by Brad Taylor
“You should put some Monkey’s Blood on it. That’ll fix it.”
Everyone looked at him incredulously. I said, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You know. Monkey’s Blood. Didn’t your mom put that on every single boo-boo you ever got? You don’t see it much anymore, but man, that stuff was a miracle worker. At least that’s what my mom says.”
“You mean Mercurochrome? The red shit they put on kids’ scabs?”
“Yeah. That’s it. Monkey’s Blood. It works on everything.”
At first, I was wondering how such an idiot could have reached the Taskforce. Then I saw the same inside-joke smile from his passport photo, and I started laughing. Before I knew it, everyone was giggling and snickering, even Jennifer. Brett had managed to defuse the entire discussion, without making an overt attempt. I was right. We’d get along fine.
I stood up and tied the fishnet closed, attaching a final twelve-pound anchor in addition to the other lead weights. Decoy and I shoved the net overboard, watching to make sure it sank with the evidence of the infiltration.
I said, “Come on. Let’s get back to Lebanon. We’ve wasted enough time on mothers’ remedies.”
Jennifer fired up the engine and got on a heading back to the Beirut marina. Knuckles said, “Well, now that you mention it, I have no idea why we’re here. Originally it was to rescue you. What is it now?”
“Somebody’s trying to kill the new Middle Eastern envoy, and we’re going to stop it.”
“Any leads, or are we working from scratch?”
“You remember that guy who tried to kill us in Bosnia two years ago? The one that got away?”
Knuckles’ face turned grim. “Oh yeah. I remember him. I wish I’d put a bullet in his head when I had the chance.”
I pulled out the screen capture we’d taken in Samir’s house.
“How’d you like a second shot?”
30
Lucas Kane took notice of the atmosphere surrounding him as he walked toward the photography shop. It was located in south Beirut, still in a prominently Shia area, but outside the hard-core Hezbollah state-within-a-state. Nasrallah posters adorned every other street corner, but that was it. No paranoid gunmen or street toughs with radios. Still, he was generating interest. He could feel the eyes on him from every direction, all wondering what this infidel wanted here. Wondering if maybe he was lost.
He wasn’t. The photo studio was the location of the Hezbollah asset that had helped the Palestinian assassin with his documents. Probably the same one that had built Lucas’s own. He didn’t know. All he’d done was provide passport photos to Majid, and Hezbollah had done the rest.
He’d driven by earlier in the day on a reconnaissance, noting the business hours. He wanted to ensure that nobody else was in the studio when he entered, so he’d waited until just before closing. For what he had to do, he couldn’t afford anyone else being present. Well, he could, but it would just make things messier.
The killing of the Martyrs Battalion leadership was on the street, and Lucas knew his time in Beirut was done. Luckily, from what he’d heard, nobody knew who had done it and the routinely paranoid Hezbollah immediately began ranting about Zionist infiltrators. It would only be a matter of time, though, before he was questioned. He had no illusions about how that would go, having watched the interrogation of loyal Shia who were suspected of working with the CIA. In November of 2011, Hezbollah rolled up the entire CIA network inside Beirut. In so doing, they hammered any and all they thought were working with the enemy. Hezbollah didn’t care if they killed thirty innocents if it meant getting one guilty party.
He’d already been called twice on his private cell phone from a number he didn’t recognize. Since the phone only worked on the parallel Hezbollah communications architecture, he knew it wasn’t good and had ignored both calls. He figured he had twenty-four hours at best before Hezbollah made a concerted effort to find him. The only thing going for him was the fact that the Martyrs Battalion was so secretive, not many in Hezbollah even knew he existed. Not many, but enough to cause him concern. One in particular worried him: Abu Aziz, the head of security for the Battalion. The man had never trusted Lucas and was probably the person who’d found the bodies.
He entered the studio, a small bell tinkling above the door. He heard someone shuffling from the rear and waited.
An old man of about seventy rounded the corner and came up short when he saw Lucas, a spark of recognition in his eyes.
He’s seen my passport photos. He’s the same forger.
“Can I help you?” the man said in English.
“I’m looking for Abu Bari.” Lucas used the Hezbollah kunya of the forger, letting him know he was in on the secret.
The proprietor shifted uncomfortably and looked out the window, whether to ensure nobody was about to enter or hoping someone would, Lucas was unclear.
“There’s no one here by that name.”
“Yes, there is, and I’m looking at him. Perhaps we should talk in the back.”
The man considered the request, then shuffled by Lucas. “Let me lock up.”
Instead of producing a key, he reached for the door handle, and Lucas knew he was about to run. If he made it to the street, he would be free. No way could Lucas take him down in this neighborhood.
Lucas slammed his body against the door, feeling nothing but skin and bones. The storeowner wailed.
“I’m here on Hezbollah business. Don’t make me report you.”
He nodded over and over again, then said, “I am Abu Bari.”
“Lock up.”
He did so, and Lucas followed him to the back. He positioned a chair to block the door and took a seat.
“Anyone else here?”
“No.”
“Good. I’m sure you’ve heard of the deaths of Majid and Ja’far, correct?”
