Use of Force

CHAPTER 50

Tursunov checked out of his hotel late that morning and took the train out to Charles de Gaulle Airport.

There, he caught a taxi back into the city and, under a different passport, checked into Le Meurice, the grand luxury hotel on the rue de Rivoli.

It resembled a modern-day Versailles. Gilded mirrors. Silk draperies. Crystal chandeliers and velvet couches. He was offended by the opulence.

Opening the doors to his balcony, the cacophony from the street below pierced the cashmere-wrapped silence of the suite. Horns blared, brakes squealed, and engines growled. Trucks rumbled past and scooters buzzed like angry wasps.

Removing his Gauloises, he slid one from the pack, placed it between his lips, and struck a match.

Inhaling a cloud of leathery smoke into his lungs, he leaned forward against the wrought-iron railing and smiled. The view was perfect.

He was directly across the street from the Jardin des Tuileries.

From where he stood, he could look out over the entirety of the Terrasse des Feuillants — the area along the edge of the park where the Fête des Tuileries was in full swing, and where the attack would take place. He had the perfect front-row seat.

Like the Spanish coordinator in Santiago, Abdel would be close, just in case his men chickened out. He had the numbers of the cell phones attached to their vests programmed into his phone. If something happened, if they didn’t go off at the appointed time, he would detonate them remotely.

That meant that the Moroccan would be someplace where he could watch the event unfold without attracting attention. Tursunov had no idea where. That was by design.

The less they knew about each other’s movements, the better. The more compartmentalized they were, the less chance there was of the full plot being discovered.

It was a similar blueprint to what had been carried out in Spain. The only person who interacted with him was the head of operations for the country. The martyrs themselves never saw his face. They didn’t need to. All that mattered was that they do their job.

After cutting the throat of the drug dealer, Tursunov had contacted Abdel and arranged to meet.

The Moroccan didn’t want to believe that his nephew was involved in a drug ring, but based on what Tursunov explained to him, he had no choice.

Sharing his concern that the chemist’s apartment, phone, and email communications were being monitored, the Tajik laid out a very specific course of action he wanted Abdel to follow. Then he handed him a stack of banknotes and a clean cell phone.

It hadn’t taken long for the dead lieutenant’s body in the men’s room to be discovered. As soon as the police were called, the undercover officers following the chemist and his two drug-cooking cohorts descended on the café. After initial questioning at the scene, all three were taken in for further interrogation.

It was an attempt to get the trio to admit to what the police already suspected them of — drug manufacturing. They knew the young men were not involved in the murder. The victim was part of the gang they cooked for. There was also a trail of partial bloody footprints that led out the back of the café.

Having been a cop for many years, Tursunov knew what kind of exculpatory evidence to leave behind. As long as the chemist and his colleagues didn’t have blood on their shoes, which they didn’t, and there was nothing else incriminating on them, there was only so long that the French police would be able to hold them.

When they were released, that was when the chemist was going to have to make his move. That was what Tursunov had prepped the uncle for.

Because he was family, Abdel could approach the young man without drawing interest from the police. The immigrant grapevine being what it was, the authorities wouldn’t think twice about an uncle showing up in the wake of a nephew’s having been at a murder scene and having undergone police interrogation.

Neither would the police find it unusual that an angry uncle would arrange for his nephew to get out of Paris and away from a bad circle of friends for a while.

With a murder and a potential gang war on its hands, the French authorities would need all the manpower they could muster. They’d be glad not to have to waste resources on surveilling the chemist any longer.

So Tursunov had taken the second step in helping his chemist disappear. The third step would come tonight.