John Weisman - Direct Action

“No, I’m royally pissed-at me more than at you.” Tom shoved the keys in his pocket, strode back to the Audi, and moved it out of the way, handling the vehicle roughly. He turned off the ignition and was just about to lock the doors when Reuven exited the Mercedes.

Tom pulled himself out of the Audi and went around to the opposite side of the car to put distance between himself and Reuven. He was both disappointed and disgusted with himself. He was as blind as Tenet’s CIA. He’d had no idea what the man’s actual intentions were. He’d relied on a liaison relationship and that relationship had screwed him. Tom stood, fists clenched, as the Israeli approached.

Reuven reacted to Tom’s body language and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, boychik,” he said. “Since you’re coming with me, we’d better wipe this car down and get everything out of it. Then I’ll torch it.”

“But the cops’ll track the registration.”

“Not this one-unless they keep track of Audis stolen in Turkey.” He gestured toward Tom’s hands. “Believe me, there’s no records.” He paused. “When you get into Hamzi’s car, touch nothing, or use your handkerchief. You’re not wearing gloves and I’m not carrying an extra pair. I don’t think leaving fingerprints or evidence is a good idea.”

10:19P.M. Reuven collapsed onto the steering wheel of Hamzi’s Mercedes and wiped sweat off his face with a handkerchief. It was cold in the car because there was no driver’s-side front window. They’d brushed the broken glass off the seat and removed as much of it as they could, but there were still shards on the floor by Tom’s feet. Even in the chill, Reuven’s collar was wet with perspiration. It was the only outward sign of the stress he’d been under.

They’d driven in silence for about eighteen minutes through northeast Paris, Reuven carefully observing all the traffic laws while Tom sat, arms crossed, fuming. At 10:17, they pulled up to a deserted garage just off the rue Simplon, about six blocks from the Gare du Nord.

Reuven obviously had a remote device in his pocket because the big roll-up door raised as they cruised up the street and drove straight inside.

The door descended behind them now, sealing them inside with an ominous thud that echoed inside the cavernous, empty space.

Reuven opened his door and rolled out onto the concrete. “Quick, Tom. Help me pull him out-but touch nothing except Hamzi.”

“He called you, didn’t he? Before he called me.” The two of them eased Hamzi’s inert form onto the ground.

“Pull off his coat and toss it in the car.”

“He called you, goddamnit. Shahram. He was your agent.”

“Not now, not now.” Reuven yanked the black satchel out of the Mercedes. “On the front wall, Tom-lights. Just at the left-hand side of the door. Turn them on.”

“Wasn’t he, Reuven?” Tom held fast. “Tell me.”

The Israeli gave Tom a long, forlorn stare. “Not my agent,” he said. “It was closer to a peer relationship-we shared information. Kaplan, my old boss at Gelilot, was his instructor in the 1960s. Kaplan introduced us. I never formally recruited Shahram. But we dealt with one another for twenty years. Almost twenty-one.”

“He contacted you. He had to. Because you told Amos Aricha about Ben Said’s explosives-how he made them in small batches.”

“Amos is a bigmouth.” The Israeli sighed. “Shahram called right after he’d come from your embassy-he realized he’d been targeted. He couldn’t talk on the open line, of course. But he said just enough to make me very anxious for him. I told him to call you.”

“Oh God.” Tom heaved a huge groan. He made his way across the smooth concrete and found the switch. He flipped it up and two sodium work lights came on, flooding the garage interior with sallow, greenish yellow light. Tom stood by the door, welcoming the draft chilling his ankles. He felt dizzy, light-headed, nauseated. Circles within circles. Jeezus H. Keerist. What if, what if, what if …

Tom’s mind muddle was interrupted by Reuven’s voice. “Tom-come help me.” Reuven had rolled Hamzi onto his chest. “Here.” The Israeli slit the Moroccan’s bonds. “First, we take his jacket off.”

Tom complied on autopilot. “How long will he be out?”

“Depends. If he has a weak heart, forever. If not, maybe six, seven hours.”

“You never intended to interrogate him.”

“Not true, boychik. But the majority of the interrogation will be done…elsewhere.” They shifted Hamzi’s position. Reuven looked down at the inert Moroccan with disdain. “This guy needs to go on a diet.” He was right: moving Hamzi around was like trying to manipulate a sack of potatoes.

They struggled with the Moroccan’s arms. Tom pulled on a sleeve and heard the sound of ripping cloth.

“Careful, boychik,” Reuven said. “We’re going to need these clothes.”

“Sorry.” Tom adjusted his grip. Finally, they eased Hamzi out of his suit coat.

Reuven took it and began a methodical search. He checked each of the pockets carefully. One held a gold and tortoiseshell enamel Dupont lighter. Reuven opened the top and flicked it on to make sure it worked. Then he removed the fill plug to make sure nothing was concealed inside. The lighter went onto the floor. There was a glasses case in Hamzi’s breast pocket. That, too, was scrutinized without results. Then Reuven turned the suit coat inside out. He worked his hands up and down the sleeves inch by inch, his fingers probing for secret compartments or foreign materials sewn into the lining. He ran his hands around the shoulder pads. “Nothing.”

He looked over at Tom, who was watching. “Pull off his shoes.”

Tom eased the brown loafers off Hamzi’s feet. Reuven dropped the suit coat to the floor, undid the Moroccan’s belt, and began to pull Hamzi’s trousers off.

“Check the soles and heels. See if anything is stored there.”

Tom ran his finger around the edge of the thin sole on the right shoe. There was nothing untoward about the shoe’s construction. He checked the shank. It was flexible. He played with the heel. It was attached solidly. He repeated his actions with the left shoe. “Nothing.”

“Check the lining.”

“What are we looking for?” Tom held the shoe up to the light and peered inside. It looked normal. He examined the right shoe. “Nothing, Reuven.”

“Stuff. Anything. Everything.” The Israeli went over Hamzi’s belt inch by inch. He found nothing. The belt was dropped onto the floor and Reuven started unfastening Hamzi’s trousers. “Pull the linings out of his shoes.”

Tom used his fingernail to peel the faux leather back from the heel, then stripped the lining away from the last. The damn thing was cemented securely, and it took Tom some effort, but he finally removed it. There was nothing underneath. No secret compartment, no writing. He picked up the left shoe and began again.

Except this time the lining peeled back easily. It had been secured with rubber cement. And on the back side was a small yellow Post-it, on which were written numerals in Arabic: -30679.

“Reuven!” Tom held the lining up. “Safe combination?”

“Doubt it.” The Israeli was examining the contents of Hamzi’s wallet. “He’d know his safe combination by heart. I think it’s the punch code for the safe house. Ben Said’s a professional. He’d change the code weekly at a minimum-probably daily when he’s around.”

“And he’s around.”

Reuven jerked his thumb at the trunk of Hamzi’s car. “What do you think?”

Tom started to answer, but the big garage door jerked upward noisily. “Reuven?”