Ahmed was only fifty-two, so Shakira felt they would remain in the palace for decades to come. The two of them had decided that Ahmed’s thirteen-year-old nephew, the son of his younger sister, would someday carry on the Azzam dynasty, but neither the boy nor the parents of the heir apparent had any notion of this.
Shakira had been a crucial colleague to Ahmed in the palace, if not a true emotional partner, and she’d been the backbone of the Sunni coalition that fought on the regime’s behalf in the war, so Shakira felt safe in her place there. But all the security she felt faded away when Shakira found out that the woman her husband was bedding here in Damascus had secretly produced a male offspring, and he had given the boy the name Jamal, the name of Ahmed’s own father, the former leader of Syria.
Shakira did not begrudge Ahmed the affair itself. She’d been sleeping with the Swiss intelligence officer who worked in the palace since shortly after they met. But the anger that welled in her the instant she’d learned Ahmed had a son with Bianca Medina had only grown in the last few months, and she’d been plotting her next move for all this time. Shakira did not think for a moment that her cold and calculating husband would have allowed his mistress to become pregnant, much less to bring a child to term, unless he had plans for the woman and the child. Children were inconvenient, especially when born out of wedlock to national leaders in the Middle East, and Shakira knew her husband would have had Bianca killed the second he found out she was with child unless his goal had been to replace his wife and make his own child the third generation of Azzam to rule the nation.
Shakira could not let this happen, and the only way she could stop this, to save herself and her children from being cast from power, was to kill Bianca Medina. She didn’t believe Ahmed would throw his wife out of the palace if there was not both a mother and child to bring into the palace to replace her, so with Bianca dead, the baby would cease to be a threat to Shakira.
Then Shakira felt she could reassert herself by reminding Ahmed who truly ruled the presidential palace.
* * *
? ? ?
Sebastian Drexler was back in his office and thinking about his dangerous predicament at eight a.m. when his satellite phone rang. He snatched it up, hoping the caller was someone from his team working in Paris, and further hoping the caller had some actionable intelligence for him.
“Yes?”
“It’s Sauvage.”
“What have you learned?”
“We picked up the individual performing surveillance on Medina the day before yesterday.”
“Any resistance?”
“He came along. The kid’s name is Ali Safra. As I told you before, he’s a Syrian immigrant, a member of the Free Syria Exile Union.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s in the trunk of Clement’s car. He confirms he was tailing Bianca Medina in the city, but he doesn’t know anything about a larger mission other than surveillance and reporting. He did say there was a meeting yesterday morning at Père Lachaise Cemetery, where the head of the Free Syria Exile Union met with a foreign asset, but Safra says he wasn’t anywhere near that meeting. I think he’s telling the truth; he doesn’t strike me as the type of guy you’d involve in the center of your plans.”
“He’s an idiot?”
“Just an immigrant with a menial job. No connections to anyone other than those in the FSEU.”
“Who is the leader of the Free Syria Exile Union?”
“According to the kid, it’s a husband and wife running it. They are surgeons here in Paris. Tarek and Rima Halaby. Mean anything to you?”
“Never heard of them. Have you run into them up there?”
“Negative, but we pulled their records from the EU crime database. They both have one arrest in Turkey for unlawful entry. Seems they got picked up crossing the border from Syria about three years ago.”
Drexler thought about this. “So they snuck over into Syria to help the rebels, and were grabbed coming back into Turkey.”
“Looks like it. What do you want me to do?”
“Find out where they are.”
“We have an address already. Here in Paris, on the Left Bank.”
“Do you think Medina might be held at their flat?”
“Doubt it,” Sauvage said. “It’s a nice place, right in the city center. And it’s their home address. They might be armed, they might have security, but this is no place to hold a captive.”
Drexler paused. He was about to up the ante in his relationship with his agents in the Paris police. “Hit it.”
A pause on Sauvage’s side now. Then, “What does that mean? ‘Hit it’?”
“Raid the location, be prepared for violence.”
“This is something you’ve never asked us to do.”
“You’re a cop. Isn’t that what cops do every day?”
Sauvage took his time, then said, “We can find a ruse to enter some other flat. Bring in some patrol officers to stand outside; make it look legitimate.”
“Send two of your men. Don’t go yourself. And this can’t be a straight police operation. We need to know where Medina is, and we won’t find out if the Halabys are in custody where we can’t get to them.”
“Pas problem, Monsieur. I’ll send Allard and Foss; they will question the Halabys on the premises. The other cops won’t know what they’re up to.” After a beat, Sauvage said, “We have not discussed compensation.”
Drexler replied, “All four of you will be paid double the agreed-upon amount.”
“Tres bien, for the raid on the Halabys. But what about the kid in the trunk?”
Drexler decided to push his luck, to see how far these men would go on this operation. “Make it where anyone looking for him never finds him.” After a pause, he said, “I’ll triple your compensation.”
“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.