Locked On Part 4

"It's like I have leprosy, although I suppose if I had leprosy I'd at least receive get-well cards."

"d.a.m.n. Kealty's people over there are a disaster."

Melanie Kraft did not respond. She could riff on Foley's comment for an hour, but she held her tongue. That would not be professional, and she did actually consider herself to be apolitical.

Mary Pat said, "Okay. I'd love to meet you. You know where we are?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Call my secretary. I'm pretty tied up through the week, but come have lunch with me early next week."

"Thank you," she said again.

Melanie hung up the phone and, for the first time in a week, she wanted to neither cry nor smash her fist through a wall.

John Clark and Domingo Chavez sat in their Ford minivan and watched the apartment building through the rainy night. Both men held SIG Sauer handguns in their right hands, resting on their thighs. They kept the weapons low in the shadows but ready for quick use. In their left hands, Clark held thermal binoculars, Chavez a camera with a long-range lens. Crushed plastic coffee cups and gum wrappers filled a plastic bag on the floor below the pa.s.senger seat.

Though their weapons were drawn, they would do their best to avoid using them. Any shooting that might be necessary tonight would be defensive in nature, and the trouble wasn't likely to come from the terrorist a.s.sa.s.sin and his pals up the street in their safe house, which, in actuality, was a fourth-floor walk-up tenement flat. No, the immediate threat was the neighborhood itself. For the fifth time in the past four hours, a dozen-strong crowd of steely-eyed young men pa.s.sed on the sidewalk next to their vehicle.

Chavez took a break from staring through the telephoto lens of his Canon at the lighted entryway of the apartment to watch the men pa.s.s. Both he and Clark kept their eyes on the group in their rearview mirror until they disappeared in the rainy night. When they were gone, Chavez rubbed his eyes and glanced around at his surroundings. "This sure isn't postcard Paris."

Clark smiled, reholstering his pistol in the shoulder rig under his oiled canvas jacket. "We're a long way from the Louvre."

They were in the banlieues-the outer suburbs. The safe house was located in a housing project in the not inappropriately named Stains commune, in Seine-Saint-Denis, a ban-lieue of low-income residents, many of them poor immigrants from Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia, North African nations from which France had imported millions of workers in the twentieth century.

There were housing projects all over Seine-Saint-Denis, but the two Americans had the misfortune tonight to find themselves on the outskirts of one of the roughest. Decrepit, graffiti-festooned concrete apartment buildings lined both sides of the street. Gangs of youth milled about the neighborhood. Cars blaring North African rap music drove by slowly, while rats scurried along the trash-strewn gutters next to the van and disappeared down the iron drains.

Earlier, during their afternoon and evening sitting in the minivan, the two Americans noticed that the neighborhood postman wore a helmet, lest items be thrown from the buildings onto his head just for kicks.

And they also noticed that they had not seen one police car in the neighborhood.

This part of town was too dangerous to patrol.

The Ford Galaxy Clark and Chavez sat in sported torn molding and a dented, rusted body, but its windows and winds.h.i.+eld were intact and deeply tinted, all but obscuring the inside of the van. Most strangers in parked cars who sat for long on this street would have been hara.s.sed by the locals, but Clark had picked this vehicle out from a budget lot in Frankfurt because, he felt, it would give them the greatest chance for anonymity.

That said, it would take only one set of curious eyes to pick out this vehicle, to spend some time looking it up and down, and to realize that it was not from around here. Then the neighborhood heavies would surround it, smash the windows, and then loot and torch it. Chavez and Clark would race off before they let that happen, but they certainly did not want to give up their surveillance on the safe house two hundred meters up the street.

The Americans had positioned themselves on the avenue at the rear of the building, a.s.suming that even with the bare minimum of tradecraft, the cell would, at least, know not to enter and exit the building on the other side, where there was a high-traffic boulevard and consequently many more eyes that could turn their way as they came and went.

