precautionary measure. That didn’t do much for rapport with the man who was the team’s only channel of contact with the Pakistani mastermind behind the killing of American intelligence officers. They would have to move from the house now to another secure location, bringing along an angry and perhaps uncooperative source.
Sophie Marx proposed that she sit down with Joseph Sabah after the barking-dog incident. During the twenty-four hours that the group had been working together, she had emerged as its leader. She argued now that the only way to regain Sabah’s confidence was to be honest with him, even at the risk of violating operational security. Otherwise, he would be useless to them. Nobody disagreed.
Sabah was in his room upstairs, still upset about how he had been manhandled, when the police arrived. Marx knocked, and when he didn’t answer, she gently pushed open the door. She was bringing a cup of tea and a plate of cookies as a peace offering.
“It’s me, Edith. I brought you a little something to eat, Mr. Sabah.” She brandished the tray. “Do you mind if I come in?”
Sabah was scowling, but she was already well into the room, and he didn’t turn her away. She set the tray down on the bedside table and pulled up a chair for herself.
“I’m very sorry for the way we have treated you,” she said. “I don’t blame you for being angry with us. I would be, too.”
“I am absolutely furious,” he answered. “Look at how you people behave. No wonder everyone hates America.”
“You’re right,” she said.
She looked over at the plate of cookies. There were some Bonne Maman gallettes and a stack of chocolate- covered Petit Ecolier biscuits. She took one of the dark chocolate biscuits from the plate.
“Do you mind?” she asked.
“Of course not. They’re yours. You brought them. You can eat them all. I am not going to help you simply because you bring me sweet biscuits.”
She ate the rest of her cookie and handed him the plate.
“Take one, for goodness’ sake. They’re delicious.”
He took a Petit Ecolier and had a small bite, then a bigger one.
“You are correct. This is quite delicious. But you did not come to bring me sweets.”
“I came to explain something to you, Mr. Sabah. Maybe then you will understand why we have been treating you so strangely.”
“Go ahead. But I will not change my mind.”
“The man we were talking about before, the man who called himself George. There is something I didn’t tell you about him.”
“This is a surprise? Ha. You never tell the truth, any of you. Why should I believe you now? This is like Emile chasing his tail.”
Marx ignored his comment. She leaned toward Sabah.
“This man George tried to kill me a few days ago in Pakistan. He planted a bomb in my hotel room, which was meant for me. Instead, it killed a Pakistani soldier who was acting as my bodyguard and trying to protect me. They took him out on a gurney. One of his arms had been blown off. When I close my eyes, I can see his body.”
“I did not know that. I am sorry for you.”
“That’s not all. George killed four people I worked with. Two of them were my friends. They were good people, but they died bad deaths. That’s why this is personal for me.”
“I wish someone had said this before and treated me like a friend instead of an enemy.”
“We should have. That was our mistake. I hope it’s not too late.”
Sabah was still scrolling his catalogue of victimization.
“Those men downstairs are ignorant. They put a towel in my mouth so I could not breathe. They hurt me, but why? What did I do?”
“They’re just soldiers. And they are not in charge, Mr. Sabah, I am. That’s what I wanted to tell you. This is my responsibility. I have to do something, and you are my only hope. I know you think that we’re all liars, but I’m telling you the truth. If you won’t help me, then this man will kill more of my friends. He may kill me.”
“Is this true?”
“Yes. I need you. That’s what I am saying. We all need you. Otherwise we are in a terrible situation, and I don’t know how it will end.”
Sabah lowered his head. He was a generous man, in his way. He wanted to be helpful to people who needed him. That was why he had been so easy for the Pakistani to manipulate in the first place.
“What do I have to do?” he asked. “You said before that you wanted to use me as the bait. Is that it?”
“Yes. I want you to contact this Pakistani who called himself George. Whatever channel you used before, I want you to use it again. I want you to tell him that you have new information that you need to send him. Can you do that?”
“Yes, I suppose so. But I told you before: The contact information is on my computer at home.”
“Will you come with us now, so that you can get your computer from home and move to another safe place? We can’t stay here now that the police have visited.”
“Can Emile go outside at the new hiding place? He needs exercise. He gets depressed if I do not take him out, morning and night.”
“Of course, and he’s such a cute dog, by the way. So enthusiastic. But you have to promise to help me. No shouting, no calling out for help, no running away to the Belgian police. If you do that, then the men downstairs will get nervous again. That would be awful. So can you be a good helper for me?”
“I will help, but only for you. You are a trickster, too, but you are smarter. The others I do not want to see.”
They took two cars, the van in the garage and a “clean” Audi sedan provided by the station. Sabah and Marx sat in the back of the Audi with Emile, while Major Kirby and the rest of the team crammed into the van.
Brussels station had been watching Sabah’s apartment on the Avenue George Bergmann and they reported that it was clear. The Audi idled out front while Sabah and Marx went in together to collect his things. He found the laptop computer and bundled it into a case. Marx suggested that he should pack a change of clothes, too, and any medicines and personal things he might need.
“How long will we be away?” he asked as he collected his socks and underwear from his top drawer. He already had gathered Emile’s dog dish and blanket, a bag of dry dog food and a leash.
“A day or two,” she answered. “Assuming we catch him. By then you’ll be a hero and we’ll fly you to Disney World.”
“I don’t want to go to America, ever. When we are finished, I want to go home. How soon will that be?”
“Soon,” she said, leading him back downstairs toward the car before he changed his mind.
The new safe house was a freestanding brick residence south of Brussels, on the military reservation in Mons where NATO had its headquarters. The location was secure and easily guarded. It had a large fenced yard where a dog could bark until he dropped dead without attracting attention. The house had just been remodeled for one of the NATO generals, who had been evicted on short notice.
Marx sat down with Sabah in a large study that had been set aside for them on the ground floor of the villa. He was guarding the computer bag on his lap.
“Do you want me to turn it on?” He held the laptop the same protective way he did his dog.
Marx knew it was urgent to get the information, but she also knew not to rush. Once Sabah turned over these secrets, everyone would be splashing about and the water would get muddy. This was a last chance to get a clear look at the man and what he knew.
“Not yet,” she said. “Let’s talk a minute first. Tell me how you got started helping us. Remind me what year it was? And maybe you can remember who contacted you and what they asked you to do. You probably think we all work together at the CIA and know the same secrets, but it doesn’t work that way.”
Sabah smiled and shook his head. America was a very strange country. It was a miracle they didn’t have even worse problems.
“The program began in 2002, I think. But they did not ask for my help until three years later, in 2005. They were trying to follow the money flows of Al-Qaeda. They had developed software to look at patterns, you see. They
