Thin Line (16 page)

"I'm gonna kill this bastard when we meet up with him," Bear said.

"It's France. All the cars are like this."

He pointed at a full-sized Audi.

I shrugged. "Most, then."

I navigated out of the lot, merged onto the A1 toward Paris. Traffic was thick, but moving. The air blowing from the vents smelled like the street. There
wasn't a recycled air option, so we lived with it. I handed Bear the phone and had him call our contact. The man wanted to meet in the 19th arrondissement,
at a park off rue Manin. The call lasted less than thirty seconds. Perhaps one, or both, of us were being monitored.

After exiting the A1, I located a corner store, then found a spot to park a block further. We passed a pet shop, a bakery with fresh bread and pastries in
the window, and a small café. Inside the store, we purchased four phones and four SIM cards. I felt better with options. Any calls we had to make to
anyone other than our contact, we'd use one of the throwaway cells.

From there, we found the 19th, parked a block off rue Manin, and traveled on foot to a road that circled the lake. I called our contact again.

"I'm sitting alone on a bench, east side of the lake. Black leather jacket. Sunglasses. Dark hair. Jeans. I'm holding a loaf of bread. There are four or
five ducks near me. Don't think of trying anything. I have four agents watching my position."

After relaying the description to Bear, we scanned the area. The big man pointed at a bench where a lone man sat, surrounded by ducks. We had our guy. Now
I wanted to know where his team was positioned. Finding the first member was simple. Obvious. The contact had wanted it that way. The guy was positioned
about a hundred yards past the meeting point. The other three members of his team wouldn't be as easy to locate.

The mild temperature and promise of sunshine had lured several Parisians out of their homes and offices. They flocked to the sidewalks and walking trails
and the path that wrapped around the lake. I studied each person as we passed. None presented an immediate threat.

We approached the contact from the south. He raised his left hand into the air. He hadn't turned and spotted us, so I assumed that someone had spoken into
his ear.

"That's close enough." The man continued to stare out over the lake. "Jack, you take a seat next to me. Your partner can go one bench to the north. A
member of my team will meet him there."

I nodded at Bear. He winced and shrugged, and stood his ground for a second. The contact said nothing. Finally, Bear continued on toward the empty bench. I
took a seat next to the Frenchman. His hair was close cropped. His neck was red, irritated from shaving. Perhaps he'd rid himself of a beard recently. His
aftershave overtook the smells of the park. He continued to stare over the lake.

"Got a name?" I asked.

"Pierre," he said. "And you're Jack. I think that's all we need to know of one another's names at this time."

"Fair enough. Do you know why I'm here? What brought me here?"

Pierre nodded. "We have a common if not overlapping interest. Someone you're looking for has spent some time with men we are monitoring."

"You're DGSE."

He nodded again, turned his head slightly, made eye contact. "Counterterrorism. Most of the time, at least. I've held many positions. Some similar to
yours."

I said nothing.

"I'm here to support you with anything you need during your stay. If you need manpower, you've got it. Help crossing the border, I'm there for you. But I
won't be able to allow you to complete your job on French soil. However, if you can detain your target, we can take him into custody and transport him out
of the country."

"To where?"

"Across the Channel should suffice."

Light glared at me from across the lake. A watch, strapped to the wrist of a man using a tree for cover, reflected the sun. At his feet was a long, narrow
case. The second member of Pierre's team. I leaned forward and looked to the north. Bear was seated next to a woman.

"Where's the fourth?"

Pierre flashed a smile. "You spotted the shooter."

"Yeah."

"The fourth is coming up on us, driving a silver van with tinted windows."

Brakes whined and a diesel engine idled. Fumes engulfed us.

"And I suppose you want us to get in the van."

"Only if you want me to arm you and assist you."

I turned toward Bear again. He looked back at me. We both nodded and rose. The four of us climbed into the van. The driver said nothing. He was probably in
his fifties. Gray hair, thinning on top. Leathery skin draped over his cheeks.