Clark and Chavez knew that with one vehicle, there was no way to properly stake out their target location. Instead they decided they would just try to get pictures of whoever came and went, and to that end Chavez had a Canon EOS Mark II camera with a ma.s.sive 600-millimeter super-telephoto lens that allowed him, with the attached monopod, to get incredibly detailed photographs of anyone who stepped into the lighted doorway at the back of the building in the distance.

Pictures would be helpful, but other than that, there was not much they could realistically accomplish here. A surveillance force of at least four vehicles and eight watchers would be needed to make any sort of respectable effort at covering all the access points of this target location, and a six-vehicle fleet, crewed with two men each, would be the bare-minimum protocol for mobile surveillance in an urban area like Paris when working with a target trained in countersurveillance, as Hosni Iheb Rokki certainly was.

Chavez and Clark had yet to see Hosni Rokki, but the odds looked good that he was, in fact, here. This was the address Ryan pa.s.sed on from French internal security, and they had noticed a few young toughs milling around outside the apartment building like a security cordon, perhaps URC men but more likely a local gang hired by the target to act as a trip wire, should any police or other forces come snooping around.

And earlier in the evening, just after dark, Chavez had flipped his hoodie up over his short, dark hair, climbed out of the minivan, and performed a half-hour of foot reconnaissance. He'd made a wide, arcing circle of the apartment building, and strolled through a few parking lots, a playground that looked like it was used these days primarily by glue-sniffers and heroin users, and through the ground level of a four-story parking garage. He then made his way back to the black Ford Galaxy.

Immediately after Chavez climbed in, Clark had asked, "What's the word?"

"Same three or four guys downstairs at the back of the building. Four guys at the front entrance, too."

"Anything else?"

"Yep. We aren't the only ones interested in that apartment."

"No?"

"Beige Citroen four-door. This side of the road, in the parking lot on the other side of that building there on the left. Male driver. Female pa.s.senger. Both black, in their thirties."

"Surveillance," Clark said. Chavez wouldn't have mentioned them if they weren't.

"Yeah. They were subtle enough, but they have line of sight on Rokki's place, and we've got eyes on the entrance to that parking lot and didn't see the car arrive, which means they've been there since before we got here. So, yeah, they are definitely watchers. Who do you think they are?"

"DCRI would be my first guess. If I'm right about that, then there will be more cars around here; they probably have a surveillance box set up, but I doubt we're inside it. They are probably closer than we are because they won't all need to have eyes on the target. They would just tuck into the parking lots and stay in comms with each other. I'm glad the French are watching these guys, but I sure as h.e.l.l wish they had some stronger measures on their plate. It would be nice for them to pick Rokki up, give him a shake, and see what falls out."

"Keep dreaming, John. Not the French. The CIA used to do a little of that, before Kealty put the kibosh on offending terrorists."

"Heads up, Ding," John said suddenly. A pair of young toughs walked by on the left from behind. Both men slowed and looked into the van. John and Ding were somewhat concealed behind the heavy tint, but they were by no means invisible. Clark stared back at the two young African immigrants for a long moment.

Then the men walked on.

Clark's steely-eyed gaze had won the encounter, but they were prepared if they had to actually talk to the locals. The two American spies never worked any operation without a plausible cover for action, a reason to be in a location other than the actual motive. Both men had worked under so many covers over the years, oftentimes preparing themselves on the fly, that they possessed the abilities of well-trained actors.

The cover for this op, should they be pulled out of the vehicle by police or internal security or even a well-armed neighborhood drug gang, was clever in both its simplicity and plausibility. Clark and Chavez were, if anyone demanded to know, American private investigators watching the flat of a woman who cleaned the home of a wealthy American living in the Latin Quarter. According to their story, their employer suspected the cleaning lady of stealing his valuables and then fencing them from her flat.

It would bear short-term scrutiny only, but nine times out of ten, that was enough.

One by one, the lights turned off on the fourth floor of the ramshackle building two hundred yards up the street. Clark looked through his binoculars through the rain.

