Daughter of War

by Brad Taylor

  She said, “How deep?”

  “He’s wearing jeans. Not deep at all. Easy in—easy out.”

  “No, I mean how deep in the crowd?”

  “He’s in the second row. We’ll have to work our way to him, but if you do it right, we’ll get out clean.”

  “Nationality?”

  Amena knew that the Americans were the easiest to steal from. They always felt themselves invincible. The hardest were the Koreans. She imagined that country was full of pickpockets, because they were almost supernaturally aware.

  “I don’t know, but he speaks English.”

  “Good. Okay. Lead me to him.”

  “What’s the play?”

  “Let the parade start, then you do the cell phone plea. Just like last time.”

  Adnan said, “But our phone’s camera doesn’t work. Last time, it caused the target to question.”

  Amena snapped, “Just do it.”

  Adnan knew better than to disobey his older sister. Not after she’d gotten him through the barrel bombs in Aleppo, and then the crossing. At this point, she was more revered to him than their own father. An incurable optimist, she seemed to genuinely believe that better times were just around the corner, and he relied on her every day for his own sanity.

  He held up an old iPhone 4S they’d stolen a few weeks earlier, and said, “Just get the wallet before I have to hand him this piece of crap.”

  Because it had no service, a cracked screen, and an inoperable camera, Amena had decided to keep it for decoy work instead of attempting to sell it.

  Amena nodded, then stood, saying, “Lead the way.”

  They crossed the courtyard, a seemingly innocent thirteen-year-old girl following a doe-eyed eleven-year-old boy, their practiced mannerisms hiding the fact that they were much more worldly than their ages let on. They appeared just like any other gaggle of such children romping around, their parents clearly somewhere on the grounds.

  They reached the back of the crowd, and Adnan pointed to an older guy two levels in, a selfie stick held in the air above the heads of those around him. Amena studied him, seeing a protruding gut ballooning out a tucked-in polo shirt over a pair of jeans, and a huge silver handlebar mustache. She noticed the mustache had crumbs in it, giving her confidence. The man had no attention to detail. And best yet, she could see the top of his wallet edging out of the patch pocket of his jeans.

  The ceremony started with a shouted command, and the soldiers began marching in a practiced formation toward the palace, the tourists kept at bay by a pair of ropes. She motioned to Adnan, and they both began worming their way into the crowd, the drums from the marching soldiers beating the air. Adnan got in front of the man’s gut and said in English, “Can you take a picture for me with your stick?”

  The target ignored him, and Adnan pulled his sleeve. Irritated, the man said, “What?”

  Adnan repeated the question, and held out his phone. Amena waited until the man was focused solely on Adnan, then snaked her hand to his pocket, shielding the move with her body. She snicked the wallet with two fingers in a practiced move, then turned to retreat. The wallet was ripped out of her hand. Astonished, she rotated back, and saw it dangling below the man’s waist, a thin nylon cord attached to a corner and running back into the pocket of the jeans.

  Before she could even assimilate that her “easy mark” was much more switched on than he portrayed, he whirled around, felt his dangling wallet strike his legs, and grabbed her arm, shouting for the police. Adnan sprang forward, using his smaller hands to rip the man’s bigger one free, then both children squirmed through the crowd in a panic, the target behind them shouting for help. For someone to stop them.

  Amena and Adnan wove through the people like snakes through grass, Amena hearing the target behind them simply bulling his way forward, the shouts of the crowd marking his passing. Within seconds, others were trying to stop her, but she was too quick, slapping some hands away and sliding through others like a greased pig at a county fair.

  She broke free of the crowd, searching for Adnan, and saw the bear of a man coming for her, slamming two people to the pavement. Adnan sprang out from behind him, and they both began sprinting, Amena shouting in Arabic, “Toward the church!”

  Outside of leaping over the cliffs into the sea, there were only two ways to escape the courtyard, and one would lead them deeper into the crowds. Which left Rue Colonel Bellando de Castro, the road to the Monaco Cathedral, a claustrophobic lane lined with buildings.

