2:12P.M. “Let’s walk the lunch off.” Shahram shrugged into his overcoat, draped the long scarf around his neck in the European fashion, and pulled on his gloves while Tom said his good-byes to Monsieur Marie and Jeff then grabbed his own coat from the antique rack next to the front window.
The two men emerged through the narrow glass-paned door into a gray Paris afternoon. Tom glanced up at fast-moving slate-colored clouds that threatened rain and hunched his shoulders against the bone-chilling wind. Shahram didn’t seem to notice. He gave an offhand wave to the two DST agents sitting in a haze of cigarette smoke inside a silver Peugeot parked across the street.
“You have your shadows with you today.”
“They were waiting for me at the airport this morning.”
“Oh? Any reason?” Tom remembered the urgency in Shahram’s tone the previous night. And at lunch, his demeanor had been both intense and unsettled, anomalous behavior for the Iranian.
Once again, Shahristani deflected the question. “Henri and Jean-Claude. Good kids. Henri’s the one behind the wheel. He has twins.”
Tom caught a quick glimpse of the pair. Theywere kids, too-twentysomethings who wore mustaches so they’d look older-dressed in the wide-lapel, double-breasted retro chalk-stripe suits that were just now coming back into fashion. A couple of baby-faced gumshoes trying to look like Humphrey Bogart inThe Maltese Falcon.
But they were no doubt well trained. DST’s Paris agents were some of the best operators in the world when it came to surveillance. In fact, CIA insisted that case officers heading for Paris take the denied-area-operations course-the same six-week course designed for spooks going to Moscow and Beijing. That was because DST was better equipped, more sophisticated, and much more highly motivated than the Soviets or the Chinese had ever been.
“Come.” Shahram put his right arm through Tom’s left and steered the younger man by the elbow along the busy sidewalk toward the Place des Ternes. Shahram pointed past the garish facade and rolled-up red awning of Hippopotamus, a branch of the American cum Parisian steak-and-frites chain that sat on the far side of the Faubourg du St. Honoré. “We’ll walk as far as Étoile. We’ll take our lives in our hands and cross above ground, then go down Victor Hugo as far as Boutique 22. I will buy you a cigar and myself a carton of cigarettes. Then I will go straight home for a nap and you will be free to write your report.”
Tom’s mind was racing. He didn’t want a cigar or a twenty-minute stroll. He wanted to go straight back to the five-story, nineteenth-century town house at 223 rue du Faubourg St. Honoré that was 4627’s European headquarters, scan the picture Shahram had given him into the computer, and start the process of verifying the Iranian’s claims. If Shahram’s information proved valid, Tom wanted to move the information about Imad Mugniyah and Tariq Ben Saidright now. And the explosives. Air France flights to Tel Aviv were subject to extraordinary security measures. If Ben Said’s new formula for plastique could escape detection at de Gaulle, it truly was invisible.
The threat was unprecedented. In the 1990s, Ramzi Yousef, who’d been responsible for the 1993 World Trade Center bombing, had devised a plan to blow up a dozen American airliners at the same time. If Ben Said’s plastique was undetectable, al-Qa’ida could bring down God knows how many flights simultaneously.
Tom said, “Hold on just a sec, Shahram.” He reached into his pocket, took the cell phone, and punched a number into it. “Tony, it’s Tom. Where are you?” He paused. “Can you get away? Meet me back in the office in”-he looked over at Shahristani and shrugged-“fifteen minutes. It’s critical.”
Shahristani said, “Half an hour, Tom-we must walk farther.”
Tom didn’t want any delay. Because what he’d just learned was more than critical. It was personal. Personal, because Tom felt he owed something to Jim McGee. Jim McGee, the disposable who’d volunteered to put his butt on the line without backup and paid the price. McGee’s murder deserved to be avenged-and in a timely fashion.
He looked into the Iranian’s sad eyes and sighed. This was Shahram, and certain…proprieties had to be observed. It was all about tradition, and respect. So he said, “I’ll see you in half an hour, Tony,” shut the phone down, slipped it back into his coat, and allowed himself to be guided by the older man.
They marched in slow, deliberate lockstep toward the square. As the two of them ambled past the entrance to the huge Brasserie Lorraine, which took up most of the northeastern side of the irregularly shapedplace, Tom suddenly caught the scent of the sea wafting past his nose. He glanced over at the brasserie. Crates filled with oysters, shrimp, crabs, and lobsters all packed in ice and cradled by seaweed were piled against the restaurant’s wall. One of the brasserie’s countermen was shucking large, green-tinged Marennes and placing them on a three-tiered server.
Shahram gestured with his head toward the stacks of shellfish. “The best oysters in Paris, Thomas. Have you ever eaten here?”
“Twice. The food was okay.”
“‘Okay,’ he says.” Shahram laughed and tweaked Tom’s elbow, pulling himself closer to avoid a pair of overeager tourists weighed down by video cameras and carrying huge, partially unfolded Michelin maps. “Youare preoccupied, dear boy.”
Tom grunted. His attention was focused on the steel-and-glass display cases that held Belons, Marennes, and Creuses arranged artfully by size and displayed on shaved ice. You could order them by the piece or byla douzaine and eat them on the spot. They were delicious.
Suddenly, from somewhere behind him, Tom heard shouting.
Instinctively, he turned toward the sound. “What the-”
The Iranian’s grip on his elbow tightened. Shahram pushed him rudely, almost knocking him to the ground.
Tom staggered, but caught his balance. Shahram fell up against him. The Iranian uttered a huge wheeze and gasped, “Tho-mas?”
As Tom reacted, the old man’s knees went out from under him and he sagged to the ground.
“Shahram?” Tom tried to catch his friend under his arms. But Shahram was already deadweight.
It was a goddamn heart attack. Shahram slipped to the sidewalk. He collapsed face forward. Tom tried to roll him onto his back, but couldn’t. He screamed, “Somebody get a doctor, a doctor-quickly!”
Tom lifted Shahram’s head. He saw that the Iranian’s eyes had rolled back. He reached around, unbuttoned Shahram’s coat, and loosened the scarf. “C’mon, c’mon-a doctor!”
He felt Shahram’s neck, but sensed no pulse. He pressed his cheek against Shahram’s chest to listen for a heartbeat. Nothing. He was about to start CPR when suddenly an arm was thrown around his neck, he was yanked backward, wrestled across the sidewalk, spun rudely onto all fours, and kicked in the ribs hard enough to lift him clear off the pavement.
He landed badly, his trouser knees shredding on the rough concrete. He tried to claw his way back to Shahram, but got a chop to the throat and an elbow to the side of his head for his troubles.
Tom saw stars. Everything went out of focus. He fought the pain, struggled to his feet, half collapsed, then regained his balance. He tried to scream that Shahram had suffered a heart attack, but all that came out of his throat was a gurgle.
He saw he’d been attacked by one of Shahram’s DST shadows. The youngster was already on his knees, unbuttoning Shahram’s jacket and shirt. But when he looked down, all he said was,“Merde.”
Where was the other agent? As Tom looked around in panic, he saw the second DST man, a gun in one hand, a radio in the other, dashing across the boulevard, heading north, toward Avenue de Wagram.