by Brad Taylor
“I have no idea. That’s the truth. I was tracking the assassin, but I haven’t been able to figure out what he’s up to. I have a bed-down site I was using as an anchor, but he didn’t sleep there last night. Or if he did, he found another way out of the souk. If you guys can stop him, so much the better.”
He saw me starting to get pissed and said, “Look, I don’t expect you to believe me, but I’ll tell you everything I know. I work for pay, but I don’t kill U.S. government officials. I have my limits, and that’s one. Up until a few days ago I was working for a group in Lebanon. I found out about this hit and we parted ways. Ever since then, I’ve been trying to track this guy down. He went to Yemen, then came here.”
Despite myself, I found his words credible. I could confirm everything he had just said, to include the slaughter of the Hezbollah guys.
Bullshit. This guy’s nothing but snake oil.
“Why the hell did you try to blow me up then? In Lebanon with that computer bomb? If you were so fired up about protecting the envoy, you had to know I was doing the same thing.”
“Blow you up? I didn’t even know you were in Lebanon! I gave an IED to a Hezbollah contact. They thought it was a camera to record a planning meeting about this hit, but I intended for it to kill the assassin. Somehow it missed, and he’s still running around loose.”
I took that in and said, “So I suppose you thought Jennifer was part of the assassin’s master plan as well? That why you were about to kick her ass?”
“I wasn’t going to hurt her. I recognized her and was trying to make contact. I was just going to talk to her. Yeah, I had to subdue her to do it because I know you guys want to kill me. It wasn’t like I trusted her for a nice sit-down conversation. I’ll admit I was going to prevent her from getting me in the crosshairs, but if I’d have hurt her, I wouldn’t have been able to get any help on protecting the envoy. Shit, she’s the one who kicked me first.”
“What about the vehicle IED you emplaced yesterday? On a member of my team’s car?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I spent all of yesterday following the Ghost, trying to figure out his plan. I lost him at a mosque. There’s no way I could do that and go around building car bombs.”
He looked genuinely puzzled by the question, as if he thought we were testing him and he knew his answer would fail. This is sounding too crazy. I put a double pillowcase on his head and motioned Jennifer and Knuckles out of the van. I positioned myself so I could see his body in the back and spoke over my shoulder.
“What do you think?”
Knuckles said, “I don’t know. He’s a slimy bastard, but everything he’s saying makes sense. It answers the question of why there’d be a bomb from Hezbollah targeting the very assassin they were looking to hire, and we did see him kill the Hezbollah leadership cell. As insane as it sounds, he might be telling the truth.”
“Jennifer?” I said.
“I don’t trust him. This could just be a stalling tactic. He’s pure evil. I find it hard to believe he’d do something that was morally just if no money were involved. He’s not built that way.”
“Yeah, I’m with you. But distrusting him doesn’t solve our current problem. That Saudi is still running around.”
Knuckles said, “Well, see what he can tell us about that guy. The minute he says something we can refute, we start getting rough.”
Back in the van, I pulled his hood off. “Tell me about the Ghost. What’s he look like? Where was he bedding down? What was your plan to remove him?”
“I need my tablet.”
I dug the computer out of his backpack and handed it to him. He held out his hands and said, “This would be quicker if you cut these flex-ties.”
I cuffed the back of his head. “Nice try. Get to work or I’m going to assume you’re stalling.”
In seconds, I was looking at a passport photo of the same guy from the Yemen biometric scan. The one who’d built the improvised shaped charge. The lighting was different in each, and in the passport photo he was wearing thick glasses, but there was no mistaking him. The name on the passport was the same as well. A citizen of Saudi Arabia.
Lucas said, “This is the guy. I don’t know his true name, but he’s called the Ghost for other killings he’s done. He’s been here for a few days, but I haven’t been able to get a handle on his plan. I followed him most of the day yesterday, then, like I said, I lost him at a mosque. He went to electronic and hardware stores, but didn’t develop any pattern, as if he was rehearsing a vehicle hit or anything. I also never saw him conduct a recce of anything else I would consider a kill zone. The only thing out of place was a visit to the Dubai Mall and the Burj Khalifa. By the time I parked, I had lost him, so I’m not sure what he was doing.”
“That’s not a whole lot. What can you give us to work with?”
He manipulated his tablet, pulling up a map with icons embedded. Most were of the locations we’d already seen the previous day. He pointed at a new one.
“I had a beacon installed into a briefcase he used. It hasn’t been much help, but it did go to these two locations. The first is the bed-down site he used until last night. The second is inside the Burj Khalifa. Those are the only two anchors I have, which, since the briefcase only moved once during this entire time, I’m assuming are important. He’s going to do something at the Burj Khalifa.”
“What were you going to do to prevent it?”
“I was going to hit the bed-down site and see what I could find out. From there, if I got nothing, I was simply going to stage at the Burj to intercept him. He’s going back there, I’m sure of it.”
That sounded like as good of a plan as I could come up with right now. I went through his pockets and pulled out his hotel key.
“Jennifer, head up to his room and search it. See if Mister Goody Two-shoes here is feeding us horseshit. Let us know what you find.”
“Where are you going?”
