The rustle of soft clothing and of quick breathing forced him back into the moment. He began to move toward the French windows, his escape route. However, this might be his only chance. The forgeries must be found. He cared less about al Khalil than of the favors the Mukhabarat’s director was sure to bestow on him if he succeeded. After tonight, Coogan would certainly either hire professional security or bring the documents elsewhere, perhaps to a bank vault. He peered carefully through the doorless entrance of the office toward the stairs. The light outlined a man in sweats and a tee-shirt with long unruly blond hair, probably an American, a domestic whom he could overwhelm easily. It must be Benjamin, the cook, who had lied and was thus responsible for this crisis. The cook’s appearance turned Farid’s anxiety into pent-up anger waiting to be released.
The American stepped into the office and switched the light on. “Holy shit,” he said. He stood in the middle of the room uncertainly looking at the wreckage on the floor. He scanned elsewhere, his mouth half-open and his eyes searching into the darkness of the dining room. He took two steps forward and paused then turned around and stage-whispered to himself, “The police.”
Benjamin moved toward the phone on the desk. Farid knew he had to decide: flee or attack. He stepped into the office, raised his flashlight and brought it down as hard as he could on the blond head. The plastic lens of the light flew off, and the battery compartment broke. Benjamin fell to his knees. Farid looked around for a better weapon, grabbed a desk lamp, and again struck. This time his victim fell face-forward. Farid leaned down and felt the man’s pulse. He was alive but unconscious. A rivulet of blood seeped from his scalp down onto his face. As it approached his mouth, Farid, captivated, watched the red line reach Benjamin’s chin, his throat, and his tee-shirt.
Farid stood with a slight grin, listened carefully and, leaving the lights on, went to the filing cabinet. Drawer by drawer, he quickly examined all the files, dropping them onto the floor afterward. He looked at the photos on the wall, took the biggest one and tore the back off. He did the same to several others with no better results. He went through all of the books on the shelves, shaking them with the binding up, and dropping them on the floor. He then went up one flight of stairs and found the main bedroom. He ransacked it but found nothing of interest. He returned to the dining room and examined the backs of the paintings by cutting them out of their frames. Al Khalil’s information had been wrong. In frustration, Farid tried to topple one of the china cabinets, but it proved too heavy, even in his excited state, to do easily. Before leaving, he took a candlestick holder from the dining room table and smashed it into the one of the cabinet glass doors.
2. Neuilly-sur Seine—the next day
Steve Church stepped out of the taxi, relieved that the first leg of his trip was finally over. He stretched, feeling all the vertebrae along his six-foot-one spine release and ran his hand through his short brown hair. He paid the driver and looked at his watch, about ten hours door-to-door from his apartment in McLean, Virginia, to his temporary abode in Neuilly. Waist-high crowd-control barriers had prevented the driver from pulling up next to the curb. His temporary address turned out to be between the Saudi Arabian and Moroccan ambassadors’ residences. On his left was the Saudi flag, green with an Arabic inscription in white. Steve didn’t speak Arabic but knew what it was, the Shahada, the declaration of faith:
La ilaha illa la hu muhammadun rasulu llah.
“There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his messenger.”
A horizontal sword underlined the Shahada. To his right was the Moroccan flag, red, symbol of the Prophet’s descendants, with a green five-pointed star. Two heavily armed French policemen walked within fifteen feet of the taxi, their eyes cold and their faces like poker players trying to decipher their opponents’ cards. A van with blackened windows was parked twenty yards away; two helmeted paramilitary policemen were talking to the squad sitting inside.
One of the policemen asked him, “Your identity papers, Monsieur.”
Steve produced his passport and the policeman waved him on. Steve walked up to the door and rang the bell, looking for the key that Dr. Coogan had sent him. No one opened the door and Steve let himself in. He found himself in a small entrance way with stairs in front of him and a door to the right that apparently connected to the garage.
He closed the door, picked up his suitcase and hand carry and started up the stairs when the front door opened in back of him.
A stocky young man came in. He wore a beret slanted to the right that partially covered a bandage around his head. On the left, his blond hair reached below his ears. They took stock of each other and the newcomer said, “Are you
