by DV Berkom
Valerie’s desk was a few feet to her right. Beyond that was the back room and the emergency exit, through which Henri was now disappearing. To her left was the stand with the compact submachine gun she’d tried the last time she was there. Leine darted up from behind the back of the couch and fired, hitting one of the gunmen in the throat. He clutched his neck and sank to his knees.
She kept shooting, backing up until she could grab the submachine gun. Ignoring the pain in her arm from the earlier shrapnel wound and edging her way to the massive desk, she fired the automatic weapon with her good hand, spraying a barrage of rounds at the gunmen. Two went down immediately, while the other two leaped out of the way. The SMG emptied quickly, and she tossed it aside as she dove behind the desk. The sound of the last two gunmen reloading gave her the seconds she needed to make her exit. She sprinted toward the back room and made it through the door as the gunmen’s rounds splintered the doorjamb.
The sound of the two gunmen crashing through the warehouse behind her spurred Leine on, through the storage room filled with wooden shipping boxes and packing material and enough weapons and ammunition to outfit an army. The rear exit had been left ajar, and Leine barreled through as she reloaded her pistol. She kicked the door closed behind her and fired a round into the glowing biometric lock, turning the steel slab into a doorstop.
She pivoted and found herself in a long, dark hallway that veered left, lit by intermittent cage lights. Henri’s ragged breathing echoed from somewhere down the corridor, telling her he wasn’t far. She jogged after him, calculating how long it would take the gunmen inside to make their way around the outside of the building to the exit. More gunmen were most likely stationed there, shortening the time she had with Henri.
She rounded a turn and slowed. On his feet and lurching toward the exit, the French arms dealer leaned against the wall for support, hand clutched to his ribs, his breath coming in uneven gasps. Leine caught up to him and glanced at his chest. Dark blood stained his shirt where he’d been shot. He staggered a few more steps and then stopped. Wheezing, he looked at her. Pain filled his eyes. He shrugged his shoulder as if to say he’d tried.
His knees buckled and Leine grabbed his elbow, easing him to a sitting position. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and let his arm fall to his side.
“Bah.” He scowled and shook his head. “Shot by my own fucking men.” He paused for a moment before he erupted in laughter, which devolved into a painful sounding cough. “That’s funny, no?”
He struggled to sit up straighter. Leine helped him slide back so that he was more comfortable.
“Did you kill them all?” he asked, referring to the five gunmen. A red bubble formed on his lips. He wiped the blood away with his fist.
“Not yet.”
He nodded. “Then you must go. They will not stop until you’re dead.”
“Not until you tell me who you used to contact Salome.”
Henri’s chin dropped to his chest and he closed his eyes. “What do I care?” he muttered. “I am a dead man.” He raised his head and looked directly at Leine. “You must promise not to kill him.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You must.” He burst into another coughing fit. Blood and spittle sprayed from his mouth.
“All right. Fine. I won’t kill him unless he’s going to kill me. Deal?”
“Oui.” He shifted his position, trying and failing to get comfortable. “His name is Damil. He works directly for Salome. She uses her position at an NGO as her cover.”
“An NGO in Libya?” Everything finally fell into place.
He nodded. “Yes. Some refugee camp.”
“How did you get this information?”
“Damil told me.”
“And you trust him?” she asked, listening for activity at the other end of the tunnel. So far, so good.
Henri nodded. “He is my nephew by marriage. He would not lie to me.”
“Do your men know about the bolt hole?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Is anyone positioned outside?”
Henri nodded. “A sniper.”
Three gunmen. Not bad odds when she knew they were coming. Leine rose to leave.
Henri raised his hand but had grown too weak and let it fall to his side.
“Do not underestimate her,” he said. “Damil told me she was the one responsible for the sarin gas attack last year in Las Vegas.”
“She’s supposed to be dead.”
“She faked her own death. Not unusual for someone who is being hunted by American intelligence.”
What was she up to now? Other than trying to kill Leine.
“Your nephew. Is he a jihadist?”
“He was, once. The last time we spoke he sounded less than enthusiastic about his prospects.” Henri gave her a weak shrug. “He is young, and she pays very, very well.”
A whisper of movement could be heard at the other end of the tunnel. She turned to go.
“You could call them off, you know,” she said over her shoulder.
When he didn’t answer she glanced over her shoulder at him. His head was bowed and his chest no longer heaved, having grown still in death.
Leine went to meet the gunmen.
35
LEINE DISPATCHED THE remaining gunmen with little fanfare. The monitoring app on Henri’s phone made things simple. Once she was satisfied that all immediate threats had been neutralized, she scanned his contacts and memorized Damil’s number.
She retraced her steps back through the warehouse, stopping to disable the cameras with a round each, and wiping the feed from Henri’s laptop. Using Henri’s phone, she texted Lou about the weapons and warned him that he needed to send someone immediately before anyone stumbled upon the huge cache. He wrote back asking how she was, but she didn’t reply. On her way out, she grabbed a case containing a lightweight sniper rifle and some additional ammo and threw it all in her trunk.
