Enemy of Mine: A Pike Logan Thriller

by Brad Taylor

  Feeling more confident, he walked slowly toward us, sighting down the barrel of the AK. He broke the plane of the front of the vehicle, then whipsawed onto the ground as if his thigh had been hit with an invisible sledgehammer. A split second later, the crack of the bullet reached our ears, and I was on him, first subduing, then providing first aid for the large in-and-out hole in his thigh.

  We reached the foothills of the Chouf Mountains, and I saw Aziz’s eyes squint, in his mind believing I had lied, and he was now being turned over to the Druze for some incredible torture. I told Brett to signal Knuckles and Jennifer in the car to our front, then pull over.

  “I wasn’t lying before. I mean you no harm. We came here because it’s the only safe place I know. I have no idea who’s going to be looking for you in the Dahiyeh, but nobody here knows what’s gone on. Samir specifically asked for my help because he was afraid of another civil war. I was told I couldn’t harm anyone, and I tried to live up to my promise.”

  He looked at me with distrust, but there was a little spark of hope in his eyes that made me think he was putting on an act. Maybe this’ll work out.

  We’d fled the scene of our assault immediately after Knuckles’ sniper shot, linking up with his car south of the airport. He’d hit the guy hard in the thigh, but had missed the femoral artery. We bandaged him with some QuikClot and morphine from our aid bag, checking his vitals every few minutes. He’d live but he wasn’t going to a hospital anytime soon. We’d packed all of them into our van and left their two vehicles behind. I’d flex-cuffed each of their ankles and wrists, but offered water and treated them with respect.

  I said, “We’ll get your man to a hospital as soon as we can, but I want you to watch something first. Will you do that?”

  Aziz nodded his head, and Decoy sat him upright. I placed a computer in front of him, and explained what he was about to see, lying about how we had gotten it.

  I hit play, keeping my eye on Aziz’s facial expressions. The jerky image began, and I could tell immediately that Aziz recognized the surroundings, even if we didn’t. That was a definite plus because he’d know we hadn’t faked the film. No way could we have re-created some inner sanctum of Hezbollah. The boy entered the frame, and the truth began to solidify. Aziz began to believe. When he saw the boy die, he strained against his bonds so hard I had to hold him back. I knew at that moment that Samir was safe.

  The WAV file ended with Lucas still on the screen, a grainy, bloody image that punctuated his crimes. I waited.

  Aziz said, “What do you want from me?”

  “Do you see?”

  “Yes,” he hissed, “yes, I see who is to blame. And he will pay, no matter where he goes.”

  “Well, then, we’re on the same sheet of music. I want him to pay as well, and you people know more about him than anyone else. Did you give him anything we can track? Any cell phones or other devices? Anything at all?”

  He smiled for the first time. “Why would I help the CIA? I can do this on my own. Leave us be. I understand your methods and won’t seek retribution. Samir is safe.”

  Brett and Decoy heard him and smiled, thinking we had mission-complete. They waited on me to say something sane, like “Okey-dokey. We’re out of here.” Instead, I said, “We don’t work for the CIA. We don’t work for the U.S. government. Infidel is personal to us. I want him, and you can help. If you get him first, so be it, but I’m still going to hunt him.”

  I saw Brett shake his head and scowl. I waited on Aziz. I could see his mind working over the issue, wondering about potential downsides. Wondering what he could give us that would let them go. Something harmless.

  He finally said, “He had a cell phone, but he’s no longer using it.”

  “What’s the number?”

  He gave it to me, and I didn’t recognize it as a Lebanese number.

  “What’s this? Where’s it from?”

  Samir spoke up. “It’s their internal network. An internal phone.”

  Shit. No good to us. It wouldn’t work anywhere outside of Lebanon. I saw a small smirk on Aziz’s face. He’d given what he could and knew it wouldn’t help.

  I said, “Watch them,” and exited the van, walking to Knuckles’ car.

  He rolled down the window. “How’s it going back there?”

  “About even. Samir’s okay, but I’m getting little help on Lucas.”

  “Well, let’s call it a win.”

  “Maybe. You have a Taskforce phone?”

  He looked at me warily. “Yeah. Why?”

  I passed him the number. “See if they can track this. Get us a historical pattern. I’m looking for his bed-down site before he left. Last ninety-six hours, focusing on repeated locations.”

  He studied the number, then said, “Pike, they need to know the network. They can’t just crack ‘Lebanon phone directory.’ This number doesn’t even look real.”

  “It’s Hezbollah’s internal network.”

  “What the hell are they going to do with that?”

  Jennifer spoke up. “You sure it’s the internal network?”

  “Yeah. No doubt.”

  She turned to Knuckles. “Tell ’em to look at Cedar Hill’s reporting. He’s already cracked the network and passed it to them. They’re sitting on it right now.”

  “Cedar Hill? Who’s that?”

  “Louis Britt, the Taskforce case officer here. The one that helped us infil you and gave us the location of the computer we hit. He’s already passed the information on Hezbollah’s network.”

