He easily found his way through the tunnels for a few blocks and stopped at the grate on the curb directly across from the courtyard of Saladin’s place. He stepped up on a ledge and brought the Zeiss binos to his eyes, settling in to watch the place and build a range card.
Promptly at 11:30 A.M., two burly guards entered the courtyard, looked around, and unlocked the parked sedan only after searching beneath it for explosives by using a mirror on a pole. One got into the driver’s seat, and the second returned to the house and returned beside a slim, well-dressed, dark-skinned man. Saladin? The man was heading for lunch. Kyle watched throughout the day and about midafternoon chowed on a baguette with some cheese and an apple. Only when night fell did he return to the hotel and wash off the stink. He needed some help for the next step and went over to meet Sybelle and the Lizard. They had to work fast.
Lieutenant Commander Freedman stretched in his chair before the all-seeing eye of his laptop computer. “Interpol came up with the sketch of the guy they believe is Saladin, based on several sources, including the two al Qaeda operatives who were on the telephone. They were arrested yesterday.”
Kyle only had to look at it for a moment. “That’s the guy I saw in the courtyard,” he confirmed. “The thin face and well-trimmed beard are pretty unique. That’s him.”
“Are the French cops going to hit the place?”
“Not yet,” said the Lizard. “Everybody is still standing around creating elaborate plans. Being the French, I don’t think they really want to make the arrest. They just want him to leave because he is a political embarrassment.”
“Yeah.” Time was ticking faster if others were getting ready to move. He had to be done before the authorities were in place to figure out what happened. Swanson finished a sketch of his plan, using maps that the Lizard had printed out, and gave them their assignments. “We’re doing them a favor. When Saladin sticks his head out for lunch tomorrow, they won’t have to worry about him anymore. Lizard, you find us a little SUV?”
“Waiting downstairs in the lot. A gray Peugeot 4007.”
“Okay. Sybelle, give me a ride back to my hotel, then you do your thing and come back here. I should see you both tomorrow about noon at the front of the Air Museum, and we’re gone.”
Kyle returned to his room, showered, and took some time to clean the Dragunov sniper rifle he had brought along from Iraq. As soon as he had heard it was a Green Light mission, he had wanted a disposable and untraceable weapon. Then he lay down to sleep, telling his mind to awaken him two hours later, before dawn came.
Sybelle Summers telephoned an all-night mechanic and spoke in angry French. A neighbor had parked his blue BMW Mini in her assigned space again, after many requests not to do so, and she wanted to teach him a lesson by having the car towed and dumped in a vacant lot somewhere.
The mechanic said he was not interested and mentioned that it also was illegal. He was not a car thief, he said. She offered a hundred euros with no paper transaction that might lead back to him, and he wavered. At two hundred euros, he changed his mind. Business was slow this late at night.
Soon the tow truck arrived at the intersection the woman had designated, and she waved him down. Still angry, the driver thought, taking the money and watching as she pointed out the little car that was causing her troubles. Neighbors, he shrugged. He went to work, and within a few minutes, the tow truck vanished down the street with the little Mini hanging from its big hook. Sybelle slipped the rented Peugeot SUV into the spot, got out, locked the door, and walked away. The SUV was parked with its rear wheels just beyond the sewer grate and the high rear end shielding the opening from view, directly across from the gate to the courtyard of Saladin’s house. A long, dark ribbon was tied to the rear bumper and moved in rhythm with the passing breeze.
Just before the sun came up, Kyle had disappeared again beneath another sewer lid, clicked on the light of his hard hat, and found his way back to the proper grate, this time with the Dragunov across his back. He snapped off the light before looking out of the grate, keeping the darkness as a guard against being spotted. He was satisfied with the protected and clear view of the courtyard.
The problem was going to be with the timing, for the target would be exposed for only a few seconds, while walking from the house to the automobile. Based on what he observed the previous day, there would be some warning when the bodyguards came into the courtyard first to be sure the area was clear. At that point, Kyle could bring up the rifle, but not before then. Sticking the barrel of a sniper rifle out of the opening of a hide was done only in movies, for it was almost as good as waving a flag. It would be seen, even as well concealed as he was.
The range could hardly be better, close enough to do the job even over the iron sights of an ordinary rifle. The target would appear huge and close in the Dragunov scope. He rolled up the big jacket he had bought and placed it along the ledge just inside the grate opening to provide a more stable shooting platform. He could keep an eye on the windage by watching the ribbon fluttering from the bumper of the Peugeot.
Swanson did not really want to think about how the task would change if Saladin did not go out for lunch today. Then he would have to use the rifle to pick off any outside guards and fight his way into the house, which was as strong as a fort. Too much noise, effort, and danger. But who could resist a nice lunch at a Paris café on a beautiful day such as this?
He drank some fruit juice, picked up his binos, and stood back in the shadows. He glassed the courtyard with intense concentration, for he knew the moment he let fatigue or boredom pull away his attention, the target would appear and then vanish before he could act. Cars and trucks rolled by, the wheels blowing trails of dirt and rocks behind them. The occasional pedestrian hurried along the sidewalk, and the cameras on the corner posts followed. Swanson stood motionless back in the darkness of the wide sewer, his center perfect over slightly spread legs, a position he could hold for incredible lengths of time. He emptied his mind as the minutes went by. For two hours, he remained immobile, except for an occasional stretching of his muscles. Then he changed position, moving closer to the narrow rectangular opening, leaning on the little shelf of molded concrete with his elbows, and continued to watch.
The first guard came out at 11:28 A.M., a muscular young man in pressed jeans, a white shirt, and an open sport coat. He walked out to the street, looked around, and searched the car. Unlocked it and got inside. Turned on the ignition.
Kyle put down the binos and raised the Dragunov, putting the end of the barrel onto the soft, rolled jacket at the inner edge of the sewer grate, with the Peugeot 4007 overhead hiding the opening. The ribbon moved only sluggishly, telling him the wind was not enough to change the scope. He let his breathing slow, and his heart rate, feeling the strap of the rifle dig into his left arm.
The second guard appeared, a large man in a cheap suit, also with no tie. His hand was at his back, beneath his jacket, probably grasping a pistol. This one stepped out of the courtyard and checked the street both ways. He went back to the front door and said something Kyle could not hear.
Saladin stepped into the open for the short walk to the automobile, no more than ten steps. The bodyguard moving ahead of him opened the door. Only forty meters separated Kyle from Saladin, who was talking on a cell phone as he walked, and the shot, when Swanson took it, was simple. Five steps, six steps, squeeze the trigger, and Saladin never made the seventh step. He was hurled upward by the force of the rising bullet and was tossed backward like a puppet whose strings had been cut, dead before he hit the ground. The bodyguard stared in surprise long enough for Kyle to shift the scope onto him and make a head shot.