They drove along back streets until they reached the commune of Saint-Ouen, in the Seine-Saint-Denis district, some four miles north of the action on the Rue Tronchet.
The neighborhood was full of immigrants, mostly from North Africa and the Middle East, and in the last few years there had been a massive influx of Syrian refugees. It had little of the charm of the city center; more poverty, more crime. Saint-Ouen was also the home of the Paris flea market, the largest concentration of secondhand furniture dealers on Earth. Throughout a dozen massive buildings the market was open several days a week and brought in buyers from all over the world.
Court’s vehicle was one of only a very few on the road this time of the morning as he turned onto the Rue Marie Curie, and his headlights provided the only illumination when he navigated down a tight alley running off it. Soon he turned through the open gate of a tiny parking lot that ran between two darkened warehouses full of unrestored antique furniture. The gate was pulled closed behind him by a man whom Court could just barely make out in the darkness, and then Court parked the car and turned off the ignition.
He went around the front of the vehicle, helped Bianca out, put a hand on her arm, and guided her through the misty artificial light of the parking lot. No one was watching, but if any spectators had been around, his actions would have appeared chivalrous. Nevertheless, he was certain the young model could feel the frostiness in his grip, because he pulled her along more roughly than he had back at the hotel on the Rue Tronchet. Out here, alone, there was no longer any question of the woman’s compliance. She had overcome her shock, but she wasn’t yet in a frame of mind to put up much resistance to what was going on. She’d do as he said, and she’d go where he pulled her.
Court led Bianca by the elbow through an open door in a warehouse and into a circular stairwell. Halfway up he saw a bearded man lean around from his position at the top of the stairs, looking down. Court drew his pistol and pointed it at the man’s head.
Bianca shrieked with alarm.
Quickly the man raised his empty hands. Court continued climbing, keeping the barrel of his weapon pointed at the man’s face.
“Are you armed?” Court asked in French.
The man pointed down to his waistband. Court let go of Bianca, shifted his pistol to his left hand, then frisked the man with his right. He pulled out a Czech-made handgun, ejected the magazine, and cleared the round in the chamber, racking the slide one-handed by striking the rear sight on his belt. The cartridge bounced down the stairs, and then Court tossed the weapon down behind it and listened to it clank along the steps as it fell.
Court turned the man towards a door and pushed him onwards. “Open it.”
The bearded man did as instructed, and Court escorted both Bianca and the security man inside.
Court found himself in a small but well-appointed apartment full of crackling firelight. This space had been built in the 1950s for a wealthy antiques dealer, and the furnishings and feel were a striking departure from the simple masonry warehouse facade of the building. The fireplace warmed the living room, and a middle-aged woman in a sweater and slacks sat in front of it. Two young men wearing black jackets and jeans leaned on the wall by the draped windows, and an older man stood by the fire, his hand propped on the ornate mantel as if he were posing for a photo.
The middle-aged woman had attractive red hair and olive skin; she was clearly Middle Eastern. And the man standing at the fireplace, Court saw, was Dr. Tarek Halaby, the man he’d met in the cemetery that morning.
When Court saw Halaby, he said, “This clown was in the stairwell. My instructions were clear to the Frenchman I spoke with on the phone. I didn’t want any armed men in my way when I arrived.”
“I apologize for the miscommunication. This man is with us.”
Court holstered his weapon. “And I almost turned his head into a canoe. You guys can’t follow instructions?”
Halaby started to answer, but Bianca spoke up now, in English, to the middle-aged couple by the fire. “Who are you people? I don’t know you.”
The redheaded woman stood. Her manners were gentle and stately, and there was a calm smile on her face that belied the situation.
She answered Bianca in Arabic. “If you will follow me, daughter, all will be explained. We have tea prepared, some clothes for you to change into, and a private place for us to sit and talk awhile.”
Bianca did not reply at first, and when she finally did, she said, “Speak English, French, or Spanish, or don’t talk to me at all.”
The redhead furrowed her eyebrows, then repeated herself in effortless English.
Bianca said, “I want you to tell me what is going on right now.”
The woman by the fireplace smiled. “My name is Rima Halaby. This is my husband, Tarek Halaby.”
Medina shrugged. “These names mean nothing to me.”
“We are both medical doctors, surgeons, living here in Paris.”
“And?”
“And we are Syrian exiles.”
Bianca Medina blinked. Swallowed. After a moment’s hesitation, she furrowed her thin eyebrows. “So?”
Rima smiled at her like she was dealing with a petulant child. “As I said . . . come this way. I will answer all your questions.”
The raven-haired Spanish woman was a quarter century younger and nearly a full head taller than the redhead. Rima put a gentle hand on Bianca’s arm and turned to usher her down a hallway that led to the rear of the apartment.
The man Court had pushed into the room had moved to a position between the windows, but he took a step forward now, as if to shepherd the model along if she did not comply. But Bianca didn’t need the hint; without further protest she followed the redhead.
Bianca looked back over her shoulder to the American as she did so, but said nothing, and soon she disappeared in the darkness behind the older woman.
The bearded guard followed behind them, along with one of the other men who’d been standing near the windows. Court could see the print of a pistol on the man’s hip under his jacket. The other man by the window—Court imagined he was armed, as well—just receded back against the wall, looking on.
Court took these men for security. Court knew what this organization was up against, and a few guys with guns loitering around this safe house didn’t seem like much of a defensive setup.
He shook his head in disgust, and he glared at Tarek Halaby.
CHAPTER 8
The doctor standing by the fireplace surveyed the American he’d hired for tonight’s work. The asset had some scratches on his face, but more notable than the superficial wounds was the man’s unmistakable anger.
And Halaby was sure he knew why. Tarek’s wife, Rima, had warned him against dealing in person with this dangerous man, and Rima, as usual, had been right. But Tarek had insisted on interacting directly with the asset.
Now Halaby could not help but wish the Frenchman who’d connected him with the American operator were here, in his shoes, instead of waiting in the back room of this apartment.
It had been the Frenchman’s idea that he remain hidden from the asset. Tarek assumed the man had his reasons, because the Frenchman had experience in these matters, and he clearly knew what he was doing.
Halaby waited to hear the door close down the hall before addressing his new guest. “We are monitoring police channels. Through them we understand Daesh chose tonight to come for Mademoiselle Medina. Of course we were aware they had an operation planned against her, as we informed you, but our intelligence indicated it would happen tomorrow when she was on the way to the airport.” He motioned to the chairs in front of the fireplace, but when the American did not move to sit, Halaby decided to remain standing next to the mantel.
The American replied, “Yeah, that’s what you told me.”
“I’m truly sorry. We were going on information we received from—”
“You said four gunners. Five, maybe.”
“Correct. That’s what I was told. How many did you encounter?”