“We aren’t assassins.”
Drexler decided he wouldn’t push harder. Not yet. The eyes and ears of Henri Sauvage in Paris were too crucial to this operation in light of last night’s disaster. He said, “Do you have a place you can keep him out of sight for a couple of days?”
“I have property outside the city. I can have Clement take him there and watch over him.” And then, “But I still demand triple for the operation. I’m no fool. I know you will be sending someone to eliminate him.”
“Fine. Have your men call me as soon as they have the Halabys. I can help with the interrogation of them over the phone.” He hung up and drummed his fingers on the desk. It was all the more crucial that he get to Paris now, considering it was obvious he did not have men there he could rely on to kill on his behalf.
CHAPTER 14
Drs. Tarek and Rima Halaby spent most of the early morning after the attack on Rue Tronchet with Bianca Medina at the Saint-Ouen safe house of the Free Syria Exile Union, but the young woman gave them no more useful information, and the interview brought a frustrated Vincent Voland no closer to his goal of convincing Bianca to go public with details of Azzam’s trip to Tehran to negotiate with the Iranians behind the backs of the Russians.
Voland agreed with the American’s assessment that Bianca Medina should be moved. There had been a lot of activity at the warehouse during the early-morning hours, and there was always a chance a local security camera or a busybody neighbor had picked up something that could lead police to the location. The Halabys had no doubt about the morality of their actions, but they were both well aware they were breaking a huge number of French laws in their virtuous pursuit of the overthrow of the leadership in Syria.
After taking several hours to arrange the transfer, Voland and five of the security men of the Free Syria Exile Union headed to a second location, a country estate southwest of the city, while Tarek and Rima took a trusted forty-five-year-old former Syrian Army sergeant named Mustafa as personal protection and headed home, south through Paris towards their 6th Arrondissement apartment. Mustafa drove and kept his eye on the roads, and he insisted on escorting them into a shop as they stopped off for groceries.
At eleven fifteen a.m. they pulled into their busy central Paris neighborhood. Mustafa was vigilant, well aware of all the dangers, but along the last few blocks the Halabys themselves eyed passersby, looked at rooftops, and even flinched when a motorcycle raced closely by their Mercedes. They were on edge, but neither of them mentioned it to the other.
Both Tarek and Rima were ready to get home and get a few hours’ sleep. It looked like there would be days, if not weeks, of stresses ahead for them, but for the time being there wasn’t much the two surgeons and opposition organization leaders could do other than try to rest.
The Mercedes pulled up to the sidewalk outside their building. Tarek and Rima climbed out with their groceries, keyed in an electronic code by the door, then passed through a narrow entryway towards the stairs. Only when the door clicked shut did Mustafa pull back into traffic to park the car in the garage two blocks away, and only then did the Halabys breathe a sigh of relief.
They climbed one flight of stairs in their twenty-unit building, then walked down a long hall with windows overlooking a pedestrian-only passage below. The hallway made a right turn, then continued a few meters without windows, and here Tarek put the key in his door lock. They entered their second-floor apartment, shut and deadbolted the door behind them, then flipped on the lights in the entryway. He and Rima peeled themselves out of their raincoats, hung their umbrellas in a stand just inside the door, and headed together into the living room on their way to the kitchen.
And as one they stopped in the middle of the room. Rima dropped her plastic bag of groceries, and an apple rolled across the floor.
A man sat in the chair by the window in the corner, facing the entryway. A black pistol with a silencer attached rested on the side table next to him.
The large grandfather clock in the living room ticked off a pair of hollow seconds before Rima let out a soft gasp.
Tarek Halaby recognized the American. He wore a simple dark green cotton pullover and black jeans. His hands were folded in his lap, nowhere near the handgun on the table, but both of the Halabys recognized that the American’s confidence was born out of skill, not arrogance. He could get to that pistol before they could do a thing to stop him.
Rima spoke softly to her husband in Arabic now. “Well . . . That sure didn’t take long.”
The Halabys had expected to see the American, but not this soon. They’d gone against Vincent Voland’s wishes, and they had not sent the final payment to the numbered account maintained by the handler of their contract killer. It had been a gamble, but they’d wanted a face-to-face meeting with him.
Tarek cleared his throat to hide his nerves. In English he said, “I am thankful my plan to meet with you again has worked.”
“Some might call it your plan to commit suicide.”
“We just wanted to talk to you. I will, of course, forward the money to the account right away, while you watch. The funds are yours, regardless of the result of our conversation. Please just give us ten minutes to speak with you first. It is an absolute emergency.”
“I told you I wasn’t interested in anything you had to offer.”
“Five minutes,” Rima implored. “I beg of you. It’s a matter of utmost importance.”
The American sighed, then looked at his watch. “I’ll give you one minute. If I am interested in the conversation, I’ll give you another minute. If you are really fucking entertaining, you’ll get a third minute.” He motioned to the sofa in front of him. “Then I’m gone for good.”
Rima spoke as she and her husband sat down. “That’s just fine. Thank you.”
The man said, “Your driver . . . is he coming up here after he parks?”
Tarek nodded.
“Does he want to catch a bullet in the eye?”
Now Tarek winced. “No. Certainly not. We will tell him you are our guest. He will wait outside.”
Now the asset motioned to a pair of large framed photographs on the wall across the room. They were portraits, one of a man, one of a woman, and they both appeared to be in their mid-or late twenties. “Children?”
Rima nodded.
“Any chance they will pop in on Mom and Dad while I’m here?”
Tarek answered brusquely. “No. No chance at all.”
The American in the chair said, “All right. First, make the transfer.”
Tarek pulled his laptop from his bag and opened it, and within three minutes he had transferred the money into the account. While this was going on, Mustafa returned to the flat after parking the car and was surprised to see the stranger sitting with his principals. His left hand slipped inside his jacket, but Tarek held a hand up and assured the former Syrian soldier that everything was fine, and they sent him to wait in the hallway.
The American confirmed the wire transfer with his smartphone, then looked up at the couple. “The clock is ticking.”
Rima had sat still and quiet during the transfer, but now she smiled at the stranger in her living room. “What is your name, sir?”
The American chuckled now as he rolled his eyes. “You guys are too much.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Is that not a question asked of men like you?”
“Call me whatever you want, doc, but you’ve got forty-five seconds to do it.”
Tarek spoke quickly. “There has been a complication.”
Another little eye roll. “Sorry, folks. No refunds.”