"It's ten-thirty. Is it bedtime?" Clark asked Chavez.

"Maybe so."

Moments later, a Renault van pa.s.sed Clark and Chavez's position; it slowed at the target building and then pulled to the front door and stopped.

"Maybe not," said Chavez now, and he readied his camera on the monopod, focused it on the area of light near the back door.

A minute later, a man exited the lobby of the building, walked directly to the light on the wall by the door, and unscrewed the bare bulb. The entire scene went dark.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," muttered Chavez.

Clark kept his eyes on his thermal binoculars, and they picked up the white-hot silhouette of the man who'd unscrewed the lightbulb as he walked down to the street and shook the hand of the driver of the Renault. He then spoke into a mobile phone, and soon four more ethereal silhouettes appeared from the back door of the dark building.

Chavez had given up on his camera for now, and instead he held a thermal monocular up to his eye. He saw the ghostly white figures exiting the building, and could tell they were four men, and he could see they pulled rolling bags and carried briefcases.

"Can you ID Rokki?" Chavez asked.

"Not positively through these thermal optics," said Clark. What he could discern, although just barely, was that the four men with the luggage all wore suits and ties.

The driver of the van and the man who'd unscrewed the lightbulb helped the four travelers get their bags into the back of the vehicle. The interior light came on as they opened the tailgate. It wasn't enough light for long-range camera work, but the two Americans were able to get a better look at the men and their luggage.

"Is that Louis Vuitton?" Chavez asked, his eyes peering through his camera's high-powered lens.

"I wouldn't know," admitted Clark.

"Patsy made me look at handbags for two hours in London once. I'm pretty sure that's the same design. Even Louis Vuitton handbags can run over a grand; can't imagine how much those big rolling suitcases go for."

The four men climbed efficiently into the van. They moved like a team as they found their seats and shut the door, extinguis.h.i.+ng the lights.

"The tallest guy looks like he could be Hosni Rokki, but I can't be certain," Clark said.

"Whoever they are, they look like they're heading back to Charles de Gaulle."

"Maybe," said Clark. "But it seems odd Hosni would fly into town just to meet up with three guys, then fly right back out. I think something else is going on."

Chavez said, "This time of night there is no way we can tail them without being compromised. If these jokers are any good, they are going to spot us. It's a shame we don't have any more vehicles to split up the coverage."

Clark looked ahead to the entrance of the parking lot where Chavez had noticed the surveillance team during his recon. "Maybe we do. If the French have a fixed surveillance operation around the target, then I'm willing to bet they have a mobile surveillance operation ready to go. Maybe we can just piggyback on them."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm thinking we can stay back, away from the target, and do our best to pick out the vehicles following him. If we can manage to stay behind the DCRI backing car, we can follow the target without being spotted."

"So we tail the tail."

"Right. You up for it?"

Ding Chavez just nodded. "Sounds like fun."

The Renault van with the driver and the four men in suits turned around in the street and began heading back in Chavez and Clark's direction. The Americans sat patiently as the vehicle pa.s.sed. They did not start their vehicle; instead they just packed up their gear and waited for the van to turn left some seventy-five yards behind them.

Both men knew what to expect next.

"Here we go," said Chavez calmly. "Let's see who's working the night s.h.i.+ft at DCRI."

For a moment all was still on the dark street, until one by one the headlights of three vehicles lit up the night. An ancient four-door Toyota in the parking lot of the building ahead and to the right of Clark and Chavez's position, a black Subaru station wagon facing their position but on the other side of the street and a good hundred yards past Rokki's abandoned flat, and a white Citroen mini-truck that faced the apartment forty yards past Clark and Chavez. One after the next, all three vehicles pulled out into the street and turned down three different roads, all toward the south.

Seconds after this, the beige Citroen with the black couple pulled into view, made a left and then a right, and headed off in the direction of all the other cars.

When it was dark and quiet again, Clark still did not start the Ford; he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel for a moment.