Then she called Jack Ferguson.
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Leine found herself back on board a Ferguson Private Security jet, headed for Tripoli. Getting Jack to agree to ferry her to Libya without Lou’s knowledge had taken some doing, but in the end he’d agreed. She caught their last flight scheduled to North Africa for the week, traveling under a forged passport and a work visa FPS had already secured for its contractors.
The plane touched down at a military base just outside of Tripoli. Leine had slept for most of the flight and woke up groggy. She shook it off and loaded her bags into a waiting SUV. The sniper rifle she’d borrowed from Henri’s warehouse had already been secured in the cargo area, thanks to a friend of FPS that worked in customs. Alongside the rifle case was a canvas bag with a 9mm pistol and several full magazines. Leine slid the pistol into her waistband before she closed the cargo door, and checked to make sure the SUV had extra petrol. Then she climbed behind the wheel, powered up her satellite phone, and called the refugee camp.
“We Care International, Camp Azziz, may I help you?” a woman answered.
“I’d like to set up an appointment with Director La Pointe.”
“I’m sorry, but she no longer works here.”
“Do you know where I can reach her?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. Would you like to speak to the new director?”
“Yes, thanks.” That La Pointe had left the camp didn’t surprise Leine, although she’d hoped she hadn’t left so soon. La Pointe was Salome, that much was obvious. That piece of information would have made all the difference when she’d interviewed her at the camp.
A moment later, a man’s voice came on the line. “This is Director Eades. May I help you?” He had a distinctly English accent.
“Director Eades,” Leine began. “My name is Ava Yardley and I’m a reporter for Slam News. I was there recently and met with Director La Pointe regarding the missing children. I had hoped to make an appointment with her to follow up on the story. Would you happen to know where she went?”
&n
bsp; “I’m sorry, no,” he said, his tone clipped. “She didn’t leave any forwarding information. It was quite abrupt, I assure you. Left us all in dire straits, to be quite honest. I’d be happy to meet with you, though.”
“May I call you back? I need to speak with my editor first.”
“Of course.”
“One more thing. When I was there before, I had requested the pictures of the eight missing children to be emailed to me—running their photographs with the article will have more of an emotional impact than straight narrative, as well as possibly helping to locate some of them.”
“Of course. I assume that Assistant Director Hakim had said he would get them to you?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry for his loss.” She had no idea if La Pointe had bugged the Director’s office, so she played along, not wanting to tip her off in case Hakim was still alive.
“Quite. He was a valued member of staff and will be hard to replace.” Eades cleared his throat. “What is your email address? I’ll get them to you as soon as I can.”
Leine gave him her address and ended the call. Including the seven rescued from the desert, that made fifteen in total. Only five remained to be identified. Had La Pointe realized that the reporter she spoke to was actually Leine Basso—the woman who figured out the Russian general’s grand plan? There weren’t many photos of Leine floating around—a few grainy likenesses perhaps but nothing too conclusive. If La Pointe didn’t know who she was yet, then Leine might still have the element of surprise.
Unless Henri had somehow saved a copy of the surveillance video. True, she’d watched him erase the footage of her entering the warehouse the first time, and he had insisted there were no copies, but he wasn’t above lying. Especially if he’d decided to let Salome know who Leine was so he could convince her to put out a contract on her.
Leine still had Damil’s information. She hadn’t contacted him yet. A phone call from a mystery woman interested in La Pointe’s whereabouts might alert the terrorist to Leine having survived the assassination attempt, and she wanted to exploit her advantage as long as possible. Henri didn’t have time to notify La Pointe about her survival—he would have waited until Valerie checked in with proof of Leine’s death—so there was no way she’d know Leine was still alive. If Leine’s efforts to find her failed, then she would contact Damil.
Leine started the SUV, put it in gear, and headed for the SHEN field office. Ever since she’d left Libya for Paris to try to save Chessa, there hadn’t been time to think about how Jinn had been getting on, and she wanted to see how the kid was doing. She also wanted to check with Fatima to see if they had any news of Director La Pointe.
Forty-five minutes later, Leine walked through SHEN’s glass doors and greeted Fatima.
“Lou didn’t tell me you were coming. How are you?” The assistant smiled warmly at Leine.
“Good, Fatima. Thanks for asking.”
The assistant’s expression turned serious. “I heard about Chessa. I’m so sorry.”
“Me too.” Leine leaned against the counter. “Have you heard anything about the woman who was running the refugee camp? Apparently she quit and didn’t leave a forwarding address.”
“One of the field reps paid the new director a visit to let him know we were here and willing to work with them on trafficking issues. Other than that, no.”
“Have you had any luck placing the kids?”
“So far we’ve found two of them homes. The rest are adjusting pretty well.”
“Do you remember the girl who was with me that day?”
“Her name was Jinn, right?”
“That’s the one. Could you tell me where she ended up?” It was possible she was still in Tripoli, although often the children they rescued with no surviving relatives were sent wherever a foster family could be found.
The woman’s concerned expression raised warning flags in Leine’s mind.
