“A setup?” Rima was stunned.

“Someone in your organization purposefully sent me into that address at the same time ISIS was planning to make their attempt on Medina.”

“Ridiculous.” But then she asked, “Why would someone working for us do that?”

“It’s all about earning the trust and allegiance of the woman. If I snuck her away from her bodyguards, she might have been thankful, or she might still have looked at it like it was an abduction. But if I pulled her out of there in the middle of a terrorist attack, she would have been more appreciative, even more beholden to those who rescued her.”

Rima said, “But everyone in our organization who knows about this operation is committed to overthrowing Ahmed Azzam. Sending you in when we knew the terrorists would attack only increases the chances you would be killed and fail, or Bianca would be killed, which means we all would fail.”

The American had an answer to this. “Someone in your organization knew my reputation. They knew I could succeed when others could not. Very few people know this, and nobody who did not know this would dare roll those dice.”

Tarek and Rima stole a glance at each other.

The American said, “And you both know exactly who I am talking about.” When neither of them spoke, he asked, “Who is he? The Frenchman I spoke with? Is he the one pulling your strings?”

There was more pained silence in the room, until Tarek said, “I am sorry to put it this way, sir, but you are hired help. I am not giving you information about our organization. Only what you need in order to do the job.”

Court looked at the refined middle-aged couple, and he could not see any hint at all that they ran a rebel group. “Why do you do this?”

Rima looked at Tarek, then back at Court. Her eyes misted over. “We did not want war with Ahmed Azzam. It was the young who thought it could be won. Those of us in the older generation, we told the young people . . . ‘You don’t know the Azzam family. They will drown the nation in blood before they relinquish power.’ But the young would not listen, and now they are dead.

“All the dancing, the singing they did when the protests began. The pride of fighting for something they believed in.

“All those beautiful young people, all those beautiful memories, all that hope, is buried under the stone now. All that remains is Ahmed and Shakira Azzam. They are smiling over the corpses of the rebellion.”

Tarek added to his wife’s thoughts. “Personally I wish the rebellion would end, but you’ll never hear me saying that publicly. Not because I support Azzam. Just because I know he will kill every living thing that opposes him now.”

“Then why do you run a rebel movement?”

Tarek answered for them both. “We have our reasons. Now we have to do whatever we can to bring him down, and Bianca Medina is the key.”

Court said, “You act like you are in control of what’s going on. You two are just puppets.” And with that, he headed past them towards the entryway. He put his hand on the door latch; he was steps away from disappearing again.

Rima said, “If you leave, what will happen with the war in Syria?”

“I didn’t start it, and I sure as hell can’t end it.” He looked back and forth between the two of them. “Look . . . like you said, I’m just the hired gun here, but I can see the problem with your entire op. Your reach exceeded your grasp. If you flipped Bianca, you might have been able to get Azzam in hot water with the Russians. But this plan of yours wasn’t ever going to lead to his ouster. This was a harassing action. Nothing more.” He shrugged. “You tried, and you failed.”

He opened the door now, looked out into the hall, but turned back before departing. “What will you do with Bianca?”

Rima said, “That is no concern of yours, clearly. You are leaving her, and us, behind.”

The man said nothing, but neither did he make any move to walk through the door.

Tarek heaved his chest. “She will be taken care of here. She will not be harmed. But we can’t let her return to Syria. She knows too much about us and our organization now.”

The asset looked at the floor now. “The kid? What will happen to the baby when his mom doesn’t come back?”

To this Tarek said, “Ahmed has never acknowledged the son’s existence, so anything could happen. But if he has any decency, then I suppose—”

The American looked up. “Jesus Christ, do you realize what you just said?”

Tarek stared blankly at the man at the door. “The baby will not survive long. If Azzam thinks Bianca is dead, he won’t bring the child into the palace. Shakira would not stand for it. Azzam will be looking for Bianca now, but when he does not find her, he will have to remove the compromise.” Tarek frowned. “Kill the child, most likely. But you can’t expect us to just send Bianca home to Azzam after what she knows. We must keep her here, and try to persuade her to help us.”

The American did nothing to hide the disdain from his face. He just turned into the hall. Mustafa pushed off from where he was leaning against the wall and looked at the Western stranger.

Rima called out from behind. “We know we aren’t in control of all this. We aren’t trained as revolutionaries.”

“No shit,” snapped the American.

“We are doctors,” she continued. “And we are desperate for our people back in Syria, for the future of our nation. We thought this was a perfect opportunity to find important information about Azzam that could be used against him to end the war. It was.” Rima’s eyes teared. “We just didn’t know about the baby.”

The American said, “You are playing a dangerous game you don’t understand. Please, take my advice. Free the girl. And then go back to aid and comfort . . . something you’re good at.”

And with that he left the couple alone in their second-floor apartment, pushing past Mustafa in the narrow hallway.

CHAPTER 15

Court walked down the long hallway towards the stairwell. He descended one flight, moved through a narrow and dark passageway to the door to the street, then stepped out onto the Rue Mazarine.

A pair of motorcycle cops wearing the uniform of Public Order and Traffic Control rolled in his direction from the north, slowing to a stop not far from the Halabys’ large apartment building. They showed no interest in him, and there were two dozen other pedestrians around, so Court simply turned to the south, then made a quick right on a small winding avenue with outdoor cafés on both sides of the street.

The two helmeted cops never saw him.

Court’s personal security was at the forefront of his thinking now. All the pedestrians around him, the people he could see through the shop windows, in the vehicles passing by: they all had to be assessed as a potential threat. His eyes scanned and his brain spun as he evaluated individuals, looking for pre-assault indicators, the flash of a camera lens striking sunlight, any odd mannerisms that could indicate someone taking interest in his presence.

And cops. Court always had an eye open for cops, but especially in Paris, because he had something of a history here.

He’d been to Paris more than two dozen times in his life, which meant he knew these streets, and that helped him both assimilate and keep a keen eye for anyone acting out of phase. He spoke the language and he had the feel and rhythm of the city down cold. Not all of his experiences had been good; he’d nearly been stabbed to death just a few blocks south of here a couple of years earlier in an alleyway that ran off the Rue de l’Ancienne Comedie, and then he nearly bled out along the Left Bank of the Seine just a few blocks to the north.

But despite his close calls, he was comfortable here in the French capital; his tradecraft normally kept him safe, and he had every confidence it would do so today, at least long enough for him to get out of town.

And getting out of town was on his mind now. He told himself he had to go someplace far away from the neophytes who had hired him into this sloppy train wreck of an operation. But as he walked, he couldn’t help but feel something tugging at him, something telling him he shouldn’t leave the Halabys to swing in the wind alone.

He had no doubt they’d be killed before this was all over. There was danger in Paris, even from threats borne out of Syria. The Halabys were running the group holding the Syrian president’s mistress, and that would send a lot more bad actors into the area, sooner and not later. Azzam would either want her back or he’d want to silence her. Either way, people would die. Court knew he had no business in the middle of that madness, but he still felt like shit about leaving a lot of nearly defenseless people to deal with the fallout.

The na?ve and foolish young mother. The middle-aged couple working for the peace and health of their people, only to find themselves at the heart of a high-stakes, life-and-death operation.