The hard rain had gone to drizzle, but the wind refused to yield. Slaton and Bloch stood hunched on the sidewalk in front of the embassy, illuminated in the wash of a subdued streetlight. Their collars were turned up and the wind was at their backs. A pack of Marlboros had been donated by a security screener, a matronly woman who was happy to rescue the visiting contingent from an unnamed sister agency in Tel Aviv who professed a dire need for nicotine.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve done fieldwork,” Bloch groused, putting the cigarette between his meaty lips.
“It comes back fast,” said Slaton.
“Remind me why I am standing in the rain at one thirty in the morning.” Bloch took a long draw, and immediately stifled a cough.
“Because I need a decent night’s sleep.”
Bloch stared at him a few beats, and in the interval a cab rushed past and splashed mud onto his black Oxfords. “You know, I’ve made my living getting into people’s heads. I’m good at sensing motivations, predicting what men and women will do in given situations—so good that they made me director of Mossad. I must tell you, David, over the years … you have vexed me more than any of our enemies.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Chances are, it’s why I’m still around.” He paused before expanding on why they were outside. “I want Malika to know I’m still here. I want her to stay awake all night watching this front door. While she does, I’ll be inside getting some much-needed sleep.”
“And in the morning you will be sharp and she will be fatigued? Do you really need such an advantage to eliminate her? We have a live video feed on this woman—constant eyes on an unsuspecting target. I know it is your rule to seize every advantage, but this seems extreme even by your standards.”
Slaton looked at Bloch, and could not contain a grin. “I appreciate your confidence in my talents for the dark arts. But there’s more to it than that—I’ll explain later. For now, I have two requests. I’m going to need a fresh phone. And tomorrow I want some help. You said Nurin had sent another kidon, in case I balked at the job.”
“Yes.”
“Is he here in Paris?”
Bloch smiled this time, enjoying a small victory. “She is in the neighborhood.”
Slaton smiled back. He’d helped train two female shooters in his time with the service. They’d been among the steadiest he’d worked with. “Perfect. I may need her assistance.”
The former director dropped his cigarette on the ground before reaching its end, and snuffed it out with a toe. “Approved. But whatever game you are playing, David, remember … Israel is to be kept at a distance.”
“You can tell Director Nurin the feeling is mutual.”
A gust of wind whipped up the urban valley, and Bloch looked skyward. “Is there anything else?” he asked, irritation back on display.
“No, you should go inside now. Nobody stands out in the rain after their smoke is done. I’ll catch up with you in a minute.”
Bloch disappeared through the front entrance.
Slaton kept his free hand in his pocket, a perfectly natural stance on a cold and rainy night. The true reason was more purposeful. Talia was monitoring the room across the street on the live feed. While they’d still seen no evidence of a weapon, if Malika suddenly produced one and raised it to the window, Slaton had to know immediately. Warning would arrive as a vibration to the phone in his hand.
He never looked directly at the window in question, but he knew exactly where it was. Indeed, it was the focal point of geometry running through his head. Angles and distances to every curb, trash can, and parked car, and one wintering urban sapling, particular attention given to what would still be here in the morning.
He looked up and down the street, a few last mental snapshots captured, then took his final draw. Slaton had never been a smoker, but like many things he was not genuinely interested in, it kept a place in his repertoire. He knew how to operate bar-code scanners in stores, how to run a jackhammer, how to bus a restaurant table. He could drive a front-end loader, and knew that hotel vans typically departed lobbies at the top of every hour with drivers who didn’t give a damn whether you were a guest when you tipped in advance. Smoking was core curriculum, and he could carry it off like a pack-a-day regular.
He looked up at a mist that swirled down through the streetlight’s aura and brushed against his face. The moisture felt good, almost cleansing. He tried once more to imagine why his plan wouldn’t work. Like Bloch, he too was a student of human habits and motivations, although Slaton’s view was more narrow than most—he took things only as far as necessary to put a specific vital organ under a gun sight for the necessary few seconds. Physical vulnerability—that was his customary endgame.
Tomorrow, however, was going to be altogether different.
* * *
Fifty yards away, at the window across the street, Malika watched the man in the dark jacket intently. Even through the darkness and rain, she could tell it was the kidon—this was the third time she had seen him.
At the moment he was in an extremely vulnerable position. She hadn’t expected that. He appeared relaxed, pacing casually back and forth across the same few yards of concrete. When his cigarette reached its end, he didn’t light a second. Probably because of the rain.
Within seconds of flicking away the stub, he turned back inside, and Malika watched him disappear into the glowing warmth of the embassy lobby. She checked her watch and noted the time. Then she settled back, took a deep breath, and got as comfortable as she could on the cold concrete floor.