“I thought you knew.” Fatima shook her head. “She ran away the night you left. We’ve searched, but no one’s seen her.” She put her hand on Leine’s arm. “I’m so sorry, Leine. I thought Lou told you.”
Leine’s mind raced. The kid had said she wanted to help find the person responsible for taking the orphans by using herself as bait. Had she actually done such a stupid thing?
“Thanks, Fatima. If you hear from her, could you give me a call?” She wrote the sat phone number down on a notepad. “Is the internet working?”
“It was a while ago.”
“Can I use your computer?”
“Of course.” Fatima got up from her chair and grabbed a sheath of papers from the in basket. “I’ll do my filing so you have some privacy.”
“Thanks.” Leine sat down at her workstation and accessed the internet, silently urging the connection to move faster and hoping like hell it wouldn’t cut out. She logged into the chat room where she’d told Jinn to leave a message if she needed anything. There were two messages from her. One was dated three days earlier, and another from the day before. She clicked on the first one and read.
Leine, Don’t be mad. I know you were trying to help, but I can’t find out about the children if they send me away. I will leave another message when I have heard something. ~Jinn
Leine clicked on the second message.
Why have I not heard from you? Are you there? You told me to contact you here and I did, but you do not write me back. I found out something important. Ask Ebrahim. He will know where to find me. ~Jinn
Leine wrote a quick reply, telling her she was going to the medina and what time she left. It was late afternoon. The souk would be in full swing, making it easier to blend.
“Thanks, Fatima,” Leine said as she raced out the door.
36
BY THE TIME Leine made it to the medina and parked, the sun was a burnt orange smear on the horizon. She sprinted to Ebrahim’s shop and was relieved to see the old carpet seller chatting amiably with two men who owned the leather goods stall across the way. Leine pretended to be interested in a particularly beautiful rug. Ebrahim made his excuses to the other men and came over to talk to her.
“I remember you,” he said with a smile. “You’re a friend of Jinn’s.”
Leine returned the smile. “I am. She said that you would know where to find her.”
“She has not been by here since early yesterday,” he said, concern creasing his already lined features. “She left something for you.” He walked over to the counter where he kept his receipt books and rummaged through one of the drawers.
She joined him, and he pulled out the phone Leine had seen in Jinn’s pocket the night at the refugee camp. “She said if I saw you that I should give you this.”
Leine took the phone from him and turned it on.
A picture of a starry desert night emerged, followed by several icons appearing on the home screen. The phone’s security measures had been set so that anyone could access the files.
She studied the icons. “Did she say what I should be looking for?”
Ebrahim shook his head. “Only that you would know when you saw it.”
She accessed recent calls and texts, but the last call was a week before and had a Tripoli prefix. She opened a messaging app that allowed the user to encrypt text messages, but there wasn’t anything useful there. Then she scrolled through the phone’s contacts, checking the numbers for anything that might give her an idea of what Jinn wanted her to see.
One of the entries was different. A majority of the numbers included the city code for Tripoli, but there was one listed that used a code for Benghazi. She filed the information away in her memory and continued her search.
She glanced through the phone’s external storage and found a series of files labeled by date. Each held a series of pictures of popular tourist destinations from a number of European cities. All of the destinations had corresponding satellite photos showing nearby structures and street names, similar to the ones she’d found on the assassin’s phone that she’d taken in
the alley in Paris.
She counted the file folders. There were twenty. Twenty targets? Foreboding settled on her like a damp blanket as she continued looking through the phone. She clicked on an untitled video she found buried deep inside another file folder filled with innocuous documents. Obviously taken from a moving vehicle, the video showed the sun-bleached shores of the Mediterranean Sea outside Tripoli. There was nothing else. As far as videos went, it was a snooze fest. Under normal circumstances Leine would have labeled it a practice video that the phone’s owner forgot to delete.
“Do you have Wi-Fi?” she asked Ebrahim.
“Of course.” He gave her the password for the souk.
Acting on a hunch, Leine emailed the file to herself and then uploaded the video to an online app hosted by SHEN that identified files embedded within videos and photographs. Known as steganography, spies, terrorists, journalists, and criminals the world over often used this visual trick to hide sensitive information from prying eyes. One of the most well-known uses was that of terrorists hiding instructions to followers in innocuous-looking web pages. Once a program stripped the extraneous pixels from a photograph or video, the true image would appear.
While she waited for the program to work its magic, Leine went to a reverse directory lookup site and entered the phone number with the Benghazi code to see if anything came back. The number wasn’t listed, meaning that either the owner had paid to keep the number private, or it belonged to a burner phone that hadn’t been registered.
A short time later, the app beeped, telling her it was finished. She opened the stripped video. A dark-haired man in his early- to mid-thirties wearing a white suit appeared on screen and began speaking rapidly in Arabic, his gaze darting off camera as though watching for someone. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. The background showed the white-walled interior of a living room. A bookshelf stood behind him and to the left, with a ceiling fan directly overhead. The blinds on the window to his right were closed against the bright sunlight.
