“Seven, minimum. Could have been more.”
Halaby considered this, then said, “We knew she would be a prime target for them. But this Islamic State cell was from Brussels, and we did not know for sure how many would come to Paris. I’m sorry the numbers were off from what we expected.”
“You wanted that woman’s help, and you wanted to save her life so she’d be more inclined to give you the help. The ISIS hitters showed up right when I was making my move, so I’d say everything worked out in your favor tonight.” With an angry glare the American added, “I guess that just makes you one lucky son of a bitch?”
Tarek Halaby heard the sarcasm, and he saw the irritation, but he had no reply that would convince the American operative that he had not misled him. So he changed the subject. “Did anyone see you?”
The man seemed to take a few breaths to control his rage, then replied, “No one who is around to talk about it. I avoided hotel cameras. The car is clean.” He looked around at the room. “But still . . . a little free advice, because you guys look like you could use it. Do your organization a favor. Consider this safe house burned. Move your operation as soon as you can. Triple your security, even if you have to hire goons paid by the hour.”
“I’ll take your suggestion under advisement.”
The American rolled his eyes. “Or die. It’s up to you. Seriously, dude. This isn’t Band-Aids and biscuits anymore. You do realize you guys are fighting a war, don’t you?”
“We are not soldiers. My wife and I . . . we are doctors. Healers. We spent the first six years of the war raising relief supplies. Twice a year we would go over the Turkish border into northern Syria with our son and daughter, also doctors, to run health clinics, to perform surgery on wounded civilians. We are not violent people. But we have been forced into a life we did not choose to lead, actions we are not comfortable with, because we know our nation requires—”
“Skip it. Forget I asked.”
After a time, Halaby said, “Nevertheless . . . despite the difficulties tonight, you did exactly as you were told. Thank you.”
The American moved towards the door. “I wanted to help, but now . . . this is just business. You will transfer the rest of the money into my account by dawn or I’ll come looking for you.” He looked at his watch. “You have three and a half hours.”
“It will be done well within your time frame. Of course.”
The American turned for the door again, but Halaby called out to him.
“Monsieur . . . I know you are angry. But remember. We have resources. Donations from all over the world. A man of your skills, of your discretion. There might be more work for you in the future. Opportunities on the horizon involving our struggle.”
“You had one chance to show me how you operate. You kept key information from me, and you almost got me killed.” He opened the door. “You guys are on your own.”
Tarek Halaby watched the asset leave without another word.
* * *
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“She’s in the bathroom throwing up,” Rima Halaby said as she entered the living room, startling her husband, who was still facing the door and thinking about what the American had said.
Tarek was embarrassed to be caught in a moment of self-doubt and reflection. He said, “To be expected. We’ll give her a few minutes, but we don’t have much time to make this work.”
Rima herself looked to the doorway now. “The American. Any problems?”
“He’s furious. He thinks we knew Daesh was coming tonight.”
“Then he’s crazy. Why would we lie about the danger? Our entire operation depended on the survival of Bianca Medina.”
“Yes . . . but the information about Daesh attacking wasn’t our intelligence, it was intelligence we were given. Do you think it’s possible we’re being manipulated in all this?”
“By whom?”
Tarek turned to his wife. “Who do you think?”
“You’re talking about Monsieur Voland?” Rima looked back to the dark hallway, in the direction of the bedroom. “Of course not. Voland is on our side. He has led us this far. In fact, with the exception of that American, who is a simple mercenary, everyone working with us has the same objective.”
“I don’t know,” Tarek said. “The American seemed to care about our cause for some reason.”
She took her husband by the hand. “He cares about one point two million euros. Come. Enough talk of our shadow men. Let’s move on to the next stage of our operation.”
* * *
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Tarek and Rima Halaby entered the back bedroom suite just as the Spanish model stepped out of the bathroom; Bianca had let her hair down and she was now dressed in clothes Rima had bought for her earlier in the day. Dark jeans, a brown cashmere sweater, simple flats. She sat down at a small wooden table across from the Syrian couple, giving off no hint she’d been vomiting just minutes before. She had stopped shaking, her back was straight, her hands were folded on the table in front of her, and she appeared as if she had come for a job interview.
A young man with a submachine gun hanging off his shoulder sat on the windowsill and looked down to the misty parking lot below, and another man, small and thin and wearing a dark blue suit, sat in a leather wingback chair in the corner. He had wavy silver hair, but his face was enshrouded in darkness because he’d positioned himself outside the spare lamplight in the room.
Rima Halaby spoke first. “You are certain you are not hurt, daughter?”
Instead of answering, Bianca motioned to the man in the blue suit. “And who is that, there in the shadows?”
“He is a friend,” Rima replied.
Bianca looked at the man for a while, then turned back to the Halabys. “Tell me what happened tonight.”
Rima said, “A cell of terrorists from the Islamic State tried to kill you. My organization has prevented this, and we delivered you here, to safety.”
“What organization?” Bianca asked.
Now Tarek spoke. “Let’s begin with you. You are Bianca Medina, daughter of Alex Medina, a hotelier in Barcelona.”
“And for that I have been attacked by Daesh and kidnapped by you?”
“We rescued you. We did not kidnap you.”
Bianca said, “I am starting to wonder about that.”
“Your father,” Rima said, “Alex Medina of Barcelona. He was born Ali Medina . . . of Damascus, was he not?”
Medina lifted her chin a little. “And if he was, is that a crime?”
“No crime,” Rima said. “I’m just establishing your familial connection to Syria. I’ll come back to it. You are twenty-six years old; you began modeling at thirteen. You must have been very good at it, because you were traveling the world within a year. Living between Barcelona, New York, and here in Paris.”
“You read old magazines, I see.”
Rima went on. “At age twenty-four, during the height of your fame and success, you were invited to Damascus to attend a party honoring your grandfather, a construction industry giant in the nation and closely tied to the government in power. There you met Shakira Azzam, the first lady of Syria. The two of you became close friends. Before long you were invited to the palace for a party, and via this invitation you met Ahmed Azzam, the president of Syria.”
“That’s ridiculous. I barely knew Shakira, through European friends in the fashion industry, and I’ve never met—”
Tarek leaned over the table now. “There is no use in lying to us. You are here tonight because of your own actions. You are here for the same reason Daesh targeted you.”
“And what reason is that?”
“You are the lover . . . pardon my indelicacy . . . the mistress of Ahmed al-Azzam. The president of Syria. And this means you are having an affair with the most horrible man in the world.”
* * *
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