“That means a trial. It means a media circus.”
“What about the French?”
“There’s no death penalty in Europe,” Reuven said.
“Which is why the French will never let him be extradited,” Tom added.
Tony Wyman slid the pen back into his vest. “This is all very preliminary,” he said. “It’s a distraction. Right now I’d like to know Langley’s motivation for throwing a wrench at us.” He looked at the others. “That affects our bottom line, lady and gentlemen.”
“Protection of the status quo,” Tom said. “Everybody keeps their jobs.” He tapped the photos MJ had printed from the video he’d shot in Ben Said’s bomb lab. “Can you imagine how long anybody on the seventh floor would be employed if you took these pictures and showed them to Porter Goss. Goss wants George Tenet’s job bad.”
Tony Wyman gave Tom a wary look. “Porter and I were in the same training class-and we’ve stayed in touch.” Wyman scratched his chin. “As I recall, he was an adequate operator.” He paused. “I agree-he wants Tenet’s job, and having one of our own as DCI could improve the situation at DO. But I’m not in favor of a coup-at least for the present.”
“Why?”
“It’s not in our interests.” Wyman’s voice took on an edginess. “Because we have no resolution, Tom. No bad guys in handcuffs. No bombs for show-and-tell.”
Wyman was deflecting. Tom couldn’t believe it. “Tony, I’m serious. Look at what’s happening in the press. Langley is leaking like a sieve these days. It’s goddamn unprecedented. All sorts of stories about how the White House cooked the books on Iraq. Stories about how CIA tried to warn the president that there were no WMDs.” Tom slapped the table with the flat of his hand. “It’s all chaff, Tony. Disinformation. What the Sovs used to call active measures. You know it as well as I do. The president asks the DCI whether or not there are WMDs, and the DCI tells him, ‘It’s a slam dunk,’ even though anyone at Langley worth their salt had doubts about the depth of the program. And now the seventh floor is trying to weasel out of the responsibility for giving everyone-everyone from the White House to the Pentagon to State-either bad intelligence or no intelligence at all. This whole rotten situation is about job security, Tony. No more, no less. We should take what we know to Porter Goss and let him run with it.”
“The answer is no,” Wyman snapped. “Let me be blunt here, Tom: 4627 is not in the business of staging coups at CIA.”
“Maybe we should be.”
“Perhaps you and Reuven should worry more about refining the details of the current operation to ensure we don’t have any flaps and less about the machinations of Washington politics.” There was about thirty seconds of dead air. Then Tony Wyman said, “Thank you, MJ. Your contributions have been enormously valuable.” He picked up the two sheets of time line and the yellow legal pad on which MJ had written her notes, and tucked them under his arm. “You guys keep at it,” he said. “I’m going to make some phone calls.”
When Wyman had left the room, Tom turned to Reuven and spoke in Arabic. “What do you think?”
The Israeli shrugged. “I think he’s a boss. Bosses do what bosses do.” Reuven’s cell phone chirped. He flicked it open and said,“Parle-moi.” Fifteen seconds later, he snapped the instrument shut. “The shipment just left Orly. Our guy’s headed for Boissons Maghreb,” he said. “If he loads any containers of olives into his car, we’ll snatch him.” He looked at Tom. “Let’s get to the warehouse.”
RUE DU CONGO, PANTIN
4:54P.M.
They were using the small EUREC truck. Reuven, in repairman’s coveralls, a black knit cap, and a bushy mustache attached to his upper lip sat behind the wheel, a cell phone clapped to his ear and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Tom was set up in the rear of the blueÉCLAIRAGE &SIGNALIZATION truck behind a black gauze sniper’s screen that made him invisible to anyone staring through the windshield but didn’t impede the vision of his light-gathering Steiner binoculars or the telephoto lens of the digital Nikon single-lens reflex he’d set up on a tripod. Behind Tom, Milo stretched out, eyes closed, on a dirty cot mattress.
Tom turned toward Milo. “Where are the Algerians?”
“Around,” Milo grunted.
“Not obvious, I hope.”
Milo propped himself up on an elbow. “Didyou see them?”
“Not yet.”
“You won’t.” The Corsican lay back down and rested an arm across his eyes.
They’d set up on the south side of rue du Congo, just past the intersection of rue Auger, giving themselves an unobstructed view of the block-square commercial zone of small warehouses, contractors’ storage sheds, and light-industrial companies. They were roughly 175 yards from Bois-sons Maghreb, well within the range of Tom’s 500mm telephoto lens. Hamzi’s facility was, in fact, not a proper warehouse at all, but a deep, moderately wide storefront with basement storage. The place sat between an electrical contractor and a restaurant-supply house. The heavy steel trap-doors to the basement were propped open and the hydraulic lift was level with the sidewalk. Obviously, they were waiting for a shipment.
5:19. The truck from Orly eased up onto the curb and blocked the sidewalk to make unloading easier. Two burly Arabs unbuckled the rubberized canvas sides of the truck, revealing three plastic-wrapped pallets holding what appeared to be cases of wine and two pallets on which were stacked dozens of two-foot-high yellow plastic barrels of olives. Tom shot a dozen or so photos.
5:22. It was growing dark rapidly. As Tom affixed the night-vision device to the camera lens, the truck crew stopped work and lit up cigarettes. That, too, was captured on the Nikon’s memory stick.
5:47. Hamzi arrived in a champagne-colored Mercedes 500-series coupe with Paris plates whose grille and bumpers had been gold-plated. The Moroccan drove up onto the sidewalk and parked.
Reuven heard Tom say, “Pimp your ride much, Yahia?” As the Moroccan exited the car, Tom muttered to himself and shot more pictures.
5:48. Hamzi took a look around-a wary coyote sniffing the wind. He looked much the same as he had in Shahram’s surveillance photo: clean-shaven, a round, dark face set off by thick-framed eyeglasses with tinted lenses, and a full head of curly black hair. He was dressed in a dark raglansleeved wool overcoat, under which he wore his customary light-colored suit and open-necked shirt. The Moroccan’s body language betrayed nothing untoward. He turned his attention to the cargo and gesticulated, berating the crew, who ground out their cigarettes on the pavement and resumed unloading.
5:53. It had gone completely dark. The first load of wine cartons descended into the Maghreb cellar. The pallets of olives were still untouched. Tom increased the power of the lens, focusing on Hamzi’s head, watching as the Moroccan watched the elevator disappear. Suddenly Hamzi whirled, looking straight into Tom’s lens, as if he sensed the American’s presence.
Rattled, Tom hit the shutter and captured the expression on Hamzi’s face. As he did, it occurred to him that the Moroccan might have heard the shutter, even though the Nikon’s shutter was digital not mechanical. Even though Tom was more than a hundred and fifty yards away and the truck was just one shadow among many.
Tom was nervous. He edged forward and whispered, “Time to make the adjustment, Reuven?”
He had no evidence that they’d been compromised. But there was something about Hamzi’s actions that made Tom uneasy. It was almost as if the Moroccan knew he was being watched. Was it them? Was it the Algerians? Had there been a slip somewhere? Ops like this were risky and hugely prone to compromise. You could never be sure what was what. Tom said, “Reuven?”
“Your op,” the Israeli said. “Your call.”