“Because,” Tom interrupted, “of two factors. The first is that, from everything Shahram Shahristani told me the day he was killed, Ben Said’s IED designs are unique. That’s how he makes his money. He doesn’t sell his know-how. He sells finished products. Also, he tends to oversee the jobs himself. He was in Gaza. Now he’s here, because this is where the bombs are going to be used. My guess is some of that is ego, but it’s also to ensure that whoever buys his designs doesn’t reverse-engineer them and steal the proprietary stuff.”
“Second,” Reuven broke in, “we’re not talking about making Molotov cocktails or homemade mortars,” Reuven said. “Those you can put together anyplace. These devices are precision IEDs. Moreover, it’s amazing what can be traced these days. You need a more or less sterile environment. No dust, no dander, because you have to be meticulous about the postexplosion forensics. A microscopic bit of soil that’s unique to a certain place. Or a tiny fragment of a towel-they can trace those things nowadays. So the environment can’t contain anything that forensics sniffers or the latest generation of airport screening devices might detect.”
The Israeli noted the skeptical expression on MJ’s face. “Look for yourself, MJ.” Reuven tapped the screen. “Run it from the beginning, Tom.”
“Huh?” Tom was distracted by the police scanner. “Listen.”
Tony Wyman turned toward the radio and the four of them fell silent. The police were responding to a possible homicide on rue Bachelet.
Tom turned toward the Israeli. “Reuven?”
“Later,” the Israeli said in Arabic, his eyes flicking toward MJ. “I’ll fill you in on the details later.” He switched back to English. “Run from the beginning, please.”
Tom dutifully clicked the mouse on the screen. The DVD began with out-of-focus moving images followed by a lot of black. “That’s from when I stowed the camera in the fanny pack.” He fast-forwarded until he saw the image of the safe-house wall. “Okay. Here’s where it gets interesting.”
He clicked onspeed thenslow. The jerkiness decreased and the camera started to pan smoothly across the room. In the foreground, the green-tinged video showed a folding picnic table draped with plastic sheeting on which sat several Vuitton backpacks in various stages of disassembly. To its left, at an oblique angle, was another, smaller picnic table, also draped in dark plastic, which held the detonators. In the gap behind those two tables sat a third. It was more substantial than the other two-more like a drop-leaf dining table. In its center Tom could make out a large sewing machine sitting atop a small crate. The right-hand side of the table was visible through the backpacks, revealing what appeared to be a pasta roller bolted to the end of the drop leaf.
The camera moved on, its autofocusing lens now concentrating on the back wall of the room. Some sort of plastic sheeting had been hung. As the camera panned, Tom saw that every one of the walls was covered in plastic sheeting.
Tom slowed the DVD’s speed so he could look more closely and waited until the camera moved from right to left. The plastic over the window made it harder to see, but the objects on the tables were still identifiable.
“Okay,” Reuven said. “Now…stop.”
Tom froze the image.
Reuven used his pen to point at the bomb-making materials on the tables. “Breaking this down won’t be easy. This isn’t the kind of thing you throw in a garbage bag and move. The backpacks have to be handled carefully. After all, they have to look new.” He looked at Tom. “Show the pasta maker, Tom.”
Tom double-clicked and the image of the long table with the sewing machine popped onto the screen.
Reuven waited until the camera panned between the backpacks to the end of the table that held the pasta maker. Just visible next to the machine were a trio of cookie racks on which sat six-inch strips of what looked like fresh-made lasagna. “Okay, stop.”
Tony Wyman squinted, then said, “Yes?”
“That’s the explosive,” Reuven said.
MJ said, “Just lying there? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“No.” Tom’s hand caressed her shoulder. “The explosive itself is inert-it’s not dangerous until the detonator’s inserted. But look at how thin it has to be.”
“You’re right.” Reuven pointed to the racks. “Looks to me like it’s what-two, three millimeters at most.”
Wyman looked at the Israeli. “Is that significant?”
“For sure. Plastique isn’t elastic the same way pasta dough is. It’s more like modeling clay, or Silly Putty. It’s easy to cut, and roll, and form into shaped charges. But it’s damned hard to roll into thin, delicate sheets unless you happen to have the right equipment. Obviously, all Ben Said was able to get was this pasta roller. Once the son of a bitch has rolled out the explosive, it becomes very, very fragile. From what we can see here, my guess is he’s rolled about three, maybe four knapsacks’ worth.” Reuven looked at Wyman. “Believe me, he’s not going to want to do the job twice.”
Tony Wyman shook his head. “He’s using a goddamn everyday pasta roller.”
“Can you think of something less likely to attract attention?” Reuven tapped the plasma screen. “With the exception of the explosives and the detonators, there’s nothing in this room that can’t be bought off the shelf.”
The Israeli tapped the screen then turned back toward Tony Wyman. “Look-these guys are smart. You were able to destroy Abu Nidal’s organization because it was hierarchical. You cut the head off, and the beast dies. These guys work out of anonymous, self-supporting cells. Or they’re loners like Ben Said. They also study their targets. They probe for weaknesses. They bide their time. They’re patient, experienced, dangerous, well disciplined, and above all they’re resourceful. So while the FBI or Shabak or DST double-checks every building-supply or fertilizer manufacturer looking for fancy-schmancy, our boy goes to Monoprix or BHV, pays cash, and walks away with everything he needs right off the housewares and small-electronics shelves.”
“Makes one wonder.” MJ played with her hair.
Tom said, “Wonder what?”
“Where he got the explosives. Where did they come from? Did he make them in the next room? Where’s his laboratory? Did he bring them into this place in a shopping bag or in his briefcase? How did they get from wherever they were manufactured to that table?”
The three men looked at one another and realized no one had an answer.
Tony Wyman’s monocle dropped onto his chest. “Roll the video again, Tom. From the top.”
Tom clicked on the play button, then the slow button, and the camera panned slowly left to right. The four of them watched for more than two and a half minutes in silence.
Finally, Wyman said, “Hold on the backpacks, will you?”
Tom ran the disk fast-forward until the table with the backpacks was centered on the screen. He paused the DVD and looked over at his boss.
Tony Wyman said, “Can you give me a print of the table with the backpacks? I don’t care about the packs, but I want to see the whole table, legs and all.”
“Sure.” Tom cropped the image just as his boss had asked and clicked the printer icon. Thirty seconds later, he handed tony Tony a borderless eight-by-ten-inch photograph.
Wyman plugged the monocle into his right eye and studied the picture intently. After a quarter of a minute, he said, “Hmm.”
Then he gave Tom an intense look. “Can you do the same thing for me with the table holding the detonators?”
“Sure.” Tom had no idea at all where tony Tony was heading.
31
3:38A.M. Tony Wyman held the photographs side by side directly in front of his long nose and examined them closely, one then the other. He said “Hmm” again. He looked at Tom, swiveled his chair, and said, “Come see.”
Tom came around and peered over Wyman’s shoulder, squinted, then shrugged. “What am I looking for?”