it.
After leaving the bakery in the 8th Arrondissement, they’d paid a short but informative visit to the boulevard Gouvion Saint-Cyr, a narrow, tree-lined road that ran directly past the main entrance of Le Meridien Etoile. Right away, he could see that she’d chosen well; the sight lines were nearly perfect. From there, a quick stop at an Internet cafe did much to ease Vanderveen’s concerns; he learned that, besides the central police station, there were only two UPQs (District Police Units) in the 17th Arrondissement, both of which were located on the northeast side. The closest was more than 7 kilometers away from the hotel, and as they drove to the parking garage, he noticed for the first time how light the police presence actually was in the southern half of the district. They stopped for supplies, after which he navigated his way through a warren of narrow streets, finding the D50 a few minutes later. Soon they were out of the city, streaking south into rural France.
During each stop in the city, the woman had quietly reiterated all the information she had gathered over the past week. The repetition didn’t bother him in the least; in fact, he was reassured by her meticulous nature. There was one thing that kept him on edge. The simple truth was that the men she had hired were complete amateurs. What was required of them wasn’t much, but should they fail, security around the target would become impregnable. Still, he had to admit that Yasmin Raseen had performed exceptionally well. She had acquired everything he needed, from the gunmen to the necessary intelligence to the simple black case that was hidden away in the back of the vehicle.
Soon after they crossed the swollen, frigid waters of the Dordogne River, an eighteen-century stone farmhouse appeared on the left, set several hundred feet back from the pitted road. It was a familiar landmark, and Vanderveen slowed the vehicle, turning onto an asphalt track lined on either side by towering maple and poplar trees. The track had obviously been cleared earlier, and was bordered by piles of icy slush and sodden brown leaves. After another few hundred feet, he pulled over and brought the Mercedes to a stop next to a worn wooden fence.
As they climbed out of the vehicle, Raseen looked around doubtfully. “Are you sure it’s secluded enough?”
Vanderveen had opened the cargo door and was retrieving the case. “It should be,” he replied. “I’ve used this place before, and I didn’t have any trouble.”
Shouldering the second bag, a small backpack, he climbed the fence and trekked into the woods, Raseen trailing awkwardly in the hiking boots she had purchased earlier that day. A hard rain the previous night, combined with the unusually low temperatures, had whipped the ground into a lake of mud. After getting her foot stuck for the third time in a row, she looked up and saw that he was watching her with a small smile of amusement.
“I’m not used to this,” she said self-consciously. It was a trivial, unavoidable shortcoming, but she was embarrassed nonetheless.
“We’re almost there,” he assured her. “Just another few minutes.”
They kept walking. The trees began to thin out a little, giving way to a flat field on the left. A small copse of pines provided some natural protection from the weather, the leaf cover less pronounced, patches of brown soil visible in places. Vanderveen stopped and looked around. Raseen had folded her arms tightly across her chest and was shivering visibly.
He dropped the pack from his shoulders and tossed it to her. She unfolded her arms in time to catch one of the straps.
“There are some gloves, a jacket, and a thermos of coffee inside,” he said. “Try to keep warm. This will take a little while.”
She nodded and opened the pack, hurriedly pulling on the nylon jacket, then the black knit gloves. Turning his attention back to the case, Vanderveen flipped the latches and began removing the components of a FAMAS G2 assault rifle.
First developed in 1967 by GIAT Industries, an unprofitable corporation owned by the French government, the FAMAS F1 was designed to replace the aging MAT-49 submachine gun, which had been in use in the military and police forces for nearly sixty years. Like its predecessor, the G2 featured a bullpup design. The magazine well was located behind the grip and trigger guard, and its design allowed for ambidextrous use. Over the years it had proved a most reliable weapon, easy to maintain and highly accurate out to 500 yards. For this reason, the FAMAS G2 was still in use with most of the French law-enforcement community, including the CRS, the general reserve of the national police. Not coincidentally, it was this last group that was tasked with the protection of Dr. Nasir Tabrizi in Paris.