  Knuckles pulled out his smartphone and started typing a secure text to a number that would never be used again. I was a little concerned that the request would bounce back to Kurt in one way or another, but figured the little minions who did such work would just assume it a standard request from a deployed team. Especially since it was coming from Knuckles’ phone and not mine. At least that’s what I hoped. If Kurt found out we were operational without Council sanction, I was going to get roasted.

  It took a couple of back-and-forths over text, but eventually, the hackers in the rear locked onto the network. In twenty minutes, Knuckles had the tower track of the phone. The last connection was more than forty-eight hours ago, but when we brought up a map, we had one location it had stayed overnight for two consecutive nights. A hotel. The bed-down location.

  “All right. I’m going to get Samir. We’ll go to the hotel and see what we can find out. I’ll send Decoy and Brett up to Samir’s house. They can hole up with the Hezbollah guys until we get back.”

  “What then?”

  “We get out of here. One way or another.”

  44

  The hotel was a small, boutique affair with less than fifteen rooms that catered to frugal travelers. It was clean, with a utilitarian lobby that was only thirty feet across. The receptionist was almost fawning at first, probably because they’d lost a ton of tourism dollars due to the upheavals in the Arab world and thought we were looking for a place to stay. As soon as we began asking questions about Lucas, using his Canadian identity, her demeanor shifted. She gave us the usual stonewall about not being able to discuss guests for privacy reasons, but she looked fearful, glancing at a door to her rear as if she hoped someone would bail her out of the conversation. He’s been here, and something happened.

  I was about to request to talk to a manager when Samir touched my arm. I thanked the woman and backed off. Samir motioned toward the exit, and we followed him. He approached a young man of about nineteen or twenty, filling up a mop bucket. The boy smiled and shook Samir’s hand. They held a conversation for about three minutes in Arabic. When it was done, Samir pulled us aside.

  “He’s a cousin of my wife. Your Infidel was here. He checked out yesterday morning, early. He also raped a woman in his room. A university student and the daughter of a very influential businessman. The maid found her tied to the bed when she came to clean. The family has ordered the entire episode to be kept secret, to save the daughter’s honor. That’
s why the receptionist was acting the way she was.”

  “Does he know who she is?”

  “Yes, he goes to the university with her, that’s how he knows her. He saw her leaving the hotel that morning, crying.”

  “Where can we find her?”

  “Pike, I don’t think this is something we want to dig around in. It could cause trouble. The family is a powerful Sunni one.”

  “Just ask him.”

  He stepped over and exchanged some words, then came back.

  “He gave me a café she frequents during the day. He said she’ll have classes starting in about an hour and might be there because the family has ordered her to act naturally, like nothing has happened. They don’t want any questions that could lead to her dishonor. Her name is Fatima Ruzami.”

  “Okay, get us to the café and have him point her out. Only Jennifer and I will go in. She’ll clam up if she has to talk in front of a Lebanese, but maybe not to some Westerners. Especially another woman.”

  The café was only a few minutes away, which was good, because we were now driving around like a circus car stuffed with clowns. Knuckles dropped us outside, and I had the cousin lead the way. The café had several tables lining the sidewalk left and right of the entrance, most empty. Before we reached the door, he pointed to a woman sitting alone at the farthest table outside, a small espresso in front of her.

  “That’s her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks for the help. You need a ride back to the hotel?”

  “No thank you. I’ll walk.”

  I waited until he disappeared, studying the woman. She was clearly attractive, with long, black hair and a trim figure. She was wearing stylish Western clothing and dark sunglasses. She remained still, not touching her espresso or looking around.

  Jennifer said, “Let me start the conversation.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Let’s go.”

  She didn’t react to us until we’d actually sat down, me across the table and Jennifer next to her.

  Jennifer gave her a warm smile and said, “Hello, Fatima. Don’t be alarmed. We’re friends.”

  Fatima started at her name and made a move to stand. Jennifer put a hand on her arm and said, “Please, Fatima, we know what happened to you. We aren’t here to cause you trouble. We’re here to catch the man who did it. Outside of Lebanon. Nobody will know we talked.”

  She sat back down, but said nothing.

  “This is Pike, and I’m Jennifer.”

  She looked at me, then at Jennifer, but remained mute. I would have liked to read her eyes, but was prevented by her large sunglasses.

  Jennifer continued, placing her hand over Fatima’s on the table. “I know a little about what you’re going through. I had a husband who beat me. I was able to get some payback and want to do the same for you.”

  Fatima sniffled, then removed her sunglasses to wipe away the beginnings of a tear. Her right eye was swollen and purple, the white inside bloodshot. That son of a bitch.

  She said, “My family won’t let me talk. They won’t do anything. My honor is more important than catching this monster.” She spat the word honor with disgust.

  Jennifer reached out and grasped her other hand, squeezing tightly. I could see tears starting to form in her eyes as well, and I knew it wasn’t an act.

  “Help us. Can you tell us anything at all? Did he talk about hotels, where he had been or where he was going? Did you see any receipts, anything like that?”

  “No. There was no time. I went back to his room for a cup of coffee, and he attacked me immediately. He hit me, then he tore my clothes off. I fought him, but…he threw me on the bed. He…he…” She broke down, sobbing with her head in her chest.

