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.”