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.