by W. J. Lundy
Jamal’s jaw clenched. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Tommy interrupted him. “Think very carefully, Jamal. Where are the western women?”
“Not all of them were brought to me. Abdul held onto the three others, the Western women. They are more valuable as ransom. Only the ones to be sold on the market or used locally are sent to me.”
“Like cattle, aye, Jamal?” Tommy said, taking the .45 back into his hand and squeezing the pistol grip tightly until his knuckles were white.
“It’s just the way it is. I don’t make those decisions. The Western women are negotiated for.”
Tommy nodded his head as if he understood the comment and smiled. “Very nice, Jamal, you are learning.” Tommy paused and wrote another set of notes then looked up. “Now, I need you to think hard before answering. Where did he send the other women?”
Jamal froze. Tommy saw the look of terror on the man’s face, but he couldn’t tell if it was because he didn’t know, or if he was afraid to give up the information. The man clenched his eyes shut and stuttered a response. “I don’t know for sure.”
“Are you thirsty, Jamal?”
This time the man didn’t scream; he clenched his face and tried to hold his breath. Elias draped the towel and yanked back his head violently, waiting for the man to stop holding his breath and gasp for oxygen before draining the bottle. Jamal propelled forward, choking and coughing the water from his lungs. He begged through the restraints for mercy.
“Why are you fighting me on this, Jamal? I know you are a coward. Why else would you have been left to tend to caged women? Why are you not a soldier with the others? Because you are a coward, Jamal. You stay back and kick at the cages of mothers while others fight. Just tell me what I want to know and I’ll leave you.”
The restrained man began to sob again, his head hanging forward, no more strength left to hold it up. Tommy looked across at the defeated man. He was pitiful, yet Tommy felt no mercy for him. “I’m going to ask you a final question. You will decide how I respond to the answer.”
Jamal pried his head up from his chest and locked eyes with his captor.
“Where is Abdul?”
The prisoner flinched, looking away. “He can be in many places; he travels… he moves often.”
Tommy nodded in mock approval. “Where does the money go?”
Jamal clenched his eyes shut and hung his head. He sighed. “Duma Street, across from the Al Kishwa Hotel. All the money goes there.”
Tommy grinned and stood from his chair. He turned toward the door. Elias tossed the towel on the table and both men left the room together. They switched the lights off and the room again fell in darkness. The sobs of Jamal sounded behind them as Tommy climbed the stairs and entered back into the parlor.
“I need you to reach out to Kohen, find out if Abdul is the Hyena.”
Elias nodded. “And Jamal?”
Tommy looked at the floor. “I’d like to kill him but you know we can’t do that. What do you know about the area he mentioned, Al Kishwa Hotel?”
“It makes sense. It’s in the secure district, busy. Lots of government forces, Russian convoys, checkpoints, roadblocks. It’s a loyalist area; a good place for them to hide if they want to avoid trouble.”
“I see.” Tommy dipped his chin and closed his eyes to think. “Did you have any luck recruiting?”
“That was an easy job. There are many here looking to fight for the right cause.”
“Good.” Tommy paused thinking. He rubbed his chin then continued. “Find a few men you can trust. Have them move Jamal outside the city and prepare to cut him loose. Ensure that he is blindfolded and cannot identify them—”
“And let the tracking chip do its work,” Elias interrupted. “Then we follow the rat back to the nest. You forget, Tommy, I’m the one who trained you.”
Tommy smiled. “Yes, it’s good to have you with me. Is the safe house ready?”
“My father opened it and delivered the weapons and explosives this morning. We can move at any time. It is a high-walled home, near the city center.”
Tommy walked to a corner of the room and unzipped a small bag. Inside was a satellite phone, the same one given to him by O’Connell’s men. “I have to make a call, then we’ll leave.”
