The two men kept moving until they were out of sight of the van. They were now faced with a tough decision. They’d been spotted-twice. And if the opposition was on its toes (and they had no reason to believe it wasn’t), they’d been videoed. The question now became whether to proceed or to pack it in and try again another night using another set of identities and prosthetics.
Tom looked at his Israeli colleague. “So?”
“So?” Reuven shrugged. “So, obviously we’re blown.” He paused. “What do you want to do?”
Tom thought about it. “I think we go provocative.”
“Rue Lambert?”
“What other choice do we have? They know we’re here. And a hundred euros says that after tonight, he closes this place down and who knows how long it’ll take us to find his next safe house. I want to know what he’s doing that’s so important.”
“I agree.” The Israeli nodded. “So,nazuz -let’s move.”
1:41A.M. They walked along the opposite side of rue Lambert, moving north to south, nattering at each other in low tones. Tom glanced across the narrow street toward the target doorway. A homeless man accompanied by a scroungy dog was huddled there, asleep or passed out.
Reuven whispered, “What a coincidence, huh?”
Tom snorted. “Yeah, right.” He knew there are no such things as coincidences. There were a lot of doorways in this neighborhood, and this bum was the only vagrant they’d seen. Provocatively, they crossed the street and passed directly in front of the sleeping man.
The dog’s ears flattened against its head and it growled as Tom and Reuven approached. The man stirred, as if roused from a deep sleep. He was dressed for the street: three or four layers of old clothes. His hair was matted into dreadlocks. His untied shoes were scuffed raw. The man looked at them through hooded, wary eyes, then lay back down, belching loudly as they drew abreast.
“Goddamn, Jean-Pierre,” Reuven muttered as they passed. “I thought you said this was a shortcut.”
“Screw you, Philippe,” Tom answered.
They continued to the bottom of the street and turned the corner, heading east.
Reuven said, “You saw the watcher behind us?”
Tom nodded. For a fleeting instant there had been a silhouette in a doorway near the corner of where Nicolet dead-ended into rue Bachelet. Tom swung his head around to catch a second look. He saw nothing. He was certain something big was going on. The opposition had the neighborhood sealed off. “Was it like this yesterday?”
“No.”
So the development was recent. The implications were troubling-a leak, or a penetration of 4627. But he couldn’t worry about those possibilities now. He had to concentrate on the current situation. “The guy down the street from us. Did you see his hands?”
“Hands were at his sides,” Reuven said.
“Agreed. That tells me he doesn’t have night vision.”
The Israeli slowed down. “So,nu?”
“That means,” Tom said, “we go to Plan C.”
“You’re a funny fellow.”
Tom paused just long enough to look at the Israeli. “What do you think?”
“One: I’ve never seen a street person in six days of surveilling this neighborhood. Now we see one-two if you count the guy behind us. Two: the guy we passed looked pretty authentic, but he smelled clean. I caught a whiff of soap. Three: you saw how his shoes were all scuffed up? But the soles were brand-new rubber.” He looked at Tom. “You?”
“Agreed. I missed the soap. But I caught the shoes.”
“So?”
“Tells me there’s activity up there-important enough for them to set both static and mobile security. I want a look-see.” He stared at the Israeli. “Possible?”
“Of course. There’s an alley near the top of rue Ramey,” Reuven said in response. “It’s right at the sight-line periphery of the van on rue Labat. But it’s overcast tonight and I think if you’re careful you’ll be able to get over the wall without them seeing you. You go in and you head south. You climb three more walls and cross three tiny yards. There are no dogs, so you shouldn’t be bothered. The yard after the third wall backs up against the target house. There’s two exterior drainpipes running from the ground to the roof. The one on the left-hand side takes you past the safe-house window-two floors aboveground. If you pull a good Spider-Man and hang on one-handed, you might even be able to get video.”
Tom said, “Hmm.”
“It all depends whether or not they’ve left the shades up-and how you feel about whatchamacallit shinnying up drainpipes these days.” He looked at Tom. “I hope you still remember your rock-climbing skills from Dartmouth.”
Tom suppressed a double take and answered the Israeli matter-offactly. “It’s kind of like riding a bicycle, Reuven-you don’t forget.” But he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “How the hell did you know about rock-climbing?”
Reuven allowed himself to crack a hint of a grin. “What, you don’t think I ran a thorough profile on you back when you and I were butting heads?”
28
1:45A.M. They continued walking east on rue Nicolet, crossing midblock onto the south side of the street. The move was relatively secure because Reuven knew the single streetlamp between the foot of rue Lambert and rue Ramey wasn’t working. He knew it wasn’t working because he’d shattered it the previous night with a ball bearing fired from a small slingshot. When no one had reacted to the sound, he’d taken the time to sweep up the glass shards and get rid of them. The ploy had worked: the lamp hadn’t been replaced yet.
The third house from the corner had a large recessed portico. “Go there.” Reuven nudged Tom into the doorway. The Israeli checked over his shoulder, then followed. He knew the watcher down the street couldn’t see them without exposing himself.
1:46:14. Tom ripped his long web belt out, shed the gray-and-white-checked chef’s trousers, turned them inside out, pulled them back on over his black running shoes, then rethreaded the belt. He did the same with the red-and-blue Paris Ste. Germaine anorak he wore over a set of black thermals. The anorak reversed into solid black.
1:46:17. Reuven unrolled the package of chef’s knives. He paused, then handed Tom one of the pencil-like miniature video cameras. “Use the high-resolution night-vision lens.”
“Good idea.” Tom slipped the camera into the fanny pack he’d carried inside the shopping bag of food. Then Tom worked a radio earpiece into his ear, attached the mike to the collar of his jersey, ran the wire down to his waist, clipped a secure radio receiver to the fanny-pack belt, turned the unit on, tugged on it to make sure it was securely seated, then plugged the earpiece in.
The radios were for emergency use only. In Hollywood, they jabber on their radios during black ops the way teenagers use cell phones in shopping malls. In reality, you never speak unless it’s a life-and-death situation. Radio transmissions-even secure ones-can bleed into other frequencies. Indeed, terrorists in hiding often keep TV sets turned on. If the screen starts picking up snow or other interference, it is a sure sign that there are folks talking on UHF or VHF radios in the vicinity.
1:46:27. Reuven attached his own radio, which also had a throat mike, then watched as Tom took off the long-billed baseball hat he’d been wearing, pulled a black knit watch cap from the shopping bag, and jammed it onto his head. The American affixed a fake mustache onto his upper lip and allowed Reuven to adjust it.
1:46:33. Reuven pulled a hat out of the shopping bag, exchanged hairpieces, and reversed his jacket and trousers, altering his shape and his silhouette.