The Black Widow (Gabriel Allon #16) - Daniel Silva Page 0,69
little aluminum sarcophagus, at the base of a power pole on the Kerselaarstraat, in the Brussels suburb of Dilbeek. The actors in this slow-moving drama were far-flung. They were spread from the Bethnal Green section of East London, to an immigrant banlieue north of Paris, to a room in the heart of a building in Amman known as the Fingernail Factory, where a jihadist was being kept on cyber life support. There was precedent for what they were doing; during World War II, British intelligence kept an entire network of captured German spies alive and functioning in the minds of their Abwehr controllers, feeding them false and deceptive intelligence in the process. The Israelis and Jordanians saw themselves as keepers of a sacred flame.
The one place where no members of the team were present was Dilbeek. Though scarcely a mile from the center of Brussels, it was a decidedly rural suburb ringed by small farms. “In other words,” declared Eli Lavon, who reconnoitered the drop site on the morning after Nabil Awad’s interrogation, “it’s a spy’s nightmare.” A fixed observation point was out of the question. Nor was it possible to surveil the target from a parked car or a café. Parking was not permitted on that stretch of the Kerselaarstraat, and the only cafés were in the center of the village.
The solution was to conceal a miniature camera in the patch of overgrown weeds on the opposite side of the road. Mordecai monitored its heavily encrypted transmission from a hotel room in central Brussels and routed the signal onto a secure network, which allowed the other members of the team to watch it, too. It was soon appointment viewing, a ratings bonanza. In London, Tel Aviv, Amman, and Paris, highly trained and motivated professional intelligence officers stood motionless before computer screens, staring at a tangle of gorse at the base of a concrete power pole. Occasionally, a vehicle would pass, or a cyclist, or a pensioner from the village out for a morning constitutional, but for the most part the image appeared to be a still photograph rather than a live video feed. Gabriel monitored it from the makeshift op center at Château Treville. He thought it the most unsightly thing he had ever produced. He referred to it as Can by a Pole and cursed himself inwardly for having chosen the Dilbeek drop site over the other three options. Not that they were any better. Clearly, Jalal Nasser had not selected the sites with aesthetics in mind.
The wait was not without its lighter moments. There was the Belgian shepherd, a colossal wolflike creature, which shat in the gorse bush daily. And the metal-detecting pensioner who unearthed the can and, after a careful inspection, dropped it where he had found it. And the biblical thunderstorm, four hours in duration, that threatened to wash away the can and its contents, not to mention the village itself. Gabriel ordered Mordecai to check on the condition of the flash drive, but Mordecai convinced him it wasn’t necessary. He had placed it inside two watertight ziplock plastic baggies, Nabil Awad’s usual technique. Besides, Mordecai argued, a check was far too risky. There was always the possibility that the courier might arrive at the very moment of the inspection. There was also the possibility, he added, that they were not the only ones watching the drop site.
The target of this undertaking, Jalal Nasser, Saladin’s director of European operations, provided no clue as to his intentions. By then, it was early summer, and Jalal had been freed from his backbreaking course load at King’s College—a single seminar having something to do with the impact of Western imperialism on the economies of the Arab world—which left him free to pursue jihad and terrorism to his heart’s content. By all outward appearances, however, he was a man of taxpayer-financed leisure. He dawdled over his morning coffee at his favorite café on the Bethnal Green Road, he shopped in Oxford Street, he visited the National Gallery to view forbidden art, he watched an American action film at a theater in Leicester Square. He even took in a musical—Jersey Boys, of all things—which left the London teams wondering whether he planned to bomb the production. They saw no evidence that he was under British surveillance, but in Orwellian London looks could be deceiving. MI5 didn’t have to rely solely on watchers to surveil suspected terrorists. The eyes of CCTV never blinked.
His bachelor flat in Chilton Street had been entered,