Almost six thousand miles away a telephone rang in the middle of the night. James O’Connell rolled to his side, looking at the number on the satellite phone beside him. He’d been expecting the call. Reaching with his arm, he knocked over the alarm clock before removing the phone from its charging cradle. He let it rest in his palm for several seconds before pulling himself to a seated position then put the phone to his ear. “Yes.”
“It’s started,” Tommy said.
Tommy heard the listener on the other side of the line exhale then take in a deep breath. “So that was you on the news. They said something about women being freed from a terrorist compound. Was your sister with them?”
“No, but I’m still looking.”
“Tommy, you were right,” O’Connell said barely above a whisper. “Soon after you left someone started pinging the databases searching your name and your past. Just like you said, they opened an inquiry. I have a friend at the FBI. He’s low level but… son, you were spot on. People have been looking into you and your past, but it goes deeper than that. Somehow—and I have the highest confidence in my staff—but somehow they traced you through Jordan.”
“Who?” Tommy said. “I need to know who is looking and how it was leaked.”
“I can’t be certain. Not yet. I talked with a few friends and opened another investigation into Junior’s death and I asked about the Ground Division. People are getting nervous.”
“I understand.”
“They aren’t happy you’re there. Whoever you’re after has contacts, and he’s using them. The one you’re looking for, he’s connected to DC somehow. His rise to power, it wasn’t an accident. None of it was; he was backed.”
“And the last thing these special benefactors want is to see that one of their chosen beneficiaries is responsible for sacking a church and kidnapping nuns. Well, I don’t care.”
“Tommy, I won’t be able to protect you.”
“I’m not asking for protection, just the names. Can you find out who is looking into my past?” Tommy said.
The old man paused. Tommy could hear his breathing on the other end of the phone. “It won’t be easy,” O’Connell answered.
Tommy let the phone rest in his hand as he looked at his watch then across the empty room. “Did they get to you? Are you okay?”
“Don’t worry about me; I’m still in the clear. I’ve backed way off, but my man is still listening.”
“I need you to do more digging, find out how they tracked me. I want to know who and how. If you can be discreet, contact Simon Arnet at the Vatican. He may know; they have more insight than they admit to. Drop the name Abdul Nassir and see what pings back.” Tommy paused again. “Colonel, be careful. I’ll call when I know more,” he said, disconnecting the line and powering off the phone.
17
The black Mercedes rolled up to the security checkpoint. Ziya Fayed did not like having guns pointed in his face. Especially when they were guns in the hands of Syrian security forces, men known to switch sides at a moment’s notice. They were at a checkpoint just outside of the international airport. The city center was well guarded these days, and as wary as Fayed was of the security forces, it was where the women were being processed before their release.
The vehicle was armored with bulletproof glass and doors, the wheels equipped with run-flat tires. Without looking, he knew there would be another security vehicle behind him, and a police escort vehicle to his front. Why he was being stopped for inspection while under armed escort was beyond him. Probably just another jurisdiction dispute in a city under siege. There were always problems between the military, charged with the defense of Albahr, and the local law enforcement, which was more concerned wi
th day-to-day security.
A soldier in an olive-green uniform walked to the passenger window and looked inside, inspecting the interior. “Papers,” he said without making eye contact.
Fayed handed over his passport booklet and Interpol access badge. The soldier took the documents and eyed them closely before holding them to Fayed’s face for closer inspection and comparison. He grinned and handed the papers back before waving to the men at the barrier. “Sorry for the delay, Inspector.”
Retrieving his papers, Fayed rolled up the window. The driver pulled through the barrier, passing a Russian Army BTR-82A armored vehicle, the large eight-by-eight-wheeled armored beast that stood watch over the checkpoint. Two Russian soldiers hardly looked up at them as they passed. The inspector cursed his luck, not happy being sent back to this place. The driver accelerated and made the turn onto Duma Street, weaving through traffic before rolling to a stop in front of the Al Kishwa Hotel.
