Thin Line (15 page)

"Sleepers. Spread throughout Europe. We believe they're working on a coordinated attack on London, Frankfurt, Venice, and somewhere in the South of France.
Vanity attacks, some of them, designed to scare away tourists. Others designed to scare locals. Venice, we actually think they're hoping to destroy the
foundation of part of the city."

"Taylor's connection?"

Frank extended the black notebook toward me. I reached for it. He didn't let go. "Go straight to the last page."

There were a list of names, neatly printed in what I assumed was Taylor's hand. Read like an Afghani, Iraqi, and Syrian roll call. There were three dates
listed on the page: one day each in October, November, and December, two days before Christmas. There were locations. All in Paris. All busy locales. In
addition to the locations mentioned by Frank, the group wanted to coordinate the attack with a large-scale bombing in Paris. And it looked as though Brett
Taylor was directly involved.

"This can't be legit," I said.

Frank handed me another folder. It contained a series of photos I recognized as Taylor's apartment. They started at the front door, led past the kitchen
and living room, into the bedroom, and to the closet. One moment the wall was intact, the next a false portion had been removed. Hidden behind that
partition was a safe. A slender female hand presented itself. There were more photos of the hand in front of the access panel. Next the safe was opened.
Cash, weapons and ammo, and ten spiral-bound notebooks, all the same size and colored red and green and blue and black.

"Undercover snapped these. Left them, of course."

"Jesus. Why? He had to have known better than to keep all these records. We've got to go back and get the rest. Find out how long this has been going on."

Frank shook his head. "That safe was rigged, and Taylor apparently had a way of detonating it from anywhere."

"We're sure?"

"Already sent someone in to verify after you and Bear were in." He pulled a photo from another folder and handed it to me. Same safe, opened and containing
the charred and melted remains of its contents.

"Shit."

Frank nodded. "Pretty much. Got one more for you."

I took the final folder and peeled it open. The face of a ghost stared back at me. A Syrian man, fresh-faced, but with a heart full of anger and hatred and
evil. Looking up, I caught sight of Bear as he exited the diner. He got in behind me. The passenger side of the vehicle sank another six inches. I pulled
the keys from my pocket and tossed them back to Frank.

"What'd I miss?" Bear said.

I ignored Bear's question. "Is this-"

"Bashir al-Sharaa." Frank tightened his grip on the steering wheel, turning his knuckles white.

I turned to the next picture. An older al-Sharaa stared back at me. His beard had partially filled in, although it was thin and scraggly on his cheeks and
upper lip. Not entirely out of the ordinary for a twenty-eight year old. But the rest of his face had aged considerably in the four years since I last saw
him.

"Who's that?" Bear asked.

"Bashir al-Sharaa is a Syrian terrorist," I said. "Four years ago, he was over here on a student visa, in a master's program at George Mason. By all
accounts, he came over a peaceful guy. Then he met and fell under the influence of a radical cleric originally from Jordan by the name of Marafi."

Bear said, "Yeah, I remember that name. They shipped him out not too long ago, right?"

"Yeah," I said. "Remember the cell Frank and I took down in northern Virginia? The one that was kidnapping children, then selling them on the black market
overseas, then using the money to build up their network?"

Bear nodded. Frank shot me a look that needed no explanation. Bear had been my outlet. He knew about most of the ops I'd run while employed by the SIS.

"This kid, guy, al-Sharaa, was linked to them. A second-tier kind of guy. Frank and I believed that he was going to be part of a coordinated attack on
landmarks in and around D.C. We spent four months monitoring him, anyone he came in contact with, collecting evidence. And it went beyond al-Sharaa. We
actually had quite a bit on Marafi, too."

"Then that damn Judge Hegland," Frank said.

"What happened?" Bear asked.

"He threw out everything we had. Said we'd gathered it illegally."

"Wait a minute. I thought you guys didn't have to worry about stuff like that. The whole purpose of the SIS was to avoid that."

