Bausch was fuming as he left the commissioner’s office. He walked down the hall to looks that ranged from curiosity to pity. He at least had a good excuse for leaving the building.
He set out east from headquarters, in the general direction of the nearest clinic. He crossed the river into Gare, and headed toward midtown and the municipal park. Bausch turned into the park and took a seat by a churning circular fountain. The constant rush of splashing water was ideal for defeating directional listening devices. Signals security was achieved through the burner phone in his overcoat pocket.
His call was picked up almost immediately. “Yes?”
“They know you are in the city.”
“How?”
“The Israelis told them.” Bausch heard a muted curse, followed by a long pause. He said, “The girl I arrested for your brother’s murder—they’re letting her go.”
“What? How could that be?”
“The Jews again. They claim she’s innocent.”
“Is there nothing you can do?”
“It’s gone far above my pay grade,” Bausch admitted.
After a long pause, “Where are you now?”
“I’m on my way to the clinic in Gare. A minor injury,” he said, not mentioning that his balls were aching and he’d been pissing blood. “I should be back at the station in an hour or so.”
“What about the girl? When will she be released?”
“They’re taking multiple statements, so it won’t be quick. Two hours at least, maybe more. I plan on having a word with her before she goes.”
Bausch heard a muttered response. “What?” he said.
The line went dead, and Bausch was left staring at the cheap plastic handset. He cursed under his breath. It had been a mistake to get involved with these people. The good news: that association was clearly at an end.
He got up gingerly, yanked down on the crotch of his pants, and limped off toward the clinic.
In a tiny hovel across town, a lean and neatly dressed man pocketed a similar phone. The room was a dump, four hundred square feet of yellowed linoleum beneath a few beaten pieces of furniture. The air reeked of mold and insecticide—the latter proved by the countless skeletons of dead roaches along the baseboards.
The Grand Duchy of Luxembourg took pride in being among the wealthiest and safest nations on earth. Even the most verdant capitalist utopias, however, harbor pockets of destitution. For Luxembourg, the epicenter of suffering was a quarter mile along Rue de Bonnevoie. And even amid that decrepit lineup, the building in question was a slum.
Ramzi Tayeb, of course, had seen far worse.
For years he had pinballed endlessly through Gaza and Beirut, rarely spending more than two nights in the same place. And after ten months in Syria at the height of the war? The flat on Rue de Bonnevoie was nothing short of a palace. Most of the building’s other occupants came from Eastern Europe and the Balkans. Some were here legally, others awaiting asylum requests. A few were completely off-the-books, and the overwhelmed bureaucracy of the microstate was happy to turn its head. Luxembourg needed waiters, pipe fitters, and delivery drivers to sustain its burgeoning economy. Where those workers had entered the world hardly mattered.
Having spent most of his life in such warrens, Ramzi was perfectly comfortable. He knew how to fit in, how to avoid eye contact and feign linguistic incompetence. He also knew this was a place where virtually anything could be had. All around him were people who knew how to wire money, knew where to get a throwaway phone with the latest encrypted messaging apps. Best of all, they knew how to mind their own business.
Ramzi had not booked the room himself—his close support network always made the arrangements. His people kept contacts throughout the Middle East and Europe. Rooms, food, cash, phones, weapons. Whatever a particular stay required. Now, after two days, it was time to move.
He went to the bathroom and studied himself in the scratched mirror. His features would easily blend in locally, vaguely more Northern European than North African, this thanks to a grandfather with German blood and strong genes. His clothes were clean and fit well: khaki pants, long-sleeve polo shirt, a casual dark blue jacket. At a glance, more button-down salesman than hair-on-fire jihadi. His lean face had cleaned up nicely. A fresh shave put on display his strong jawline and high cheeks. Shaving was not his preference, for religious reasons, but defensible when doing the work of Allah. His black hair had been shorn by a barber down the hall—a displaced Senegalese who worked out of the kitchen of his flat. He’d done a decent job, and even provided a bit of foundational makeup to blend the lighter skin that hadn’t been exposed to the sun. By the image in the mirror, Ramzi might be a teacher at a small college, or perhaps a civil servant at some minor government ministry. Or even an accountant like his brother.
His brother …
He made one last check in the mirror. Neither the Glock 19 beneath his jacket, nor the blade sheathed to his back beltline, positioned for a strong-handed grip, were visible. His advance team had done well, acquiring everything he needed.
He’d come to Luxembourg for one reason: to become more involved in the financial dealings of the organization. The lawyer who for years had shrewdly managed The Front’s business affairs was retiring. A new, younger man was taking over, and Ramzi saw it as a chance to insert himself, to take control of those parts of the organization he’d long left to his brother. Now he had no choice.
Moussa’s death was sobering, although not unexpected. How many friends and extended family members had Ramzi seen martyred? He’d long sensed his brother’s ambivalence toward the cause; even reluctance, at times, when the work jeopardized his soft life. He always suspected Moussa would have been perfectly happy as a legitimate accountant, an office in central Paris and regular August holidays. Still, however grudgingly performed, his brother’s work had enabled Ramzi to guide the tip of the spear. His loss would be mourned.
And also avenged.
He went to the bed, and from the void beneath the mattress extracted an elongated box. The picture on the box was suggestive: a tension pole lamp, brushed bronze frame with three white globes. The lamp lay accordioned in the corner, three pieces connected by a wire—he’d never bothered to assemble it, but he imagined the room’s the next occupant would put it to good use.
He lifted the box, which was heavier now than it had been, and tucked it securely under his left arm. Walking to the door, he felt no impulse to stop and reminisce about his time here—when one never spent more than a few days in a place, it was all but impossible to develop attachments. He left such sentimentalities to others, to the sheep of the world.
Ramzi locked the door, walked downstairs, and stepped out into a bustling city.