Stefan shrugged. “Very well. Your plan to fake your death in Paris is approved. We will hide you in Switzerland until such a time as we find a posting for you that is to your liking.”
Bruno Olvetti pointed a finger across the table. “Don’t ever forget, Drexler. You may be our best fixer and hatchet man, but Shakira Azzam is more important to us than you are. As long as she is happy, we are happy. And as long as we are happy, you are safe. If you don’t succeed in your mission here, or if you don’t pull off your subterfuge with your little trick in faking your death, then we send you back to Syria.”
Drexler stood, gave a courteous bow to the bankers, and headed for the door. He was motivated now like he had not been in years. A lifeline had been thrown to him, and all he had to do in order to take it and pull himself to safety was kill a fashion model being hidden by a pair of doctors and an over-the-hill ex–French intelligence official.
He thought about the American who’d caused him so much trouble, but he told himself Malik and his boys had enough men and guns to handle him.
Tonight he’d link up with Malik, the Mukhabarat assassin sent by Ahmed Azzam to help find and rescue Bianca, and the bent French police captain, and together they’d get their hands on Bianca Medina. He’d be threading a very small needle with his operation after that, but when he finally managed to kill Medina, and Shakira was both satisfied with Drexler’s work and convinced he’d died in the execution of it, then he’d be able to be rid of Syria once and for all.
But first things first. He wasn’t leaving Europe, not any time soon, at least. As soon as he climbed into his rental car, he would rip the dead flesh off his fingertips and say good-bye to poor Veeti Takala.
CHAPTER 32
Vincent Voland stood on the parking circle in front of the country estate near the village of La Brosse as the last of the day’s light faded. In front of him, just rolling up the driveway by the greenhouse, a black Lincoln Navigator flashed its headlights.
Dr. Tarek Halaby stepped outside through the side door to the property and shouldered up to Voland. He, too, watched the vehicle approach.
“I take it these are the security men you ordered up?”
Voland nodded. “The very best.”
“That money can buy,” Tarek added.
“Oui. We must face the facts. After seven years of war, many have tired of your cause. The men and women still alive who will fight for you without charge are, in large part, men and women who know little about fighting.” As the Navigator rolled to a stop, he added, “The men with the skills to fight this battle do not hold an ideological attachment to your particular fight. Nevertheless, these are men of principle. They will protect this property from anyone who threatens it.”
Tarek Halaby’s hand reached under his safari jacket and touched something unfamiliar there, and it occurred to him, not for the first time today, that he had never fired a gun in his life. All his time in Syria, surrounded by armed rebels and more than once within shouting distance of regime forces or ISIS terrorists, and he’d never taken to arming himself. He was a doctor, not a soldier.
But now he had a Walther P99 jammed into his corduroy pants, and an extra magazine in the pocket of the safari coat. Vincent Voland had offered the weapon a few hours earlier as they waited for the cavalry to arrive in the form of the four ex-members of the French Foreign Legion, and when Tarek at first demurred, Voland countered that the only thing between Syrian assassins and Bianca Medina were five over-the-hill ex–Syrian soldiers, none of whom had any special forces or advanced combat training; a nephew of his wife who taught high school physics; and a sixty-five-year-old former French spook who’d only used a weapon in anger once in his life, over thirty-five years earlier in Lebanon.
And, Voland had added, he’d missed that target in Lebanon.
When this realization sank in, Tarek took the pistol from Voland, along with five minutes’ instruction on how to shoot it and reload it and a promise from the Frenchman that he wouldn’t mention anything about the weapon to Rima Halaby, because Tarek doubted his wife would approve of him carrying a firearm as a matter of safety.
Now that the security men were here, Tarek wondered if he should hand the gun back, but only for a moment, and then he changed his mind. He didn’t know these men any better than he knew this man Sebastian Drexler that Voland kept mentioning with a bizarre combination of revulsion and awe.
Tarek would keep an eye on these men just the same as he would anyone else with the potential to put this operation in jeopardy.
The SUV doors opened and four men climbed out. They carried short-barreled submachine guns, already slung on their shoulders, and large packs on their backs. To Tarek they all appeared to be in their fifties, and two of the four men were quite obviously overweight.
They looked nothing like the American contract killer he’d been working with, and Tarek found himself disappointed.
Voland spoke softly to Tarek as the men hefted bags out of the rear of the SUV. Clearly he recognized what Tarek was thinking. “It’s been a few years since I’ve seen them, but they are a team that works together all over the world. They have quite a good reputation. Don’t worry . . . they will handle themselves.”
From his comment Tarek thought Voland seemed worried about the men’s appearance himself.
Voland stepped forward and met the men in the middle of the parking circle, greeting them with warm and familiar handshakes, and with pats on the back he walked one of the men back over to the Syrian. The Frenchman said, “Dr. Halaby, I present to you Monsieur Paul Boyer.” Tarek shook the hand of a heavy-set man with a trim gray beard and thin combed-over hair.
Boyer spoke with a French accent. “I and my men are at your service, Doctor. We’d like to be set up by nightfall, so perhaps we can do our formal introductions later.”
“Bien s?r, Monsieur Boyer.”
All four men passed into the house; the three associates of Boyer never even looked up as they walked by Tarek.
Halaby turned again to Voland, but the Frenchman spoke before the Syrian doctor could air his concerns. “Boyer is French, a former major in the French Foreign Legion. The others are Campbell from Scotland, Laghari from India, and Novak from Hungary. All Legionnaires.”
Tarek said, “Four men, Vincent? I hope it’s enough.”
Voland smiled. “If Drexler finds this house, he’ll have backup, for sure. But remember, he’s working for Shakira, not Ahmed, so he can’t use resources from the Syrian government. He’ll have some local cops, like the two you met in your apartment, and they’ll be cut down before they get within one hundred meters of Mademoiselle Medina.”
Tarek felt a little better with this reminder.
Voland said, “Now, let’s see where Boyer positions his men, so we can move your men to provide the best additional coverage.”
The men returned to the house to speak with the FSEU security staff. Another night was coming, and despite Voland’s confidence, with the darkness came danger.
* * *
? ? ?
On the far side of the house, Rima Halaby descended the stairs that led to the wine cellar. She’d taken to checking on Bianca twice a day, spending an hour with her, gently reminding the beautiful model that all was not lost, since the American was surely somewhere right now looking to get himself into Syria.
At the bottom of the stairs she looked across the length of the large wine cellar and saw Firas, and when she did, she sighed. He had been down here all the previous night, and all day long, so when she saw him slumped over the tiny wine table she did not get angry. As long as the door to Bianca’s room was closed and locked, Rima saw no problem with her nephew taking brief naps throughout the day.
As she walked across the concrete floor, her footfalls echoed in the room, and she expected Firas to stir. When he did not, she called to him.
“I brought a sleeping bag down here yesterday, Firas. Why don’t you use it and get some rest?”
The young schoolteacher did not move.