Ding was confused by this at first, but then it dawned on him. "That looked pretty bush league for French intelligence. They wouldn't have all left together like that unless they were trying to draw out countersurveillance. There's one more out here somewhere."

"Yep," said Clark. "There is a trigger vehicle. Somebody who has eyes on this street right now." He paused. "Where would you be, Ding?"

"Easy. I like that parking garage that I walked through. If I could get in and out without too much fuss, I'd plant my trigger car on the second level so I could see the street and Rokki's building."

Just then, some thirty seconds after the last surveillance vehicle disappeared from the dark road, headlights lit up the second level of the parking garage, right where Ding and John were looking. It was a four-door sedan; neither of the Americans could see more than the hood and winds.h.i.+eld and the glowing lights as the car backed up, turned around, and then headed down the ramp to the exit that led out to the boulevard.

John Clark started his engine and then pulled out into the street.

"Good call," Chavez said.

"Even a blind squirrel finds a nut from time to time."

"Roger that."

They caught up to the beige Citroen and stayed several car lengths behind it after determining it to be the backing car, the vehicle trailing behind the lead of the mobile surveillance unit. The Citroen would be in radio contact with the rest of the detail, and all the follow vehicles would move in and out of formation to change out the command vehicle, the name given to the vehicle directly tailing the target. Other cars and trucks would be racing ahead on side streets so they could naturally fill in the slots of the running box surveillance.

As they drove, the two Americans kept their eyes peeled, just in case there were more units in the French security detail around or behind them that they didn't ID at the target location.

For several blocks they suspected a brown bread truck was involved in the tail. It wove through traffic and seemed to mirror the movements of the beige Citroen, but John and Ding ultimately ruled it out when it pulled up to a large commercial bakery and parked in a loading bay.

They also had their eyes on a black Suzuki motorcycle, driven by a man in a black leather outfit and black helmet. Bikes were great for surveillance work on congested streets, and although there were other motorcycles on the road, they'd first noticed this Suzuki a few minutes after leaving the target location. They couldn't be sure, but both men decided they'd keep track of the black bike.

After no more than five minutes on the road, Chavez and Clark had their answer to the question of whether or not the target was headed to Charles de Gaulle Airport when the chase car continued on south past the Autoroute du Nord.

"CDG is the other way," said Clark. "We're heading into town."

"You're doing pretty good for a blind squirrel."

Clark nodded, then noticed the Citroen sedan pulling ahead. "Looks like the backing car is rotating up."

Seconds later the white mini-truck appeared ahead of them from a side street. It was now the backing vehicle of the mobile fleet, so Clark and Chavez followed it.

The black Suzuki did not move around in the surveillance formation, it just stayed a bit ahead of John and Ding as it headed into Paris. This ruled it out as part of the DCRI unit.

A steady rain began to fall as the procession reached Paris proper, pa.s.sing into the Eighteenth Arrondiss.e.m.e.nt. They turned to the east once, then took another turn that led them due south. Clark flipped the Ford Galaxy's winds.h.i.+eld wipers to their highest setting so he and Chavez could get the clearest look through the rainy night at the taillights of the car ahead. Within minutes the mini-truck increased its speed and disappeared into the night, but not before a black Honda four-door pulled out of the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant and headed in the same direction as Clark and Chavez.

"Must be the car from the parking garage," Chavez said.

Clark nodded appreciatively. "This detail is d.a.m.n good. If we didn't know they were here, we'd never spot them."

"Yeah, but it's going to tighten up for them, and for us, as we get deeper into the city. Wish we had a clue where Rokki was heading."

Just then, as if on cue, the Honda four-door slowed behind a Mercedes that pulled out of a private garage below a luxury apartment building. John was in the left lane, and it was clear ahead of him except for the black Suzuki, so he calmly switched lanes to put himself a few cars directly behind the Honda, so he wouldn't have to pa.s.s him. But upon doing this, he noticed the black Suzuki had pulled into traffic behind the Honda as well. It was an obvious move to stay behind the DCRI backing vehicle.