Bari nodded, his eyes growing more fearful.
“Well, I’m trying to find out who killed them, and I believe you helped that man flee the country.”
“No! In no way would I have done this!”
“Did you not provide documents for a Palestinian known as the Ghost?”
Bari became more agitated. “Yes, but Majid told me explicitly to do so. He gave the order.”
“Well, that’s going to be a little hard to prove, since he’s got a hole in his neck the size of a dog’s head.”
“He did! You must tell them that!”
“I will, depending on how much you help me. If you really didn’t mean to assist the murderer, then you should want me to find this Ghost.”
“I will, I will.”
Bari turned to a computer and rapidly began typing passwords. In seconds, the Ghost was on the screen.
“Here. Here is the man Majid sent.”
The computer showed a Saudi Arabian passport for a person named Ahmed al-Rashid, complete with the picture of a stone-faced Arab wearing thick glasses.
Lucas inwardly smiled. “Print that. What else did you do to help him?”
“He had me make a visa for Yemen and a visa for the United Arab Emirates.”
“A visa for UAE? Why? The Kingdom is a member of the Gulf Cooperation Council. He doesn’t need a visa to go there.”
“He had me make the stamp, but I didn’t use it in the passport. He took the stamp with him.”
Lucas considered this twist. Forging the Yemen visa made sense, because, while a Saudi citizen could obtain one free of charge upon entering the country, it would mean a greater paper trail, as the Ghost would have to make up a Saudi Arabian address and where he would be staying in Yemen. The UAE visa, on the other hand, was confusing. Why take a stamp?
Because he’s not going to keep that passport. He’s going to get another one, and he doesn’t know which country it will be from.
The Ghost was proving to be pretty damn smart.
“What else did you help him with?”
“Nothing. I swear. Wait, he did ask me for the names of two h
awaladars, one for Yemen and one for Dubai.”
Lucas absorbed the information, realizing that the Ghost was laundering whatever money Hezbollah had provided him before they could change their mind and shut off the funding.
Hawala was an ancient banking method still used in the Arab world to transfer money across the globe. Completely outside traditional banking, it simply consisted of two trusted agents in each of the countries in question. One went to the first agent, said they wished to transfer money, and gave the funds to be transferred. The first agent took a commission, gave a code for the second agent, and all that remained was to travel to the second country, meet the agent, present the code, and pick up the money.
The key component was that both agents of the hawala exchange trusted and knew each other. No records were kept on who transferred the money, only on the balance between the two agents. Thus, in order to receive the money, a personal meeting would have to occur, where the code would be presented. A meeting that Lucas could intercept.
“Write down the names and addresses of the agents here in Beirut. Both for Yemen and Dubai.”
When Abu Bari had finished, Lucas asked, “Can you make me a new passport? Either United States or a Canadian one?”
“Yes, but it will take time. Both Canada and the United States use electronic chips in their passports now. Impossible for me to forge. The only way to create a new passport now is to use an old one that is still valid, and they are few and far between.”
Shit. Damn anti-terror methods are making it hard to earn a decent living.
Lucas knew all about the electronic chips. They were RFID tags like the one he had used to kill the investigator; each included all relevant information on the passport, including the picture. He knew the United States had gone to them, but didn’t realize that Canada had as well.
The only documents he currently possessed, outside of his authentic personal papers, was the Canadian passport he had used in the Netherlands—and he certainly wasn’t going to hang around to get another.
“All right. I think I’m done here. All I need you to do is write down a sentence on a piece of paper.”
Bari’s eyebrows scrunched together. “What sentence?”
“Just a statement saying you didn’t know you were helping the murderer and want to prove it to the leadership. Write, ‘It was the Ghost. I didn’t know before he came,’ then any other Islamic crap after that you would like, begging forgiveness. I’ll pass it to the leadership and maybe they’ll leave you alone.”
Bari’s hands trembled as he wrote. Perfect. Looks like a dying hand.
Lucas circled around behind him, pulled out his carbon-fiber punch-blade, and patiently waited for him to finish.
When Bari set the pen down, Lucas said, “Move the paper to the shelf in front of you.”
Bari did so, asking, “Why?”
Lucas punched him in the neck with the blade and watched the man writhe on the ground, bleeding out. “Because I didn’t want to get blood on it.”
After the body had quit twitching, Lucas positioned it on the floor with an arm outstretched, holding the pen. He then placed the paper under the hand. He left the computer as it was, with the Ghost’s Saudi passport prominently displayed on the screen.
He knew that any competent forensics team would ascertain in seconds that it was staged, but counted on the bumbling paranoia of Hezbollah not to have the skills or desire to check. With any luck, they’d be chasing the Ghost and save him the effort, freeing him up to secure his retirement.
His security work in this section of the world was done, he knew. No way could he continue anywhere that had the potential for Hezbollah reach. Unfortunately, the Middle East was the last place left. Working anywhere in Europe or South America would put him inside the radar of the United States, which wanted him badly. Africa remained an option, but the thought disgusted him. In truth, he wanted an out, and Hezbollah had provided it.
