by W. J. Lundy
Fayed turned into the lobby of his building, nodding to the doorman as he entered the elevator. He was an expert in his field, and he could not allow them to play him. He would take another look at Donovan’s Interpol record and cross-check it against the Forces’s records. If there was something suspicious, it would alert him. He could use his special access and request additional records from French military intelligence, but that would have risks of its own. Accessing the files would notify the agencies that he’d looked at them. But he was, after all, working the case, and the sibling of a kidnap victim was relevant information.
Moving into the apartment, he found that the walk had calmed his nerves. He sat beside the laptop in his study, pouring himself a glass of cognac as he entered the security codes, remotely connecting him into the intelligence directorate’s secure mainframe. He entered the subject’s known names and serial numbers then cross-referenced them with databases he had access to. The first two files that appeared in the table were the ones he was already familiar with from the Interpol background screening. The third file was something new. It wasn’t about Donovan in and of itself, but of an Interpol and international courts investigation into the assassination of a terror suspect in Damascus, dated from 2009.
Donovan’s name appeared in the report several times, but his counter-terror unit had been cleared in the operation. Fayed highlighted other names listed and added them to the search query. When he ran the search again, the screen was filled with files, each one related to the assassination or disappearance of suspected terrorists over the last decade. Watching the files scroll by caused his blood to run cold.
Names and dates all over the Middle East and stretching into Eastern Europe. Assassinations, kidnappings, and hostage rescues. This man, Donovan, was somehow remotely connected to all of it. Fayed shook his head and scrolled through the list. “No, there has to be something else. This is real life, not fiction; the real world doesn’t function like this.”
Only three files specifically listed the name Donovan in the details. Fayed clicked a link and opened a file from Iraq dated after the invasion. In it was listed the names of several top terror suspects who had been transferred to a secure custody in Qatar. The report said all six men were killed while under twenty-four-hour guard in a secure hotel. The released terrorists had essentially been living under house arrest under the supervision of the Qatar government. According to the report, early one morning all six of the men were found dead in their hotel rooms. No trace of an assassin. Fayed continued to scroll down and froze. The American who traveled to Qatar to write the report confirming the men’s deaths was T. Donovan.
He shook his head and grinned. “So the same man that killed them investigated their death.”
Fayed closed all the open files and entered into a NATO transportation database, looking through personnel lists and travel documents from many different airbases. Hitting on several Thomas Donovan’s, opening and closing many, he felt tightness in his chest. T. Donovan frequently traveled in and out of NATO bases. Many times as an Army staff sergeant, sometimes a Marine, even a Navy Chief. Other times he was listed as a Department of Defense employee, or an aid to high-level State Department officials.
“Who the hell are you?” Fayed said, his pulse racing.
He clicked the only file with an image attached. A photo opened of a young, eighteen-year-old Thomas Donovan, dressed in an Army uniform, standing rigid and looking straight ahead. The photo was for an identification card taken over a decade ago. Fayed clenched his jaw and printed the only picture he had of the man he suspected was hunting them.
The man was still young, probably still active. He wouldn’t be retired. He would have reach and contacts. Probably part of a special unit, one specifically equipped to go after men like Abdul Nassir. He thought back to the list of dead terrorists, and Fayed clenched his fists. What had they stumbled upon with the American girl? He would have to contact Abdul right away. She needed to be dealt with before the American dealt with them.
13
It was still dark, hours before dawn, when they traveled in the cool morning air. The rusted Daewoo drove down the street, pulling alongside a brown lot once known as a soccer field. There were several stone monuments and other statues reduced to rubble lining a walkway. Tommy pointed at them and Elias shrugged. “Rebel fighters knocked them down when they came through about a year ago.” Elias parked the car next to a bullet-pocked Kia sedan on flat tires. He reached into his shirt pocket and dialed a number on his mobile phone. Listening intently, he waited for the speaker to stop before saying “okay,” and then disconnected the battery and placed both pieces under the seat.
“You worried about someone tracking the phone?” Tommy said.
“Just a habit. Even just being part of a friendly militia there are risks. The Americans, and even the Russians, love to use their drones to target cell phones. I don’t want them tracking us or trying to capture the signal to listen in,” Elias answered. He paused and pointed to a two-story building at the back of the lot and a smaller stucco building across the corner from it. Then he guided his finger down an opposite walkway that led away from the stucco building, to a crumbling amphitheater where people probably gathered for plays or shows years ago. “The drop will happen somewhere in here. They couldn’t be certain and the location changes from time to time.”
“The drop? Who did you call?”
“You were right, I didn’t come back home to fry bread. I have a friend that works the airport; he owed me a favor. He knows everything that moves in or out of Albahr.”
“So, you aren’t retired?”
Elias swallowed and said, “I’m plenty retired, but it takes connections when you are running an effective neighborhood watch.”
“Neighborhood watch, aye.” Tommy looked at him. “I noticed the difference when we turned onto your little street. Is that you?”
“The police here are shit; every block has to take responsibility for its own security. But even that only goes so far. We can keep the thugs out, but we’d be screwed against real opposition. So, the key is stopping it before it gets to us,” Elias explained.
