Wyman used his right pinkie to summon Reuven. “Now you. What do you see?”
The Israeli leaned over Wyman’s other shoulder. “Tables. Backpacks. Detonators. A kitchen towel.”
Wyman peered over at MJ. “You’re the professional here, m’dear.”
MJ took the two photos from Wyman, laid them on Tom’s desk, then rummaged through her purse but came up empty. “I guess I left my glasses back at Tom’s. Tony, can I borrow your monocle?”
Wyman dropped the gold-rimmed glass into her palm. She put the black silk ribbon around her neck, then affixed the lens in her right eye. “Whoa, this is way too strong for me.” She tried to use the monocle as a magnifying glass, but that technique didn’t work, either. A frustrated MJ handed the monocle back to Wyman. “I can’t see anything worth a damn, Tony.”
Wyman’s fingers drummed on the desktop. Then he stood up. “Aha. Follow me.”
The three of them traipsed after him, followed by the two security guards Wyman had stationed outside Tom’s door. They took the elevator down one level, then padded on an Oriental rug down an L-shaped corridor to the back of the town house and through sliding pocket doors into 4627’s research room.
In many ways the place resembled a law library: dark wood bookcases and file cabinets, and a quartet of leather club chairs, each with its own reading lamp. In one corner, MJ saw a computer whose 4627 Company screen saver bounced back and forth across the width of the flat screen. There were also a pair of long tables. On one of them sat a stack of reference books-thesauruses and dictionaries in a dozen languages. The other, which sat adjacent to a five-drawer, legal-size file cabinet of city and country maps, held 4627’s world atlases. And attached to the end of the map table was a hinged, black metal, twelve-power magnifying lamp.
Wyman laid the photos on the table, flipped the protective cover from the thick magnifying glass, turned the light on, and stepped back.“Mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît?”
Using the lamp’s handle, MJ played the eight-inch glass over the photographs, working systematically left to right and then back again. When she’d finished with the first picture, she repeated her actions with the second. The three men stood quietly, Wyman rocking back and forth on his heels, his right hand playing with the change in his trouser pocket.
Finally, MJ looked over at tony Tony. “I see anomalies in these photographs,” she said.
Wyman flashed her a wicked grin and spoke in a Long John Silver accent. “And they be what sorts of anomalies, Marilyn Jean?”
“Why would Ben Said have two containers of olive oil in what you’ve told me is a room he’s trying to keep as sterile as possible.”
Reuven Ayalon cocked his head in MJ’s direction. “Olive oil. You’re sure?”
“Either olive oil or a bulk container of imported olives.” MJ stood aside. “Take a look, Reuven.”
The Israeli played the magnifying glass over the photograph. Finally, he looked up. “She’s right-but I think it’s a barrel of olives, not the oil.” He backed away so Tom could take a peek.
Tom peered at the photo. Then he gave MJ an anxious look. When she nodded at him, he said, “Give MJ a couple of minutes to play with these. I think she can make things a lot clearer than I did.”
3:56A.M. Tom waved the eight-by-ten at Tony Wyman. “She got it,” he said proudly. “She’s a genius.”
MJ blushed. “Not according to Mrs. Sin-Gin.”
Tony Wyman took the photo. “My Arabic’s rusty,” he said. “But I think it readsBoissons Maghreb Exports.” He looked at Tom. “The name sounds familiar. What’s the significance?”
“It’s an import-export company. Belongs to a Moroccan named Yahia Hamzi. He’s the third man in Shahram’s surveillance photos. Shahram described him as Ben Said’s banker.
“Dianne Lamb, our little bomber girl in Israel, met Hamzi here in Paris,” Tom said. “At a Lebanese restaurant in the seventeenth.”
“I found the place,” Reuven interrupted. “It’s called Rimal. It’s on boulevard Malesherbes.”
“Lamb was told his name was Talal Massoud,” Tom interrupted. “And that he was the editor ofAl Arabia, the magazine that employed Malik Suleiman-the Tel Aviv disco bomber.”
Reuven picked up: “Hamzi’s a regular.”
Wyman cocked his head in Tom’s direction. “Does two plus two equal four here, gentlemen?”
“If you’re thinking what I am, the answer’s yes.” Tom turned to Reuven. “What do you think?”
“I agree.”
MJ gave Tom a puzzled look. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”
“That last day when I had lunch with Shahram,” Tom said. “He told me Ben Said’s new explosive was terribly difficult to make. Said it had to be cooked in small batches. Said that Ben Said used up his entire stock of the new stuff in the Gaza explosion.”
“So?”
So, one: we can extrapolate that he’s running short. Aside from what’s been rolled out and is sitting on the drying racks, I don’t see any plastique in the room-no bricks, or mounds of anything to be rolled out.” He scanned the room. “Does anybody?”
“No,” said MJ, “but I don’t know what to look for.”
“There’s nothing there,” Reuven said authoritatively.
Tony Wyman gave the Israeli a probing stare. “So everything’s on the drying racks?”
Reuven didn’t back down. “That’s what I think.”
“Next,” Tom said. “Reuven’s earlier surveillance indicated no activity on rue Lambert. That tells me Ben Said wasn’t on scene.” He looked at Tony Wyman. “But last night-there were hostiles.”
“So?”
“Indicates one of two things: either DST’s got something working or Ben Said’s getting close.” Tom put his arm around MJ’s shoulder. “Here’s my two-plus-two: you asked how Ben Said moves the explosive once it’s been fabricated. How does he get it to the safe house. Obvious answer, given the photo: the explosive gets shipped in a container of Maghreb’s imported olives. Maghreb is Yahia Hamzi’s firm. Shahram told me Hamzi was Ben Said’s banker. But was Shahram being literal or figurative? Maybe he was saying Hamzi moves stuff around for Ben Said-launders the goods, or the cash, or whatever, if you will. Okay. Now, let’s posit the explosives are fabricated in Morocco in small batches-just as Shahram said. Then they’re shipped to Paris-or wherever-in Maghreb olive containers.”
MJ played with Tom’s fingers. “Wouldn’t the oil affect the plastique?”
“Not at all,” Reuven said. “And getting rid of the oil coating would be as simple as using soap and water.”
MJ’s eyes went wide. “Holy cow.”
“Tom,” Tony Wyman said, “I think we need to speak with Mr. Hamzi about these matters.” He swiveled toward the Israeli. “In private, of course. Is there some way you might arrange that, Reuven?”
“Are there time constraints?”
“Obviously, the sooner the better. Sometime in the next twenty-four hours would be optimum.” Wyman looked at Tom. “You look dubious, Tom. Am I asking the impossible?”
“Nothing’s impossible, Tony.” Tom found it significant that Wyman had directed the initial question to Reuven. That was because Reuven had done these kinds of ops before and Tom hadn’t. Besides, Wyman had worked with Mossad in the past-when he’d targeted Abu Nidal.
Many of the CIA’s Arabists-Charlie Hoskinson was one-tended to keep the Israelis at arm’s length. They distrusted Mossad’s motives. Wyman, it was said, had liaised with Mossad off the books on some European operations during the Gates and Webster era, when Langley was institutionally opposed to any sort of risky or audacious operation.
But talk about risky. Snatching Hamzi was way beyond risky. It was dangerous. The French tended to frown on kidnapping in their capital. But there had to be a way.