John Weisman - Direct Action

“Which one?” Wyman played with his monocle.

“The Corsicans. They’re already involved-running the surveillance on rue Lambert. They’re expensive, of course. But they’re good, they’re quick-and they’re very discreet.”

“Corsicans.” Wyman’s head bobbed in agreement. “Works for me.” Tony had employed Corsicans before and they were everything Reuven said they were.

“Reuven.” Tom cocked his head in the Israeli’s direction. “Is there any chance we might snag Salah for this?”

The Israeli reacted. “Y’know,” he said, “that’s an interesting idea.”

Wyman looked over at Tom. “Who’s Salah?”

“He runs the interrogation center where I interviewed Dianne Lamb.”

Wyman played with the monocle’s silk ribbon. “I’m not sure I like it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like the possibility of competing agendas,” Wyman said. “Salah isn’t our unilateral or our employee. He’s liaison. That means he’ll be doing Gelilot’s work as well as ours.”

“Sometimes, Tony,” Reuven broke in, “that’s not so bad. Besides, I think in this particular case, Gelilot’s agenda and ours will run parallel-at least in the short term.” He gave the American time to think about what he’d said. “And Salah’s one of the best in the world at wringing information out of these people.”

“Can we trust him?”

“Look.” The Israeli crossed his arms. “Say you’re right. Say he’ll report to Gelilot everything he learns. Okay, sooner or later, they’ll use it-to their advantage and maybe not to ours, or to Langley’s. But Salah won’t hold back on us-and neither will Mossad.”

Wyman gave the Israeli a penetrating stare. “Why, Reuven?”

“First of all because we’re giving Mossad access to someone who might give up something useful. And second because in a sense, we’re carrying Gelilot’s water on this whole Ben Said business.”

“How so?”

“Gelilot screwed up on Ben Said. They didn’t catch the pattern. We-through Tom’s good work and Shahram’s instincts-did.”

“And?”

“And, let’s say we snag Ben Said. Do we-the 4627 Company-take the credit? Of course not. Because what is 4627? It’s a private risk-assessment firm. Operationally, we don’t exist. Operationally, we are entirely in the black. So who takes credit when we succeed, eh?” The Israeli paused, then quickly answered his own question. “Nobody does-and everybody does.”

The Israeli looked around the room. “My old boss at Gelilot, Shamir, was a tough bird. A real prick-let me tell you, when the son of a bitch became prime minister, he was just as tough and unyielding. And whenever something fatal happened to one of our enemies-like the Black September murderers who planned and perpetrated the 1972 Olympics assassinations being tracked down and killed one by one, or the Fatah terrorists who bombed Israeli diplomats and then subsequently disappeared off the face of the earth-Israel, of course, would get the blame. And the government always denied, denied, denied. No comment. But Shamir always used to tell those of us who worked in the embassies, ‘Never, never, never,’ he’d insist, ‘deny the stories too loudly. Leave the sons of bitches guessing. Whether or not it was us, always leave them guessing.’”

The Israeli’s palms came together. “So, like I said: let’s say we snag Ben Said. Make him disappear. The putzes who write for The Guardian and The Independent will scream accusations at Mossad. And Mossad? Mossad won’t deny it too loudly. The left-wing American press and the left-wing French press, they’ll accuse CIA. And guess what: CIA won’t deny it too loudly, either. Why? Because CIA is in such bad shape that any suggestion at all that Langley might have pulled off a successful operation against a bin Laden-level terrorist will make the seventh floor happy.”

Reuven looked at Tony Wyman. “So, I say we bring Salah on, and we do what we do, and who says what afterward, or what their long-term agendas might be, none of that matters. Not one bit.”

Tom said, “I think Reuven’s right, Tony.”

Wyman said, “I’m inclined to agree.” He rapped the table and nodded. “Do it.”

“Done.” Tom started to leave, then turned back toward his boss. “Tony, can you set MJ up in a secure place for a couple of days?”

“Good point.” Wyman smiled at MJ. “I’ll put you at the Sofitel Faubourg, mademoiselle. That’s where I’m staying. The room service is good, and because it’s on the same block as the American embassy, there are hundreds of SWAT cops around to make sure no one from the banlieues gets anywhere close.”

MJ frowned. “What am I-under some kind of house arrest?”

Tom took her by the shoulders. “These people play rough. I think you should lay low-at least for a couple of days.”

“I think you just want me out of the way while you guys play cops and robbers.” She looked at him critically. “And where will you be staying?”

“Staying?” Tom gave her a reassuring smile, trying to hide the fact that she’d hit the nail on the head. Tom did want her out of the way in case events turned sour. He fell back on tradecraft: charm, deflect, redirect. “Sweetheart, I don’t think I’m going to be getting much rest in the next forty-eight hours.”

7 NOVEMBER 2003

11:34 A . M .

4627 WAREHOUSE, ST. DENIS

BY 7:30, REUVEN’S CORSICAN IN CHIEF, who identified himself to Tom simply as Milo, had assembled a twenty-five-man crew of carpenters, bricklayers, electricians, and painters in the 4627 warehouse. Milo was built like a whiskey barrel. He stood about five-foot-nine and his upper arms were as big as most men’s thighs. His plaid flannel shirt was open halfway down his hairy chest, revealing a jewel-encrusted crucifix suspended from heavy gold links wrought in the style of an anchor chain. The links were as thick as a baby’s fingers.

Milo smelled of tobacco, garlic, and brandy. Under what Tom took to be his perpetual five-o’clock shadow, a long, nasty scar ran from just behind his right ear, across his cheek and lower lip, all the way to the upper left corner of his mouth. The upward thrust of the scar gave the Corsican a decidedly sinister yet slightly goofy look-Tom was reminded of the ludicrous expression frozen on Jack Nicholson’s face when he played the Joker in one of the Batman movies.

At 7:55, Tom gave Milo a rough floor plan of what he wanted. The Corsican asked half a dozen brusque questions, then summoned his people-most of whom looked like his relatives-into a scrum. Milo made a short speech, then barked a series of orders in a dialect Tom found completely impenetrable.

Just after noon, Tom’s cell phone rang. “Game on,” Reuven’s voice boomed. “Arrival this evening.”

“Bon.” Tom tried to shield the phone from the noise of the air hammers and circular saws and continued in Arabic. “Is our friend bringing the perfume and the CD?”

“Both,” Reuven said. “No problem.”

“What about the other place?” Tom was talking about rue Lambert.

“No movement. No developments.”

“When do I see you?”

“Later. I have errands to run. Bye.” The phone went dead in Tom’s ear. He turned and looked with satisfaction at the progress being made. The warehouse now resembled a movie set. Lights, some of them big scoops covered with colored gel, others with barn doors to limit and focus the throw of the light, hung from scaffolding. There were walls joined together by oversize clamps and ramps covered with padding to mask any sound of footsteps. The vehicles had all been moved to one side of the place so there was ample room around the perimeter of the set. As Tom watched, two Corsicans strung speaker wire for the two amplified subbass speakers that from above could create a cornucopia of wall-vibrating sounds running the gamut from the window-rattling noise of about-to-land military aircraft to the ominous rumble of close-by thunder. Another pair of laborers were un-coiling flexible plastic air-conditioning conduit, which Salah would use both to create heat and cold in the cell and interrogation room and to pump in the manipulative odor of parfum pénitentiaire that would create the requisite feeling of dread in Yahia Hamzi.