Inside the Martyrs’ headquarters, before he’d killed the boy, he’d found out everything he could on the Ghost and had learned something very, very interesting. The Middle East envoy was bringing a large sum of money to the peace talks. Money that was black and completely in cash. Money that would set him up for the rest of his life, sitting on a beach without an extradition treaty. All he had to do was prevent the Ghost from killing the envoy before the meeting.
So he could do it.
31
The Ghost picked up his battered suitcase and entered the bustling flow of people headed to customs. The Sanaa airport overflowed with people of all types, including a surprising number of Westerners, most likely journalists trying to figure out the latest spasm that would rock the turbulent country.
The airport was on the verge of being decrepit, with grimy walls and listless guards who apparently were paid to simply stare at the floor.
He approached the immigration desk, worried that his dialect would give him away. He had no real knowledge of how someone from Saudi Arabia spoke and hoped the man at the counter didn’t either.
His fears were unfounded, as the official took a cursory glance at his visa, stamped his passport, and waved him through.
He exited the airport and was accosted by a swarm of taxi drivers standing next to a smorgasbord of different vehicles, all with white bodies and orange quarter panels. He selected one and asked the driver to take him to the old city.
His first task was to retrieve his money from the hawaladar before the man’s business closed for the day. After that, he would need to find a suitable replacement passport.
He ignored the bleating horns and the maniacal swerving of the cab driver, lost in his own thoughts. He had a lot of preparations and fewer than four days to accomplish them.
He hadn’t realized the cab had pulled over until the driver rotated completely around and pointed to a massive stone archway crossing the road. “Bab Al-Yemen.”
He paid with his dwindling reserve of money, took his suitcase, and gave the name of a travel agency, asking where it was. All he had been told was it was near the gate to the old city. The driver shrugged, saying he had no idea.
On his third attempt, he found someone who knew the location and was happy to see it was less than a hundred meters away, across the square.
The hawala system was usually no more than a form of extra income. A way to make a commission in conjunction with a primary business. In this case, the hawaladar owned a travel agency. The Ghost entered and ignored the proprietor’s efforts at conversation. He showed his passport, recited the six-digit code, and walked away with a thick wad of Yemeni rials. No signature, no paperwork of any kind.
He entered the old city through the great stone gate and found a hotel, a rundown affair that catered to the lower income. The room consisted of nothing more than a mattress on the floor, a dangling light bulb, and a mirror on the wall, but it was clean. He left his luggage and began to wander the old city, looking for a suitable target.
His criteria was simple: First and foremost, the target needed to bear a fairly close resemblance to himself. Other than that, the target needed to be traveling alone and not necessarily here on business. Someone who wouldn’t be missed for a few days at least. He had decided on Sanaa’s old city for this reason, as most of the people here would be tourists, although he knew the pickings would be slim given the upheavals Yemen had been going through.
He wandered the souks in the darkening gloom, beginning to think this mission might need to wait until after he’d conducted his business. Using Hezbollah’s contacts, he had established a meeting with Khalid al-Asiri, a technical bomb-maker. A member of al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula, the man was reputed to be a master at camouflaging explosives and was responsible for constructing the ingenious printer-cartridge bombs that almost brought down two cargo aircraft in 2010, along with underwear-bomb devices splashed all over the news. The meeting was the following day, in Zabid on the coast of Yemen, and not something he could miss.
If he foun
d nobody tonight, he would have to spend an extra day in Sanaa after his meeting, a day he couldn’t afford. The alternative was to use the tainted Saudi passport. A passport that too many people knew about.
As he stopped in the middle of a spice souk, the smells made his stomach rumble. He was about to leave and search out a restaurant when he noticed a man haggling over a bag of spices. He was younger than the Ghost and didn’t wear glasses, but was slight of build with the same facial characteristics. Unlike the locals in the souk, he was wearing a full-length dishdasha without the ubiquitous sport coat over the top. The Ghost edged closer until he could hear snippets of conversation. His interest picked up when the man, attempting a harder bargain, stated he was leaving in two days and couldn’t come back tomorrow. Not from Sanaa. Good sign. When he heard the man say he wished to mail the spice to his mother in Jordan, he backed off and waited, ignoring his stomach.
He followed the target for another three hours, until it was completely dark. Finally, carrying all of his purchases, the Jordanian entered a hotel, an economic step above his own, but still on the cheap side. The Ghost stopped short in the small lobby and surveyed the establishment. It had a few chairs, a table, and one lone staircase. If he went up, the clerk at the counter would surely see him. Difficult to do what he needed and get away.
The hotel maintained an old-fashioned keyboard behind the counter, and the Ghost took note of the key number handed across, debating his next steps.
He went back outside and surveyed the street. He circled the hotel, looking for a side entrance he could use, but found none. He did find a group of young boys playing in the dirt and came up with an idea.
He approached them and said, “I’ll give you each two hundred rials if you’ll play a joke on my friend inside the hotel.”
The boys were skeptical, but when he produced the money, they eagerly stepped forward.
“All you have to do is tease him until he chases you out. Get him to chase you down the street. I’m going to slip in and surprise him on his birthday.”
