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.