"Someone tipped al-Sharaa off that we were moving in," Frank said. "It wasn't soon enough, though. We had him blocked from leaving the country. He got
caught at Dulles. The cleric Marafi had a snake on retainer who shot holes in everything we'd done. All of it became inadmissible. And I mean all."

"That's right. We couldn't use any of it against Marafi, or the other guys who were planted. Hegland could've thrown the case out and allowed us to start
over. Didn't go down that way, though. He deported al-Sharaa and a few of the others. They went back to Syria, Jordan, Iraq, Afghanistan. Couple were UK
citizens."

"So what's this al-Sharaa have to do with us now?" Bear said. "Or is it the cleric?"

Frank turned the key in the ignition. "Fill him in on the rest on the way to the airport. He'll want to know why you two are heading to Paris."

FRANK ARRANGED EVERYTHING. Flights, identities, passports, contacts to meet and supply us after we landed in France.

On the one hand, it was a perfectly executed setup. Bear and I could be pulled out of line while boarding and never be heard from again. But Frank wouldn't
do that. If he intended to bring us down, he'd do it the old-fashioned way. A gun, tarp, boat, and cinder blocks. Not letting someone else take us into
custody. Not giving himself up as the source, the rat. That would lead to embarrassment, pain, and possibly prison. Not the act of turning us over - Frank
could live with that. See, Frank knew all my dirty little secrets. The counterbalance to that was that I knew all of his.

That formed the basis of our strained relationship.

I filled Bear in on the latest information while we drove to Dulles. I tried to pry the surveillance photos and the notebook from Frank. He held onto them.
Several pages of text penned by Taylor had been photocopied. Frank left those in our possession. Bear read them out loud while I drove.

"This guy worked for anyone who'd pay him dinner money," Bear said. He stated the figures. Taylor earned a hefty sum for the work he did. He sold out his
country, repeatedly, for what a small percentage of the population made in a year. For some, our business was a way to make a good living. But the
retirement plan sucked, usually involving the words
early termination
.

"He did just about anything," Bear continued. "Assassinations to espionage."

"Wonder how he managed to keep it all under wraps so long."

"Luck. Someone had to have known, though. Why else send in a spy?" After a pause, he added, "Frank wouldn't give her identity up?"

I shook my head. "You expect him to? Would you want him giving me or you up?"

"Suppose not." He rolled down his window. Cold air rushed into the cabin. The smell of wood smoke lingered long after he cranked the window up and the
chill had been replaced by hot, recycled air. "What if this is a set up?"

"I doubt it is. But, if so, we deal with it when the situation presents itself."

Traffic picked up outside of D.C., a sea of red taillights rising and falling along the gentle slopes of the Beltway. I didn't stress over the traffic. Our
flight was scheduled to leave at six that evening. We had plenty of time.

Bear dozed off while I navigated the crowded interstate. We reached Dulles at one and dropped the car off in long-term parking. Frank had supplied us each
with a suitcase and backpack, although none of the clothes inside fit. Appearances only. The more we looked like travelers, the better our chances of
clearing security, which was the first real checkpoint for this operation.

We picked up our boarding passes and checked our luggage. The woman behind the counter barely paid attention to us, performing her job as if she were a
robot.

We still had four hours to kill. Security looked light, but that was apt to change at any moment. If we came back in two hours, it could be a three-hour
wait. After grabbing a coffee, we made our way through a roped-off maze. The last quarter moved the slowest. I presented identification first. The TSA
agent studied it and my face for what felt like twenty seconds. He signed off on my boarding pass and waved me through, handing my ID back as I passed. I
waited a few feet away while he did the same to Bear. In a few airports, the agents liked to mess with travelers. Made the day go by faster. I figured he
didn't have the luxury of doing so here since Dulles was typically packed to the gills.

The rest of security required no effort. We made our way to the gate, stopping at a restaurant that served burgers and sandwiches. We ate lunch and had a
couple drinks. Bear hated flying, so anything that helped settle his nerves, I was all for.

The seating area at the gate was already half-filled. The area across the terminal aisle remained dark and empty. Better for us. We took a seat in the back
near the window. Bear closed his eyes and within two minutes was asleep.

