Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [139]
Back at Peregrine Cliff, Ryan found his mind drifting, fingers poised over the keyboard. Fucking Kealty … Prosecuting a soldier for killing the enemy. It was, he thought sadly, a perfect testament to the character of the current President.
He glanced at the multiline phone. He started reaching for it twice, only to have his hand stop, seemingly of its own accord, in contradiction to Saint Augustine’s dictum on will and resistance. But then he picked it up and punched the buttons.
“Yeah, Jack,” van Damm’s voice answered. He had caller ID on his private line.
“Okay, Arnie, pull the trigger. And God help me,” he added.
“Let me make some phone calls. Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Okay. See ya.” And Ryan hung up.
What the hell are you doing? he asked himself.
But he knew the answer all too well.
40
THEY HAD TO PRACTICE not being conspiratorial, to seem like ordinary people having an ordinary lunch in a Parisian café on a drizzly day, which worked in their favor. Aside from themselves, there were only two patrons, a young couple, at a nearby umbrella-covered table.
Ibrahim had told them how to dress—like middle-class Frenchmen—and to do it all the time from now on. They all spoke French, and while all were Muslims, none of them attended mosque on a regular basis, doing their daily prayers at home, and definitely not attending the sermons of the more radical and assertive imams, all of whom were kept under regular observation by the various French police agencies.
In sticking to public places and chattering like normal people, they avoided conspiratorial meetings in small rooms that could be bugged by clever policemen. Open-air meetings were easy to observe but nearly impossible to record. And nearly every man in France had regular lunch mates. However large and well funded the French police were, they could not investigate everybody in this infidel country. With regular visibility came anonymity. Quite a few others had been caught or even killed by taking the other route. Especially in Israel, where the police agencies were notoriously efficient, largely because of the money they so liberally spread on the street. There were always those willing to take money for information, which was why he had to choose his people so carefully.
And so the meeting did not begin with religious incantations. They all knew them anyway. And they spoke exclusively in French, lest someone take note of a foreign language. Too many Westerners were learning what Arabic sounded like—and to them it always sounded conspiratorial. Their mission was to be invisible in plain sight. Fortunately, it wasn’t all that hard.
“So what is this mission?” Shasif Hadi asked.
“It’s an industrial facility,” Ibrahim answered. “For now that’s all you need to know. Once we’re on the ground, you’ll be fully briefed.”
“How many?” Ahmed asked. He was the youngest member of the team, clean-shaven with a well-groomed mustache.
“The goal isn’t casualties—at least not human casualties.”
“Then what?” This was Fa’ad. He was a Kuwaiti, tall and handsome.
“Again, you’ll know more when it becomes necessary.” He drew a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it on the table before them. It was a computer-printed map, altered with some image-editing software so all the place names were missing.
“The problem will be selecting the best point of entry,” Ibrahim said. “The facility is fairly well guarded, both within and along the perimeter. The explosive charges necessary will be trivial, small enough to carry in one backpack. The guards inspect the area twice daily, so timing will be critical.”
“If you’ll get me the explosive specifications, I can start planning,” Fa’ad said, pleased to have his education being used in Allah’s Holy Cause. The others thought him overly proud of his engineering degree from Cairo University.
Ibrahim nodded.
“What about the police and intelligence services there?” Hadi asked.
Ibrahim waved his hand dismissively. “Manageable.”
His casual tone belied his thoughts. He had a genuine fear of police investigators.