“So you stay connected and trade favors.”
“When it benefits my people.”
Tommy nodded thoughtfully. “And this friend, he knows where the missing women are?”
“No, but he knows the path the money takes.”
“Money?” Tommy blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.
“It’s always about the money. Money, women, and guns. Every war is the same.”
“What about religion?” Tommy asked.
Elias laughed, shaking his head. “If wars were really fought over religion, we’d have found peace a thousand years ago. War is about power, and power of the few. And to control power, you control the money, drugs, and guns. Go back into history as far as you want, it’s always the same. Always will be.”
Tommy sighed and looked out of the side window. “If you say so, brother. So tell me about the money then.”
“Just so happens our friend says the man you want arrived a little over an hour ago.”
"Our friend?” Tommy assessed skeptically.
“Kohen.”
“The Israeli?” Tommy said, surprised. “I thought he was dead. Why is the Dagger in Syria?” Tommy knew the man only by reputation, having never met the Israeli assassin face-to-face. The man earned his nickname by leaving a dagger near the resting place of his victims, usually impaled in their chests. He was a man who killed to send a message, as killing without a message was considered too simple.
“He’s Mossad; this is where the action is.”
“Why the hell is he helping us?”
Elias grinned, his face expression brightening. “Because I have been helping him. Things have gotten shady in my neighborhood, and Kohen helps me keep the rats away. Lately there have been a lot of rats that need dealt with. And the more rats we kill in Syria, the less there are to cross into
Israel.”
“And you told him about me?”
“No, you stupid shit. You told him when you sat your ass in front of my café in broad daylight. Of course, his people saw you—and of course, he wanted to know why. He also knows about the mess you made at the border. And yes, we all know about your little dance in the alley. You killed people on my street and thought that would go unnoticed? Why would you do that?”
“The mess at the border? That was hardly a mess,” Tommy said, brushing off the statement. “And ridding the world of two fuckwads in an alley, that was to put the locals on notice that the rules are about to change here.”
“Who do you think you are?” Elias pursed his lips. He shook off the question, not wanting an answer. “It doesn’t matter; the Dagger says he owes you for the Damascus job. He’ll help us, but even his help has its limits.”
Tommy nodded his head, remembering the 2009 mission that killed one of the men responsible for the embassy attack in Spain a year earlier. A killing that Mossad conveniently took credit for to keep Interpol off of the backs of the Ground Division. “What does the Dagger have to say about this? Who is this man we need to talk to?”
“He says the foreign money man will be moving through here in the next six hours. The rebel groups have lots of cash, but it’s all in electronic format. With the banks and networks destroyed, it’s getting harder for them to come up with hard currency. That’s where the money men come in. One will make a dead drop, hiding a bag of cash. Later another man will come to take the money. We pick up either one, and he should give us the information that will lead us to the missing girls.”
“Why do I feel like I’m running an errand for the Mossad? What the hell does this have to do with getting Sarah back? If he knows where the organization is based, why can’t Kohen just tell us?”
“The money men don’t know the details of the organization because people like us tend to follow them. It’s a level of security.”
“Then we should wait for the pickup and follow that back to the organization.”
“No, you said you are after the women. Koehn says the man making the drop has a reputation. You said you wanted a lead; well, here is your lead.”
“What sort of reputation?”
“He has a fetish and an interest in meeting the new captives. Kohen says this courier is a real disgusting creature.”
“Doesn’t Kohen know where the girls are? Why can’t he just tell us who we’re looking for?”
Elias scratched at his beard. “I’m sure he knows everything, but this is already more than he should be relaying to a couple retired guys working off the clock.”
Tommy pulled the Glock from his shoulder holster and pulled back the slide, verifying he’d chambered a round. Elias reached into a canvas bag on the floor and opened it, revealing a pair of black HK MK23 handguns with matching suppressors. He pulled one out and handed it to Tommy while taking the other for himself. He then handed him a small earpiece with a connected two-way radio.
Tommy smiled, putting the Glock back into the shoulder holster and palming the .45-caliber handgun. “At least you held on to your toys,” Tommy joked. “I thought you might be all washed up.”
“Washed up my ass,” Elias grinned. “I’m the one that got you here, now what’s the plan?”
Tommy let his eyes scan the surroundings and switched back into command mode, his nerve endings tingling with energy. “You head over to that pavilion area and get comfortable. I’m going to park myself on one of those benches down there by the statues. I think if I play bum, I’ll blend in.”
Elias nodded and left the car. Tommy waited for him to vanish out of sight before exiting on his side and moving into the shadows of a large tree as he watched Elias slowly walk down a rough, stone path. He observed him cut through the unkempt weeds and move parallel to the amphitheater and finally drop to a sitting position against a stone wall near the small building structure. Tommy stood silently observing his surroundings for a few minutes longer.
