for a corporate event in the coming summer. Halfway through the sales pitch, he expressed a need to check dates on his calendar, but claimed to be stymied by a dead mobile phone. The corporate sales agent, a smiling middle-aged woman whose English was flawless, graciously granted him access to the hotel’s business center. Slaton asked for fifteen minutes, and she discreetly disappeared.

He worked quickly, and had no trouble learning that the change-of-command ceremony for the General Directorate for Internal Security was to be presided over by the minister of the interior, and would take place the next morning at nine o’clock sharp on the forecourt plaza of the Place des Invalides.

This last element surprised but did not disappoint Slaton. He would have expected such a shadowed organization as DGSI to change leadership behind closed doors. Indeed, more purist intelligence agencies, the likes of Mossad and MI6, had for generations gone to great lengths to conceal the identities of their senior officers. Slaton had expected DGSI to take something of a middle ground—a low-key gathering of families and friends, along with the upward-aspiring heads of agency divisions, all shrouded within a headquarters conference room. As it turned out, DGSI’s custom was for a modest outdoor affair, and the recent attacks seemed not to have changed anyone’s thinking. Baland himself was on record as saying, “The bastards won’t keep us from living our lives in the open.”

Which only made the assassin’s job that much easier.

The ceremony was to be staged in the shadows of Les Invalides, the grand collection of museums and monuments that was testament to the French fighting will. As a backdrop Baland would have Napoléon’s tomb, the enduring standard of the glory of France. Tomorrow’s event would be a modest affair, no brass band or troops in formation. An honor guard, perhaps, and a handful of dignitaries with nothing better on their calendars. Regrettably, the number of family and friends in attendance would be markedly lower than at the last handover, since the outgoing director’s camp would be preparing for his funeral. As put by one officer in a press release, “It will be a wedding with one side of the church empty.”

Even so, Slaton expected a solid security effort in light of the recent attacks.

He departed the hotel discreetly, avoiding further contact with the sales associate, and was lost in thought as he turned toward the river. When he had snatched Uday out of Syria two days ago, he’d had the benefit of state support. Drones, satellites, manpower, all the necessary equipment. This would be a very different kind of op.

In essence, Slaton was undertaking a political assassination. The embassy had provided a phone and a weapon that were clean, and a contact number for their backup assassin—a woman who lived as deeply in the black as Slaton ever had. Otherwise, he was very much on his own.

The plan crystallizing in his head was going to change that.

SIXTY-FOUR

The terrorist cell from Lille was exposed, rather surprisingly, not by the legions of police and military who were swarming across northern France, but by a marine mechanic who’d been called in to investigate—at double-time wages—a forty-six-foot Bertram cabin cruiser that had begun taking on water in the storm.

The boat lay moored in the municipal basin along the Chenal de Gravelines, just west of Dunkirk, and the alarm had been raised by the owner of a neighboring yacht who’d ventured to the piers at the height of the maelstrom to check on his own boat. The man wasn’t much of a sailor in his own right, so when he saw the problem he did what he always did—he called Viktor Foulon.

Foulon was at his kitchen table, settling down behind a bowl of hot cereal, when his mobile phone trilled. His first inclination was to ignore the call, but at a glance he saw who it was. He sighed and picked up.

“Monsieur Dumas, what can I do for you on this lovely day?”

“Viktor, you must come to the harbor at once!”

Viktor looked out the window. He saw pelting rain and a black sky. “Is there a problem with Cassandra?” he asked. Cassandra was Dumas’ old eighty-five-foot Feadship, which without Foulon’s regular attentions would no longer be afloat. He nearly made a living off the old barge, which had decayed to the point that it was more a floating cocktail patio than a seagoing vessel. Which was fine with Foulon, since Dumas had more money than sense.

“No, it is not my boat,” said Dumas. “The Bertram next to her is listing badly. I think she may go down.”

Foulon knew the boat, but had never met her owner. “Do you know whose boat it is?” he asked.

“I can’t recall his name, but he’s one of those financial managers from Paris—I had a martini with him once on Cassandra.”

A financial manager, thought Foulon. A possibility. A gust of wind caused his roof to creak. “All right,” he said despairingly, “I’ll come have a look.”

“Very well. If you need me I’ll be at the café on the quay.” Dumas rang off.

Café on the quay. Foulon cursed and let his breakfast go cold on the table.

Suspecting a faulty bilge pump, he retrieved his toolbox, then donned his heavy slicker for the walk to the harbor. The wind had been howling all night, and rain was still sheeting up and down the coast. If it had been anyone but Cassandra’s owner, his longtime financial anchor, Foulon would have told them to go to hell.

Arriving at the dockmaster’s office ten minutes later, he was more wet than dry, and the hair under his loose hood was tousled, like that of a child whose favorite aunt had rubbed his head. He explained to the man on duty, old Bernard, that there might be an emergency. Foulon was given a key to the vessel without question. Back out in the rain, he headed up Pier 3 to the deep-water slips at the end and found the boat in question. She was named Formidable, but at that moment she was hardly living up to it—standing by her transom, Foulon saw a list to port that must have exceeded ten degrees. He also noticed that her bilge pumps were working furiously, steady streams of water spewing from fittings above the waterline. Not good.

As he stepped onto her off-kilter deck, the next thing he noticed was that he didn’t need the key—the sliding door to the main salon was already wide open. Foulon came under shelter, and with the driving rain no longer pounding his oilskin, he pulled back his hood. As soon as he did, he registered what sounded like a hushed argument inside the cabin. The tone was sharp, but the language made no sense to him. He walked into the main salon to find three dark-skinned men who looked more surprised than he was.

Foulon blinked away the rain, and right away saw a number of peculiarities. On the settee nearby was a big suitcase, its flap hanging open, full of what looked like white clay. On the dining table he saw snarls of wiring and colored tape and batteries. The three men were all on their knees, and between them was what could only be described as a small crater. The floor of the boat had been breached, and a jagged meter-wide hole was edged in soot—undoubtedly the reason Formidable was sinking. Then Foulon saw the most disturbing sight: on the floor just beyond the hole, what was left of a fourth man, his body ripped to shreds in a pool of blood.

“Merde! What the devil is going on here?” Foulon demanded.

To anyone who did not know Foulon, what happened in the next twenty seconds might have seemed chaotic and unexpected. In fact, it was an outburst thirty years in the making. Viktor Foulon’s true talent had nothing to do with either bilge pumps or wrenches. Having spent eight years in the French Foreign Legion, he had killed more men than he cared to remember in the darkened jungles of Congo and Ivory Coast. After leaving the service, he’d earned a solid reputation as a brawler in the watering holes of Gravelines, and as any local policeman would attest, Foulon was a volatile handful when he was drunk. What most did not realize was that he was far more dangerous when sober.

It did not harm the ex-legionnaire’s prospects that he stood six feet five inches tall, or that his 260 pounds were cut from a template that might have patterned the marine diesels he worked on. The three men facing him were altogether different. In terms of size they were neither slight nor stalwart, simply the other ninety percent, and while Foulon couldn’t know it, none of them had any combat experience. Ironically, it was the only one with any kind of training—two months in a jihadist camp in southern Libya—who made the first mistake. The smallest of the three, he lunged toward a shelf.

Foulon’s eyes reached the shelf before the man’s hands, and he instantly recognized the dull-black machine pistol. As he realized that he too needed a weapon, and probably in a hurry, it occurred to Foulon that he was already holding one.

He swung his toolbox in a giant arc. It was a professional-grade item, red and rectangular, built of high-tensile steel. Inside were fifty pounds of hammers and wrenches and bolts. The box picked up speed through 180 degrees of rotation, and arrived, catastrophically, at the skull of the man fumbling with the safety on his machine pistol. Foulon immediately reversed the motion, stepped forward, and began waylaying everything in his path like a wrecking ball gone amok.

Shelves shattered and light fixtures exploded. Men screamed and blood splattered walls. A set of cabinet doors disintegrated, and the rack of radios inside was pulverized, sparks spraying outward like a miniature fireworks display. After seven or eight great swipes—Foulon wasn’t counting—he stopped and evaluated the situation. Panting like a winded bull, he saw one man on the floor with a crushed skull, certainly dead. Another was out cold, and the third lay moaning and incoherent—he had a very crooked arm, and had ended up sprawled across the already-dead fourth man. Gray smoke curled through the cabin in an acrid cloud of burning insulation.

Foulon dropped his dented toolbox and ran up the pier to the dockmaster’s office. “We need the police!” he shouted as he burst through the door.

A surprised Bernard actually chuckled. “You’re joking, right?” He pointed across the channel. On the opposite wharf Foulon saw six police cars and two military vehicles.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked.

Bernard’s eyes fell to Foulon’s heaving chest, and he said, “Maybe you should tell me.”

Foulon looked down and saw that his shirt was covered in blood—as far as he knew, not his own. He explained what had just happened.

With forty years on the docks, Bernard was not the excitable type, yet by the time Foulon finished his story the dockmaster’s face had gone ashen. “Were they Middle Eastern?” he asked.

It was Foulon’s turn to be taken aback. “How did you know that?”

“Because four thousand policemen have been scouring the north of France for them. Haven’t you seen the news?”

Foulon said he had not. He rarely watched television, and never in the morning. He vaguely remembered seeing something about terrorists on the muted television at the bar last night, but he hadn’t really paid attention. Bertrand filled him in.

As Foulon listened, he felt a bit of relief. He’d long been on a first-name basis with the harbor police, thanks to a string of minor indiscretions. Now he was sure he’d killed at least one man. But he hadn’t been drinking, and if the four men on Formidable had been up to no good, he might be all right. So Foulon got a favorable version of things straight in his head, and he told Bernard again to make the phone call. He waited nervously for the police to arrive.

He need not have worried. By that evening’s news cycle, Viktor Foulon, ex-legionnaire, marine mechanic, and saloon wrecker of some repute, would be recognized far and wide as a hero of the French Republic.

*   *   *

The news from the coast reached Élysée Palace within minutes of the police arriving on scene.

“We’ve found them!” announced the national police liaison. “The four men from Lille have been stopped in their tracks—they were trying to steal a pleasure boat in Gravelines.”

The president of France, a steaming espresso in front of him, had just found his way back to the command center. “Who caught them—national or local gendarmes?”

“Actually,” said the liaison, “it seems they encountered a local man. He’s a marine mechanic, and apparently an ex-legionnaire. He took matters into his own hands. Two of the four are dead, and one is unconscious.”

The presidential brow furrowed, and he seemed about to say something, but then only cocked his head to encourage the liaison to continue.

“Explosive disposal teams are working the scene. They estimate they’re dealing with over a hundred kilograms of TATP along with the associated hardware. Apparently an initiator charge went off prematurely and blew a hole in the bottom of the boat. It began to sink, which is presumably why someone called in the mechanic.”

The army chief of staff snorted in exasperation. “Incredible! We are dealing with imbeciles!”

“Perhaps,” said the president. “But committed imbeciles have harmed us far too often. The important thing is that the plot has been interrupted.”

The liaison said, “We found a map on the boat that suggests they were targeting a cruise ship in Le Havre. We’ve long been worried about that kind of thing. Should we stand down our search in the north? Our forces are stretched very thin at the moment.”

“Do we have information on any other possible strikes?”

“No, Mr. President. We of course will remain watchful, and continue to monitor communications out of Syria. But this episode exhausts our current intelligence—we know of no other cells that have been activated.”

The president considered it, then looked around the room, and said, “Where the hell has Baland gone?”

The intelligence chief said, “I believe he returned to DGSI to check on things there.”

The president shrugged and took a sip of his espresso. “Very well,” he said. “Stand down your search.”

SIXTY-FIVE

It was midmorning when Slaton exited a taxi two blocks from Invalides. The rain had finally abated, and as soon as the cab was gone he crossed the street to an inexpensive hostel. He’d been steered to the place by Neumann, who had occasion to know such recesses of the city, and she assured him it would meet his two main requirements: vacant single rooms and a willingness to operate on a cash basis.

Slaton purchased lodging for one night, and the proprietor, a man with wild hair and a deeply grooved face, explained that the room would not be available for another two hours. He also said that if Monsieur so desired, he could leave his bag in the locked closet behind the desk. Slaton accepted enthusiastically, no hesitation to suggest that the case might hold something valuable. Fifteen minutes later he was walking unencumbered across the storied grounds of Invalides.

There was never a question of where to start. He took his phone from his pocket and called up a very accurate mapping program he’d downloaded. It was designed for agricultural use—in particular, the application of pesticides—but inherent in the platform was the one thing Slaton needed: precision.

He began on the stone terrace where the ceremony was to take place, and was forced to estimate the spot where the interior minister would tomorrow shake Baland’s hand, or perhaps put a banner over his shoulder—whatever pomp fit the circumstance. This put him in the middle of a half acre of stone pavers, Arcane limestone if he wasn’t mistaken, that spread artfully back toward the museums. In front of him the terrace ended abruptly, bordered by an empty moat that was guarded by rows of inert cannons. Slaton marked the location and elevation of the spot where he stood, then set out on his search.

He walked the surrounding gardens, up the Esplanade des Invalides and toward the river. At the Quay d’Orsay, with the Seine spreading before him, he checked his phone and saw a range of 562 meters. He marked the spot as a border, then moved west, canvassing rows of apartments along Rue Fabert, and taking a lingering look up Rue de Grenelle. A few of the buildings there caught his eye, and he marked them on his electronic map. He spent a full thirty minutes on his survey, along the way standing amid groups of tourists—always in abundance here—and snapping a few photos for later reference.

He initially discounted the idea of using the eastern border along Rue de Constantine—the street was home to any number of embassies, Canada and Great Britain among them, which implied added layers of security. Then, in a burst of inspiration, he doubled back for a second look. His idea coalesced as he stood in the skeletal shadow of a hand-sculpted, wintering horse chestnut tree.

Slaton stared at the Colombian embassy, or more accurately its placeholder. It was a narrow three-story affair wedged on an urban triangle, shouldered tightly between a slightly taller residential building and a small branch bank. More intriguing was what Slaton saw on the front door, and along the high façade above.

He went closer and read the notice posted on the door in French, Spanish, and English:

THE EMBASSY OF COLOMBIA IS CURRENTLY CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS. LIMITED SERVICES ARE AVAILABLE AT OUR TEMPORARY ANNEX AT 45 RUE DUROC. WE APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE.

He looked up at a scaffolding and saw two workers busy refurbishing a cornice. The outer stone edifice had been pulled and rebuilt, this obvious to Slaton by mortar joints that were a near match in color to original sections, but without the telling stains of the urban wear. He knew a good deal about Lutetian limestone, also known as “Paris stone,” which for centuries had been cut from the quarries of Oise, north of the capital, and shipped conveniently downriver. In recent years the rock had become fashionable, and it was shipped in great quantity around the globe to enhance terraces in Dubai and mansions in Hollywood. Having worked with it, Slaton knew the stone had unique characteristics: it was easy to cut, durable to the elements, and available in a wide array of colors. So as he stared up now at a major rebuild, clearly in its final stages, his curiosity was piqued.

“It looks good,” he called up in American-accented English.

One of the men kept working, but the other, a hirsute fireplug of a man, smiled amiably.

“Is the stone from Oise?” Slaton prodded.

“Of course,” said the stocky man. “You know Paris stone?”

“I’ve worked with it a few times in the States. Once to build a patio for a mansion, and at another site a small concert pavilion. I like it better than the Italian stone, easier to work with.”

The man began climbing down a ladder, and when he reached street level, he said, “Italian stone?” The words came through puckered lips, as if he’d tasted something sour. “No one uses that rubble here.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your work.”

“We are almost done for the day.” He wiped his hand on a tarp that was hanging across the scaffolding. “The mortar will have to set before we finish the last section—after the weekend, I think.”

Slaton looked up and saw a few remaining gaps in the long cornice. “It looks like you’ve been at it for some time.”

“Three months. The weight-bearing wall behind the cornice had cracks, and the only option was to replace the top three meters, a big job.”

“What was the original thickness?”

The man smiled. “You do know your stone. The original wall was over two meters thick.”

“Two meters?”

“The man who first commissioned it would accept nothing less.”

“Who was that?” Slaton asked.

“Napoléon.”

Slaton stared. “As in … Bonaparte?”

“Is there another?”

Not here, Slaton thought, before saying, “How thick is the new wall?”

“Just under half a meter. The committee for … how do you say it … authenticité architecturale. They insist on perfection to the eye, but cannot raise enough money for honesty to the original structure.”

“Believe me when I say, it happens everywhere. I had the same problem in Malta. Let me guess—there’s a void between the outer wall and the existing interior walls.”

“Certainement. But who will ever know but us?”

Slaton smiled.

The Frenchman gave him an overview of the project, and pointed to various repairs in the building’s façade. Slaton asked a few knowledgeable questions, and complimented him on his workmanship. The mason suggested agreeably, and not without a bit of pride, “Come, let me show you. As a brother mason, you would be most interested.” He started up the ladder with a beckoning wave. His partner, who Slaton suspected did not speak English, showed no interest whatsoever.

Without hesitation, Slaton stepped on the first rung and began climbing.

SIXTY-SIX

Twenty minutes later Slaton walked away from the unfinished Colombian embassy with his sniper’s mind in overdrive. His tour of the walls under repair had been comprehensive and enlightening, and he had thanked his guide unreservedly as he and his partner began packing up their tools for the day.

Slaton walked quickly, details falling into place one at a time. The outline taking shape in his head was not yet complete, and one variable would be beyond his control. Yet if he could make it all coalesce, each of his objectives would be met.

His first stop was a home-improvement store, where he purchased a powerful hammer drill, a variety of drill bits, an extension cord, and a pair of workman’s coveralls. In another section he found a diamond-edged cutting tool and a large suction cup. Nearing the checkout line, he added a heavy canvas sack. Once he’d paid, in cash, his purchases went into the canvas bag. On the way back to the hostel, he detoured into a narrow alley bordering a construction site, sought out the filthiest puddle available, and dropped the new coveralls in the middle. He stepped on them a few times for good measure, then picked up the wad of wet cloth. He twisted the coveralls once to squeeze out the excess water, then stuffed them back in his bag.

He arrived at the hostel ten minutes later, and was told that his room had opened up. The desk man retrieved the roller bag containing a rifle from the storage closet. Slaton knew he hadn’t ventured a look inside. He knew because there were no awkward stares when he handed it over or, for that matter, no police standing in wait.

He climbed quickly to a second-floor room, and found a predictably Spartan affair. Slaton didn’t bother with even the most basic security inspection. He removed the coveralls and the drill from the canvas bag, then refilled it with the case containing an Arctic Warfare Covert. The bathroom was a community arrangement down the hall, but there was a clean towel on the shelf in his room. Slaton made it less so when he used it to scrub the worst of the mud from the wrinkled coveralls. He slipped them on, damp and dirty, directly over his clothing, and transferred a few smudges from the mud-soiled towel onto his hands and face. He left the empty roller bag in the room, took the drill case in one hand, and heaved the bag containing the rifle over his other shoulder. He quick-stepped down the stairs, and diverted toward a side exit that bypassed the front desk. When he reached the street Slaton checked his watch. He had been inside the hostel nine and a half minutes.

The hostel was soon lost behind him. It was a building he would never set foot in again, joining a lengthy list of deliberately avoided addresses scattered across the world.

Slaton set out directly for Invalides. He was right on schedule.

SIXTY-SEVEN

The temperature dropped markedly, and Slaton’s breath was pluming in front of him when he reached Invalides. The scaffolding in front of the Colombian embassy was vacant, just as the mason had said it would be. It was Friday afternoon, and with new mortar setting and a weekend pending, Slaton was confident the jobsite would be vacant for days.

He set down his equipment at the base of the scaffold, and began sorting through it as any tradesman would to start a job. The extension cord he plugged into a ground-level receptacle before heaving the coil upward over the top of the scaffold like a commando tossing a grappling hook—a surprisingly transferable skill.

With the weather improving, the streets and courtyards in front of the museum complex had become busier. He saw couples meandering, and guided groups who paused to take pictures. None of them seemed to notice the tall workman in coveralls who shouldered a heavy bag, climbed a ladder to the top of a scaffold, and disappeared into a building under repair.

The opening through which Slaton passed was four feet high and half that in width, and he crouched to pass through to the dead space behind. The entrance was clearly temporary, meant to allow work crews to address the new wall from within, and a tarp had been strung across it to keep out the rain. The space behind the new frontage formed a narrow corridor, roughly one yard in width and five feet high, with buttresses every few yards for support. Updated electric and heating conduits were already being run through what was effectively a new utility pathway.

Slaton had seen the passageway from the outside during his visit with the mason, but now, as he stood inside, he recognized his first mistake. The still-overcast skies left the interior extremely dark. Slaton wished he’d purchased a flashlight, but after folding back the tarp he decided the problem was manageable.

The primary modification necessary was to drill two holes in the half-meter-thick exterior wall. Having worked with Paris stone before, he knew it was feasible, but also that it would take considerable effort. He began with a new mortar joint four feet from the entrance. Mortar being easier to penetrate than stone, the initial one-inch hole took a mere twenty minutes. He then paused to study the more exacting work.

Slaton went back outside and took in the forecourt of Invalides, and also the view across the park, in particular where Rue de Grenelle strayed into the city. His angles had to be as precise as possible. He went back inside and began drilling the second hole, slightly to one side and at a marginally different angle from the first. Once the drill was through, he pulled the bit and peered outside. It was like looking through a soda straw, but he liked what he saw.

He set to the greater task of crafting two custom slots. The drill hummed in the narrow confines of the passage, and mortar dust and stone chips flew for another hour. The muted sun was halfway to the horizon by the time he had the portals he wanted, along with three broken bits, an overheated drill, and two very numb hands.

He set the drill aside, withdrew the component parts of the rifle from its case, and assembled the weapon. He looked left and right down the dim passageway, and at one end he noticed a pair of stone slabs. They were no doubt leftover blocks from the construction of the wall, each probably weighing a hundred pounds. He slid them one at a time across the floor, then stacked one on top of the other, just behind the larger of the two holes he’d fashioned. Slaton ensured the arrangement was solid, then set the sniper rifle on top. The barrel fit neatly into the gap, the tip three inches short of the outer opening. The slot was six inches in height, and between two and three inches in width, tapering outward near the top so the view of the scope would not be obstructed.

He settled into a sitting position on the floor—the width of the passage didn’t allow him to lie prone—and trained the weapon on a statue near the plaza. At 120 meters the statue’s head looked like a giant playground ball through the magnified scope. He scanned left and right, up and down, and made sure the focal point of tomorrow’s ceremony could be sighted with room for adjustments. The Covert had a bipod stand, and Slaton noted that one leg was lower than the other, the stone base being uneven. He also realized that if he widened the base of the hole slightly, the barrel of the rifle could be retained farther into the recess with no loss of functionality.

The modifications took less than ten minutes, and after a second trial with the rifle he decided his shooting stand was complete. He went to work on the second aperture, which was far more simple, the only alteration being to increase the bore to a smooth three-inch diameter. That done, he checked his angles one last time. Satisfied, Slaton searched the floor and picked up a few loose scraps of stone. By trial and error, he found one that could be used to seal the larger of the two fissures. He went outside and gauged the appearance. From the exterior, the signs of his work were nearly invisible. He left the smaller hole open, but decided to add one more fragment to disguise the larger opening. As his skilled hands worked the chip into place, it occurred to him that he had arrived at a bizarre intersection of his two domains. Creating and destroying at the same time.

He pushed his equipment deep into the passageway, and emerged into a gathering dusk. Slaton pulled the tarp closed behind him. He climbed down to street level, pulled the ladder away, and slid it neatly between the wall and the scaffolding. Removing the last external sign of his presence, he unplugged the extension cord, draped the coiled loops over one shoulder, and was soon walking down the Esplanade des Invalides toward a rain-swollen Seine.

SIXTY-EIGHT

Baland sat alone in the director’s private conference room. Since Slaton’s phone call yesterday, his new office, with its panoramic view of the city, had summarily lost its appeal. The conference room was part of the suite, but with four solid walls. To make his isolation complete, Baland had given his receptionist firm instructions to shunt any calls that were not from the interior minister.

As had been the case for hours, Baland concentrated completely on the papers in front of him. He worked feverishly, shuffling files and scribbling notes, inputting the names and numbers of terrorist recruits into his personal phone. Though he remained one day removed from ascension to the directorship, his first formal order was already on the books: Find Malika. The more informal, and provocative, version had been a loose suggestion to district captains at the daily briefing: Shoot her on sight. Such specificity was worth a try, but he doubted it would be carried through in that manner. Ethicists and lawyers invariably got in the way—the kinds of curbs that, as Ali Samir, he had never had to deal with in Gaza.

They’d also been hunting Slaton. He had discarded the phone he’d used to contact Baland, and they’d had no luck discovering how he’d entered France. Baland wanted very much to deal with him now, a window of opportunity that was certainly closing. The Jews, the Islamic State, Malika. Someone was going to spill his identity—it was only a matter of who and when. Given the current state of affairs, his original estimate of a week or more was likely optimistic. He now allowed no more than a few days. At that point, it would be time to disappear.

He’d sorted through the list of ISIS operatives effortlessly on his computer, segregating those who lived in either France or Belgium. Baland was astounded to find the names of fourteen hundred men and women. He allowed the data itself no more than a ninety percent accuracy. Contact information would be invalid for some recruits, and a few had probably already found their way to the eastern battle, a one-way ticket to Ankara followed by a bus to the Syrian border. Even so, Baland was sure he was looking at a thousand willing attackers in the cities around him.

A veritable army.

Many of the files had photographs to go with backgrounds, and a good number listed weapons in the given recruit’s possession. He flicked from face to face and saw a gallery of rogues. Some had to be college students, while others were certainly criminals. The bold had kitchen knives, the brazen stolen guns, the educated closets full of TATP. Baland studied their unrepentant gazes, and saw the scars of hard lives. Among them, in perhaps one young face in twenty, he recognized what he wanted more than anything. It was an attribute he had long ago learned to discern—the already-dead eyes of eager martyrs.

All were now his.

A message blinked to his mobile. Baland scanned it quickly. Something about a boat having been discovered in Gravelines. In a reversal of roles that was gaining momentum, he viewed the news in an all-new light. Something to keep the gendarmerie busy in the countryside. He pushed the phone aside.

Work faster.

From the vulnerability report he had extracted twenty-seven primary targets, and forty-two he labeled as secondary. Baland would spend every available minute tonight pairing recruits with targets. After that he would get a few hours’ sleep before the ceremony at Invalides. There was no way out of that, and he had to admit, a part of him wanted to attend. An hour or two to bask briefly in what might have been. It would also serve to fuel his new legend. He imagined photographs of the event going viral in the coming weeks, situated under a banner headline: “New DGSI Chief a Traitor.”

His alternate life would soon be gone, reverting to the original. The cruelest irony of all: It was the Jews who were forcing him to again become Ali Samir. For that they would pay dearly. He decided to try to spend a few hours with Jacqueline and the girls before abandoning them. It was more than he’d given his pregnant wife and Malika fifteen years ago.

If only I had known …

He expected to send the first commands tomorrow night—the larger cells would need time to plan. With any luck, the primary strikes would occur by midweek. Even if only half succeeded, he would be orchestrating the greatest blow against the Zionists of Europe in generations.

Another message blinked to his phone. Baland nudged the handset farther away on the table. As he did so, an earlier thought returned. Too many knives in the air.

*   *   *

Slaton made two stops before reaching his room. The first was a small grocery store, where he purchased corn syrup, cocoa, and food dye. The second was an internet café on the edge of Clichy.

In his survey of Invalides he had taken a number of pictures of the surrounding grounds, both interior and exterior shots of the wall under repair, and also a telling photo of the hide where the Covert lay in place. Using a wireless link, he connected the smartphone Bloch had given him to a machine that printed photographs. He transferred seven images, and waited patiently as they spit one by one into a trough. The quality was first-rate, and he collected the hard-stock pictures and placed them in his pocket. A check of his watch confirmed that he was comfortably ahead of schedule.

From a trash can he scavenged three discarded sheets of printer paper, all of which had weak images on one side—an ink cartridge gone dry. The back sides, however, were quite clean.

Outside the café, a lone waiter ran a few tables beneath an awning. Slaton took a vacant seat, ordered a white coffee, and asked the waiter if he might borrow a pen. The waiter was an older man, proper and deferential, and Slaton envisioned him working tables at more storied establishments in years gone by. And yes, of course he had an extra pen.

Slaton’s coffee came quickly, and he set to work. From memory he drew a sketch of the Colombian embassy and the grounds of Invalides. To further reinforce things, he drew a dashed line between the two critical points. Alongside that he made a note: 138.2 meters. Satisfied with the first draft, he folded the paper neatly and nested it with the photographs in his pocket.

When he could think of nothing else, Slaton pulled out his phone, dialed Air France, and said to a welcoming reservation agent, “I’d like to book a ticket. Munich to Manila, one-way…”

Five minutes later he checked his watch, drained the last of his coffee, and set out toward his room in Courbevoie. As a temporary residence, it had proved comfortable and pleasant, far more so than the hostel he’d just vacated in a rush. Even so, it was an address that would soon be condemened to the same terminal list: Places to which I can never return.

SIXTY-NINE

Malika was in Slaton’s room, sitting in the chair by the window, when she heard someone approach in the hallway outside. The footfalls were heavy, definitely a man’s. She lifted the weapon she’d found in the attaché. It seemed only fitting to use his own weapon, although hers was at her side beneath her folded jacket.

She heard the lock tumbler click, saw the door swing open. Then the most satisfying moment—the look on his face when he saw her. Malika knew what any hunter knew: the most unsuspecting prey was the one that came to you.

“Be very still!” she ordered. Malika said it in English. It wasn’t her best language, but it was likely the only one they shared.

Slaton said nothing, but he did as she asked. His lean frame stood frozen, hands loose by his sides.

“Away from the door … slowly.”

He complied.

It was the first time she’d seen him up close. He was attractive in a way, bigger and more powerfully built than she’d noticed from a distance. Yet what struck her most were his eyes. They were an unusual shade of gray, and in them she saw … what? Not what she should have seen. No concern or calculation. Not even confidence. His gaze was simply empty, like a window that was somehow both clear and opaque.

“Turn around,” she said. “Pull the jacket over your head … but keep the sleeves on your wrists.” He again complied, removing the jacket as he would a T-shirt, but leaving the sleeves bunched over his outstretched wrists. Malika saw the expected weapon in his waistband. She got up and crossed the room carefully. Very, very slowly, she reached out and removed the handgun. Malika tossed it on the chair she’d been using. The door was still ajar, and she kicked it closed with her heel.

Standing two steps away, she weighed whether to search him for other weapons. She knew he was physically superior, and the concept of holding a gun against such a man’s spine or throat, then trying to frisk him with a free hand—that was pure Hollywood. In close proximity, he could turn the tables in a fraction of a second. She decided to keep things as they were—her barrel trained on him with a wary eye, at a range where they both knew she couldn’t miss.

“Drop the jacket,” she said. “Then move away.”

Again he did as she asked. The jacket fell to the floor, and he sidestepped away from the door. Never averting her eyes, Malika bent down and picked up the jacket. She rifled through the pockets, and found a handful of photographs and a folded sheet of paper. Slaton was still facing away, and her eyes flicked back and forth between the stationary assassin and the images. She unfolded the paper, then smoothed it with her free hand on the table next to her. Malika saw a hand-drawn diagram that made perfect sense. The two of them were, after all, cast from the same mold.

“I thought so,” she said to his back. “Where is this?”

He spoke for the first time. “Where would you do it?”

Her thick cheeks broke into a half smile he couldn’t see. “Invalides, tomorrow morning.”

Slaton said nothing.

“If I didn’t find you at the embassy, I was going to look there next. I knew you wouldn’t rest until you’d killed Baland.”

“Baland? Not at all. I’ve come to kill your father, Ali Samir.”

Malika felt her blood rise. The pain came rushing back. How many times as a young girl had she cried herself to sleep? How many times had she dreamt of this moment? Her father’s killer squarely under her sight. “So you learned that much … that I am the daughter of Ali Samir. Good. Then you understand why I am here. But before you die, I will grant you a small mercy. The man you are hunting here in Paris is not who you think. He is my father’s twin.”

Very slowly, the assassin turned to face her. Malika’s hand tensed on the trigger, but he came no closer, made no threatening moves.

He said, “I understand perfectly. The two were born in Gaza. Their parents—your grandparents—had intended to immigrate to France. But they weren’t expecting twins. New paperwork had to be run. The man who became Zavier Baland was sent ahead. Then your grandparents were killed by an errant Israeli rocket. Your father, Ali Samir, was doomed to remain in Gaza. I know all about that.”

Malika only stared at him, her hand rigid, her finger poised.

“But there’s a part you don’t understand,” he continued. “On September 15, 2002, the real Zavier Baland traveled on an Air France flight from Paris to Cairo. It was a meeting arranged by your father—created because he knew I was hunting him. He understood that sooner or later I, or someone like me, would succeed. He fed Mossad information about where he would be on a certain day, at a certain time. A teahouse in Gaza. When I lined him up in my sight that day, there was no question in my mind who I was shooting—Ali Samir, unrepentant bomber of women and children. That was exactly what your father wanted me to think.…” His voice trailed off, as if inviting her to think about it.

And Malika did think. He is trying to talk his way out of a bad situation. He is desperate, weaving an impossible story. Yet she couldn’t shake one image …

Gloves.

She had met her uncle face-to-face on only five occasions since arriving in France, and in every case Zavier Baland had worn gloves. She’d noticed, but written it off as no more than an eccentricity. Now, however, a distant memory intruded. When she was four, perhaps five years old, her father had come home one day with a burn on the back of one hand. Malika could still remember her mother dressing the wound. Years later, when she was old enough to understand who he was and what he did, her father had explained. He told her the scar was a badge of honor, caused by some manner of bomb-cooking gone wrong. Now it acquired an all-new relevance: As far as she knew, that scar on his right hand was the only physical difference between the two brothers.

Slaton went on, “Yes, you’re beginning to see it. Your father traded places with his brother, Malika. He was the one on the return flight to Paris the next day.”

Her eyes narrowed, but her shooting hand was set in stone.

“A friend of mine recently talked to Gabrielle Baland,” he continued, “the woman who raised Zavier. She said her son was a changed man after he returned from that trip. He moved to Paris immediately afterward and the two became estranged.”

Malika began shaking her head, as if to dislodge the growing madness.

“It’s true,” he said. “But then, maybe deep down you suspected it all along. Your father abandoned his family to steal his brother’s life in France. He left you and your pregnant mother by yourselves, let you think he was dead. Now he’s issued orders to hunt you down. You … his daughter.”

Malika wanted to argue, but she felt as if she’d lost the capacity to speak. Her world narrowed and she focused completely on the notch above her weapon. She tried to hold it steady on the figure in front of her.

“I’m not here to kill Zavier Baland. That’s already been done. I’m here to do what you brought me here to do. I’m going to kill your father, and this time I won’t miss.” He took a step forward. “Now that you know the truth about him … I suspect it’s what you might want as well. He’ll never let you rest, Malika. You know too many of his secrets.”

“Stop!” Her arm locked straight.

He was five paces away, but still coming at her. She pulled the trigger. The gun clicked but didn’t fire. In a flash Malika slammed her left palm into the butt of the magazine, racked in a new round, and squeezed the trigger a second time. The result was the same. She stood stunned, confused. Slaton had gone motionless two steps away. He didn’t look surprised or angry or murderous. The gray eyes remained a blank, no sign of intent or emotion. She tried to make sense of it all—the failing gun, his reaction to it. Malika was never able to complete that thought, because in the next instant the window beside her exploded.

In a blur she saw Slaton drop, hitting the floor like a sack of gravel. She dove away from the window and crashed into a wall. Rounds burst in at a high rate of fire, peppering the room. Glass rained to the floor, and a picture on the far side of the room was knocked from the wall. Malika looked at Slaton. A smear of red stained his neck, and blood was fast pooling beneath him. The gray eyes were empty as ever, only now focused to infinity.

The incoming fire didn’t relent.

Her own gun was on the chair across the room, as was the one she’d taken from Slaton. Both were small-caliber. Whoever was outside had vastly superior firepower. She looked at the door—it was still cracked open.

Bullets streamed in, fractions of a second apart, thumping into wood and plaster, ripping apart fabric. Then, all at once, a pause. The killer was either finished or changing magazines. Either way, it was her chance. With a hard look at the door, she stood, lunged over the dead assassin, and threw herself into the hallway.

SEVENTY

The hotel’s proprietor and both housekeepers heard the commotion, but none of them recognized it for what it was. The maintenance man, however, a middle-aged immigrant from North Africa who’d done a stint in the Moroccan Army, recognized the sound of gunfire.

He was unclogging a toilet on the second floor when the first shots rang out, and he called the police right away using his mobile. When the shooting ended as abruptly as it had begun, his curiosity was piqued. The action, he thought, seemed to be taking place one floor above, although he knew from experience that sourcing such staccato sounds could be difficult. He cautiously took the service stairwell to the third floor, and right away noticed that the door to number 14 was ajar. Everything seemed quiet, and with nothing more than a plunger in his hand, he moved guardedly down the hall and peered inside.

What he saw was perplexing. The room was a wreck. Both windows seemed to have shattered inward, leaving glass strewn across the carpet. There were holes in the walls, and the floor was covered by stuffing from a chair that seemed to have exploded. The other big chair looked untouched, and on it he saw a folded jacket and two handguns. There was no one in the room, but he did see one sign of human habitation—on the central floor a dark red stain that could only be blood.

*   *   *

The gendarmes arrived within minutes, and their first determination was clear-cut: Whatever battle had come to the small boutique hotel in Courbevoie, it had run its course. The building was secure. With everyone on edge given the recent spate of attacks, the assault on Room 14 was immediately stamped as having possible terrorist involvement. Evidence technicians were quick to arrive, and their initial findings sent straight to the DGSI command center.

Charlotte LeFevre—who had been on duty for forty-eight hours—was the first to see the results. Based on the preliminary report, she ordered the immediate acquisition of CCTV footage for the area around the hotel. She soon found what she was after. LeFevre copied the best image from the video, and forwarded it to the detectives on scene, along with a question. They reply came almost immediately. She rushed two floors up to the director’s suite.

Baland’s receptionist tried to turn her away, but LeFevre was adamant. She waited breathlessly while her arrival was announced, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she stared at the heavy door. She thought she might have heard a desk drawer slide shut. Finally, Baland appeared at the threshold of his office.

“Yes, Charlotte, what is it?” he said, gesturing for her to come inside.

LeFevre followed the director-designate toward one side of the room, and they settled into large chairs. She covered the essentials of what had happened. “Our people have been interviewing the hotel staff, and when I heard their description of the man who’d rented the room, I began going over CCTV footage.” She slid the photograph onto the desk. “This was captured by a camera across the street minutes before the shooting started. I remembered the description you gave me of the man who brought Uday in—the one you thought might be responsible for the bombing at The Peninsula.”

Baland looked at the picture. “Yes,” he agreed, “I think that might be him.”

“Three hotel employees confirmed it—he’s been staying in this room for the last few days. There’s also footage of a woman—I think it’s the one we’ve been after, the one responsible for Director Michelis’ death.” LeFevre waited for a reaction from Baland, but saw little. “She can be seen leaving the scene of this shooting one minute after it was called in.”

Baland seemed to consider it all. “Did you say there was blood on the floor of the room?”

“Yes. The teams are recovering samples as we speak.”

“But this woman didn’t appear injured?”

“Nothing obvious. If anyone was wounded, they managed to escape. I’ve alerted hospitals to watch for gunshot victims seeking treatment.”

“Yes, very good.”

LeFevre went over other initiatives she’d ordered in the burgeoning investigation, all quite standard, and Baland nodded his agreement. She thought he seemed distracted, and, hoping to draw him out, she asked, “Have you heard anything new from the Defense Ministry on this boat in Gravelines?”

“Gravelines … no, nothing of importance. One more crisis averted. Let’s get back to finding these two.”

“Of course, sir,” said a deflated LeFevre. The eagerness of the chase she felt was apparently not shared by her soon-to-be boss.

She was nearly to the door when Baland forestalled her departure with, “Tell me something, Charlotte … is LeFevre your maiden name?”

A bewildered LeFevre turned back around. “Well … yes, sir, it is.”

“But you are married.”

“Of course. I kept my maiden name for professional reasons. My husband’s name is Weiss.”

“Ah, yes. I remember now. I met him at the New Year’s party—Avrim. And you have two boys?”

“That’s right,” she said, thinking the trajectory of the conversation odd. “Eight and ten.”

“If you don’t mind my asking … do you raise them in the Jewish faith?”

“We do, yes. We attend Temple Beth Israel every Saturday. Why do you ask?”

Baland smiled a smile that was benevolence itself. “Temple Beth Israel—yes, I know exactly where that is. Isn’t it wonderful how people of different faiths can live together so agreeably in France? Always remember that, Charlotte—it’s what we’re fighting for.”

She nodded.

“Keep up the good work.”

LeFevre took this as her cue to leave. Once in the outer office, with the door closed behind her, she looked at Baland’s receptionist, a sprightly older woman, and mouthed the words, Is he all right?

The woman smiled understandingly, and whispered back, “He’s been under a great deal of stress lately.”

LeFevre started back to the command center, thinking, Aren’t we all.

On the other side of the door, Zavier Baland walked to the far side of the room. He stood motionless in front of the great window, taking in the evening landscape of Rue de Villiers and Paris beyond.

SEVENTY-ONE

It was a morning made for a ceremony. The air was crisp and the skies clear, an apology for the preceding days. A steady breeze had the tricolor fluttering smartly on its staff in front of the majestic dome at Hôtel des Invalides.

The improved weather had extracted pent-up crowds, but few grasped the substance of the ceremony being assembled on the museum’s forecourt plaza. Most of the tourists who paused in their languid strolls thought it might have something to do with Napoléon, whose body lay interred nearby. Parisians enjoying their weekend expressed a passing interest, but they’d seen such affairs before. Least attentive of all were pairs of young lovers strolling the Seine, who cast barely a glance, their fuzzy heads swimming with remembrances of the previous night’s wine and ardor.

Jacques Roland, minister of the interior, stood officiously at the podium while a dozen department heads mingled behind him. A hundred chairs had been brought in for an audience, but at five minutes before nine only half were full. Most of those who’d come were department personnel, along with a few upward-aspiring commanders from the various regional divisions.

The man at the center of it all, Zavier Baland, was not disappointed in the turnout. In truth he found it encouraging, a sign that the bulk of the country’s counterterrorism forces were exhausted, taking time off to sleep and catch up with their families after the long shifts of recent days. For the same reason, media coverage of the ceremony was virtually nonexistent—a pair of junior reporters from competing dailies had shown up to go through the motions.

Baland saw Jacqueline in the front row, but the girls had gone off to their regular Saturday language lesson. He and Jacqueline had argued about that, but Baland prevailed, insisting that their daughters’ education took a higher priority. In the moments after the matter was settled, it occurred to Baland that the decision might well be his last involvement in their lives.

He would issue his orders to attack the Jews of France later today. When the ceremony ended, he would attend a luncheon at headquarters—there was no avoiding it, since he was the guest of honor—but he had otherwise cleared his calendar. At four o’clock the first burst message was set to be transmitted. He’d done his best to pair trigger-ready cells with targets appropriate for their weapons. Others, those individuals with more intent than means, he decided to keep in reserve for a second wave. A month from now, perhaps two—however long it took for France to let her guard down again.

Baland accepted that a percentage of the strikes would fail. He would be issuing the orders without forewarning, and he knew that no soldiers, even committed jihadists, liked being sent into action on short notice. On the other hand, many had been awaiting the call, some for years. Even by his most pessimistic estimate, he was confident that dozens of Jewish targets would be struck in the coming days. The police forces of France, already fatigued and scattered across the country, would be caught flat-footed by the scale of the new offensive.

The voice of the protocol officer interrupted his calculations. “Three minutes, everyone.”

Baland began edging toward the podium, where Roland was pulling notes from his pocket—no doubt his prepared remarks.

“Monsieur Director!”

The title sounded strange, but Baland’s attention was snagged by the voice. He half turned to see Charlotte LeFevre approaching. Or as he now thought of her, Charlotte Weiss.

“I know there isn’t much time, sir, but you asked to see the hourly as soon as it was available.”

“We only have a moment,” he said. “Is there anything new on this business in Courbevoie?”

“There is one peculiarity. The blood we recovered from the carpet in the room—it wasn’t blood at all.”

He looked at her curiously. “What was it then?”

LeFevre referenced her phone. “Corn syrup, cocoa, and red food dye. Simple, but very convincing. I’m not sure what to make of it.”

Baland said nothing. The protocol officer looked pointedly at LeFevre, and said, “One minute.”

She backed away, saying, “We can discuss it further after the ceremony.” She scurried away and took a seat in the back row.

Baland heard someone whisper his name, and saw Roland beckoning him closer to the podium. He had been instructed to stand at the minister’s right shoulder for the duration of his remarks, which were to last roughly fifteen minutes. Baland edged closer and stood very still, trying to make sense of what LeFevre had just told him.

Roland began to speak. It was on the last word of his morning welcome, with the sun reflecting off Napoléon’s golden dome, that the bullet crashed into Zavier Baland’s skull.

*   *   *

Everyone heard the shot, followed by a distinct echo.

LeFevre saw Baland go down, and a frantic scramble of bodies ensued. Someone tackled Roland to the ground and covered him protectively. On realizing what had happened, most simply ran. A few took cover behind statues, and a handful of others, likely men and women with military experience, jumped into the empty moat surrounding the plaza—the best foxhole in all Paris.

LeFevre flew into action. She was the first to reach Baland’s side, and therefore the first to see it was hopeless. The bullet had struck above his left ear, and the damage was catastrophic. His eyes were locked in a forever gaze into a faultless morning sky.

LeFevre looked all around, and saw chaos in every quarter. She had no idea where the shot had come from.

SEVENTY-TWO

The principals were bundled away in armored limousines. When five minutes passed without further gunfire, a response began to organize on the stone plaza. Because LeFevre was dressed as a civilian, she flashed her senior DGSI credentials to every uniform in sight. She was soon the on-scene commander.

The mystery regarding the source of the shot was quickly resolved. A nearby policeman who’d been doing his job—looking outward from the ceremony and not watching it—reported seeing a small puff of smoke, and perhaps a muzzle flash, from a spot above the scaffolding that fronted the Colombian embassy. By the time his story reached LeFevre, fifteen minutes had passed since the shooting, and an armored vehicle with a tactical response team was just arriving. The team had been on alert for forty-eight hours, but there was no weariness or lack of urgency in anyone’s step as they fanned into position. LeFevre briefed the commander, and they quickly pinpointed the shooter’s hide above the embassy entrance. An assault squad of four men was dispatched, and sixty seconds after they scaled the platform and disappeared behind the high wall, the leader waved an all-clear signal.

The commander and LeFevre were next up, making use of a ladder that was resting against the scaffolding. Thirty feet above the sidewalk they followed the squad leader inside a narrow gap behind the exterior wall. Everyone looked down at the body of a thickset young woman. She was resting facedown, one arm bent awkwardly under her torso, and her opposing shoulder was still pressed against the butt of a rifle. There was a gaping wound on her temple. Perhaps out of habit, one of the tactical men said something about calling an ambulance.

Another member of the squad emerged from deep in the crawlspace, and said, “There are tools in back, including a big masonry drill.”

The commander acknowledged the information, then looked at LeFevre.

She knelt down and took the liberty of half rolling the body. One side of the woman’s head was destroyed, but her face, dark-skinned and with a prominent curving nose, was relatively undamaged. LeFevre was quite sure she was looking at the fugitive they’d been after, the woman who’d shot Director Michelis.

She tried to put together the sequence of what had happened, but saw only half an answer. Then she noticed the commander and his squad leader inspecting something near the wall. LeFevre got up and joined them.

“What is it?” she asked.

The commander pointed to the rifle, which was trained outward through a vertical slot. “I would say this is your assassin. Her weapon lines up perfectly with where the director was standing. Ballistics will easily confirm it.”

“I can see that much. But who shot her? One of ours?”

He cocked his head. “If any policeman did this, they would have taken credit by now.” The commander gave her a circumspect look. “Tell me—how many shots did you hear?”

“Only one … although, I do remember a very distinct echo.”

The commander exchanged a glance with his senior subordinate. “Check into it,” he said.

The man nodded and disappeared.

“Check into what?” LeFevre asked.

The commander leaned down and looked through a second hole in the wall. It was far smaller than the first, and very near where the body was resting.

“Do you think she drilled these holes?” LeFevre asked.

“Most likely.”

“Was the smaller one a mistake? Maybe drilled at the wrong angle?”

The commander stifled a response. He stood and gestured for LeFevre to have a look through the smaller aperture. She knelt down a second time, and found herself peering through a circular hollow the diameter of a soda can. It gave a pinhole view across the terrace of Invalides, then down the length of Rue de Grenelle, where traffic ran oblivious to the nearby tragedy.

“I don’t see anything,” said LeFevre.

“Neither do I. But I think we should have a closer look.”

*   *   *

It took less than an hour to discover the second shooter’s perch.

The tactical team commander picked out the building with remarkable acuity. During a long walk up Rue de Grenelle, and with regular glances over his shoulder, he had paused suddenly where the road made a slight bend. Beyond that, Invalides would no longer be in sight. Directly in front of them stood a tall residential complex.

Forensic teams were brought in quickly and swarmed through the building. Operating under the commander’s guiding principle, they began searching residences that had a line of sight to the distant embassy. Of particular interest was a vacant unit that had recently gone up for sale. How the killer had gained access to the home would be thrashed out later, but there was no denying what everyone saw within seconds of going inside. A perfectly round hole, roughly ten inches in diameter, had been cut from an east-facing window—the circle of glass removed was on the floor beneath, still attached to a suction cup. Across the room, a chair had been pulled up to the granite kitchen island. It was here that the most definitive evidence was discovered—a technician confirmed traces of gunshot residue on the stylish green granite.

LeFevre stood next to the commander as technicians began going over the place. She said, “So this is it—he was here.”

“I’m convinced,” the commander replied. He turned to face her. “You just said ‘he.’ What makes you think it was a man?”

“An educated guess,” she hedged.

The commander didn’t belabor the point. He looked around the kitchen floor. “I don’t see a casing. It’s all very professional.”

Looking into the distance, LeFevre recognized the reverse view of what she’d seen through the tiny hole in the embassy wall—the building in which they were standing would have been somewhere in that urban picture. Then she remembered something else. “The echo I heard. It wasn’t an echo at all. He shot her right after she killed Baland.”

The commander nodded. “Almost instantaneously. With his scope trained on the smaller opening in the wall, his field of view would easily have included the larger one. He would have seen the muzzle flash of her shot. I’d guess his bullet arrived about four seconds later. Three if he was very good. At that point, she would have been looking through her own scope to confirm her shot.” He left the rest unsaid. “It’s a classic countersniper kill.”

“Countersniper,” she repeated rhetorically. LeFevre looked searchingly across the park. “How far away is that?”

“Seven hundred and eighty-one meters.”

She looked at him incredulously.

He patted his tactical vest. “We carry laser range finders—I took a quick shot.”

“But that opening we saw … you’re telling me he put a bullet through a tennis-ball can from almost half a mile away. I don’t see how anyone could do that.”

“Anyone? Certainly not. But there are a few who might. In truth, he got a little lucky. I saw marks on the inner walls of your ‘tennis-ball can.’ The bullet grazed the stone and ricocheted. Judging by the assassin’s wound, I would say the round tumbled the last half meter. At that point it hardly mattered. The velocity was sufficient, and the round was heading through a tunnel to a target only inches away.”

LeFevre’s gaze fixed on the distant Colombian embassy. She could barely see the front door, let alone the tiny aperture. She heaved out a sigh. “What else?”

The commander regarded the distant building. “I see one other thing that suggests a professional—although it’s quite circumstantial.”

LeFevre only waited for an explanation.

“You see … he didn’t take a follow-up shot. It would have been quite easy to do. From here the shooter had no way to see his target. He knew where she was and how to reach her, but there was no way to tell if she was struck by the first round.”

“So why didn’t he shoot again?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself, and can think of only one reason.” He turned to face her. “Whoever your man is—he is very confident in his abilities.”

SEVENTY-THREE

Windsom swung lazily on her anchor in a halfhearted trade wind. She was laid up in the lee of a half-moon cove, a nameless spit of sand somewhere north of Papua. The sea shimmered in the early light, shades of blue on the surface reflecting what lay beneath—the dark shadows of coral heads twenty feet down, lighter shades speaking of a bleached-sand bottom.

Christine secured Davy’s life jacket and lowered him into the runabout.

“Birds!” he said eagerly, pointing to the island.

“Not now,” she said. “We’ll go ashore later.”

The two of them had explored the cay yesterday. They’d found two palm trees and a few stands of grass between them. A certain species of tern had taken to nesting on the high ground, battling a certain species of crab for real estate above the tide line. Davy had enjoyed walking among the birds, who seemed to have no fear of humans.

This morning, however, they had a different destination. Probably the only other destination within a hundred miles.

Her name was Mistral, and she’d arrived four days ago. Neighbors for as long as their respective anchors held. The Smiths were from New Zealand, a couple slightly older than her and David. They had a nine-year-old girl named Nina, who was getting along famously with Davy.

“Nina?” Davy asked as Christine navigated the hundred yards to Mistral.

“Yes, Nina!”

Davy bounced happily on the wooden seat. Play dates on the high sea were a rare event, and for that reason the children’s age difference fell to irrelevance. John and Linda were already on deck, coffee in hand. Their Beneteau 55 was longer than Windsom, a handsome boat but without the utilitarian width of a catamaran.

“Good morning!” Christine hailed as she idled the runabout toward a boarding ladder and tied on.

“Good morning,” said John. He helped Davy up the ladder. “Coffee’s on.”

“Sounds wonderful.” Once aboard, Christine exchanged a hug with the adults, and watched as Nina collected Davy and took him below. She’d known these people for only a few days, but they already seemed like family—a familiarity brought on, she knew, by their shared isolation.

“Dinner at my place tonight?” Christine asked.

“By all means,” Linda said. “What can I bring?”

“How about a few of those lobster John’s been snagging?”

“Done.”

They chatted for a time, John his usual gregarious self—a seemingly universal Kiwi trait, in Christine’s experience. Linda, however, was more subdued, and by the time John went below to feed the children, Christine was feeling uneasy.

“Is something wrong?” she asked once they were alone.

“Well … I hope not. But there’s something you should know. Remember a few days ago, when you asked to use our internet for a search on that man your husband was meeting in Paris?”

Christine nodded cautiously. Her self-imposed communications blackout on Windsom had been driving her to distraction, and at the time David had been gone for a week with no word. When she’d met the Smiths and seen Mistral’s first-rate satellite suite, she hadn’t been able to hold back. She explained that her own service was being dodgy, and that David had gone to Paris to meet someone named Zavier Baland. She wanted to learn more about the man.

With Linda at her side, Christine had searched the online news services. She discovered that the man David thought he’d killed so many years ago was not only still alive and working as a counterterrorism officer, but had also beaten back an assassination attempt the day before. He’d wounded his attacker in the process. Christine’s world had gone into free fall until the last paragraph of the article, where she learned the attacker had been female. Later, as she regained her bearings back on Windsom, she found herself wondering how many people could be gunning for the man. Might Mossad have assigned someone besides David to the job? There were no clear answers, and since that time she’d soldiered on in the face of two uncomfortable certainties: David was unaccounted for, and Baland remained unharmed.

“Yes, I remember what we found,” Christine said, her words seeming distant.

“Have you heard from your husband?”

“No … why do you ask?”

“I did another search this morning. There have been a number of terrorist attacks in France in recent days. The man you asked about, Baland. He was killed—shot dead by a sniper Saturday morning in Paris. Nearly two days ago now.”

All Christine could manage in reply was, “A sniper, you say?”

“Yes. But the good news is, the assailant was also killed.”

“Oh … I see.” Christine was trying to construct a sentence, something about whether the attacker’s identity had been released, when a distant sound intervened.

They both looked to the far end of the atoll and saw a seaplane approaching. The rumble of its engine rose slowly, but soon overpowered every other sound as it came directly overhead. The aircraft was red with a white stripe, set on top of long white pontoons. It looked tiny against the endless blue sky. Passing directly over Windsom, the aircraft banked to its left in a wide half circle and began easing down toward the protected waters of the lagoon.

“Could that be David?” Linda asked.

Christine didn’t have an answer. Her eyes were riveted to the little seaplane as its floats kissed the azure water, and then a trail of white spray erupted as it settled on the lagoon. As the craft steered toward the tiny beach, she realized one of two people was going to step off. Either Anton Bloch or her husband. If it was Bloch, it could mean only one thing.

The engine clattered to a rough idle as the aircraft nosed to the shoreline. Strangely, Christine found herself overtaken by a sense of ease. She saw two figures inside, one obviously the pilot. One of Davy’s infectious chuckles rose from below. Her heartbeat, her breathing—everything seemed to go on hold until a tall, athletic figure stepped out on a pontoon and jumped ashore.

Christine breathed again.

“Yeah,” she said, “that’s David. He always did know how to make an entrance.”

*   *   *

She took the runabout to the beach to collect her husband, leaving Davy on Mistral with the Smiths—he was playing contentedly with Nina, and Christine suspected a private moment with his father might be needed.

The seaplane was already churning its way back to deeper water. David stood on the shoreline, his shoes in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. Christine never slowed and nearly ran him down with the dinghy, the outboard kicking up behind as it hit the sand bottom. She leapt out of the boat, and he dropped what he was holding and took her in his arms.

Neither said anything for a time. They simply held each other, a salve for the hardships they’d both endured in recent days. David finally pushed away, and said, “Where’s Davy?”

“On Mistral with—”

“Who are they?” he said in a clipped tone.

Christine only stared at him.

He closed his eyes. She saw the tension drain out of him like a sponge released from a grip, taking its true shape and pulling in air. He drew her close again and buried his face in her hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in her ear.

“It’s all right. I know it’s hard to turn off that switch.”

They fell quiet again, simply happy to be close. Eventually she took his hand and led him to the only furniture on the island—a downed trunk from an old palm tree that had either fallen or been washed ashore. They sat in the building heat, the sun on their backs.

He said, “I tried to get a message through a few days ago.”

“I didn’t get it. I kept everything turned off like we agreed. How did you even know where we were?”

“Our security needs a little tweaking. We can talk about that later.”

“Our new neighbors have a good comm system. I got the news just a few minutes ago,” she said. “Baland was killed.”

“Was he?”

Christine eyed him with a narrow gaze. She remembered Linda mentioning the time of the attack, and she did the time-zone math. “It happened forty-two hours ago.” The words came out almost like an accusation.

“I didn’t pull the trigger. At least, not on him. The way it all went down … it was complicated.”

An awkward silence ensued. “Okay,” she said. “We can leave it at that—if that’s what you want.”

He pulled in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “No, we should talk about it. I want you to know everything.”

He went day by day, giving particular attention to the endgame. He explained how he’d confronted Malika in his room, and how with the help of another kidon he staged his own death. He told her how the other kidon, whose name he had never even learned, provided a second long-range weapon. Then the setup at Invalides, and the two final shots.

When he stopped talking, Christine thought about it for a time. “So you arranged both their deaths.”

“Yes.”

“I understand your reasons … but why did you do it in such a roundabout way? I mean, I hate how I’m thinking, but wouldn’t it have been easier to simply shoot her when she was in your room, then assassinate Baland the next day?”

“Separately, yes. But it’s important to think forward. Consider the consequences. If I’d killed Malika in my room, I would have had a body to deal with. If her death was discovered, I’d have ended up as the prime suspect in her killing. The hotel staff would have had no trouble describing me, and that would have made it hard to get near Baland the next day. On top of all that, if I’d been the one to assassinate Baland—every policeman in France would be after me right now. And they’d keep looking for a very long time.”

With a troubling adeptness, Christine saw his logic. “The way it worked out, Baland’s killer has been identified. And she’s dead.”

He nodded. “It’s the woman they’ve been looking for—the one who already tried to kill him once. I heard they even have her DNA to match. Not much there to investigate.”

“And as to who might have killed her?”

“Someone killed an assassin two seconds too late. If a policeman had done it, they’d give him a medal. Honestly, I doubt the French will be paying overtime to figure that one out. They’ll go through the motions, but as we speak … it’s probably halfway to being a cold case.”

She looked at him uncomfortably. “That’s all very … efficient.”

He looked away. “That’s never how it feels. The world is an ever-changing place. At any given time, in the circumstances of a particular moment … I do what’s necessary. Nothing more, nothing less.”

The seaplane began its takeoff run over the glass-smooth lagoon, its engine violating the silence and scattering terns across the island. The big pontoons lifted, and the aircraft levitated, slow and ungainly as it clawed into the sky. Soon it was no more than a speck on the southern horizon.

“Do you think it will help?” she asked.

“What?”

“That Baland, or whoever he is, is dead?”

“Maybe … a little. But others will take his place. Just like ISIS will find a new set of so-called leaders.”

“The ones who let God take responsibility for their crimes?”

“That’s nothing new. People have been killing in the name of religion for thousands of years. And not just Islam.”

“It seems so irrational.”

“It’s like throwing knives at a sunset.”

Christine didn’t like the darkness she felt building. “I think you’ll like our new neighbors,” she said.

“Kiwis?”

“How’d you know?”

He pointed toward Mistral and she saw the New Zealand flag astern. “Right. Your legendary powers of observation.”

“How’s my boy?”

“One week smarter.”

“Wish I could say that.” He got up and strolled toward the water’s edge. “I was thinking about heading west, maybe the Med this fall. What do you think?”

“I think the Med’s a long way from here. But I like Italian food.” She noticed the package next to his shoes in the sand. “Bring me some lingerie?”

“Wouldn’t do you justice.”

“Clever answer, Slaton.”

He retrieved the bag and showed her a set of oversized LEGO bricks. “I got it at the airport in Manila.”

“He’ll love it.”

“I like that memory game, but I think we’re all ready for something new.”

“I think you’re tired of losing, so you’re changing the game.”

“Maybe so.”

She got up and stepped toward the runabout. “Okay, I think it’s time for some introductions. Oh, and we’re having lobster tonight—assuming you and John are reasonably proficient hunter-gatherers.”

Together they pushed the little boat into deep water. Christine vaulted aboard, but watched David hesitate. “What’s wrong?”

Standing shin-deep in the Pacific, he said, “I worry sometimes … about Davy.”

“Davy’s fine. We’re doing the best we can, and today that’s pretty good.”

“I know, but … what if he ends up being like me?”

The question was like a loaded gun. Christine saw right away that he wanted to take it back. She looked at him curiously, and almost hedged with, In what way? What she said was, “I hope he turns out just like you.”

After a moment, Slaton grinned. “Clever answer, Doctor.”

Catch a sneak peek at Ward Larsen’s newest thriller …

Cutting Edge

ONE

The second time he died was more difficult than the first. More difficult because he saw it coming.

He stirred to consciousness between the two events, twin sources of light above him seeming like a pair of struggling midday suns behind thick layers of cloud. He was flat on his back, that much he knew, and beneath him were sheets that had been washed too many times and stretched tight over a thin mattress.

The voices were every bit as opaque as the light, a man and a woman, neither familiar. He could make out most of their words, a disjointed back-and-forth that seemed to arrive through a soup can.

How long had he been awake? A minute? Two? Long enough.

A shadow blocked out the suns, and again he willed his eyes to open. There was no response. All voluntary movement had ceased. Then a brush of warm breath came across his face, moist and without scent.

And somewhere, he was sure, a needle. His first hint, moments ago, had been the smell of alcohol. Not the beery scent of a pub or anything from a crystalline decanter, but the biting, antiseptic variety. His arm was pulled straight, and two fingers probed the flesh of his useless right arm in that time-honored way. Tap tap. Tap tap. Searching for a fat, well-formed vein. Then, apparently, success. A cool wet swab rubbed the flesh of his inner arm.

“What’s the point of that?” said the man.

“Oh, right,” the woman replied. “Force of habit, I guess.”

The patient was not prone to panic—no man of his background could be—yet a sense of desperation began to settle. Move an arm, a hand! A finger, for God’s sake! He tried mightily, yet every muscle in his body seemed detached, like a machine whose gears had disconnected. The pain in his head was excruciating, unyielding, as if his skull might explode. But at least it told him he was alive. What had happened?

“Want me to do it?” the man asked.

“No, I’m okay.”

“It bothered you last time.”

“I said I’m okay,” she countered tersely.

Open your eyes! Move! No response.

The jab came quick and sharp, but was over in an instant. Nothing compared to the constant throb in his head. What followed, however, was worse than anything he’d ever experienced. A terrible sensation of cold. No, not cold. Frost coursing through his veins. It crawled into his arm, toward his shoulder, numbing everything in its path. Leaving no more than twitching, frozen nerves in its wake. He battled for alertness, fought to think logically as the glacier inside him flowed toward his neck and chest. When it reached his heart, piercing like an icepick, the first flutter of oblivion arrived.

He felt a cool circle of metal clamp to his chest. A stethoscope.

“Almost,” she said. “This one’s going fast.”

“I’ll get the bag.”

The lights above began to fade, a gathering overcast. The voices fell to no more than unintelligible mutterings. His only remaining sense was that of touch. He could still feel the sheets, the needle. The cold within.

But why can’t I move?

His ending thoughts were oddly lucid and vivid. The needle being pulled. Adhesive sensor pads getting plucked from his chest. His body was rocked from side to side as they worked cool plastic under him. A zipper closing, beginning at his toes, then a long, practiced pull up over his knees and waist. Over his chest and face.

And finally, all at once, the darkness was absolute.

The nurse watched her coworker shuffle the sealed gray bag back and forth, adjusting it to the center of the gurney.

“Why no autopsy on this one?” he asked.

“Those were the doctor’s instructions. He said he already knew what went wrong with the procedure.” The nurse clicked off the brake and began wheeling the gurney toward the door. “I can take it from here. Why don’t you get a head start on the cleanup.”

“Yeah … I guess you’re right. We won’t be using this room again for at least a few months. Can you believe they’re going to pay us to just sit at home until the next phase?”

Neither commented on that thought, which only added to the nurse’s discomfort.

“Wait!” he said. “I don’t see the last syringe we used. We have to account for that.”

“Crap!” she muttered. “I must have dropped it into the sharps container.”

He frowned at her. “Force of habit again?”

She said nothing, but paused at the door, watched him peer into a red plastic box full of spent needles.

“Okay,” he said. “I think maybe I see it. I’ll just get rid of the whole box.”

“Good,” she said. “And do me a favor, don’t tell the doctor about that—you know how he can be.”

“No problem,” he said, then adding, “Maybe we could get together for dinner tonight.”

Having worked with the man for six months, she was accustomed to his clumsy come-ons. Even so, being delivered from behind a surgical mask, by a man wearing a gown and fabric booties—the proposition seemed inane by even his standards. He was nearly sixty, with a big belly and a bad comb-over, and as far as she knew had never married. She was matronly, on the high side of forty, and over the whole damned dating thing. If that wasn’t enough, his timing couldn’t have been worse. She said without flinching, “I have plans.”

Before he could respond, she pushed though the swinging doors and turned left down the hall. She wondered how he’d ended up here. Other than the doctor, there were only four of them—carefully selected to be sure, and competent, but each with some strike that had left them outcasts in their professions. Men and women who were happy to have a job at the price of discretion. At the elevator she hit the call button and set the brake on the gurney. The incinerator in the basement was already fired up.

The cab arrived, and she pushed the gurney inside and took a last look down the hall. When the doors sucked closed, she ignored the button labeled B and instead pushed 1.

TWO

One week later

It is a shoreline that begs for words like desolate and austere. On a map it forms a ragged line between Maine and the North Atlantic, a whipsaw collection of coves and promontories that defy any compass, and whose nameless breaks and repetitive treelines seem designed by God himself to confuse mariners. The ribbon of shore muddles its way north out of the affluent landings of Cape Elizabeth and Kennebunk, only to be swallowed hundreds of miles later by the indifferent wilds of Canada. Standing helpless in the middle is the place called Cape Split, a waypoint to nothingness more ignored than forgotten.

If there is a beach it is in name only, a place where rock coexists with sand, and where great tidal shelves lounge belligerently on the threshold of a cold and tireless sea. Stout stands of pine and spruce shoulder straight to the shore, towering over the shattered skeletons of ancestors washed up at their feet, and leaning ever so slightly seaward as if anticipating the next big blow. Just offshore, islands of submerged rocks rise and fall with the tide, and deep in the valleys between them rest the remains of innumerable boats whose hardy survivors find their names echoed generations later in the nearby villages.

Shore birds by the thousands build nests in the low cliffs, and thick-pelted animals teem through the forest. Indeed, if there is an underrepresented species on Cape Split it is the humans, well outnumbered in summer by moose, and on the leading edge of winter, after the annual outward migration, a population that cannot even keep numbers with the resident black bears. Those unreliable souls who depart Cape Split after the fair and brief summer for the most part leave behind sprawling seaside mansions, whereas the year-round residents, a more hearty and practical bunch, tend toward cottages, these also by the sea, but far enough back in the pines to cut the lashings from the inevitable nor’easters. It was in one of these small lodgings, coyly south-facing and near the Eastern Pitch, that the nurse had taken up residence.

She had come to the coast nine years ago—nine years exactly, because people here tracked such things as a matter of pride. She was not a local, but to her credit not from the city, and she kept to herself a bit more than she should have. There were rumors of a bad divorce, others of an inheritance pirated by siblings. It was all quite dramatic, and likely no more than gossip. But she was a nurse. There had been no mistaking the proper bandage she’d put on the young boy who cut himself on the rocks two summers ago, nor the dutiful CPR she’d performed, to no avail, on old man Ferguson the winter before. At least one year-round resident had seen her car parked behind an urgent care clinic in Bangor, although he couldn’t say whether she’d been there as a patient or an employee. She was polite to the clerk at the grocery in Columbia, and equally so when gassing her old Honda every Sunday at the Circle K on Route 1. Her only defined shortfall, if it could be characterized as such, was laid bare by the garbageman, who swore by all that was distilled that the nurse’s recycle bucket was habitually filled with enough wine bottles to maintain three thirsty men. Still, as with her social reticence, that was her business. There were two types of year-rounders in Cape Split—those whose ancestors swam onto its rocks, and the rest who came to escape the dispensed ills of life.

Her weathered cottage—because no place with such a view could be called a shack—was little more than four walls of shaker siding, once a happy blue, and a roof that didn’t leak. One path led to the road, another to the sea. The nearest neighbor was half a mile in either direction. It was a small place, and private, which here was saying something. And by one reliable account, for the last three weeks the recycle bucket had been empty.

Joan Chandler rose early that morning, not much after the sun, and stepped onto the small porch that overlooked the sea. She stretched gingerly, thinking the light seemed unusually intense. Her heart was racing even before her morning coffee, and she steadied one trembling hand on the rail. The trees were silent in a slack wind, the sea serene. Other than a few gulls wheeling in the distance, the world outside was uncommonly still. How fitting, she thought.

Her patient hadn’t stirred in the week since she’d brought him here. Or for that matter, in the week before, not that anyone was counting. He had stabilized, as far as she could tell, although her equipment was laughably rudimentary. The portable heart monitor she had stolen from work, although it would never be missed because it had been closeted for dodgy leads. They were scads of redundant equipment in the small place where she worked—lab, clinic, she’d never known what to call it—and she’d reasoned that one fault-prone monitor wouldn’t be missed. God, what a budget they had. Everything was new, full digital suites suitable for surgery fitted into all four rooms. Most outlandish were the imaging machines: functional magnetic resonance imaging, gamma knife, helical x-ray CT, all brand new and perfectly calibrated.

Chandler knew little about any of that—she’d been recruited for the operating room. Her baseline clinical experience was years ago, right after nursing school, and like so many in her profession she had gravitated to a more lucrative specialty: perioperative nursing. She’d made a good living before her troubles—an abusive husband, two miscarriages, and a financially ruinous divorce. Her drinking got the better of her, costing her a good job—a career, in truth, or so she’d thought. Then she’d been granted one last chance, the most peculiar of job offers.

She pulled open the weather door, which creaked heavily, and stepped back inside to check on her patient. There was no chart at the foot of his bed. For that matter, there wasn’t really a bed, her little used trundle substituting for a proper hi-low setup. Aside from the heart monitor, there was little else. An IV pole, now empty, and a few supplies on a shelf: bandages mostly, and an assortment of medications to ward off infection and manage pain. Like the rest, all pilfered from the clinic since the patient had arrived. Since she’d made her decision.

She took a pulse and a blood pressure reading. Much better than last week. His color was improving, and respiration seemed normal, not the shallow rasps of seven days ago when she’d wheeled him up the porch in the collapsible wheelchair that had barely fit into the trunk of her Honda.

He was a good-looking young man. Short brown hair with streaks of blond from the distant summer, regular features, and a swimmer’s build. She checked his eyes now and again for pupil dilation, and found them vacant and clear and, she couldn’t deny, a storybook blue. Chandler wondered how different they would look with life behind them. Aside from the legend behind his injuries, which might or might not be true, she had little background information on patient B—that was how he was referred to at the clinic, and of course she knew why. But she had learned his name. Against regulations, she’d rifled through the doctor’s files and found it. She had wanted that much. If there was a date of birth in the record she hadn’t been able to find it, but she guessed him to be thirty, maybe a bit younger. Fifteen years her junior, more or less. Almost young enough to be the son she’d never had.

Chandler sighed. She went to the kitchen and put the coffeepot on the stove.

He woke just before noon, while she was changing the bandage on his head. His eyes cracked open, only slightly at first, then suddenly came wide. Even in that moment, vacant and imprecise, the eyes were as blue as any she’d seen.

“Well, hello,” she said in her best nurse’s sing-song.

He responded by blinking once.

“Take it easy. You’ve had an accident.”

He looked around the place, trying to get his bearings. His lips began to quiver as he attempted to build a word.

“Go slow, it’s all right. You’ll have all the time you need to recover.”

“Wa … water,” he rasped.

For the first time in two months, the nurse smiled.

THREE

By the third day the patient was sitting up in bed and eating solid food. As he downed a second plate of pasta, he asked, “What can you tell me about the accident I was in—I don’t remember anything.”

“That’s often the case, Trey.” They had settled that much the first day. Trey DeBolt, originally from Colorado Springs, twenty-seven years old and single. He was a Coast Guard rescue swimmer, one of the most physically demanding specialties in all the services—and probably the only reason he was still alive. “You took a beating when your helicopter went down. Your right shoulder was damaged, and there were a number of cuts and contusions. The most significant injuries were to your head.”

“No kidding. How about another Percocet?”

“No.”

“I need something.”

“Only on schedule.” Chandler said it firmly, no mention that stock was running low.

“I remember a hospital … at least I think I do. Now I’m in a beach house?”

He had heard the surf yesterday, and she’d admitted that much. “I told you, it’s complicated. I’ll explain everything when you’re stronger. For now you’re safe, you’re recovering. What’s the last thing you do remember?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Obviously.”

Trey DeBolt smiled, another first. “I remember reporting for work at the station … Kodiak, Alaska.” His eyes went far away, something new recollected. “Then we got scrambled for a mission. There was a rescue.” After a lengthy pause, he shook his head. “I can’t remember where we went, or what we were after. A foundering ship, a lost crewman. It was a dire situation, I know that much. The weather was awful, but … no, I can’t remember anything else.”

“Parts are coming back—that’s good. I can’t tell you any details of the accident. I only know that when they brought you into surgery you were in bad shape.”

“What about my crew, Lt. Morgan and Adams? Mikey?”

“You were the only survivor, Trey—I’m sorry.”

He was silent for a time. “That’s a Class-A mishap. There will be an investigation. Has anyone come to interview me?”

“I’m sure they will. In time.”

“When?” he demanded. His first touch of impatience.

“I don’t know.”

He looked out the window. “This isn’t Alaska.”

“You’re in Maine.”

“Maine?”

“You were brought here because you needed our doctors. They specialize in head trauma, the best in the world. Tell me—who will be wondering about you?”

“Wondering? What do you mean—like my commander?”

“No, he’s been notified.”

DeBolt’s eyes narrowed. “She.”

“Sorry—I was only told it had been done. I was thinking more along the lines of family.”

“It’s all in my personnel file.”

She waited.

“My father is dead, mom is in Colorado Springs. But she’s got early-onset Alzheimer’s, so I doubt she’s been told anything.”

“Brothers or sisters?”

“None.”

“Significant other?”

“I’m between relationships—isn’t that what everyone says now? I’ve been stationed on an island in the Aleutians for a year, and the guy-to-girl ratio is pretty bleak.”

“All right.”

“I’m taking classes, an online program. At some point my professor will wonder what became of me.”

“What are you studying?”

“I’m aiming for a bachelor’s degree in biology. I like the Coast Guard, but I’m not sure I’ll last twenty years.”

She stood abruptly. “Your appetite is improving. I should go for provisions. Is there anything you’d like?”

“Drugs.”

She frowned.

“Maybe an omelet. And some OJ.”

“That I can manage.” She was out the door.

The room fell quiet. DeBolt looked all around. He tried to remember more about Alaska. A small engine kicked to life, followed by tires crunching over gravel.

He fell fast asleep.

It was sleep in only the roughest sense, troubled dreams jolting him in and out of consciousness. Shooting images, angular shapes, letters and numbers, all colliding in his mind as he drifted just beyond the grip of consciousness. He was rescued by a noise, a sharp wooden creak. DeBolt opened his eyes and looked all around. He saw no one.

“Joan?”

No reply.

He wondered how long he’d been out, but there was no way to tell. Not a clock anywhere. He turned his head slowly, examining the place in detail, and found every limit of movement a new adventure in pain.

What was it about this room?

Then it struck him. It was completely devoid of anything electronic. No television, no computer, not even a microwave in the tiny kitchen. He had yet to see Joan use a cell phone, which in this day and age was striking. Was the place that remote, completely out of cell coverage? Or was his nurse an anti-technology type, a back to basics pioneer with a vegetable garden and two chickens out back, a wind generator on the chimney?

Whatever.

He sat up straight, fighting a stab of pain in his skull. Never one to sit still, DeBolt began moving his arms, up and down, rotating in expanding circles. Not bad. He graduated to leg lifts, but that somehow involved the muscles in his upper back, and a bolt of lightning struck the base of his neck. He lay back down.

A car crunched closer on gravel outside. DeBolt heard the engine die, a door open and close. Then an unfamiliar voice as Joan Chandler began conversing with someone—apparently a neighbor. Most of it he didn’t catch. But he heard enough.

Soon she was inside with an armload of groceries, the visitor having been sent packing.

“Who was that?” he asked.

She busied herself unloading two paper sacks. DeBolt would have thought her a reusable-bag sort.

“Bob Denton, lives in town. He does a bit of handiwork for me now and again. Said he was in the neighborhood, and he wondered how my weather stripping was holding up.”

“You told him my name was Michael.”

A lengthy pause. “I have a nephew by that name.”

“You have a patient named Trey.”

She slammed a can of beans on the counter, her face tightening as she fought … what? Anger?

“Look,” said DeBolt, “I don’t mean to be ungracious. I appreciate all you’ve done for me. But this is no hospital. I’ve seen no doctors, and haven’t been allowed to contact anyone I know. What the hell is going on?”

She came to his bed and sat down on the edge. Instead of answering, she began unwrapping the wide bandage on his head. Once done, she took the old gauze to the bathroom and returned with two hand mirrors. She held them so he could see the wounds on the back of his skull. What he saw took his breath away. Two deep scars formed a V, joining near the base of his scalp, and three smaller wounds were evident elsewhere. There had to be a hundred stitches, but it all seemed to be healing; hair was beginning to grow back where his head had been shaved, covering the damage.

She turned the mirrors away.

After a long silence, he asked, “Will there be any long-term effects?”

“Some scarring of course, but the damage to your scalp was minimal. As long as you keep your hair a certain length, your appearance will be unchanged.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

She met his gaze. “The trauma to your brain was significant, but so far I see no evidence of cognitive impairment. Your speech and movement seem normal, which is a very good sign. But then, I’m no expert.”

“But I will see them at some point—experts.”

“Of course you will. Tell me, do you notice anything different?”

“In what way?”

“Mental processes, I suppose. Have you had any unusual thoughts or sensations?”

“I’m hungry, but that’s hardly unusual.”

She waited.

“No,” he finally said, “although I’m really not sure what you’re asking. There is something when I sleep, I suppose. I see things—angular shapes, light on dark.”

The nurse almost said something, but instead launched into a series of cognitive exams. She made him calculate a tip for a restaurant bill, spell a given word forward, then backward, arrange historical events in chronological order. When she asked him to draw a picture of his childhood home, an increasingly irritated DeBolt said, “If I earn a passing grade, will I be allowed out of the house?”

“You’re lucky to be alive right now, Petty Officer DeBolt.”

“And you’re lucky I’m not well enough to get up and walk away.”

“You will be soon. For your own sake, I hope you don’t. I hope you stay a bit longer.”

“How caring,” he said, his sarcasm falling to crassness. Realizing he’d crossed a line, he sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. When you’ve been a nurse as long as I have, you avoid taking things personally—force of habit.”

Those last words, the tone and intonation, clicked in DeBolt’s damaged brain like a light switch. Force of habit. “You—” he said tentatively, “you were there in the hospital. You put the needle in my arm.” He shivered inwardly, remembering the glacial sensation of the drug crawling through his body.

She didn’t answer right away. “Yes, I administered a special narcotic—it’s what saved you, Trey. There are other things that must remain unsaid for now, until your recovery is more complete. But please … please trust me when I say that I only want what’s best for you.”

DeBolt searched her open gaze, her earnest expression. And he did trust her.

FOUR

DeBolt was soon walking with confidence around the cottage and porch, and days later set out toward the rocky beachhead. The next weeks were full of rehabilitation, the intensity increasing and pain lessening until it was something near exercise. The nurse performed rudimentary tests: an eye chart on the far wall, whispered hearing evaluations, all of which DeBolt passed, or so he guessed because they were not repeated. She brought him clothes, ill fitting and—he was sure—purchased from a second-hand store. He thanked her for all of it.

The quandary of time was settled when she bought him a watch, a cheap Timex that promised but failed to glow in the dark. It was accurate enough, though, and DeBolt found strange exhilaration in keeping a schedule. Wake at 6:00. Soft run on the beach, three miles back and forth over the same quarter-mile stretch of rock-strewn sand. Breakfast at 7:10. Rest until 8:15. The running he hated—always had—and with obvious reluctance she allowed him to swim. He took to the water gratefully, but complained the cold was intolerable, and she managed to procure a used neoprene wetsuit, two sizes too large, that made the daily plunge bearable. Each day brought advances and, rare setbacks aside, DeBolt progressed in but one direction. The headaches lessened, and so correspondingly did his need for pain medication. New examinations were introduced—memory games, mathematical puzzles, cognitive exercises. She assured him in every case that he performed well.

Yet if the patient was improving, he sensed a notable decline in his caregiver. She seemed increasingly withdrawn and distant, moreso each time he pressed her for an explanation of how he’d ended up in a beach house in New England after the frozen Bering Sea. Her descending mood was more apparent each day, relentless and foreboding. One morning, as she counted his push-ups on the beach, he spotted a young girl far in the distance. She was eight, perhaps ten years old, prancing barefoot through tide pools with a net and a bucket. As she neared the edge of the rock outcropping where she was gathering creatures, DeBolt recognized a shift in the sea beyond—a strong rip current funneling offshore. He said they should warn the girl to stay clear of the water. Chandler responded by immediately ushering him shoreward.

DeBolt complied at first, but then stopped halfway to the house, fixed and immovable—his first resistance to any of her instructions.

“Tell me one thing,” he said. “Besides you, does anyone know where I am?”

“No.”

“I’m in the service. A soldier who doesn’t report his whereabouts is considered AWOL. That’s a crime under military law.”

“I understand. Soon I’ll explain everything … I promise.”

After considering it for some time, he turned and went into the house.

That night she sat on the porch with a glass and a full bottle. She emptied both in silence, and sometime near midnight went unsteadily to her room. He heard her bed creak once, then nothing.

The weather was taking its first turn to winter. Before sunset, DeBolt had watched banks of slate-gray cloud whipping in fast and low, and he noticed that the ubiquitous flocks of seagulls had disappeared. The forest began to groan under a pulsating wind, and waves thundered ashore in a continuous announcement, absent the punctuating gaps of receding stillness.

After a lonely meal, DeBolt pulled a dog-eared novel from a bookshelf and went to the trundle bed, more inviting now since the monitors and IV pole had been pushed aside. As he crossed the room he looked through the open bedroom door and saw Chandler splayed awkwardly across her bed. He paused, studied her for a moment, then entered the room hesitantly. Her hair was stiff and matted, folded to one side, and her nightdress crumpled—completely still, she looked like a long-forgotten doll on a child’s closet shelf. He doubted she had moved since passing out. DeBolt guessed she might be attractive if she wanted to be, yet her focus on his recovery was so absolute, so single-minded, it seemed to preclude even her own upkeep. Not for the first time, he wondered what was driving her.

Her blanket had slipped to the floor, and he retrieved it and covered her. Other than a slight tremor in one hand, she didn’t move. He turned back to the main room, and his eye was caught by a file folder on the doorside table. It was plain manila stock, and on the title tag DeBolt saw his name written in pencil, sloppy block letters that were unsettlingly familiar. It was his own copy of his Coast Guard medical records—a folder that should have been in his apartment in Alaska.

How the hell did that get here?

It occurred to DeBolt then that for all the diagnostic tests Chandler had performed, she’d never once taken a note. When he’d last seen the folder it had held perhaps fifty pages of military-grade paperwork. Now it looked exceedingly thin, and one page edged out from a corner. The positioning of the file on the table could not have been more obvious. He also noted that beneath the script of his name someone had added in black ink, META PROJECT, and below that OPTION BRAVO.

His eyes went to Chandler, then back to the folder. He picked it up and found but two sheets of paper inside. He had never seen either. On top was a printout of a news article from the Alaska Dispatch News, a four-paragraph summary of the crash of a Coast Guard MH-60 in the Bering Sea six weeks earlier. Again he saw META PROJECT and OPTION BRAVO scrawled in a hurried hand that was not his own. He read the article once, took a deep breath, then read it again. His eyes settled on one sentence in the second paragraph.

Confirmed to be killed in the accident were aircraft commander Lt. Anthony Morgan, copilot LTJG Thomas Adams, AN Michael Schull, and rescue swimmer PO2 Trey DeBolt.

He stared at it for a full minute. Confirmed to be killed …

With gauged caution, he lifted the page to see what was beneath. The second paper was of thicker bond, and carried a stamp and signatures, everything about it implying official weight. It was a death certificate issued by the state of Alaska. There were a few lines of legalese, and in the center two fields of information that finalized the shock:

Name of Deceased: Trey Adam DeBolt

Cause of death: blunt trauma to head/aircraft accident

FIVE

DeBolt did not sleep like the dead man he supposedly was. In recent nights he’d stirred frequently as bolts of light and dark, post-traumatic he was sure, coursed through his battered head. Now he lay awake trying only for control, some logic to replace the encroaching madness. The accident, severe injuries, a hospital stay he barely remembered. Chandler bringing him here, caring for him, isolating him. Her self-destructive behavior. There was simply no solution—every way DeBolt painted the facts, something seemed wrong, a stroke of color that clashed with the rest. In the end, he drew but one conclusion. His time here was drawing to an end.

But what would take its place? Return to Alaska and the Coast Guard? A cheery hello to friends and coworkers who’d already attended his funeral? He wondered if he could walk into his station and claim amnesia. I have no idea what happened, but here I am. The full truth, he decided, was not an option, because he saw no way to present it without harming Joan Chandler. She had brought him here, put him into hiding. Taken on face value, she could be accused of endangering a gravely ill patient by keeping him outside a proper hospital environment. Yet DeBolt knew otherwise. He was convinced she’d saved his life, and put herself at professional risk by doing so. So he would protect her, in turn, by taking the most difficult path—that of patience.

He was sure there was more, circumstances his nurse had not yet explained. Details that would cause everything to make sense. A file, perhaps, he had not yet seen.

*   *   *

He rose at his customary hour of six a.m., and dressed quietly so as not to disturb Chandler—even though she hadn’t moved since last night. DeBolt was on the beach before the sun lifted, ready for his morning run. The storm was building, and in the pre-dawn darkness he stood at the water’s edge and watched a rising sea. An intemperate wind whipped his hair, which was increasingly out of regulation. Rain appeared imminent, and he briefly weighed it as an excuse to postpone his run. DeBolt looked up and down the beach. He’d seen no one since the young girl at the tide pools, and today was no different, only brown rock and sea and walls of evergreen forest. Staring at the desolate scene, he was reminded that Joan Chandler was the only person on earth who knew he was still alive. It seemed simultaneously comforting and troubling.

The sun cracked the horizon, a brilliant arc of red, and DeBolt realized he had not put on his Timex. Without actually speaking, and for no particular reason, he formed a very deliberate mental question: What time does the sun rise today?

He was debating whether to go back for his watch—in order to time his run, and then the swim he would also not forego—when an odd sensation swept over him. It came like a strobe in his head, a tiny flash amid darkness. DeBolt blinked and closed his eyes, fearing he was suffering some manifestation of the injuries to his brain. An omen of complications.

Then, suddenly, he acquired a strange manner of focus. Ghosting behind tightly closed eyes he saw a perfectly clear set of numbers.

6:37 a.m.

DeBolt snapped his eyes open.

The sea and the rocks were there, steady and ever-present. The sky was unerring, coming alive in subtle colors. The apparition disappeared as abruptly as it had come. With a thumb and forefinger he rubbed the orbits of his eyes, pressing and massaging until the last glimmer was gone. Christ, he thought, now I’m seeing things.

He took a single step back, turned, and struck out east on a determined sprint.

*   *   *

“I got a hit,” said a young man from his basement workstation.

The woman at the computer next to him said, “What?”

They were located sixteen miles outside Washington, D.C., in a remote outpost run by DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. The building in which they worked was as new as it was unremarkable. Indeed, should the word nondescript ever be translated into an architectural style, the place could be held as a masterpiece. It was rectangular in shape, although not perfectly so, one gentle portico at the front entrance, and a slightly larger blister behind at the supply dock. What lay inside, however, was anything but ordinary. The first floor was dedicated to electronics and cooling, and twin diesel generators allowed independence from the local power grid. The second floor consisted of a few offices and conference rooms, all rarely occupied, and three banks of supercomputers that churned without rest. The roof was banded by a high concrete wall, inside of which lay over a dozen antennae, all sealed in radomes to give protection from the elements and, more to the point, from unwanted prying eyes. There was a road and a parking lot, both new, and enough surrounding acreage to put the nearest neighbor a comfortable two miles away. There had been one man, old and cantankerous, who’d lived less than a mile to the east, and who had held out for a ridiculous price during construction. In the end, he got it.

It was all built for what was in the basement.

“Really … I got a hit,” the young man repeated. “A primary response on node Bravo 7.”

She set down her Coke. “No, Chris, you did not get a hit. How could you?”

He leaned back and invited her to check his screen. She did, and saw the tiny warning flag and data bubble.

“Has to be a bug in the software,” she said.

“Could it be a test?” he ventured. “Do you think the general might input something like that to validate the system?” The general was the project director, Brigadier Karl Benefield.

“Could be,” she said. “That’s pretty much all we’re doing at this point, making sure everything works. You know our status—three months minimum before Phase II is active. There won’t be a valid flag like that until Phase V goes live, which is years away.”

“Should I report it?”

“Normally, I’d say yeah. But the general isn’t even around this week—I hear he’s buried in meetings to address software issues.”

“So what should I do?”

With no small degree of irritation, she leaned over and began typing on his keyboard. “There,” she said with finality, “all node interface alerts are disabled. We can bring it up at the next technical meeting, but for now just forget it.”

The young man looked at her questioningly, a Can we do that? expression.

The woman, who had been here for two years, since the project’s very beginning, ignored him and went back to her screen.

The two technicians had no way of knowing that the warning had also lit on a second computer thirteen miles away, in a much larger five-sided building. The reaction there was very different.

SIX

Over the course of that day, DeBolt said nothing about having seen the folder. Nurse Chandler didn’t ask if he had. The storm arrived in full gale, rain sheeting against the clapboard outer walls in what sounded like thousand-bullet volleys. Patient and caregiver hunkered down in the cottage, and shortly after dusk, as he cleaned up the remains of dinner, she caught him by surprise with, “You should go soon. You’re well enough.”

He weighed his response carefully, reflecting on what he’d learned last night. “Go where?”

“That’s up to you. But physically you’re ready—you’re getting stronger every day.” She was sitting at the counter, her nightly opener in hand.

“And what will you do? Stay here? Do that?”

She fell encased in a profound silence, and DeBolt let it run. The walls seemed to pull outward with each gust, then bend back in place—like the house itself was breathing, gasping as it fought the storm. Both were startled by what sounded like a gunshot, then a clatter as something struck the house. Moments later subdued scraping noises kept time with the wind.

“A big tree branch,” DeBolt said. “I should go outside and pull it away from the wall.”

She didn’t argue, which he took as agreement. DeBolt went to the door, ignoring an oversized slicker on a coatrack. As he reached for the handle, she said, “The surgery you had, Trey … it wasn’t only to make you well. It was to make you different.”

He paused where he was, staring at the door handle and waiting for more. Nothing came. He heard the empty glass hit the counter and the bottle slide. Heard the tree limb clawing at a windowpane. DeBolt went outside.

The wind hit him like a wall, and he leaned forward to make headway. Rain slapped his face and pelted his body. He found it at the southeast corner, a pine branch with a base as thick as his leg leaning against the cabin’s outer wall. He looked at the roof and a nearby window, saw no obvious damage, and began dragging the limb clear. DeBolt struggled mightily, the weight of the branch and the incessant wind conspiring against him. Feeling a stab of pain in his injured shoulder, he adjusted to a different grip until he had the limb far enough away. Out of breath from the exertion, he leaned against a tree and stared out at the sea. The night was black, no moon visible through the thick cloud cover, yet there was just enough ambient light to see whitecaps troweling the surface all the way to the horizon. Closer to shore he saw rows of massive breakers, and he watched them rise to height, poise in anticipation, then smash onto the beach, each stroke rearranging the shore in a roil of sand and foam.

DeBolt stood mesmerized. He’d been outside no more than five minutes, yet he was soaked to the core, his shirt sodden, hair matted to his head. He shouldered into the wind and walked toward the shoreline, drawn by some primal urge to witness nature’s fury up close. He was more familiar than most with the compulsion—that irrational human urge to test oneself, to step close to the edge and look fate in the eye. How many times had he seen it in Alaska? Fishermen and sailors who crossed the line of common sense, trying to lay one last longline or arrive home a day early. A few got lucky and beat the odds. The rest ended in one of three groups: those who were rescued, those whose bodies were recovered, and the rest who were never seen again.

His bare feet reached the surf, and the Atlantic swept in cold, gripping him up to his calves and then releasing in cycles. DeBolt looked up and down the beach, and in the faint light he saw nothing but the storm doing its work. Then, in his periphery, something else registered. Movement shoreward, near the cottage.

It was another talent DeBolt had acquired over the course of so many missions—the ability to separate the natural from the man-made. For thousands of hours his eyes had swept over open ocean searching for life rafts and boats, desolate shorelines for telltale wreckage. Objects made by man were more angular and symmetric that those occurring in nature. They moved against flows, with irregular motion, and created by-products of smoke and light. And that was what he saw at that moment—the smallest of lights, green and diffuse, moving counter to the wind near the cabin.

In a spill of illumination from the window he saw a dark figure rush onto the porch, followed by two more. Then a strobe of lightning captured everything momentarily, a frozen image DeBolt could barely comprehend: five men now, all wearing battle gear and carrying machine pistols, the barrels bulked by silencers. They worked without hesitation.

Two men battered through the cabin door. Chandler cried out. DeBolt heard shouting, a slammed door, followed by an explosion of crashing glass. He saw Chandler leap from the seaside bedroom window, glass shards bursting all around her. She landed in a heap, then scrambled to her feet and began to run. Within three steps she was cut down, muzzle flashes blinking from the window behind her, a matching clatter of mechanical pops. She dropped, a terrible leaden fall, and went completely still.

Seconds of silence followed, an agonizing stillness.

Without realizing it, DeBolt had sunk to one knee in the surf. He stared in horror, willing Chandler to move. Knowing she never would again. There was no time to wonder what was happening, or who they were. Three dark figures burst out of the house, weapons sweeping outward. DeBolt remained frozen, chill water sweeping over his legs. It was hopeless. The man in front, wearing some kind of night vision gear, looked directly at him.

DeBolt jumped to his feet and broke into a sprint. Only it wasn’t a sprint at all—the beach gripped him like quicksand, each footstep sucking in, holding him back. He heard a second volley of muffled pops, and the surf around him exploded. He was sixty yards from the cabin, but barely moving. The men behind him wore heavy gear. If he were fit, in prime condition, if he had a hard surface on which to run, he might be able to get away. As it was, wallowing through sodden sand, still recovering from severe injuries—DeBolt knew he didn’t have a chance. He angled higher up the beach, zigzagging as he went, and found more stable footing. He ran for his life.

The clatter behind him turned nearly constant, rounds striking left and right, chiseling rock and spraying sand. He glanced once over his shoulder and saw Chandler still there, unmoving, the squad of killers giving chase. DeBolt realized he had but one chance—the water. Long his adversary, it would have to become his refuge. He nearly turned toward it, but the idea of fighting the waves and the wind seemed overwhelming. Then he remembered, just a bit farther, in the lee of the natural jetty near the tide pools—the rip current.

He squinted against the rain and darkness, his bare feet flying over sand. He was trying to make out the flat outcropping when something struck his right leg. The pain was searing, but he didn’t slow down. DeBolt heard shouting behind him—they realized he was heading for the sea. Soon the voices were lost, drowned by the thunder of tons of water slamming ashore, enveloping him, stalling his progress. With his last stride he dove headlong into an oncoming monster.

The cold was paralyzing, but he kept moving, trying to keep his orientation in utter blackness. He had to stay submerged for as long as possible, pull himself seaward, but it felt as though he was tumbling in some massive agitator with no sense of up or down. Waves lifted him high, and then sent him crashing to the bottom. There was no way to tell if the rip even remained—DeBolt knew currents often altered during storm conditions. He rose for a breath, but didn’t chance a look back, and the instant he submerged again the sea was torn into a froth by arriving bullets. He dove for the bottom, found it with his hands, and felt that he was moving quickly. But in which direction?

DeBolt rose for his second breath on the backside of a wave, and on the third he ventured a look shoreward. In the black night he could make out none of the assailants. He was at least fifty yards offshore now, and he knew they wouldn’t follow him. Swimming in conditions like this bordered on insanity. Yet it seemed to be working. He was escaping … but to where?

A hundred yards to sea he no longer bothered to stay submerged. The shore was only visible in glimpses on the rise of each wave. He could tell he was being pulled north by the current, away from the cabin, but he was also being dragged out to sea. Sooner or later, he would have to swim clear of the rip and return to shore. Probably sooner. In recent days, even wearing the wetsuit, his swims had been getting shorter, the water temperature having dropped markedly. Now, with no protection, no sun for warmth, the beginnings of hypothermia were already evident. Shivering, a racing heartbeat, his muscles becoming sluggish. Soon the most dangerous element would take hold: his decision-making would become impaired. The upside for DeBolt was that he was an expert, not only in the clinical presentations of hypothermia, but knowing from experience the sequence in which his own body would shut down.

He reached down and felt his right calf. There was definitely damage of some kind, but for now adrenaline overrode the pain. He drifted around a bend and the shoreline was barely visible. The cabin lights disappeared. Had it been five minutes? Ten? Would the attackers organize a search up and down the beach? How far would he have to drift to get clear? Soon, he knew, it wouldn’t matter. The cold would kill him just as surely.

A rogue breaker caught him in the face, and he sucked down a lungful of the frigid brine. He coughed and spewed, and sensed he was moving faster than ever. Then, in an awful moment, he lost sight of shore. DeBolt spun his head left and right. He pulled himself up in the water, yet saw nothing but black sea and foam. He had no moon or stars for reference, the storm blotting out the sky.

Safety lay to the west. But which way was west?

The question looped in his head, again and again.

Which way is west?

And then suddenly, incredibly, an answer arrived. It displayed clearly amid the blackness, like some divine vision—a tiny compass and arrow. West was on his left shoulder. Could it be true? Or was he hallucinating, his mind playing tricks due to the cold?

Apparition or not, it was all he had. Without understanding, without caring how or why the answer had come, DeBolt used the last of his energy to pull in that direction. His arms lost any sense of a rhythmic stroke, more clutching at the water than a means of propulsion. Time lost all meaning, and there was only one thing … stay up, keep moving! The waves began to lift him, and it was all he could do to keep his head above water, keep his lungs charged with buoyant air. Finally, salvation—in a bolt of lightning, he caught a glimpse of the shoreline. It gave him a reference, a thread of hope.

His feet touched sand and he was elated, then a tremendous breaker threw him into a cartwheel and his head struck the bottom. Tumbling and churning, he fought back to the surface and gasped when he got there, sucking in as much water as air. He glimpsed the shadowed outline of the beach. There was no sign of his attackers, although at this point it hardly mattered—he would go wherever the sea threw him.

The muscles in his arms burned, and his good leg began to cramp. He tumbled though another breaker, and the water became shallow. Under his knees he felt a change in the bottom, not sand or bedrock, but a field of loose stone—the foreshore shelf that existed on every beach. DeBolt half rolled, half crawled the last yards, careless breakers pushing him on like a wayward piece of driftwood. With his knees on the rocks he coughed up seawater, and dragged himself higher up the slope. He only relaxed when his hands found the trunk of the first tree.

He leaned against it and searched the night. There was no sign of the assault team. Assault team. It was the only name that fit. In that moment, as he lay frozen and spent, a disquieting notion came to DeBolt’s cold-soaked mind—whoever they were, they had not come here tonight with the aim of killing a nurse.

They had come to kill him.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to express my deepest appreciation to those who helped with Assassin’s Code.

As always, thanks to my editor, Bob Gleason, for telling me what to fix, but allowing me to fix it. Your rich imigination and in-depth knowledge, not to mention your apocalyptic predilections, offer the perfect sounding board for ideas.

The staff at Tor were instrumental as ever, including Linda Quinton, Elayne Becker, and Emily Mullen. And of course, thanks to the inimitable Tom Doherty for what you have built on Flatiron’s 14th.

All appreciation to my agent, Susan Gleason, for your unfailing enthusiasm, dedication, and, of course, the wine. You have been, and will remain, essential.

I also would like to thank Ileen Maisel and Lawrence Elman at Amber Entertainment for their ceaseless efforts to bring this series to the big screen. Along the same lines, executive producers Bob and Patricia Gussin. The finish line, we all hope, is near.

I certainly could never have completed this book without the steady support of my wife and children. For the eighth time, and with no less enthusiasm than the first, thank you.

Finally, I would like to recognize those on the receiving end of my stories. This series could never have become what it is without the support, feedback, and word-of-mouth recommendations of so many readers. From the bottom of my heart, thank you all for helping me bring Slaton to life.

ALSO BY WARD LARSEN

The Perfect Assassin

Assassin’s Game[*]

Assassin’s Silence[*]

Assassin’s Code[*]

* Published by Forge Books.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

WARD LARSEN is a USA Today bestselling author and four-time winner of the Florida Book Award. He has also been nominated for both the Macavity and Silver Falchion Awards. A former U.S. Air Force fighter pilot, Larsen flew more than twenty missions in Operation Desert Storm. He has served as a federal law enforcement officer and is a trained aircraft accident investigator. His first thriller, The Perfect Assassin, is currently being adapted into a major motion picture by Amber Entertainment. You can sign up for email updates here.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ASSASSIN’S CODE

Copyright © 2017 by Ward Larsen

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eISBN 9780765385826

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First Edition: August 2017

CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Sixty-Three

Sixty-Four

Sixty-Five

Sixty-Six

Sixty-Seven

Sixty-Eight

Sixty-Nine

Seventy

Seventy-One

Seventy-Two

Seventy-Three

Sneak Peak: Cutting Edge

Acknowledgments

Also by Ward Larsen

About the Author

Copyright