Fayed turned to the driver and handed off a folded bill. “Keep the car close, I don’t intend on staying long. I will be leaving as soon as possible,” he said, exiting the vehicle. A man in a black cap had already retrieved his bag from the trunk and was guiding Fayed toward the entrance. The inspector fought the urge to turn around and look at the building behind him. He knew Abdul’s men would be out front, noting his arrival and reporting it back to their boss.
Fayed kept a suite permanently reserved at the hotel, a security measure that he demanded. Some would say it made more sense to rotate rooms and hotels to make his travel plans less predictable. But Fayed preferred to use the same room and have his people sweep it just hours ahead of his arrival.
His phone rang and he stopped near the entrance, fishing it from his pocket. He shielded the screen from the bright sunlight and saw Abdul’s number. He looked back up and could see the porter moving ahead down the hallway, directly to his usual room located on the first floor. Fayed gritted his teeth and answered the phone.
“You’ve arrived. I thought I told you to call me as soon as you were in country.”
Frustrated, Fayed moved away from the hotel entrance and stood along the building’s tall exterior walls. His eyes scanned the structure across the street. Men in dark clothing moved in and out of double doors, most of them openly carrying weapons. “I’ve just arrived at the hotel. Why the impatience?”
“Circumstances have changed.”
“Yes, I am quite aware.”
“Are you? I’ve lost another property and more men, and there are whispers on the streets that Americans may be involved. I need to know who is doing this. Is it Mossad? CIA? Has someone sent a hit team after me?”
Fayed sighed and shook his head as he turned back toward the entrance, where doormen were unloading a white suburban, transferring luggage to a cart. “I have a meeting with the local police chief. I will be fully briefed on the current situation—once I know more, I will report it all back to you. You need to relax.”
“Very well, I want a full briefing at dinner then. I will be traveling in from Damascus within the hour. I will have the location sent to your driver,” Abdul answered.
“That’s impossible, we can’t be seen in this city together with everything that has happened. Besides which, I plan to depart Albahr right after the meeting. It’ll have to be another time.”
Fayed heard a sadistic laugh on the other end of the phone before the voice came back cold. “You will not go anywhere until we’ve spoke face to face. I want guarantees that you have this under control. I don’t want to lose another property, not one more man. Do you understand me?”
The investigator exhaled and squeezed the phone, his face angry. “Fine, dinner, then I must take my leave—”
The air suddenly became a white-hot inferno, a bright flash of white and red. Fayed was lifted off the sidewalk and tossed against the hotel’s exterior like a rag doll. Time seemed to slow but Fayed never lost consciousness. His head was alive with sounds, a loud ringing and the screams of everyone around him. He rolled to his side and could see that the Suburban was still to his front. The porter crouched behind it, the luggage cart tipped on its side. Doormen were running left and right, pulling people into the hotel lobby.
Then he heard the gunfire. The distinctive report of AK47 rifles. Still on his side, Fayed drew his pistol. Across the street, he watched gunmen storm out of the double doors with red-and-white checkered scarves covering their faces. As soon as the men emerged they were cut down, ambushed by hidden men. He forced himself to a knee, scanning, and saw two men in dark vests and black masks. They had rifles to their shoulders, rapid-firing into Abdul’s building. He squeezed his service pistol, contemplating what to do, when a heavy machine gun opened fire from his right.
Ducking down, Fayed turned and saw a Russian armored vehicle approaching, the gunner firing blind into the street, taking out everything, providing supporting fire to the men in red scarves. He felt a tug at his jacket and stared into the face of a porter trying to drag him into the lobby. Fayed stared at the man with wide eyes then turned to follow him inside.
18
Men moved aside as a silver Volvo cargo van wove its way through alleyways, navigating the back streets toward Duma Street. In the back, Tommy sat on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest. He wore a vest with two incendiary grenades clipped to the front, just above his abdomen, and a Russian suppressed 9A-91 carbine assault rifle in a holster under his armpit. Elias sat across from him.
