John Weisman - Direct Action

He paused. “Y’know, for years, America thought of terror as a law enforcement problem. We in Israel never did. We always knew it was war. Call it what you will-warfare on the cheap, asymmetrical warfare, warfare by other means, insurgency-terrorism is war. Dirty war, but war nonetheless. And the object of war is to kill more of the enemy than they kill of you.”

“I know.”

“Well, for years, you Americans allowed terrorists to kill more of your people than you killed terrorists without suffering consequences. All those planes hijacked. All those Americans murdered in Beirut, in Khartoum, in Mogadishu, in Pakistan, in Kenya, in Jordan, in Tanzania, in Saudi-and in Israel. Now, after 9/11, you finally began to see some light. To deal with terrorism as what it is: unrestricted warfare.”

“But the cycle of violence, Reuven.”

The Israeli made a dismissive gesture. “ Ach, the so-called cycle of violence is a lie. If the cycle-of-violence argument were true, then the Germans would still be suicide-bombing Brits and Americans for the tens of thousands of German civilians who were slaughtered during World War Two’s firebombing raids.” He looked at the American. “Here is the truth, Tom. This man, Ben Said, has to be stopped.”

“I agree. So why not turn him over to the French-do what MJ suggested?”

“My reaction? Bottom line? Because of what he knows,” Reuven said. “Look, this guy is a specialist. A genius who has managed a quantum leap in the construction of small, deadly, explosive devices.” The Israeli paused. “That’s why I say it’s important-imperative-that he takes his secrets to his grave.” Something external caught Reuven’s attention and he peered through the Audi’s windshield. “I don’t think Tony Wyman or Charlie Hoskinson would disagree, either. Already, this animal has done quite enough damage. Quite enough for a lifetime.”

The hard expression on Reuven’s face calcified. “Believe me-I know the extent of the damage the Ben Saids of the world can cause.”

That was when Tom really got what Sam Waterman had been talking about when he’d told Tom that retirement was just another form of cover. Understood why Reuven had agreed so readily to run 4627’s Tel Aviv operation. Why the Israeli had been working so feverishly for the past couple of weeks. Why he’d pulled strings to get Tom access at Qadima. Why he’d been able to arrange in a matter of minutes for Salah to come to Paris. Why he’d scratched his hands bloody creating the graffiti on the cell wall at the warehouse. It was personal.

Tom shifted on the leather seat so he could see Reuven’s reaction. “You think it was one of Ben Said’s suicide vests that killed Leah.”

If Tom had expected a visible epiphany, he didn’t get one. The Israeli’s face showed no reaction-not a quiver. No lump in throat. No sigh of angst. No deeply evocative moan. It was Reuven’s absolute silence that was so damned eloquent. All Tom heard were the ambient noises of the street and his own measured breathing.

After about a minute, Reuven shattered the vacuum. “If you display anything but steely resolve, you’ll lose control of the op, Tom. And you know as well as I do that control is everything, especially when you’re working false flag or through an access agent.”

The reason behind Reuven’s penchant for deflection, Tom understood, was that there were some doors, some compartments, some hidden emotional and operational caches that the practitioners of their particular trade refused to open for anyone-even the best of friends. Especially the best of friends. Tom nodded. “Gotcha, Reuven.”

“I hope so.” Reuven turned toward the American. “Now, when we grab Hamzi, you’ll get behind the wheel of this car. Don’t let anyone see your face-even with a prosthetic. Don’t say anything. Don’t freeze. And for God’s sake, don’t react.”

“React to what?”

“Remember.” Once again, the Israeli deflected Tom’s question. “Whatever happens, your job tonight is to get this car back to the warehouse. Full stop. My responsibilities lie with Hamzi and the barrels.” He looked at Tom. “Got it?”

“We’ll meet back at the warehouse, then.” Tom nodded. And although he was uncomfortable with the subtext of whatever Reuven’s operational decision with regard to Ben Said might turn out to be, he decided he could live with that part of it. “Got it, Reuven.”

9:04P.M. The last load of olives disappeared belowground. Tom watched as the two steel doors were dropped and a heavy lock was run through the hasp that protruded at sidewalk level. One of the cargo loaders swung into the cab of the truck, started the ignition, eased into the deserted street, and drove off. Thirty seconds later, two of Hamzi’s employees came out the front door carrying eight-foot metal poles with handles on one end and hooks on the other. They reached up, snagged the outer edges of the corrugated steel security curtain, and yanked it downward.

From their vantage point eighty yards away, Tom and Reuven could hear the dissonant sound of metal on metal. As the Maghreb workers locked the curtain in place, Reuven retrieved a hands-free unit from the Audi’s console. He stuck the plug into the top of his cell phone and screwed the foam earpiece into his right ear. The microphone rested against his clavicle.

9:17. Hamzi came through Boissons Maghreb’s front door. He was carrying two bottles of wine. He unlocked the Mercedes, laid the bottles on the front passenger seat, slammed the door, and locked the car again. Then he went back inside.

9:23. Hamzi appeared again. This time he was wearing his overcoat. He wore it cape-style, thrown over his shoulders collar up, in the affected European fashion. Hamzi went to the rear of his car. He hit his remote. The running lights flashed three times and the trunk popped open. The Moroccan reached in and adjusted something. Then he signaled the doorway. Two of his helpers appeared. Each was carrying a pair of two-foot-high blue plastic barrels. Hamzi took them one at a time and placed them in the Mercedes’ trunk. He reached down, produced a long bungee cord, and secured the barrels together to prevent them from tipping over. He stared for an instant, and then, satisfied with his work, slammed the trunk door closed.

Reuven pressed the transmit button on his cell phone. There were about five seconds of silence, and then he said in Arabic, “Go shopping.”

9:24 P . M .

RUE DU CONGO

HAMZI TURNED AND,GESTICULATING, obviously gave instructions to his people. Then he climbed into the car and turned the ignition switch.

Showtime. Reuven allowed the Mercedes to drive off. Tom reacted, but the Israeli said, “Not to worry, boychik, he’s covered. We let the work get done, then we do our jobs.”

9:27. Reuven retrieved a pair of thin leather driving gloves from the console and pulled them on. Then he turned the ignition key and put the car in gear, accelerating smoothly onto rue du Congo then immediately swinging left, to head north on a narrow one-way street.

Reuven steered with his left hand, his right index finger pressing against the cell-phone earpiece, his expression one of intense concentration. “Gotcha,” he said. “On my way.”

There was a blinking traffic light ahead. Reuven ran it then immediately swung right, onto the quai that ran parallel to the Canal de l’Orecq. Tom looked over at the Israeli, his face a mask of concern. “Jeezus-what about Hamzi’s cell phone?”

“The intercept vehicles have frequency jammers.” Reuven floored the big sedan, flattening Tom against the passenger seat. “Hold on.”

“They have what ?” Algerian gangbangers didn’t have access to frequency jammers.