  Jennifer said, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  I spoke for the first time. “How did you meet? Was this the only time you had seen him?”

  “Yes. I was at a disco with girlfriends from the university. My phone buzzed, and there was a text. It was from him. My girlfriends had given my number to him, and I thought it was cute for him to introduce himself that way. Imaginative, unlike the usual things I see. He was handsome, so I texted back. We texted back and forth for a while, then he approached. He was charming and friendly. At first. I wish I’d forgotten my phone that night. He would have picked someone else.”

  I was trying to think of another line of questioning when what she said sent a bolt of adrenaline through me.

  “He texted you? That night?”

  His Hezbollah phone had been dead for more than forty-eight hours, which meant it was another phone.

  “Yes.”

  I asked, “Do you still have this text?” And held my breath.

  A sharp laugh escaped. “Yes. I was going to turn it over to the police, when I thought anyone cared about justice.”

  She pulled out her phone and showed me the text. With an international number tied to it.

  Bingo.

  45

  You were just here two days ago. And you’re coming back?”

  Lucas Kane gave his most relaxing smile, knowing that no matter what he did, it would look insincere. He just couldn’t get the smile to reach his eyes, as if he actually gave a shit. Which was fine with him. He could turn the smile into something that scared hardened men if it came to it, and he had nothing to hide at Dubai immigration. Yet.

  “Yes. I was called away to Qatar suddenly for business. A little emergency that turned out to be nothing. Now I’m back.”

  The official studied his passport as if he could glean the secrets of what Lucas had been doing the past forty-eight hours. Lucas inwardly grinned. The man was trying to find something to stop him. Some reason to harass him simply because he didn’t like Lucas’s shark teeth. He would shit his pants if he knew what I’ve been up to. And what I’m going to do.

  Two days ago, he’d flown into Dubai just long enough to bribe the hawaladar, giving him a briefcase embedded with a beacon. It had taken some work, but he’d disassembled a GPS-enabled cell phone to its bare components, concealing it in a false bottom of an old leather hardside. He’d paid the guy handsomely to use the briefcase to deliver the money to the Ghost. After that, he’d only had two hours to spare before his flight to Qatar and had used it to find a secure meeting site for his Hezbollah contact. Secure in the sense it would keep him alive.

  “What business are you in?” asked the official.

  “Pest control. I’m consulting with hotels here and in Qatar.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “The Al Bustan Rotana.”

  The official had him look into the camera-stalk for a picture and stamped his passport, grudgingly giving it back. Man, they’ve got more photos of me than the Enquirer does of Angelina Jolie. Last time I’ll set foot in this country.

  He passed through customs, collected his rental, and took the short drive to the Al Bustan Rotana Hotel just east of the airport. The midday sun was blistering, causing his sunglasses to fog on the brief walk from the parking garage to the lobby.

  Inside, he could see the early preparations beginning for the envoy’s visit. Metal detectors were in place on the front door, but not yet operational, and one bank of elevators was undergoing some sort of inspection. Checking into his suite on the fourth floor, he played stupid when the receptionist directed him to the south bank of elevators, asking why. He acted surprised when told of the arrival of the U.S. delegation, saying, “I hope it won’t cause too big a disruption.”

  She said, “As long as you stay on the south side, you’ll be fine. The delegation has the entire northeast wing of the fourth floor. Please avoid it for security reasons.”

  He hadn’t purposely asked for a room on the same floor, but was pleased it had worked out that way. If the Ghost planned an attack here, it would be better to be closer, although he didn’t see any way that could happen. The hotel would be a fortress in two days.

  Inside his suite, he immediately connected to the Internet on a tablet computer,
bringing up the track of his beacon. The Ghost had taken the briefcase earlier this morning, and the track showed him inside the spice souk in Deira old city, right on the banks of the Dubai Creek. The beacon had remained there for six hours. Clearly, he didn’t have the briefcase with him, which was expected. All Lucas wanted was a start point. He had plenty of time to work with. The Ghost surely had a plan and would begin implementing it, but the envoy wasn’t due for three days. Plenty of time to develop a pattern of life and eliminate the threat.

  The souk posed a problem, though. It was a place that would prevent him from conducting surveillance for any length of time. He’d be able to blend in with the usual jerk-off tourists, but couldn’t hang around without drawing attention. He knew from experience that areas like this were transitory in nature, with a constant flow of people. Tourists wouldn’t get a second glance. As long as they moved on. Attempting to maintain surveillance on the stairwell of the beacon location would invite scrutiny that would be remembered by the locals manning the stalls.

  He shut down the tablet and thought about his options. The kill would have to be quiet. Someplace that would allow him to escape Dubai before the body was found. Which, given the enormous number of cameras all over the damn city, meant jerking the Ghost into a van or some other vehicle. It also meant he’d need help, but that was okay. He’d already planned for that and alerted the Hezbollah contacts here. He just didn’t know if they were still on his side.

  He’d had no trouble in Qatar, getting explosives from a Hezbollah cell that was eager to help, but that had been more than twenty-four hours ago. No telling what had come about during that time. He had two hours before the meeting he’d established, but decided to go early to see if he could catch anyone setting up. Better to be prepared.