Pierre sat next to me in the last row. The woman positioned herself next to Bear in the middle row. We looped around the lake and picked up the shooter. No
idea what had happened to the first agent we saw. He had slipped out of my field of view a few minutes prior. Presumably, he had a vehicle close by and
would tail us.

The silent ride took no more than fifteen minutes, and carried us through a part of the city I'd never seen before. We pulled up to an unassuming weathered
brick building that fit in with its surroundings. The block was lined with warehouses and other similar buildings.

The shooter hopped out before the van stopped. He took a few steps away, case clutched tight. The woman was the first to exit through the sliding side
door. I followed Pierre out, and Bear stepped down last. Pierre gestured for us to follow him toward an arched doorway that looked like it had been painted
over several times in decades past. Red paint flicked off, revealing a coat of brown beneath. A line etched in the second layer revealed that the color
prior had been green. Mortar between the bricks crumbled at my touch. The door felt like sandpaper on my fingertips. To the right of the entryway sat a
security panel about five feet off the ground. Pierre punched in a code and waved a card past the device. There was a loud click. One of the doors shifted
out a half-inch or so.

The woman reached out, pulled the door open. Pierre gestured for us to enter.

The dark hallway gave little away. The outside light only penetrated a few feet. It could've been a cell, or a room with a dozen armed men, I had no idea.
Faith alone carried me forward. It smelled old and dry, like chalk. As the door fell shut behind us, a draft hit me from the right. The dim lights at the
end of the hall cast pools of light that spread before me. Four antique sofas, two on either side, lined the hallway. There were three wooden doors on the
left, and three steel ones on the right.

"Welcome to my paradise," Pierre said. "Head to the end of the hall, and we'll go through the last door on the right."

I led the way. Footsteps echoed off the hardwood floors like a stampede. I heard, and felt, a gentle hum rising. After passing the midpoint of the
corridor, it faded. A generator, maybe. Battery room, possibly. Didn't matter. We weren't going there.

Pale light spilled out from the one-inch gap between the metal door and the hardwood floor. I watched for shadows passing at my feet. Saw none. Reaching
out, I grasped the doorknob and turned it to the right. The door was heavy, but swung easily on its hinges.

What I saw in the room was not what I had been expecting.

I'D EXPECTED AN old wooden table, a few chairs, maybe a bench, with a single light bulb dangling on a wire hanging from the ceiling. What I found was a
room as deep as the hallway and at least twenty feet wide. Three rows of monitors lined the left wall. There were six pods in the room, each with a
computer equipped with a dual- or triple-monitor setup. Three of the pods were occupied by analysts. They didn't look up from their work to inspect the
group entering the room.

I assumed they already knew we were there.

The wall to the right was drywall or plaster from the floor to about waist-high. The rest was glass, possibly bullet-proof. It looked in on three divided
rooms. Each of the rooms had a table, two chairs, and a bench. The benches had three eyebolts. Perfect for handcuffs or chains. None of the rooms were
occupied.

Bear stopped next to me and looked at the monitors. His eyes shifted a millimeter at a time as his gaze traveled from screen to screen. They displayed live
feeds, maps, data in the form of names and addresses and phone numbers.

Pierre squeezed between us. "Follow me."

He continued, passing between the glass wall and the pods. Anyone seated stopped working and minimized their screens as we walked by. The woman who'd been
with us since the park took a seat in front of a computer. She waited until we had passed before unlocking it.

At the end of the room was a door, painted the same as the rest of the room. The handle was thin and long and silver. A security panel was fixed a few
inches away. A small red light remained lit on the bottom of the panel. Pierre swiped his card in front of it and the light switched from red to green.
Pierre grabbed the handle, pushed it down. The door swung open. Using his body as a prop, he gestured for us to enter the room.

Bear went first this time. He took a step in, then moved to the side. A large antique desk filled most of the space. The wood was dark and rich. The top
was clean, and the items present were organized into logical groups. A laptop rested in the middle with its lid closed.