  They ran to the back of the parade square, their target’s bellows fading behind them as he huffed, trying to catch up. Amena saw two policemen on the far side of the field orient on them, then begin to run to cut them off. It was a footrace now. She saw the arch over the top of Rue Colonel Bellando, only a hundred feet away, two more policemen loitering near it, oblivious to the drama playing out.

  She heard her target still shouting behind her, falling farther and farther back, then the original policemen began blowing whistles, causing the two at the arch to snap their heads in confusion. The running cops shouted and pointed at the pair of scampering children.

  She reached the arch and the two policemen finally realized she and her brother were the objects of the running cops. They tried to snatch her, and she slapped their hands away, ducking under their arms. She tripped on the cobblestones, slamming to the ground on her knees and rolling forward. Adnan used her diversion to dart behind their backs. They whirled to him, but he was already past. He jerked her to her feet, and they were through the cordon, sprinting down the street and dodging pedestrian tourists, Amena desperately searching for a place to hide.

  She realized her call to run toward the Monaco Cathedral had been a bad choice, as Rue Colonel Bellando was boxed in with buildings on both the left and the right, leaving them one choice—to run straight ahead. The pedestrian crowds would help, but she knew she couldn’t outrun a radio, and when they broke out into the open at the cathedral, other police would be waiting.

  The road took a bend, blocking the view from the parade ground, and she saw an alley to the left, a hamburger stand with tables scattered haphazardly about fifty meters in, the alley continuing past it. She grabbed Adnan’s hand and shouted, “This way!”

  They sprinted past the food stand and continued running deeper and deeper into the palace complex, hearing the bleating whistles of the cops fade as they continued straight down Rue Colonel Bellando. Eventually, Amena slowed, gasping for air, and she realized they were alone. She sagged against a wall, catching her breath.

  Hands on his knees, sucking in oxygen, Adnan said, “What happened?”

  “That idiot had a pickpocket wallet, but the cord was hidden.”

  Adnan laughed, and said, “At least we got away.”

  Amena grimaced, and began slowly walking back the way they had come, saying, “But we can’t return here for a long time. If ever. And we got nothing.”

  They reached the hamburger stand and she saw the road ahead, afraid to take it just yet. Wanting to get a feel for the response. Most likely it would be nothing, as the cops wouldn’t waste their time searching for a couple of kids, but it wouldn’t do to give them an easy target. She said, “Let’s wait here for a bit and see what happens.”

  She dug into her pocket, pulling out the last of her change. She said, “Get us a couple of Cokes to keep the guy at the register happy.” The last thing they needed was to be shooed away as vagrants.

  Adnan went to the counter, and she took a seat at a table with a view of the road, two tables away from a man talking on a cell phone.

  She kept her eye on the street, patiently waiting to see if there was still police activity, then the man’s voice on the phone penetrated. He was speaking Arabic. With an accent from Syria.

  Adnan returned, and she said in English, “Any change?”

  Adnan looked at her in c
onfusion, and she flicked her eyes to the man. He heard the conversation, and understood. She didn’t want the man to hear them speak Arabic—and possibly realize they were refugees. Illegal refugees.

  Adnan sat down and handed her a can of Coke, saying, “It was actually more than you gave me, but he let it slide.”

  She said, “Keep an eye on the street,” then discreetly turned to glance at the man. He was tall and lanky, wearing a tailored suit and tie, with a swarthy complexion, black hair, and a large black mustache, his eyes hidden by sunglasses.

  She strained her ears, hearing snippets of the conversation, and understood he was from Syria, and he did something with the government. Unbidden, the realization sent a spasm of rage through her. She wanted to harm him. Wanted to give him just a small taste of the punishment her family had experienced at the hands of the despot Bashar al-Assad.

  Then she noticed his phone. A brand-new iPhone X, worth at least five hundred US dollars on the streets of Monaco.

  He finished his call and stood, picking up his trash and depositing it in a bin. He walked to Rue Colonel Bellando without a glance back.

  Amena said, “Come on. Let’s follow him.”

  Startled, Adnan said, “Why?”

  She said, “A little payback.”

  3

  The cab pulled up the circular drive and I saw a Ferrari Portofino and a Porsche 911 Cabriolet on either side of the hotel entrance. We were in a minivan, which pretty much summed up our status.

  I said, “Looks like someone’s gone a little overboard on this one, but I’m not complaining.”

  The cab stopped, and an unctuous bellman ripped the door open. To my left, my partner in crime, Jennifer, said, “This’ll be the first time getting pulled from an actual project will be a step up.”

  Behind me, my 2IC, Knuckles, said, “Living with the Taskforce motto. Money is no object.”

  We exited the van in front of the Hermitage Hotel in Monte Carlo, me suitably impressed with the cars out front, wondering who would park a Ferrari at the curb like it was a VW. It wouldn’t be until later that I learned it was all a charade, with the hotel renting the cars and rotating them daily to keep up a Hollywood image that just didn’t exist.

  Monte Carlo, in the principality of Monaco, had a reputation as a rich man’s playground, and to some extent, it was deserved. Situated on the French Riviera just up the coast from Cannes and Nice, known for the Monaco Grand Prix, Princess Grace, and the famed Monte Carlo Casino, it had its fair share of celebrities sailing into the harbor on yachts that cost more than the income of most countries, but at its heart, it was just a city. With a density rivaling Hong Kong in persons living per square inch, it couldn’t possibly live up to the hype it portrayed, because, while that same density ranked as the highest number of millionaires in the world, the majority of people living and working inside its borders were not lucky enough to be anointed citizenship, and scraped a living by catering to the wealthy.

  We spilled out of the cab like a clown car, and the bellman asked if he could take our luggage. I would have said hell no, because that sort of thing just aggravated me, but Veep, the youngest person on our team, beat me to the punch, saying, “Yes, that would be great. We’ll be in four separate rooms. Is that a problem?”

  Of course the bellman said no, because it meant four separate tips for a load of luggage I could have carried myself.

  We entered the opulent lobby, full of marble columns and impeccable granite floors, and Veep said, “I never stayed at a hotel like this on spring break.”

  I scoffed and said, “Oh, bullshit. The president’s son never stayed at a place like this? You seemed to know your way around outside with the bellman.”

  Nicholas Hannister had earned his callsign, Veep, when his father had been the vice president of the United States. Now his father was the most powerful man in the world, and I was still trying to get the son to forget his heritage and just become a member of the team. Four months ago, he would have shut up and taken the jab, afraid to say anything. Now he gave it back, which I considered a little bit of a breakthrough.

  “I said on spring break. You know, when you get a break from college and have to pay your way to get the babes? Oh, wait. I forgot. You never went to college. But surely you’ve seen YouTube videos.”

  That would have been an incredible insult from any other man, but from my team, it meant nothing. I was Good Will Hunting and they all knew it. Especially in our chosen profession.

  I saw Jennifer flash her eyes in anger, not liking what he’d said, actually taking offense at what was meant for me. She’d earned her college degree the hard way, six years after initially dropping out to marry an abusive husband, and had learned that a piece of paper didn’t equal intelligence.

  She blurted out, “He has a degree. He worked hard—” and I grabbed her hand, shutting her up. Yeah, I had a degree, but he was right. I’d never been a full-time student. But that was irrelevant, and Veep knew it, not the least because the first time we’d met was behind the barrel of a gun when I’d saved his life.

  I said, “Touché, little millennial. Touché.”

  Jennifer relaxed, and Veep smiled, understanding the subliminal jab. I had the babe.

  Round card score: Pike Logan.

  We walked to the reception desk, and the final man on our team, Brett Thorpe, said, “No offense, Koko, but this beats the hell out of that hotel in Eze.”

  Jennifer ignored the use of her callsign, which she despised, instead looking around the lobby in a mock study. She arched an eyebrow and said, “Yeah, but there’s no church here to work on,” then saw an advertisement on a wall and grinned, saying, “But there is a spa. And like Knuckles said, money is no object to the Taskforce.”

  Jennifer and I were partners in a company called Grolier Recovery Services, which ostensibly facilitated archaeological work around the world. In reality, it was an elaborate cover organization used by the United States government to facilitate penetration of denied areas to put some threat into the ground. Knuckles, Veep, and Brett were all members of special operations or the CIA, but were acting as “employees” of the company, and as such, every once in a while, instead of getting into gunfights, we had to actually do some archaeological work.

  With a degree in anthropology, and a true love for history, Jennifer really enjoyed these trips, but I always found them exceedingly boring. Even so, I understood why we did them. If you wanted to portray a real company, you had to have more than a web page. You had to have a history of doing what you professed you did, to include a network of contacts in that business world and a track record of success. Especially when trying to get through customs in a country that was less than hospitable to the United States.

  And it didn’t hurt to keep Jennifer happy. That kept me happy.

  We’d been in the French town of Eze, a medieval village just outside of Monaco that had changed little since the Crusades. Well, the buildings hadn’t changed, but the proprietors certainly had. Pedestrian only, built on a mountain with narrow stairwells that tested the hearts of the elderly tourists, Eze looked exactly like it had seven hundred years ago, except now it was full of art galleries and perfume shops.

  Near the top of the mountain village was a church that was being renovated with the help of an American university. Called the Notre Dame de l’Assomption, it was younger than the surrounding area—having been built in the eighteenth century—and during the renovations, the university had found a graveyard. A much, much older graveyard than the church. Since the village had bounced between Italian and French provenance, a three-way fight had ensued as to who would get to excavate the find, with both France and Italy claiming the bodies, and the university claiming the discovery.

  We had been contracted by the university to help with the dispute, as such things were a Grolier specialty. It would have been easy work, too, giving Jennifer a chance
to really enjoy some old bones, but we’d only been in-country for four days when our commander, Kurt Hale, had called, telling me to get the team to Monte Carlo for a situation that had to be resolved right now.

  With the United States government, everything was a damn crisis. We never seemed to be able to see past our own headlights, constantly surprised when something happened that had been brewing for years. This crisis was a little bit unique, though, because Kurt had brought in two different teams to deal with it—something that rarely happened.

  Brett said, “Am I supposed to pay for my room, or is this taken care of?”

  I said, “It’s taken care of.”

  We walked as a group to the check-in desk, all of us taking in the marble surroundings and feeling a little underdressed. The reservations were under my company name, because there was no way that we could reserve a room as “Top Secret Commando Unit,” even if the funds were coming from the Taskforce through multiple cutouts.

  In short order, we went to our separate rooms, where I immediately hooked my laptop to a VPN to see exactly what the state of play was.

  Jennifer moved her things around, getting settled, while I checked messages. I could tell she was a little antsy, but I assumed it was because of being pulled from our contract. I was wrong.

  I closed the laptop and said, “Nothing new. Only handle we have on the guy is his reservation tonight at the restaurant, and then at the casino.”

  Jennifer came out of the bathroom and said, “That’s it?”

  I said, “Yep, but it can’t be that hard. How many Koreans do you think are running around here? He’ll stick out like Brett.”

  Brett was African American, another small population here in Monaco.

  She said, “I’d like a little more than a name and nationality to go on. The target isn’t a member of an FTO group, and why two teams? If it’s just a simple Alpha mission? Something more is in play, and we’re being kept in the dark.”

  While I didn’t believe Kurt Hale would keep something from me, she did have a point. It was true our mission was only Alpha, but we’d already been given authority for Omega if we thought the guy was dirty, meaning it was my choice. My decision. Like the fact that two separate teams were operating in Monaco with two separate covers, it was unusual. As was the target.