John Weisman - Direct Action

Obviously, when the dead bolt was turned three times a contact was made and the keypad box armed itself.

Reuven closed the door then searched the short corridor, his LED probing the floor and walls inch by inch. There was a bathroom on the right-hand side. He entered it and found nothing untoward. Next to the bathroom was another door. Carefully, the Israeli opened it. When he shone the light down, he discovered another infrared-triggered IED, which he disarmed.

When Reuven was confident there were no more active booby traps, he returned to the foyer and focused his attention on the plastic sheeting. Carefully, he went to the left-hand corner of the arch leading to the next room, pried the end of the tape that sealed the sheeting to the floor, and gently pulled it free. Carefully, he worked his way across the six-foot opening until the entire bottom flap of plastic had been unfastened.

He repeated his action with the left-hand-side vertical strip, pulling just over four feet of tape free of the wall, turning when he heard Tom’s shoes scrape across the floor as the American carried the first of the blue olive barrels into the safe house.

Reuven stood. “Bring that second barrel at once, Mahmoud,” he said. “Don’t dawdle like an Egyptian.”

Tom gave the Israeli a dirty look.

12:22A.M. Tom stacked the last of the barrels in the foyer. He nodded at the plastic where Reuven had removed the tape. Reuven nodded and shone the red LED around the seam, then, tucking the big black satchel under his arm like a football, led the way into the room with the tables of detonators and knapsack bomb components.

12:27:16. Obviously, they were in what had been the salon . To the right was a small kitchen. Straight ahead was the window adjacent to the drain-pipe Tom had climbed. Reuven pointed the light at the far wall next to the windows. Flanking each windowsill, hidden from outside view and undisturbed by the plastic sheet that covered the window, were more infrared sensors and receptor units. Taped six inches below the bottom edge of the sill apron were small explosive charges hardwired to the receptors.

Reuven pulled a small monocular from his trouser pocket, examined the right-hand-window booby trap, quickly established that it, too, was inert, and pulled the detonator out. Then he repeated his action on the left-window unit.

Before Tom had time to think about the nasty possibilities had he broken into the safe house the other night, Reuven tapped his shoulder. The Israeli pointed at the sidewall.

Tom shrugged, asking, “What the hell do you want now?”

Reuven demonstrated by pulling up one of the strips of tape that held the plastic sheeting to the wall. He motioned for Tom to do the same on the opposite side.

Tom complied. They removed the roughly eight-by-twelve-foot section of plastic from the wall. Then, under Reuven’s direction, they laid it on the floor and retaped it securely. They repeated the sequence with a second piece of plastic sheeting, covering most of the salon and about half the foyer flooring.

12:40A.M. They examined the detonators on the kitchen towel. “Merde.” Reuven frowned. He didn’t like what he saw. There were five detonators and components of eight knapsacks-perhaps even nine. The numbers didn’t add up. Well, there was no way to deal with the problem now.

Reuven scooped up the detonators, produced a handkerchief, and carefully folded them into it. He pulled Tom close, stuffed the package into the American’s pocket, and whispered into his ear, “Handle carefully. We’ll want to dissect one of these and see how he designed them.”

12:42. Reuven went to the long table that held the sewing machine and the pasta maker. He removed all of Ben Said’s carefully rolled-out explosives, wadded them up, wrapped them in the plastic sheeting he’d removed from the window, and handed them to Tom, who took one of the empty olive barrels from under the picnic table and dropped the package into it.

The Israeli pulled a pocket secretary and a pen from his breast pocket and wrote a short note, which he showed to Tom. Tom’s expression told Reuven that he’d received the message loud and clear.

The Israeli reached into the waistband of his trousers, retrieved the Glock with its stubby suppressor. He demonstrated to Tom that the weapon was loaded by easing the slide back about half an inch and displaying the 9mm round in the pistol’s chamber. Then he closed the slide and handed the pistol to Tom, who somewhat self-consciously stuck the gun inside his waistband, positioning it in the small of his back, just as Reuven had done.

12:44. Tom played with the weapon’s position until he found the most comfortable one. Then he tightened his belt one notch and jiggled his body. The gun was secure. He pulled Hamzi’s keys out of his trouser pocket and showed them to Reuven.

In Arabic, Reuven said, “You take the car, Mahmoud. Leave it in the usual spot. I’ll find my own way home.”

“Yes, Yahia.” Tom turned to go. Reuven pointed at the barrel that held Ben Said’s explosives. Tom picked it up and tucked it under his arm. Then Reuven handed him the plastic box with its security keypad. Tom squeezed through the flap of plastic sheeting, resecured the tape in position, placed the box on its table, then headed for the door.

“Lock the door securely closed behind you, boy,” Reuven’s voice commanded.

12:47:15A.M. Tom was just below the first-floor landing when he heard someone turn the front door lock noisily. He’d been making his way foot by foot in the darkness, picking his way over the construction detritus, counting the steps to monitor his progress. It was easier than he’d thought: his night vision was sharp enough that he could make out more or less where he was going.

Now all of a sudden the minuterie below came on and for an instant he was blinded. He heard voices stage-whispering in Arabic and French. There was a bump-as if a suitcase had been dropped-and then he thought he heard a voice mutter, “ Khara alaay -well, shit on me.” The words were indistinct. But they told him there was more than one person down there.

My God. Ben Said. And he’s not alone. Holding tight to the barrel under his arm, Tom raced up eight steps to the first-floor landing, trying to remember where the obstacles were. At the top he adjusted his load, then dashed tippy-toe thirteen paces to the stairwell leading to the second floor, praying that he wouldn’t trip. As he went, he worked Hamzi’s keys out of his trouser pocket, trying desperately to keep them from jingling, fighting to make no sound whatsoever-not even daring to breathe.

12:47:21. There were twenty-two steps between the first and second floors. His heart pounding so loudly he felt they must have heard it below, Tom found the safe-house key on step nineteen-just as the minuterie light went out. He kept climbing, his arm around the barrel, his fingers resting lightly in the banister. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. He reached for the newel cap that signified the landing. Turned left in the darkness toward the safe-house door.

12:47:40. The lights came on. Oh God, oh, damn, oh Christ. They were coming up the stairs. He wondered how many of them there were. They sounded like a herd of goddamn rogue elephants, a frigging buffalo stampede.

12:47:42. Tom stood in front of the safe-house door, telling himself it was going to be all right. Don’t drop the barrel. Don’t drop the key. Take the key in your hand. Hold the damn thing securely. Put it into the lock. Turn once. Turn again. Turn once more. Open the damn door.

12:47:45. Tom yanked the key out of the lock and pressed the door handle downward. From inside he could hear the muted sound of the alarm as the door broke the plane of the infrared beam.