“You were right about the route; this city’s perimeter has more holes than a golf course,” Tommy said, pulling his grime- and stain-covered canvas coat shut and fastening the bottom snap. “Where’d you get this filthy jacket? It smells like a donkey crawled up another donkey’s ass and then died in it.”
“Hey brother, you said you wanted a foul jacket; now that is one foul jacket.” Elias laughed, watching his friend close the final snap, then his face turned serious. “I could go with you. My men are more than capable of running the diversion.”
Tommy shook his head. “No, I need you out front directing the attack. Besides, I do better on my own. That way I know everything in front of my barrel is a target.”
The van drove around a curved street then stopped before backing into another alleyway, this one shaded from the sun. The driver glanced back and nodded. Elias acknowledged the man then crawled across the floor and opened the sliding door before looking back at Tommy.
“Is everything in place?” Tommy whispered.
Elias frowned and tightened his brow. They’d already discussed the plan in every detail, but being professionals, it never hurt to hear it out loud one last time. “My men are waiting on the opposite side of the block. The car bomb is already in place near the intersection. It will be loud, but my man assures me the blast will be manually remote-triggered and directed up to minimize casualties. Then my teams will direct fire from two sides of the building, pulling all the guards to the front.”
Tommy nodded. “Once the attack starts, who will they call for help?”
Shaking his head, Elias looked to the other man in the van. “Most likely they won’t call anyone. The bomb will bring in all the attention and support they need. For sure local security forces, but eventually the Russians.”
“Okay,” Tommy said. “And the rest of the building?”
“There will be two guards outside the back door, with another inside. Those guards may move inside or stay in position. Once inside, there is a large entryway with a stairwell on the right. Follow it directly to the top; avoid the other floors. The money room and offices are at the top at the end of a hallway. Get in and get out,” Elias said.
Listening to Papa reciting back the full plan, as they’d done countless times before, gave Tommy a comfortable feeling of déjà vu—they were back on mission and ready to do some serious damage. Elias caught his moment of reverie and snapped him back. “Tommy, we will stay for no more than five minutes then disappear. When the security forces arrive, we will have
to pull back. You have to be moving by then. We have no back up, no quick reaction force, and no plan B. If we make a mistake, we’re dead. Are you sure this is worth it?”
“If we want to hurt them—this is where we do it.” Tommy looked at the van and said, “You have to get rid of this. We can’t leave them anything to trace back to you and your people.”
“It’s taken care of. We’ll torch this one and egress will be by foot. I hope you’ve memorized the route. My people will dump their weapons in the sewer and vanish into the crowds. I’ll have a second van meet you at Monument Park to guide you to the hide.”
Tommy stretched out his hand and took his friend’s. “Good luck, brother.”
Elias looked at his wristwatch and pressed a button, starting a countdown timer. “The fuse is lit—five minutes, my friend, then we have to go,” he said, leaving the van to join two other armed men already in the alley.
Tommy turned and dropped his boots onto the gravel surface. The hot air smelled of sewage and burning rubber. He looked down at his own watch and stepped off. Walking hunched over, he moved along the building and turned a corner, following the building’s wall to the back. His hair was pulled down over his eyes, and a matted scarf hung sloppily around his neck. He focused on the ground, walking ahead with an exaggerated limp. He spotted the far-off doorway and veered toward it. He felt the tingle in his body, the adrenaline loading his system, same as with every strike. He was ready. His targets became objects. No longer human beings, they were just things that needed to be moved so he could meet his objective.
As Elias had predicted, there were two shaggy, black-bearded guards with red scarves around their necks. The men stood near the back entrance, both armed with rusty Kalashnikovs dangling loose. They weren’t professionals, probably local militia or recent volunteers assigned to the demeaning task of door guard. It didn’t matter to Tommy; they would fall just the same. The bearded man nearest Tommy looked up and watched him approach. The man grinned and tapped the guard beside him. Both seemed amused at the sight of a disabled person struggling to walk.