“The bed-down site.”
Knuckles squinted and motioned me outside of the van. I bagged Lucas again and exited.
“Pike, you need to let Blaine know what’s up before we do anything else.”
Shit. I had forgotten Kurt had sent me some personal oversight. I had grown used to operating on my own. I liked and trusted LTC Alexander, but I was sure he’d simply side with his orders and the Council. Well, it’s worth the call. Worst case you’re going to ignore him anyway. Best case, we get barbecued together when we get home.
I got him on my secure Taskforce phone and relayed the situation. As expected, he balked.
“Pike, we’re at Jackpot. We’ve accomplished our mission. Let’s get Lucas on the Skyhook and call it a day. We don’t have Omega authority for anything else.”
“Are you kidding me, sir? His information changes everything. He’s confirmed another assassin, and the Omega was predicated on the hit being stopped with the capture of Lucas. Shit, taking him down didn’t alter anything at all.”
“You’re assuming he’s telling the truth.”
“No, I’m worst-casing it. If he’s not telling the truth, then we have nothing to fear because the assassin’s in the back of our van. If he is, we can’t afford to ignore it.”
“Let me get this information to Kurt and the Taskforce. He’ll get Omega and make this whole thing legal.”
I looked at my watch, feeling a chill. “Too late. Envoy’s on the ground. We either go unilateral, or he dies.”
55
The Ghost watched an attractive Westerner walk by him to the elevators. She had come from the back, and he wondered if they would bring the envoy’s party in that way. He hadn’t seen any metal detectors and assumed it was blocked off.
No matter. They’ll still have to pass within range to reach the elevators themselves.
The itinerary he’d been given showed that the envoy should already be on the ground. The Ghost knew they would check into the hotel prior to going to Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid’s palace for a personal
visit. After that, the royal tour of the town, to include the Burj Khalifa.
A flurry of activity out front attracted his attention. Three Mercedes limousines wheeled up, and out sprang eight men, five in Western suits, three in traditional Gulf Arabic attire. He surreptitiously snaked a hand into his knapsack and turned on the IMSI grabber.
The men were met at the front door by a receptionist and led around the security in place to the northern elevators, manned by two large security guards. In seconds, they were lost from sight. The Ghost killed the power to his device.
He had to wait less than fifteen minutes before the elevators opened and the entourage spilled out again, walking at a fast clip. Caught off guard, he dropped the coffee he was holding and powered up the grabber again. The men were out the front door in a flash, and he wondered if he’d managed to catch any of the numbers the second time around.
He waited until the limousines were out of sight before exiting himself and flagging a cab. He went back to his hotel and examined the clutch of numbers inside the grabber. Each cycle was stored by date and time, allowing him to filter the results.
Since the grabber drew in every cell phone within range, he had collected over three dozen numbers in the short span of time he had powered it up. No way could he tell which number was the envoy’s by simply looking at the list. Which is why he had cycled the grabber twice. All he had to do was identify the cell numbers that were in both cycles. Those phones would have been within range of the grabber each time the envoy passed by, and thus would more than likely be part of the entourage.
He found twelve that were duplicated in each cycle. Undoubtedly, one or two were from the receptionist or even security, but that didn’t matter. He needed only one number associated with the entourage. One cell phone to seek out his IMSI grabber in the elevator and trigger the alarm. He’d simply plug in all twelve, knowing that somewhere in the batch lay the envoy’s own phone. The only way it would fail was if the receptionist or some other false number took a trip to the Burj Khalifa observation deck before the envoy, and that was a small chance.
He packed the grabber, seating it next to the WiFi repeater, then changed into his borrowed Burj Khalifa maintenance uniform. He patted the pocket to ensure he hadn’t lost the key card for the basement entrance. Now that he was at an endgame, he didn’t want to rely on anyone else, even his close friend Hamid.
He checked himself in the mirror, seeing the same frail man that others discounted, his thick glasses adding to the disarming effect. The reflection brought the start of a smile.
He was invisible to most people looking, a person not worth a second glance. A wisp of a man who others ignored, he had found his calling in not existing at all. In becoming a wraith without substance. The talent had allowed him unprecedented success in the past.
And so it would be here.
As Knuckles and I walked into the spice souk, I could see we were going to have a tough time trying to get anyone out of there in flex-cuffs. Especially since it would more than likely be a brown guy carried by a bunch of white guys. Well, three white guys and a black guy who spoke English.
Decoy came through my earpiece. “Got the bed-down, and you’re not going to like it. Third-floor room, only entrance is a very narrow stairwell. Rooms on each landing with people selling fake Rolexes and Coach bags on the first floor.”
“So we can’t get in without being seen?”
“No way. We can’t get in without being accosted to buy something.”
Figures.
After exhausting every option he could think of, Blaine had finally blessed off on letting us crack the bed-down site. I have to admit, I was impressed, because he would eventually have to brief Kurt, and it would cost him his job, if not something more permanent. He had, of course, demanded a SITREP after the fact before giving authority for anything else.
We’d flex-cuffed Lucas to an anchor point in the van, purchased a set of noise cancelation headphones and taped them to his ears, gagged him, then put the hood back on. