by D S Kane
Sommers held up his hand and pointed to Shimmel. “Avram Shimmel, meet William Wing.”
Shimmel flipped the safety on, tossed the gun into his left hand, and extended his right. They shook. “Welcome.”
Wing closed the door behind him. “Listen, Sommers, or should I call you O’Hara? No guns.”
Sommers reached out for William’s shoulder. “Thanks. Call me Jon Sommers. It’s the name I was born with.” He motioned to the table in the corner of the room and pulled a third chair to it.
“What’s the plan?” William pushed his glasses back up his nose.
Jon placed copies of a single sheet of paper in front of each. “Right, then. William, we want you to stay out of harm’s way. You’re too valuable to put at risk. Your task is to track Tariq Houmaz. Backtrace his cell phone voice and email signals. Find his source-point and keep us informed, real-time.” Jon looked at Avram. “We’ll go hunting Houmaz just as soon as you can find him. Avram’s a former IDF major. His specialty is tactics. Logistics, battle planning, setting traps. That’s what his primary role will be. Our former handler has delivered cash and weapons. He’s promised additional help if we need it. Any further intelligence that requires someone to go to someplace dangerous will be my job to go onsite and spy. So, you see, I’ll be the one most at risk here.”
The three discussed the specific details of just how they’d work together.
William sat at the table, munching a kosher Twinkie. He watched the screen of his notebook flash lines of data, white on blue background. Nothing interesting had happened for several hours, and the other two men slept, Jon on the couch and the goliath named Avram on the bed. William yawned. His eyes closed and his head went slack.
The notebook beeped. All three woke. “I’ve got him!” The two would-be assassins closed the distance and peered over his shoulder. William shook his head. “Shit, guys, he’s not in Israel. He’s, well, he’s in Muscat, Oman. Rats! We’ll need a plane and visas.”
Avram nodded. “Let me have your cell phone. I can get the visas in less than an hour.”
The corporate jet William Wing rented landed and taxied down the runway at what used to be called Seeb International in Muscat, Oman. The aircraft headed toward the corporate terminal hanger. William, Avram, and Jon picked up their bags and waited by the aircraft’s door as it stopped. An airport worker popped it open and stood aside to let the team pass down the stairs.
They were dressed as tourists, wearing Hawaiian shirts. But these shirts were special, coated with stress thickening fluid, or STF. The liquid-armor shirts were gifts from Ben-Levy to Avram for this mission. There was one unfortunate detail about them, however. Each had the image of Jimi Hendrix burning his guitar at the Monterey Pop Festival on the front and back of the shirt. The shirts might be bullet proof but their drawback was that the three now were marked as a team. It was too hot to wear something over them.
All walked toward the terminal.
Once within the terminal and out of the sun, Jon felt comfortable. He led them to one of the Western-style restaurants. The menu looked like one from Denny’s, but without any pork products.
They ordered food while William set up the notebook computer and searched for backtraces since they’d left the plane. Jon knew his teammates felt the pressure of not knowing where Houmaz was.
William’s eyebrows arched when he saw the results. “Got him. Well, not exactly. But, I know now right where he was yesterday.” He blew out his breath in a huff. The others looked at him, but he said no more. William’s face reflected excitement and urgency. “He was in Muscat, but not at the airport. Downtown, possibly at a hotel. And the last phone call he received was from Riyadh. From Pesi Houmaz. I assume that’s his brother. It was made yesterday, around noon. But his cell is off right now.”
Something happened in that instant. Jon felt a camaraderie towards these two he’d never felt before about the teams assigned him by the Mossad and MI-6. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it just felt good. It felt right.
Without Houmaz’s cell signal, William couldn’t place Houmaz’s current location. The bomb maker’s cell phone was primitive, without GPS. Using special programs he’d hacked off DARPA, he could locate the cell through triangulation of the phone’s transmission signal against cell phone towers. The Defense Agency Research group had a collection of what were the most sophisticated hacking tools William had ever used. But, using the last known point of origin wouldn’t be good enough. He’d need to wait until the cell was turned on again before he could triangulate the bomb maker’s current position. William faced his companions. “I’m hacking all the cell phone providers searching for the one matching Houmaz’s phone number. The holder’s name certainly won’t be ‘Tariq Houmaz.’ This’ll take a few minutes.”
Muscat was a city with over 650,000 residents. Hacking might be the only way to find their target.
As the minutes passed, his eyes shifted focus from the computer screen to his team in the room. “Nothing.” He took a bite of an egg omelet filled with feta cheese.
As he swallowed, his notebook computer chirped and he almost choked at the sound. He smiled. “Yes! He’s turned it on. Making a call right now, to someone in Riyadh. Probably his brother. I have a fix on him. He’s still in Oman. In Muscat, at the Bustan Palace InterContinental near the souk at Muttrah. A long taxi ride from Seeb. And he’s got a new smartphone. Backtraced his new number. CryptoMonger is the best!”
Jon’s eyebrows arched. “CryptoMonger? What’s that? Is it a hacking utility?”
William shook his head. His smile vanished. “Well, uh, no. It’s my call sign.”
Jon laughed. “Ah.” He turned to Avram. “Let’s get Houmaz now. We can eat dinner after he’s dead.”
William touched Jon’s sleeve. “I want to come.”
Jon’s eyebrows rose. “I thought you wanted to avoid anything dangerous.”
Wing’s face fell and he seemed to focus on his hands. “Yeah, well, things have changed. I’m coming.”
Jon paused in thought. “What changed?”
“I can’t explain. I want to be part of this.”
Jon nodded. “So be it. We’ll all go together.” The team grinned back at him; faces split in greedy smiles.
Tariq Houmaz sat in the lobby of the Bustan Palace InterContinental, looking at his purchases from the souk. When he’d arrived, he was out of cash. Using any bank account with his name on it might mark him. But he’d solved the problem, stealing money and other documents from a tourist by picking the man’s pocket. Houmaz patted his jacket pocket, reassured that the man’s passport was still there. He wore the straw Panama hat he’d bought. When he’d checked in, he shaved his beard and cut his hair short. He’d done his best to make himself look European and sophisticated. The bag in front of him held a few changes of underwear and several inexpensive dress shirts in a shopping bag. He’d need to fix the passport by having a forger insert his photo before he could use it, but that was easily taken care of.
Noise from a group of guests entering the hotel snared his attention. His smile faded and his head snapped up. He was still nervous about the possibility he was being stalked. He looked toward the entrance, and what he saw made him shudder with surprise.
Houmaz recognized the Brit from Mossad and the man he knew as Shimmel. Their tradecraft was sloppy. There was a third person with them; a short Asian wearing fishbowl eyeglasses. This man he’d never seen before wasn’t built like a killer. No, he was dumpy and had greasy hair. In Muscat, he wouldn’t easy to forget. He must be their hacker.
The Brit led them, walking toward the marble check-in counter. Oh shit. In desperation, he pulled the hat down to cover as much of his face as possible, and also reached for the Arabic-language newspaper that someone had left on the ottoman in front of him. Holding the newspaper in front of his face, he pretended to read it while he watched from around its edges.
He focused his attention on the Brit, who stood at the reception desk.
Just loud enough for Houmaz to hear the words, the Brit said, “Begging your pardon, sir, we’re looking for our business associate who is staying at this hotel. We’re here to meet with him.” The Brit pushed a picture and a stack of unconcealed money toward the clerk. “Could you tell us which room he’s in?”
How had they gotten a photo of him? Then he remembered the cameras on every corner in Tel Aviv. Shit! He flinched. He was unarmed. His heartbeat accelerated. The lobby seemed to become smaller and warmer. His vision scoped and his ears buzzed. Perspiration bubbled on his upper lip. He wanted to bolt, but his body wouldn’t obey, leaving him frozen in his seat.
He forced himself to conceal a scream of rage as the clerk gave his room number to the Brit. He watched the group head toward the elevators. He could see the bulges made by the weapons stuck in the waistbands of the Jew and the Brit. Unlike the Chinese restaurant in Manhattan, the lobby was wide. No real kill zone. He realized he’d die if they saw him.
As the elevator doors closed, Houmaz forced himself up from his seat. His legs wobbled as he left the hotel lobby carrying the shopping bag. He staggered into the first taxi in the line at the hotel’s entrance. Forcing a smile, he stared at the driver in front of him. “Take me to Muscat International. To Seeb.”
At the airport, he bought a ticket on the earliest plane leaving, a flight bound for Paris. The city was home to many Islamic fundamentalists and would be a dangerous place for him now that he was blamed for arming Islam’s enemy. But he’d need to flee Muscat now. He had no weapon.
Houmaz ran toward security and stood in line. Behind him, a fat, balding American in a suit and tie closed the distance to within a foot.
Houmaz faced him, considering whether he was a threat. The other had no luggage with him, and there was a bulge in his shoulder. Only police could carry a gun in an airport. Shit.
The man bore a sleazy smile. “I’m Bob Gault. We need to talk.” Gault held his hands out where Houmaz could see them. “I’m unarmed. American intelligence. I can help you.”
Houmaz stared at the man. The man is lying. I can see the outline of the gun under his suit jacket. Gault grabbed his shoulder and pointed further into the terminal.
They left the line and Gault pushed him to the darkest area of a snack bar. Houmaz faced the spy. “How did you find me?”
Gault pointed to the bomb maker’s pocket. “Your cell phone. I’ve been tracking you for weeks using NSA’s ECHELON network. We’ve got your cell hot-miked and I’ve been listening to every conversation you’ve had for the last month.”
“But it has no GPS!” Houmaz pulled the device from his pocket, handling it as if it was cursed.
“Yeah, well, as long as there are cell towers to work the phone, we’ll know where you are.” Gault shook his head. “Too bad for you.”
His ignorance of technology had made Houmaz unsafe. Tech knowledge hadn’t been a priority until now. But, he wondered, how did the assassination team track me? His eyes popped. The little Asian bastard was tracking by hacking. He’d been too confident. Sloppy. From now on, he’d need to use prepaid cell phones, and he wouldn’t be able to use computers until he learned how to disguise his location.
Gault held out his hand. “Gimme the cell.” Houmaz handed him the phone, and the spy pulled its battery out. He dropped the unit into a trash receptacle, and then the battery. “So, I have an offer you can’t refuse.”
Houmaz felt confusion. He wrung his hands. “You want me to work for you?”
“We want to know what the Muslim Brotherhood cells you’re in contact with are planning.”
“But I work for the British.”
“Uh, no, you don’t. They put out a burn notice on you. In fact, if they see you, they’ll kill you. It’s a terminate-with-prejudice burn.”
Houmaz rubbed his sweaty palms together. “What are you offering?”
Gault smiled. “We’ll fund you, but only for operations we approve in advance. To sort of keep our hand in. Maintain the balance of power, and keep the voters in the United States motivated.” He shrugged.
“What about my problem with the fundamentalists?”
Gault frowned. “Yeah. There is that. But I think with the proper application of money and public relations, we can turn it around for you.” He stared into Houmaz’s eyes. “So, if I walk away without enrolling you, you’ll be hunted and killed by those you served. Brits. Mossad. Fundamentalists. Or those who you’ve hurt. It doesn’t matter. Dead is dead. If you’re willing to work with us, well, there may be a bright future for you.”
Houmaz thought for a few seconds. “I’ll want something from you. To prove your interest. And sincerity.”
Gault smiled. “What?”
“I want the assassination team following me dead. The Israeli major, Shimmel. The Mossad kidon. And the Asian hacker.”
Gault shook his head. “No can do. If we kill our allies, there’ll be hell to pay. Might even get noticed by our politicians.”
“No deal then.” Houmaz started to walk away. He suspected this American was lying to him and somehow setting him up. But, if this man has the power to help me, maybe I can make it work. Just maybe, if I’m careful.
“Wait. We won’t kill them. But maybe I can make it easier for you to do it.” Gault’s brows twisted with thought.
Houmaz nodded. “What do you propose?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Bustan Palace InterContinentalnear the souk at Muttrah, Muscat, Oman
September 22, 1:56 p.m.
The self-appointed assassination team took the elevator up to Tariq Houmaz’s room. Jon slipped a credit-card sized-room key attached to an electronic device into the room’s card reader. The LEDs on the device cycled until the lock popped open. With their handguns pointed into the room, he sprang the door. Jon and Avram entered in shooting stances.
They searched the room while William stood at the front door, holding his breath.
“Crap.” Avram beckoned William to enter the room. “Empty. We wait here for him.”
Jon nodded, closed the door, and sat at the desk, his Beretta aimed at the entrance.
“What if he doesn’t return?” William paced near the window. “What if he’s on his way to somewhere else?”
Avram said nothing but kept his handgun trained on the door.
Jon shrugged. “Set your notebook up here, now, and see if you can backtrace his location.”
As the sun set and the room darkened, Jon listened to the muezzin from the nearby mosque calling the faithful to prayer. He’d read the Koran and studied Islam. How could such a beautiful religion incite such heinous murderers?
His stomach growled, and he realized they hadn’t eaten for a long time With his Beretta Px4 subcompact Storm 9mm still in his hand, he woke his two companions. “Let’s get dinner.”
William picked up the hotel directory and pointed to a page. “This hotel has an Italian restaurant. I want to get out of this room. Hope the restaurant’s good.”
Avram shrugged.
In the elevator, William’s head hung. He said, “Somehow, I don’t think I’m gonna find him again.”
Jon could see the pain in William’s eyes. “You hate to lose.”
William nodded. “I’m the best. Least I was. Now, not so sure.” His brief smile faded.
Jon sought a table in the emptiest part of the restaurant.
Their server brought menus. As the waiter moved away, Jon saw a man standing off in the shadows. He glimpsed the face of the person and realized it was someone familiar. But he couldn’t remember where he’d seen the face before. Was the man a threat? He nodded to Avram and both men reached into their jackets for the guns in their shoulder holsters. Each pulled their guns but kept them under the table.
The man walked closer and raised his hands. “Easy now. Remember me? Bob Gault. I saved your life, Jon.”
Jon holstered his gun. He frowned, looked to Avram and William, and in a voice just above a whisper, said “Yeah. He did. He’s wi
th American intelligence. But I don’t trust him.”
Avram nodded back and pointed to the empty chair. “Hungry?”
Gault shook his head. “No. But, listen, I found Tariq Houmaz. I know where he’s going.”
William smirked. “Yeah, right. And, tell me how you did what I can’t.”
Gault stared back, shifting his eyes from one of them to the next. The seconds ticked by. “Okay, well, if you aren’t interested, I’ll just go.” He rose from the chair.
Avram touched his sleeve. “No, we’re interested. But we’re not fools. Answer William’s question, please.”
Gault sat down again. He faced William and spoke as if they were alone. “The agency I work for. We’ve been tracking him for weeks. We use ECHELON.” He turned to Avram and smiled. “Maybe you’ve heard of it? It’s the system Mossad’s spies stole a copy of, the one Mossad now calls PROMIS, which they updated and placed trapdoors into. Mossad’s been selling PROMIS to other intelligence services. Of course you remember.” He shook his head. “We used ECHELON to locate Houmaz. I found him at the airport. I’ve convinced him to become my agency’s asset.”
William shook his head. “You mean you threatened him.”
“Didn’t have to. The Brits burned him, and we think your spymaster convinced the ragheads at Al Jazeera to want him dead. So, he’s on a short tether. He really had no choice.”
Jon’s eyes half closed as he considered this. “What did you offer him?
Gault smirked but didn’t reply.
Jon tried again. “And you’re here to help us?”
Gault nodded. “Well, Israel is our ally. So—”
Jon swiveled his head toward each of his companions. “See what I mean?” Avram and William nodded back at Jon.
Avram shook his head. “This is starting to sound incredible. You can’t expect—”
Gault rose and took several steps away from the table. He stood, facing away, waiting.
