He eased his right hand past the sill, held the camera lens up to the glass, and moved the pencil-size instrument, oh so slowly, from left to right, hoping that Murphy’s Law would, this one time, not be in effect, and that the camera’s low-light-capable lens would capture whatever was in the room-and even perhaps, some images of what lay beyond.
2:13A.M. He’d counted to a hundred and eighty-roughly three minutes of video. If the gods were indeed smiling on him tonight, the camera’s transmissions were secure on the battery-powered recorder in the 4627 van. Well, he’d know everything there was to know in a few minutes.
Gently, Tom set the camera into the fanny pack and zipped the pouch closed. He pendulumed back to the drainpipe, where he hung for some seconds, the sweat pouring off his face and neck. His feet were so numb he couldn’t feel his toes.
He unwrapped the web belt from his hand, pulled it around the pipe, and buckled it around his waist. He tightened the Velcro tabs on the backs of his gloves so his wet hands wouldn’t slip on the painted cast iron.
He slipped his hands around the drainpipe as if it were a firehouse pole, eased his feet off the joint, and slid down until his running shoes caught on the next lowest protrusion. He stopped momentarily, then repeated the action, faster each time, dropping another four feet, then another, then another.
2:19. Tom peered over the wall at the end of the alley. The intersection was deserted. He jumped, pulled, scrambled, rolled over the top, dropped onto the pavement, and headed south toward the rendezvous point at a slow jog.
He’d just reached the foot of rue Ramey when Reuven’s voice exploded in his ear. “Change of plans.” It took Tom an instant to realize Reuven was speaking in Arabic.
Tom answered in kind. “Go.”
“I’m at your flat.”
“What?”
“MJ’s all right-nothing happened. No time to talk. Grab the truck. Meet us out front. I’ll explain.”
“Us? But-”
“Just move-movenow.” Reuven’s belligerent attitude didn’t brook any opposition.
“On my way.”
30
2:48A.M. They were waiting in the vestibule. Reuven ushered MJ into the front seat of the truck, slammed the door shut, then went around to the side, opened the cargo bay, loaded her suitcase, and hoisted himself inside. “Office, Tom. Go to the office-now. I called Tony Wyman. He’ll meet us there.”
Tom wanted answers before they moved. He looked at the confused, frightened expression on his fiancée’s face and enveloped her in his arms. “It’s all right, sweetie. Everything’s going to be just fine.”
Then he turned toward the Israeli. “What the hell’s up?”
“That fellow on the street had your address on him,” Reuven machine-gunned in rapid French. “Since you told me this wonderful woman had shown up unexpectedly, I thought it prudent to get over here.”
“Why in God’s name didn’t you get hold of me?”
“Because you had a job to do, my friend-something I couldn’t do. And because I was on the case.” Reuven smacked his fist into his palm. “The sons of bitches are onto you. I don’t know how, but they are.”
Tom had more than an inkling how. They were onto him because Tom had been the last person to talk to Shahram Shahristani. They were onto him because they were keeping the American embassy under constant surveillance and he’d turned up there and left with a known CIA case officer. The same case officer they’d seen talking to Shahram Shahristani. They’d known because they were competent adversaries and they could put two and two together.
Reuven broke into Tom’s train of thought. “Did you see anything up there?”
“The shades were down and the lights were out. I saw nothing. But there was a gap between the shade and the sill and I used the camera.”
Reuven lifted the painter’s tarp to reveal the rack of video equipment. “While you head for the office I want to see what you got.”
3:19A.M. Reuven had scrambled the staff and 4627’s offices were in condition red. A pair of security cars sealed off the front and rear exits. The entrance to the five-story building was manned by an armed guard. Inside, roving two-man teams patrolled the corridors.
Tom had never seen Tony Wyman without a tie. Now Wyman, in a pressed pair of jeans and a thick cashmere turtleneck, monocle screwed into his right eye, squinted intently at the high-resolution plasma screen in Tom’s office. A police scanner played softly in the background as Reuven explained what Wyman was looking at.
“Tom-freeze the picture. Those are detonators,” the Israeli said, pointing at a slightly fuzzy image of objects roughly the size of tongue depressors. “Ben Said disassembles the backpacks piece by piece. He inserts several thin sheets of explosive to replace the layer of padding between the inner and outer linings at the bottom and back side of the bag. Then he removes one of the stiffeners they use where the backpack straps connect to the body of the rucksack, and replaces it with the detonator.”
Reuven pointed at the half dozen detonators lying on a kitchen towel-kitchen because the wordsCuisine et Tradition in dark lettering were visible on the portion of the towel that was draped over the edge of the table. “I can’t be sure, but it seems pretty straightforward. The bottom end-the business end if you will-is pressed into the plastic explosive. It follows that the middle section is probably the battery that sends the electric charge into the explosive and detonates it. And the top is actually a small receiver and antenna-similar to what’s inside a cell phone.”
Tony Wyman nodded.
“Then he reassembles everything carefully.”
Wyman said: “Where does he get the thread?”
Reuven’s eyes brightened. “Good point.”
MJ looked at the Israeli. “Huh?”
“He has to sew the backpacks using the original needle holes and a thread that looks exactly like this-” Reuven reached across MJ, pulled her own Vuitton backpack from where she’d hung it over the arm of her chair, and tilted it. “Look at the stitching. The thread is unique. He had to have an inside source.” The Israeli returned the backpack and scratched himself a note. “I’ll check it out.”
“Good.” Wyman nodded. “How many bombs, Reuven?”
“If I could count the detonators, I’d know better,” the Israeli said.
“There are eight backpacks, Tony,” Tom said. “But there may be more.”
“Makes sense.” Wyman looked at Tom. “Do we have the place covered? I don’t want Ben Said disappearing on us.”
“Reuven took care of it.”
“I called some friends from the old days,” Reuven said. “Corsicans. Trustworthy. Nothing happens without us knowing.”
MJ pointed at the screen. “Why not just alert the French? Let them take care of everything?”
“They’d get the bombs and that’s all,” Tom said. “I want Ben Said.”
She crossed her arms. “The bombs are better than nothing.”
“They’re nothing without the bomb maker, MJ,” Wyman said. “He shifts locations, identities, whatever, and starts all over again. Now that he’s perfected the detonator design, we’re talking a matter of what-weeks?”
Reuven nodded. “Maximum.”
“So?”
“This time it’s high-fashion backpacks,” Wyman said. “And we have a real leg up because we know that. Next time it could be anything. Attaché cases. Carry-ons. Shaving kits. Makeup bags.”
MJ cocked her head in Wyman’s direction. “But won’t he shift his base of operation anyway if he knows you’re onto him?”
“It’s possible,” Wyman said, looking at her.
“But harder to do than it might appear,” Reuven said.
She looked at the Israeli. “Why?”