The weapon that Vanderveen was putting together now, however, was slightly different from that used by the CRS in that it had been converted for use by police snipers. The barrel was 25.5 inches in length, a little more than 5 inches longer than a standard G2, and the carrying handle had been replaced by an integrated telescopic mount. The barrel modification extended the rifle’s range to about 650 yards, but also made the weapon more accurate at shorter distances.
Earlier in the day, he had used a range finder to check the distance over which he would actually be firing. It came out to 230 yards, a relatively easy shot by most standards, a walk in the park for a graduate of the U.S. Army’s Sniper School. Nevertheless, a number of factors played into that range; for one thing, Vanderveen would be shooting from the backseat of a car. That meant cramped quarters, which would lead to muscular strain and irregular breathing, both of which could throw off his aim. Second, he would be firing through glass, an iffy proposition in most cases, but especially when using a rifle chambered for anything less powerful than. 308 match- grade ammunition. If that wasn’t enough, he would only have about five seconds of confusion for cover, and it was imperative that his targets did not survive the initial engagement. There was a strong possibility that the French security officers on the scene would incapacitate at least one of the assassins, but he couldn’t count on that to transpire. So in the space of a few seconds, he would have to watch, decide, and act accordingly.
Yasmin Raseen was leaning against a moss-covered tree, watching with obvious interest as he finished putting the rifle together. He had to admit that it was an intimidating weapon, despite its rather ugly design. The standard flash suppressor had been removed, the barrel threaded externally in two places to accommodate a sound suppressor. As he turned the cylindrical can into place, Vanderveen was pleased to see that the machinist had used left-hand threads. It was rare, but meant that the suppressor would not loosen, but rather tighten with each successive shot. The two-point mount would also help ensure the suppressor’s stability.
Finally, he attached the telescopic sight, a Leupold Mark 4, which locked easily onto the standard NATO mount. Walking over to Raseen, he handed her the weapon and, unzipping the pack once more, pulled out a heavy-duty stapler and a single paper target. The bull’seye design was conventional in size and form, with a 1-inch background grid for easy elevation changes. Leaving the G2 with Raseen, he used his Leica range finder to pick a tree 25 yards away from his shooting position. Walking out, he stapled the target to the tree, the trunk of which was wide enough to accommodate the full scale of the target, then came back and retrieved his weapon.
A thin shooting mat was rolled up inside the backpack. Vanderveen pulled it out and unrolled it before placing the pack on the end. Lying down on the mat, he propped his left forearm over the pack and settled in behind the makeshift support, tucking the butt of the rifle into his right shoulder. Peering through the scope, he found the paper target immediately. After centering the crosshairs, he released the air from his lungs and squeezed the trigger.
Pierre Besson brought his tractor to a rumbling halt and stared down at the vehicle on the rutted road. He’d just finished his work for the afternoon and was looking forward to a hot meal and a leisurely nap in his converted farmhouse 2 kilometers up the road. It wasn’t much of a respite, but Besson took great pleasure in minor comforts, as befitting the humble existence of a dairy farmer in rural France. Besson had inherited the family business the previous spring, and the ensuing months had changed the way he defined work. So far he had found it to be a lonely, secluded existence, and it definitely wasn’t where he had seen his life going one year earlier. It was then that he’d completed the agricultural program at the Institute Superieur d’Agriculture in Lille. He had been leaning toward research in the months leading up to graduation, dreaming of someplace sunny, but the natural course of events had brought him back to the life he had always known.
He had to admit that it wasn’t all bad; according to his solicitor, the property was worth upwards of 1.3 million Euros. If he ever grew tired of the lifestyle, he knew he could sell it all and live out his days in idle luxury. It was a tempting proposition for the twenty-six-yearold Besson, but his name was too attached to the land for him to seriously consider that option. Despite his youth, his roots were grounded in tradition. More than 200 acres of the French countryside had been in his family for nearly seventy-five years, including this narrow lane, where the
