Andrew Britton - The Assassin

She is known to the West. Not her name, of course, and certainly not her face, but her existence is not a secret. It is a rare thing, you understand, to encounter a woman capable of such terrible things. A woman like this defies the cultural norms in most countries, but especially in the United States. As you well know, the Americans are taught their roles from birth, inundated with the idea of what a woman should be. I can tell you now, Yasmin Raseen fits very few of their criteria. For Raseen, killing is a simple task, as natural as drawing breath. In this respect, she is far ahead of our time. Ahead of yours, even…

Her resume was short but very encouraging. In particular, her connections to the Parisian underground had proved extremely useful. According to the former head of the IIS, she’d been based in the city for the past several weeks, arranging the details. If she’d done even half of what al-Tikriti had promised, he would have to find a way to use her in New York, assuming the meet went forward. He would know in the next few days, but there was plenty to do in that time frame.

After thirty minutes of seemingly random turns, the woman abruptly pulled in to the curb, expertly nestling the small SUV between a Honda motorcycle and a black Citroen. She got out first and motioned with a curled forefinger for Vanderveen to follow, gliding through the afternoon crowds with practiced ease, making her way toward a small boulangerie. They’d done a complete circle, he saw; they were back in the 8th Arrondissement, not far from where he’d left the Renault.

The bakery was cramped, too warm after the frigid street, the air laced with the scents of sugar and yeast. Vanderveen was starting to wonder what they were doing there when he caught sight of the woman behind the counter. Dark hair, white cardigan… the same woman he’d seen at the cafe.

Raseen turned and followed his gaze, then smiled. “She’s a friend,” she whispered in heavily accented French. “Not to me, exactly. A friend to us.”

Vanderveen nodded and followed her up a narrow flight of wooden stairs, the sense of unease growing worse. He was completely out of his element here, despite his intricate knowledge of the city and the language. He didn’t know the people he was dealing with, and that put him at a distinct disadvantage. They passed through an open door, the sounds of the busy shop fading as they climbed yet another staircase, emerging on the third floor.

“Close the door,” Raseen commanded. He obliged as she walked over to shut the sole window, blocking out the steady rumble of afternoon traffic on the rue Tronchet. She turned and crossed to an intricately carved armoire. Opening the heavy oak door, she ducked down and leaned into the cavernous opening, her body disappearing from the waist up.

As she gathered her materials, Vanderveen looked around. It was set up as a loft-style apartment, a chipped Formica table occupying the center, cabinets and a sink against the west wall, a white wooden door leading into a tiny bathroom. The bed was away from the window, tucked against the back of the armoire. Stepping into the kitchen, he ran his hand over the counter, leaving marks in the dust. He opened the fridge and saw that it contained only the necessities. It was clear that the room was used infrequently, which was a good thing. Different faces tramping through every week would be more likely to raise suspicion than a new face every few months.

Raseen emerged from the stand-alone closet, easing the door shut with her foot, a stack of papers and photographs in her hands. She placed the pile on the table and gestured toward a chair.

“Take a seat, Mr. Vanderveen, please. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

He looked at her for a very long moment. With the use of his name, she was making it clear that al-Tikriti had passed information in both directions. More importantly, though, the discomfort she’d shown in the car had vanished without a trace. She met his even gaze without a hint of anxiety. He was oddly pleased; her new behavior meshed with what he’d been told, but he sensed something more, something that appealed to him on many levels: her true nature. Vanderveen guessed that she was much more capable — and dangerous — than her masters knew.

“If we’re going to work together,” he said, “we’ll have to get past the formalities.” He smiled at her, wondering just how much she really knew. “Call me Will.”

She gazed back at him, intractable, unshakable. She didn’t return the smile, but the corner of her mouth twitched, and her eyes flickered with amusement. She knew; he could read it in her little gestures. She knew exactly what he was, and it didn’t bother her in the least.

“Very well,” she said, acknowledging his offer. “Now please, sit down. We have little time, Will, and there is much to do.”

They worked for two hours straight. Raseen had taken meticulous notes, but didn’t seem to need them. She relayed the information in a low but confident voice, everything from the target’s personal habits to his schedule and security measures. From his discussion with al-Tikriti in Tartus, Vanderveen knew the information had come from a highly placed source in the Iraqi legislature.

She also told him about the men who would carry out the actual assassination. It was Vanderveen’s greatest concern, so he listened intently as she skimmed over their backgrounds. They had the requisite nationalities and a shared history of violence, but their operational experience was all but nonexistent, limited to a few shootings and the bombing of a Shiite mosque in Basra. According to Raseen, they were part of the swell of foreign insurgents that had crossed the border into Iraq shortly after the fall of the regime. They had cut their teeth taking potshots at American soldiers on the streets of Kirkuk; for some inexplicable reason, they assumed this gave them the necessary skills to move into freelance work.

“Where did you find them?”

“Argenteuil. I had many to choose from. Unfortunately, few were qualified.”

Vanderveen nodded, not in the least surprised. Argenteuil, a crumbling housing estate located south of the city, was a hotbed of antigovernment sentiment. The vast majority of the suburb’s residents were impoverished Muslims, and as such, they harbored considerable disdain for French authority, a near-tangible hostility that extended to the security forces. For Iranians who’d entered the country illegally, Argenteuil would be the perfect place to seek shelter.

“I assume they agreed to your plan,” he said.

Raseen nodded abruptly. “Obviously, they didn’t have access to my information, so they were forced to let me pick the time and place. It did not matter to them; money was their only concern, and they’ve been well paid. I supplied the weapons as well. The fourth stop on the schedule offers the best line of sight, which is why I selected it. I hope you agree.”

He nodded once. The assassination would take place on the Right Bank, a short distance from the Champs-Elysees, just outside Le Meridien Etoile. In twelve hours time, the hotel was scheduled to begin hosting a two-day economic development conference, sponsored by the International Chamber of Commerce. Some of the world’s most prominent economists would be in attendance, as would a number of foreign business leaders and politicians. Representing Iraq’s National Assembly was Dr. Nasir al-Din Tabrizi, a prominent Sunni politician and a man who was respected on both sides of the Sunni-Shia divide. His efforts to unify the Iraqi government had not gone unnoticed by the U.S. president. Unfortunately for the London-trained physician, his work had not gone unnoticed by Izzat al-Douri, either.

“What time is he scheduled to leave the conference?” Vanderveen asked.