"Please, sit," Pierre said, letting the door fall shut as he passed in front of us. He walked around the desk and took a seat. With his cell phone clutched
tightly in his left hand, he used his right to lift the lid of his laptop. For a few minutes, his fingers danced on the keypad. He said nothing and gave no
indication that he realized we were still in the room with him. The fan above us hummed rhythmically and cyclically.

"Why'd you bring us here?" I asked.

Pierre stopped typing. He blinked at the screen, and then closed the lid. The chair creaked as he shifted his weight to the right and leaned back.

"We've got a job to do, Pierre. And we're on a major time restriction. I'd appreciate it if you could give us the info we need so we can be on our way."

The Frenchman smiled. "You're not going anywhere."

This time Bear shifted in his seat. I knew from experience that he could launch an attack from his new position; he'd done it in a back office meeting with
a target in Brazil a few months back.

Pierre gestured with his hand. "Easy, easy. It's not like that. I'm not detaining you. Everything you're going to need is here in this facility. We have a
room for each of you here. Weapons, communications, all of it's here."

I said, "We'd prefer to stay in a hotel where we can operate freely after you give us our starting point."

Pierre pulled a drawer open, reached in, and pulled out a folder, which he placed on the table between us. It was brown and scratched and bound by a string
that wrapped around a sewn-on button. It looked like something that had been in the building since early last century. Pierre reached up and switched on a
task lamp. Focused light washed over the middle of the desk. The lines etched into the folder stood out. Faded ink revealed dates: 1918, 1937, 1944, 1959,
1968. Pierre unwound the frayed string and peeled back the cover like he was opening a five-hundred-year-old tome. The light reflected off the glossy image
within. One by one, the Frenchman then arranged ten six-by-nine black and white photos. Head shots. The first nine were of seven men and two women. Six of
the men were Middle Eastern. One of the women was. The remaining man and woman were Caucasian. I recognized them all from the pictures Frank had shown me.

Bear said, "That's al-Sharaa."

Pierre glanced up. "Know him?"

I nodded. "I'm the one responsible for him being deported."

"I'd thank you, but in doing so, you made him my problem. He's the one leading this cell."

"Trust me, Pierre, I'd rather have sent him to a dungeon to answer questions until his heart and lungs gave out."

"Then what happened?"

"Bureaucracy."

Pierre studied me for a moment, and then slid the tenth picture, face down, across the table. I reached for it and flipped it over. I didn't have to study
it long.

"Is that your Brett Taylor?" he said.

Bear nodded. So did I. "That's him."

The Frenchman crossed his arms and smiled wide. "Then I know exactly where he is."

PIERRE SAID NO more. He collected the pictures into a pile at the center of the table and shuffled them until they merged into an organized stack. We all
stared at the photo on top. Brett Taylor. Finally, Pierre placed them back in the folder, closed and bound it, and returned it to the drawer.

Bear said, "If you know where he is, we need you to tell us so we can apprehend him. This guy can't be on the street any longer than he has been."

Pierre said, "I understand your concern. Taylor's going nowhere, though. And I'm afraid I misled you. I'm not certain of his current location. But I know
where he'll be in two days time. Until then, you'll have to remain here, under our care."

I said, "I appreciate your constraints on time, but we have our own, and two days is too long for us to be doing nothing."

Pierre said nothing. And despite our additional questions, the Frenchman revealed no more. Eventually, I stopped trying. Frank would hear from me soon and
we'd work it out from there.

Pierre escorted us out of his office and through the long control room, which was now deserted except for a single analyst working at a pod with a
triple-monitor set up. She stopped and locked her computer until we passed. We exited into the dim hallway, crossed it, and went through another
badge-controlled door. The room we stepped into reminded me of a foyer in a house or apartment building. There were stairs in front of us that went up and
down. To the right was a door. Only a wall to the left. I glanced back. A badge was required to get out.

"Upstairs," Pierre said, taking the lead. "You join a short list of foreign associates designated worthy of staying with us here."