They ran up the tightly winding stairwell, using the iron railing as leverage after they passed the first two hundred steps. They wove past the occasional person walking down and finally stopped for a breath around number 250. Chests heaving, they glanced down at the spiral they had just ascended, then continued upward.
They hit the roof — or terrace, according to the sign — and exited through a glass-enclosed covering.
The view was spectacular despite the low-hanging charcoal clouds and constant drizzle. Off in the near distance stood the Eiffel Tower, unimpeded by the low buildings of downtown Paris.
Uzi scanned the area, which featured an elaborate smooth marble floor that stepped up in multiple tiered levels amid a network of metal drain grates. A continuous row of five foot tall steel rods ringed the perimeter to prevent people from falling, or jumping, off the edge to the street below.
The center of the roof was consumed by a raised section that divided the top into a narrow passageway along the length of the monument and a wider area on the short dimension, where the exit/entrance staircase was located. A glass-enclosed security booth sat empty.
They split up, Uzi going left and Fahad right. They were looking for anyone fitting the description of an Islamic extremist — which meant the pool was too great to accurately characterize. It could be a Frenchman, an Englishman, an American — along with a host of other nationalities including Chechen, Syrian, African, Moroccan. Because of the universal nature of the threat, it was difficult to put a physical face on the enemy.
There were only a handful of people on the terrace. A few were milling about, taking in the view of the Parisian streets and buildings, others walking along the slick marble toward another vantage point.
Uzi turned the corner of the short end and headed down the narrower pathway. A young couple was standing about thirty yards away, leaning against the railing, kissing.
So where was this meet occurring? He checked his watch: they were a few minutes late, but he was certain any discussion these men were supposedly having would last more than 180 seconds. Unless it was a simple handoff. Uzi cursed under his breath. Had they really missed them by two or three minutes?
As Uzi swung his head left to glance over his shoulder he was slammed in the back by two men who grabbed him by his arms and launched him off the ground and up against the spikes. The force knocked the air from his lungs.
Uzi fought to get hold of something to keep his body from being thrown over the edge — but the metal was smooth and slick. And wet.
He kicked backward, landed a couple of good blows.
But his attackers did not yield.
He wedged his knee between the rods and reached back with his left hand and grabbed a fistful of hair. The man twisted and pulled, trying to free himself, but there was no way Uzi was going to let go.
If only he could gain some space and pull his Glock or his knife.
That was not going to happen. He continued gyrating and kicking, then realized he did not have to pull his handgun.
He squirmed and got his right hand free, wedged it between his belt and abdomen, and grasped the hand of the pistol. It was a crazy move but he had no other choice — and nothing to lose.
His 5.11 tactical pants had some elasticity and they yielded as he pushed the Glock down into his groin, angled the barrel between his legs and pulled the trigger twice.
The recoil slammed into his groin and the pain was instant — but either he hit one of his targets or the gunshots got their attention and they loosened their grasp — long enough for Uzi to swing a vicious right elbow backward into the perp’s head. The stunned man jerked back and dropped his hold on Uzi.
Uzi fell off to that side and took the other man down with him, his left fist still grasping clumps of hair. From his back he swung his right foot into the side of the tango’s head, then drew his knee back and smashed the perp squarely in the nose with a Timberland boot. The man fell to the pavement.
Uzi struggled to his feet, trying to shake off the pain. He turned slowly to get a look at the other attacker. But he was nowhere in sight. A blood trail, however, indicated that he had been struck by at least one of the rounds and had staggered off, by the looks of the jagged red-tinged droplets.
Uzi knelt on the chest of the unconscious man and reached a hand down his tactical pants to move the Glock back up to his waist.
Fahad appeared on the far side and ran toward him.
“What happened?”
“Another guy — go see if you can catch up to him — follow the blood.” He gestured over his left shoulder.
“That one dead?”
“Unconscious.”
“Kill him.”
“Mo, just go!”
“Do it,” he said, and took off.
Quick glance up — the couple that had been near the other end of the railing was now gone — no surprise there. The area was otherwise empty. No surprise there, either.
Off in the near distance, below him somewhere, came the scream of sirens. And he knew the cops he saw down below would be on their way up. He had maybe sixty seconds to get the hell away or face certain detention and questioning — which he had to avoid at all costs.
He reseated the Glock and debated wiping it down and ditching it here but because he had it so close against his body he did not know if any of his DNA was in the slide. It would not take much: a sliver of skin from his leg during the recoil, a drop of blood.
He did an efficient pat down of the unconscious man and found nothing. He rooted out his phone and took a photo of the face — and that’s when he realized it was one of the snipers from London: Samir Mohammed al Razi. That meant the one that escaped might be Rahmatullah Nasrullah.
The urgent sirens grew louder.
Fahad’s voice echoed in his head: “Kill him.” He was right; al Razi was a terrorist and his flat would eventually be discovered. In an effort to win his freedom he would describe Uzi to the authorities. How much did al Razi know about him? About all of them?
Uzi now knew the so-called meet was an ambush — which meant the tangos had known he and Fahad were in that flat. But how? What else did they know?
He could not take a chance. And he was out of time.
He pulled the Glock from his waistband and took aim.
50
Who are you?” Lufti Raboud asked.
DeSantos smirked. “I was going to ask you the same question.”
“This,” Vail said, “is the director of ancient documents. Lufti Raboud.”
“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again, Miss Vega,” Raboud said disdainfully. “Let alone with an armed thug.”
DeSantos tilted his head. “Thug?”
Vail’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the display: Tim Meadows. She reluctantly pulled the cell from her belt and answered the call. “Now’s not a good time.”
“Well excuse me for interrupting, Karen, but I thought you’d like an answer on some of those prints and photos you people have been bombarding me with.”
“What about the last one I sent? Anything?”
“Yeah. And as a matter of fact, it wasn’t easy because makeup powder is not an ideal medium—”
“Sorry, I didn’t have access to proper equipment. I improvised.”
“Go to a drugstore and get a plastic cup, a pipe cleaner, and superglue. Poke a hole in the cup, put the pipe cleaner through the hole, put superglue on the pipe cleaner and set the cup over the latent. The superglue reacts with the pipe cleaner, which heats up and creates fumes. The fumes adhere to—”
“Tim — Tim. When I said ‘now’s not a good time,’ I really meant it. Do you have an ID?”