The park was very quiet. The light had just begun to break the horizon. He could see other people, presumably homeless, most sitting or sleeping in the shadows. They stayed well hidden, but Tommy’s trained eye could pick out the man-made shapes or unusual movements on the ground. When he was comfortable that they hadn’t been followed and were not being observed, he made his way across the field to an empty bench.
Tommy lay down so his view intersected with that of Elias, and also so he could see over and beyond his partner’s blind sides. He called on the internal radio and made sure his friend had a visual on his position as well. Then he settled in. He had brought along an old, battered blanket that he wrapped himself in before he curled onto the bench. The temperature was cool, but he knew it would warm rapidly as the sun rose. He didn’t find it difficult to stay in the position, but he found it difficult to stay awake while at the same time pretending to be asleep.
He thought about Kohen and the mission in Damascus. It seemed like a lifetime ago now. After six months of tracking the cell responsible for the embassy bombing that killed three Marine guards, two State Department employees, and an Israeli dignitary, the Ground Division had finally located and identified the terrorist known as Chasm in Syria.
At the time, Tommy was behind the scope of a precision rifle when a black Mercedes pulled up in front of the Damascus Central Courthouse. The news had just crossed the wire that Chasm had turned himself in to the local authorities, knowing that Mossad and others were hot on his trail. Tommy watched as the target and two others exited the vehicle. He positively identified the target but was given the abort order. He asked for clarification and was ordered to shut it down. Tommy knew that the Dagger’s team was still moving into position, and this would be the last opportunity to eliminate the target before he was taken into protective custody.
He violated his orders and took the shot. He and the rest of his team went quiet, vanishing into hiding as was the original plan. Days later, the Dagger took responsibility for the assassination and followed it up with a large car bomb placed in front of Chasm’s terror cell headquarters in Raqqa. The message had been sent, and without evidence of a crime, the Ground Division was able to return to the United States.
Now things were different; the enemy didn’t know they were hunting them. The wires were still clear, so they still had the advantage of surprise. Soon another message would be sent, and the hunted would go back into their dens.
He had been lying in his position all morning and into the afternoon. The heat was on him now. He occupied his time by watching pedestrians move through the park. His cover of playing a bum had worked well. Most people who walked by him intentionally avoided him or pretended that he wasn’t there. It’s easy to disappear when nobody wants to see you.
Tommy came out of his thoughts when he saw a small man walking across the lawn. He was moving fast toward the small building structure, constantly looking behind him. The young man wasn’t dressed the same as the other pedestrians in the park. He was wearing Western clothing—a striped, short-sleeved polo shirt, and tan cargo pants. He appeared to be in his best “business casual” travel clothes and carried a rather large backpack over his shoulders. Tommy watched as the man continued toward the restrooms and passed just meters in front of Elias.
“Possible target,” Tommy whispered into the radio.
“On him,” Elias responded. “When he enters the structure, I’ll follow him.”
“I’ll cover you from outside. Careful, he may just be a lost tourist that needs to take a shit. Maintain cover as long as possible.”
Tommy watched the man move toward the door to the building then suddenly stop. He turned and hunched over to tie his shoe. As he worked, he looked behind him and turned to check his back trail. He stood by the door for several minutes, presumably checking to see if he was being tailed. Interesting spy craft, but on this mission, all it did was confirm that this was the man Tommy was looking for.
The suspect
slowly turned and walked to the door. Nervous, he stopped again and looked back before pushing the door and disappearing inside. Tommy shifted his focus to Elias and watched him move to his feet, casually walk to the door, and pass inside. Quickly, Tommy was also up and fast stepping to the building. He posted himself on the wall just outside and in the shadow of a tree.
“It’s him. Go, go, go,” Elias commanded over the radio.
Tommy ran for the door and burst inside, where he saw Elias tangled up with the man. His friend was behind him. He had hooked the suspect’s left side in a tight half-nelson. Elias was gripping the man’s right elbow joint tightly and twisting his forearm down and away from his body. Tommy looked to the man’s right hand and saw a long, curved knife.
The man was struggling, but Elias had him easily outweighed and outmatched. The man’s twisted and outstretched right arm gripped the knife tightly, refusing to let go of it. Tommy stepped forward, planted his left foot then gave the man a stiff punch to the gut with his right hand. The man let out a dry gasp as his weight sagged. Suddenly his head dropped forward, his right hand opened, and he dropped the knife.
Elias let the man’s limp body fall to the floor before dragging him against the wall. He pulled his arms up over his head and tightly zip-tied him to the plumbing of an old sink. Tommy stepped to the door and secured it shut with a rubber wedge he kept in his gear. Elias had moved back to the knife, examining it on the ground without touching it.
“I caught the dude red-handed. He was facing that sink, trying to place his bag behind that wooden panel. When he saw me, he pulled the blade so I jumped on him.”
Tommy approached the man on the ground. He was young and clean-shaven. Looked to be Pakistani, possibly Afghani, but it was hard to tell. The man’s arms were stretched over his head, his wrists looped around the plumbing of the sink. Tommy looked at him closely and could tell he was conscious but feigning sleep. He walked closer and stood on the man’s ankle, slowly applying pressure.
