John Weisman - Direct Action

“Okay,” Reuven said. “Now…stop.”

Tom froze the image.

Reuven used his pen to point at the bomb-making materials on the tables. “Breaking this down won’t be easy. This isn’t the kind of thing you throw in a garbage bag and move. The backpacks have to be handled carefully. After all, they have to look new.” He looked at Tom. “Show the pasta maker, Tom.”

Tom double-clicked and the image of the long table with the sewing machine popped onto the screen.

Reuven waited until the camera panned between the backpacks to the end of the table that held the pasta maker. Just visible next to the machine were a trio of cookie racks on which sat six-inch strips of what looked like fresh-made lasagna. “Okay, stop.”

Tony Wyman squinted, then said, “Yes?”

“That’s the explosive,” Reuven said.

MJ said, “Just lying there? Isn’t that dangerous?”

“No.” Tom’s hand caressed her shoulder. “The explosive itself is inert-it’s not dangerous until the detonator’s inserted. But look at how thin it has to be.”

“You’re right.” Reuven pointed to the racks. “Looks to me like it’s what-two, three millimeters at most.”

Wyman looked at the Israeli. “Is that significant?”

“For sure. Plastique isn’t elastic the same way pasta dough is. It’s more like modeling clay, or Silly Putty. It’s easy to cut, and roll, and form into shaped charges. But it’s damned hard to roll into thin, delicate sheets unless you happen to have the right equipment. Obviously, all Ben Said was able to get was this pasta roller. Once the son of a bitch has rolled out the explosive, it becomes very, very fragile. From what we can see here, my guess is he’s rolled about three, maybe four knapsacks’ worth.” Reuven looked at Wyman. “Believe me, he’s not going to want to do the job twice.”

Tony Wyman shook his head. “He’s using a goddamn everyday pasta roller.”

“Can you think of something less likely to attract attention?” Reuven tapped the plasma screen. “With the exception of the explosives and the detonators, there’s nothing in this room that can’t be bought off the shelf.”

The Israeli tapped the screen then turned back toward Tony Wyman. “Look-these guys are smart. You were able to destroy Abu Nidal’s organization because it was hierarchical. You cut the head off, and the beast dies. These guys work out of anonymous, self-supporting cells. Or they’re loners like Ben Said. They also study their targets. They probe for weaknesses. They bide their time. They’re patient, experienced, dangerous, well disciplined, and above all they’re resourceful. So while the FBI or Shabak or DST double-checks every building-supply or fertilizer manufacturer looking for fancy-schmancy, our boy goes to Monoprix or BHV, pays cash, and walks away with everything he needs right off the housewares and small-electronics shelves.”

“Makes one wonder.” MJ played with her hair.

Tom said, “Wonder what?”

“Where he got the explosives. Where did they come from? Did he make them in the next room? Where’s his laboratory? Did he bring them into this place in a shopping bag or in his briefcase? How did they get from wherever they were manufactured to that table?”

The three men looked at one another and realized no one had an answer.

Tony Wyman’s monocle dropped onto his chest. “Roll the video again, Tom. From the top.”

Tom clicked on the play button, then the slow button, and the camera panned slowly left to right. The four of them watched for more than two and a half minutes in silence.

Finally, Wyman said, “Hold on the backpacks, will you?”

Tom ran the disk fast-forward until the table with the backpacks was centered on the screen. He paused the DVD and looked over at his boss.

Tony Wyman said, “Can you give me a print of the table with the backpacks? I don’t care about the packs, but I want to see the whole table, legs and all.”

“Sure.” Tom cropped the image just as his boss had asked and clicked the printer icon. Thirty seconds later, he handed tony Tony a borderless eight-by-ten-inch photograph.

Wyman plugged the monocle into his right eye and studied the picture intently. After a quarter of a minute, he said, “Hmm.”

Then he gave Tom an intense look. “Can you do the same thing for me with the table holding the detonators?”

“Sure.” Tom had no idea at all where tony Tony was heading.

3:38A.M. Tony Wyman held the photographs side by side directly in front of his long nose and examined them closely, one then the other. He said “Hmm” again. He looked at Tom, swiveled his chair, and said, “Come see.”

Tom came around and peered over Wyman’s shoulder, squinted, then shrugged. “What am I looking for?”

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.”