––––––––

After landing at Avignon Provence Aéroport, Henri rented a car and drove straight through the medieval fortress walls of the city. She’d been on a half-dozen tours of duty overseas, but had never seen roads as narrow as in France. At least they were paved, albeit with cobblestones and definitely were not built for cars. She parked in a miniscule spot several blocks away from the Banque Palatine. One of the perks about being an ICE asset was the IDs. She’d been issued with several, some of which were in a safe deposit box set up for her in Reykjavik. For this trip she was using an American passport in the name of Samantha Smith and it had been accompanied by an Interpol badge.

Her stomach erupted with a case of butterflies as she stepped out of the car and straightened the jacket of her black pantsuit. It had been awhile since she’d dressed up—just about two-and-a-half years and now she’d swapped out her Army uniform for the suit of a spy. Henri might be ready to fly solo with an op but, for some unknown reason, nerves decided to hit. Maybe because she was a tell-it-like-it-is gal and now she needed to walk into the bank pretending to be someone else.

Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and proceeded to walk through the narrow lane. The bank was situated behind a cement wall in the narrowest road Henri had seen yet. Why anyone would try to stage a heist there was insane...though that’s what everyone else must have thought as well, which could be why the thieves had been successful.

After taking a good look around the exterior, she proceeded through the front door. She stood for a moment, using her wide-angle vision, noting everything from behind a pair of sunglasses. The Banque Palatine looked as small on the inside as it appeared on the outside, though across from the tellers was an iron gate with marble stairs leading to a lower level. A small, brass plate read voûte—vault.

A security guard stepped in front of her. “Puis-je vous aider?” he asked if he could help her.

Henri’s French had improved at ICE and she’d memorized a few phrases on the flight. “Le directeur?” She flashed her badge. “Interpol.”

“Attends ici,” he said, telling her to wait there. “Et vous Anglais?” he asked if she was English.

“Oui.” It was easier to say yes than to explain that she was an American.

Henri’s fingers drummed her thighs as she waited. Three tellers were on shift and they all checked her out, stealing curious glimpses from their work. The tension in the air was thicker than smoke. But that was understandable. Everyone must be totally nervous considering the bank had just been robbed.

Asa had only shown Henri the one still of the suspects getting away, but there were cameras everywhere, even one directed straight at her with its red recording light on. She turned her back and watched the activity on the street—not that anyone would be looking for her. After all she’d been in the field as an ICE asset for about two hours.

Five minutes later, the manager came out and greeted her in English as he led her to his office. He introduced himself as Richard Laplante. “I’m surprised to see Interpol brought in. Are the thieves part of an international crime ring?” he asked, gesturing to a leather chair. Richard was a short man, gray hair, glasses and a paunch he hid under his coat and tie.

“That’s what I aim to find out.” She sat, taking in everything from the Dell computer to the empty cup and saucer on the man’s desk. “I just stepped off the plane and this is my first stop. Do you know if there are any leads?”

He shook his head. “There were no prints.”

Henri thought back to the hand in the photo. The tattoo had been on the man’s wrist. “Were they wearing gloves?”

“Oui, rubber gloves.”

“What about the cameras? Have you given the footage to the police?”

“The cameras were disabled.”

“And that didn’t set off an alarm?”

“If it had, we’d be a million euros in gemstones richer, would we not?” He crossed his arms and sat back. “You can collect all this information from the police. The suspects came into my bank with guns after they’d disabled the entire security system—including the teller crisis buttons.”

Henri mirrored his position. “How easy is that to do, Mr. Laplante?”

He shook his head. “I wish I knew. We had the latest system installed only a month ago.”

Henri pulled out a notepad and started writing. “Do you have footage of the workers?”

“They were all licensed and bonded.”

“That may be, but I’d still like to see the footage. Can your IT person send me a file with the recordings from the dates of the installation?” She handed him one of the business cards she’d received right before she’d left ICE.

His gaze shifted sideways. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”

“No, it wouldn’t, would it?” She thought about asking if he’d given the information about the new system to the local police, but decided against it. If Asa came up with anything that would interest the local authorities, it would be shared through NATO. It was best for Henri to play her hand close to her chest—keep things as wrapped up as possible. She gestured to the card balanced in his fingertips. “When can I expect the file?”

“You’re an American are you not?”

“I’m an Interpol officer, and I’m trying to uncover clues to retrieve your million euros in gemstones.” She slid her finger across her phone’s screen and opened the photo Asa had put up in the ICE sit room. “How was this photo taken?”

His eyebrows arched as he examined the shot. “The security guard snapped it with his camera phone as the thieves were leaving.”

“He had use of his phone?”

“Only after they stopped pointing their guns at him.”

***

Life had been good to Omar Fadli over the past few years. Though he’d been through hell to get there. An orphan of war, he’d endured conditions far worse than most of his brethren. He’d been taken by Fahd al-Umari at the age of twelve and from that time he carried an AK-47 in his hands. The caliph had taught him to be a soldier and the rigid values of the Islamic State. Fadli had been given increasing responsibility and chances to prove his use to the cause until he’d become a part of al-Umari’s inner circle.

And his successes were on the rise. So was his power. In fact, Omar had carefully laid plans to build a dynasty.

After the assassination of the Iranian ambassador to America, Omar had been rewarded with a villa near Baghdad. He sat beneath the awning on his veranda with his feet up. His laptop was opened but he ignored it, preferring to enjoy his coffee.

The computer dinged, announcing an e-mail. He considered turning off the volume but chose to take another sip of coffee and enjoy the view of his pool down below. Who would have ever guessed the boy who begged on the streets of Aleppo would grow rich enough to own a home with servants for his wives and a pool?

He was blessed by Allah and, for that, he should be working twice as hard as he’d done before his rise to wealth. After all, al-Umari was growing old. He needed a strong successor in whom the ideals of the Islamic State could be truly realized. With that thought he heaved a sigh, sat forward and tapped the touchpad. He took another sip as he opened an attachment from the ISIS surveillance group.

Then he spewed coffee across his monitor.

Swiping the liquid away with a napkin, he leaned closer and read the e-mail.

Facial recognition flagged this picture of an ISIS enemy exiting the Avignon airport at 20:00 yesterday afternoon.

Snatching his phone from the table, Fadli made a quick call.

“Hello?” the voice asked in Arabic.

“How soon can you get me on a plane to France?”

“I’ll need to have papers made first. Could take a week.”

“You have a day.”