John Weisman - Direct Action

Shahram gestured with his head toward the stacks of shellfish. “The best oysters in Paris, Thomas. Have you ever eaten here?”

“Twice. The food was okay.”

“‘Okay,’ he says.” Shahram laughed and tweaked Tom’s elbow, pulling himself closer to avoid a pair of overeager tourists weighed down by video cameras and carrying huge, partially unfolded Michelin maps. “You are preoccupied, dear boy.”

Tom grunted. His attention was focused on the steel-and-glass display cases that held Belons, Marennes, and Creuses arranged artfully by size and displayed on shaved ice. You could order them by the piece or by la douzaine and eat them on the spot. They were delicious.

Suddenly, from somewhere behind him, Tom heard shouting.

Instinctively, he turned toward the sound. “What the-”

The Iranian’s grip on his elbow tightened. Shahram pushed him rudely, almost knocking him to the ground.

Tom staggered, but caught his balance. Shahram fell up against him. The Iranian uttered a huge wheeze and gasped, “Tho- mas ?”

As Tom reacted, the old man’s knees went out from under him and he sagged to the ground.

“Shahram?” Tom tried to catch his friend under his arms. But Shahram was already deadweight.

It was a goddamn heart attack. Shahram slipped to the sidewalk. He collapsed face forward. Tom tried to roll him onto his back, but couldn’t. He screamed, “Somebody get a doctor, a doctor-quickly!”

Tom lifted Shahram’s head. He saw that the Iranian’s eyes had rolled back. He reached around, unbuttoned Shahram’s coat, and loosened the scarf. “C’mon, c’mon-a doctor!”

He felt Shahram’s neck, but sensed no pulse. He pressed his cheek against Shahram’s chest to listen for a heartbeat. Nothing. He was about to start CPR when suddenly an arm was thrown around his neck, he was yanked backward, wrestled across the sidewalk, spun rudely onto all fours, and kicked in the ribs hard enough to lift him clear off the pavement.

He landed badly, his trouser knees shredding on the rough concrete. He tried to claw his way back to Shahram, but got a chop to the throat and an elbow to the side of his head for his troubles.

Tom saw stars. Everything went out of focus. He fought the pain, struggled to his feet, half collapsed, then regained his balance. He tried to scream that Shahram had suffered a heart attack, but all that came out of his throat was a gurgle.

He saw he’d been attacked by one of Shahram’s DST shadows. The youngster was already on his knees, unbuttoning Shahram’s jacket and shirt. But when he looked down, all he said was, “Merde.”

Where was the other agent? As Tom looked around in panic, he saw the second DST man, a gun in one hand, a radio in the other, dashing across the boulevard, heading north, toward Avenue de Wagram.

And then he saw the dark stain spreading onto Shahram’s shirt. The DST agent moved the Iranian’s left arm upward, and Tom saw where he’d been wounded-shot or stabbed just under the armpit.

He edged forward. “Please…” The DST agent gave Tom a long and dirty look. But he finally gestured as if to say, C’mon, and Tom crawled over to his friend.

Shahram’s eyes were open. But they were already clouded. Tom lifted the old man off the cold concrete and cradled his head in his lap. He looked down at his left hand. It was wet-covered with blood. He wiped the hand on his jacket.

Tom began to see spots in front of his eyes. The world started to turn black and white. Tom hyperventilated, fighting to remain conscious. From somewhere in the distance, he could hear the raucous hee-hawing of sirens approaching. It had begun to drizzle. He hunched over, to protect his friend from the raindrops, and regained control over his own body. Carefully, he brushed hair away from the Iranian’s forehead. Then he slipped his hand over Shahram’s face and tenderly closed his eyes.

18 OCTOBER 2003

8:35 A . M .

17 RUE RAYNOUARD, PARIS

MJ USED ONE OF THE FOUR KEYSon her Arc de Triomphe souvenir key chain to open the heavy wood door that led into the courtyard hidden behind the gray stone facade of the six-story apartment building. She held the door open with her shoulder, shifted her huge purse, which had slipped off her shoulder, back where it belonged, and muscled her carry-on through the opening. Carefully, she leaned against the door to press it closed, then rolled the suitcase across the flagstones to a second door, which led into the small foyer just past the concierge’s apartment, where the antique elevator shaft ascended up through the stairwell.

She watched as the cagelike ascenseur descended. MJ was more than a little upset. More than a little? Hell-she was fuming. The day had begun with Mrs. Sin-Gin. It had ended with a horrendous flight. The plane was full-every single seat occupied. There were long stretches of turbulence that kept everyone buckled in, nervous, and claustrophobic. Worst of all, her seat back hadn’t reclined, not at all. And so she’d been condemned to sit straight up, the seat in front of her barely six inches from her nose, for the entire eight hours.

Her arrival at de Gaulle was no better. The passport control lines had been endless-only one surly agent on duty for the hundreds of bedraggled travelers from half a dozen flights that had touched down simultaneously. Her bag? It was the last one on the carousel, naturellement . Worst of all, Tom had been supposed to meet her, but he hadn’t. Instead, as she disem-barked she’d been paged, then handed a message.

Something’s come up, it read tersely. See you at the apartment . He hadn’t even bothered to dictate his name or say he was sorry.

And so, instead of a comfortable ride in Tom’s Jaguar, she’d rolled her suitcase to the Air France ticket counter, paid her ten euros, waited inside the dank terminal for almost thirty minutes, then climbed aboard a boxy red, white, and blue bus with thirty other loners and sat, getting more and more depressed by the minute, as the steamy-windowed vehicle lumbered through the chill drizzle first to Porte Maillot, then on to Étoile. There, she’d stood in the rain listening to her hair frizz, enduring another fifteen minutes of hell until she was finally able to snag a cab for the seven-minute ride to rue Raynouard.

MJ wrestled the sliding gate open, smacked the elevator door with her suitcase, and emerged into darkness. She fumbled around until she found the minuterie switch and pressed it, relieved when the corridor lit up. She pulled her bag out of the elevator and allowed the narrow door to swing closed. She turned to her left and was halfway down the hallway when she stopped, said, “Goddamn French elevators,” let go of the suitcase, trudged back the way she’d come, yanked the stupid French door open so she could slam the stupid open-it-yourself French gate shut so all the other damn French could use the damn French elevator.

Of course the lights went out just as she’d let the elevator door hiss closed. She cursed under her breath, found the minuterie button, pressed it, and, soggy sneakers squeaking on the marble floor, finally made her way to the end of the hallway, let herself in, and double-locked the metal door behind her.

She turned on the lights and looked around. Nothing had changed. She walked to the window and looked across the rooftops toward the Eiffel Tower, whose crown disappeared in the morning mist. At least that was still here. MJ stared for perhaps half a minute, finding the sight hugely therapeutic. Then she turned away and rolled her suitcase into the bedroom.