Outside, a choreographed dance took place. Vehicles drove from gate to gate with a purpose. Workers handled luggage, refueling, mechanical inspection.
Planes taxied off, rolling lazily until out of sight. A constant stream made the journey. Each reappeared a few minutes later. They barreled down the
runway a few hundred yards away. The high-pitched whine of the jumbo jets reached the breaking point as the nose lifted and the plane achieved takeoff.

Every few minutes, I'd survey the scene across the terminal. New faces arrived irregularly. Very few left permanently. None posed an immediate threat.
Still, I couldn't put it past Frank to have at least one person on board to monitor our actions in the airport, and after departing the plane. It was the
smart thing to do.

As departure time crept closer, the seats filled, and overflow was sent into the walkway and spilled into the empty gate where we waited. The team behind
the counter grew from one employee to three to five. The flight crew arrived. They spoke with the gate team, and then disappeared into a small room off to
the side.

Finally, boarding began. Frank had sprung for first class tickets, so we were among the first to board. Bear had insisted on the aisle. The combination of
the large seat and wide walkway afforded him room he would never find in coach. The big man managed to talk the flight attendant into supplying him with
enough alcohol to quiet his resurfaced nerves. Maybe it was the thought of seeing a man of his size break down with anxiety and panic that did the trick.
Perhaps it was the benefit of first class.

I stared out the window at the artificially lit tarmac. The various crews moved and worked with a rhythm that indicated their jobs had become second
nature.

Twenty minutes later, we pulled away from the terminal. The pilot followed the sweeping road leading to our runway. Bear's breathing became rapid, short
inhales and exhales. His knuckles paled as he gripped the armrest. Takeoff was always the worst for him, even when sedated. Once in the air, he settled
down enough to order another round and eventually fell asleep.

We left the eastern seaboard behind. The twinkle of city lights was gone. With nothing left to look at through the oblong window, I closed the shutter and
leaned back in the plush seat. I dimmed the overhead light and joined Bear in slumber.

BEAR AND I stood out. We were conscious of this, and had to remain vigilant because of it. Didn't matter where we went. The two of us together drew
unwanted attention. Unless we stood in line with a group of professional football players, we didn't look like others surrounding us. For this reason, I
exited the plane ahead of Bear and joined the line for passport control. This wouldn't prevent someone who was aware and looking from putting two and two
together. They'd know our travel plans were related. But to the agents who'd made the decision to let us in, we were much more unassuming separate than
standing next to each other.

I passed through without incident, then made my way to baggage claim. Seven minutes later, Bear arrived.

"They question you?" I asked.

"A bit," he said. "Nothing major. We're good to go."

Frank had given me a cell phone and three SIM cards, one each for the UK, Italy, and France, in the event we had to travel. Purchasing a phone he didn't
know about was one of my top priorities. I inserted the correct card into the cell and powered on the device. Within minutes it rang.

I answered as Frank had instructed. The man replied as I had been told he would.

"Where can we meet you?" I asked.

"Go to long stay parking, the lot nearest Terminal 1. I have a car waiting for you there. It's been parked for three weeks. We've checked it four times. No
problems." He gave me the plate number. "The key is hidden in the rear passenger wheel well. There's a prepaid card in the glove box; use that to pay the
parking fee. Call me back at this number after you've left the airport."

We took the light rail to the lot and then walked the rows of cars. The mild temperature made it feel like we were in Nice instead of Paris. Eventually, we
found the car. Bear laughed at the site of the yellow two-door Peugeot.

"Can we remove the front seats and sit in back for more legroom?" he said.

"Don't think there is a back, big man."

He reached into the rear wheel well and retrieved a metal box with a magnetized back. Inside was the key. Bear tossed it to me over the roof. It glinted in
the morning sun. I snatched the solo key out of the air and unlocked the door. It wasn't the most comfortable vehicle I'd ever sat in, but it had more room
than I imagined. At least my knees weren't touching the dash. Bear, on the other hand, barely fit in his seat.