Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER FORTY

First thing in the morning, I present a stolen national identification card, false apartment lease, and two photos at the passport office. Chances of the young street punk ever applying for the document are slim at best. The jaded man behind the desk goes through the motions of yet another passport request. When he picks up the National Identification Card, I ask about express service, aiming to distract him from the fact that the man in the picture isn't me. The clerk yawns glancing over the ID and tells me I can have my passport in three days. I pay the processing fee and leave.

As it turns out, Basem Marin is quite interested in my story. He replied to the email at some point during the night and I used the IP address to locate the reporter's home address.

After submitting the requirements for my passport, I drop the flash drive, with Tony and Libschitz's confessions and the phone conversation between Tony and his father, into the mail slot in Basem's building. All I can do now is wait for Basem to make contact.

"I'm definitely interested," writes Marin later in the afternoon. I read the email the next day while sitting at a café in Tuileries Gardens outside the Louvre. "Let's meet to discuss this," the message continues. I write back with details and arrange to meet him at noon the next day. That way, I can pick up my new passport in the morning and cover all my bases.

"Vous pouvez y aller, monsieur," the woman at the passport office says, as she hands me my French identification. Ah! The human factor, I think as I walk away.

I take the metro to Gare St. Lazare and store my backpack, with passport safely inside, in one of the station's lockers. After my meeting with Marin, I'll bid adieu to France and hide in another European country while I negotiate with the American authorities.

The Musée d'Orsay is my favorite Paris museum; a breathtaking, former turn-of-the-century train station with massive iconic clocks and large skylights. It's home to the largest French impressionist and post-impressionist collection in the world. Sadly, today's visit has nothing to do with art appreciation. Black operations thrive on secrecy. By bringing this conspiracy out in the open, I'd deal a massive blow to the CIA's already tarnished image and make it harder for them to kill me.

From the stairs above, I watch Basem Marin approaching "Gérôme exécutant Les Gladiateurs," a bronze sculpture depicting the artist working on a statue of two gladiators; one proudly standing over his defeated opponent who is pleading for mercy.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Marin. Merci d'avoir accepté de me rencontrer," I say approaching the sculpture just like any other visitor.

"Are you the one who sent me the flash drive yesterday?" Basem asks me in French, trying to make out my face through the beanie, beard and shades.

"I am."

"A public place with a controlled entrance," Basem says, looking around. "At least we know no one is packing."

"There's no need; this is a friendly meeting," I say in Arabic while pretending to look at the sculptures and making sure the chances of someone understanding us are minimal.

"Your Arabic is as good as your French."

"Did you go through the files?"

"I did, but I'm curious. Why me?"

"You have balls and an independent mind. You get to the heart of the story regardless of the consequences."

"Most people call that being stupid."

"Most people don't know what stupid really is even if it hits them in the face. What do you think?"

"About the material? I think you're in a lot of trouble, Mister...?"

"No names."

"Of course."

"Would you be willing to go public with the material?"

"Not without confirming the sources," Basem says, as he cleans his glasses with a handkerchief.

"I'm your source."

"It's not that easy. But of course I'm interested. If what you say is true, this is going to be huge."

"What do you need?"

Basem takes a moment before answering. "Time. I need to check the facts and contact a few people I trust, before I can move the story forward."

"How long?"

"A couple of days at most. I'm going to need some way of contacting you."

"No. Tell me when and I'll contact you. Otherwise it's too risky for me."

Basem thinks again. "Give me two days then."

"What about the ambassador's confession?"

"What about it?"

"Do you think we'll have a problem because of it?"

"I'll have to listen to it again, but I don't think there'll be a problem. Why?"

Something I learned as far back as the NSA is that if something feels wrong, it probably is. I spotted twelve visitors and four ushers around us; there are no women, and no one else is entering or leaving the area; that's why I decided to test Basem. He never listened to the files I sent him.

The exhibition explodes all around us in a flurry ofcontrolled chaos. A nearby usher tackles Basem to the ground protecting himwith his body, as the people around me pull guns out of seemingly nowhere andstart shouting instructions in French. Sharpshooters point their guns at mefrom the balconies. I can hear the cries of the terrified visitors below us,but they have nothing to worry about. In a few seconds, the law enforcementagents have me handcuffed on the floor and under armed custody.