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.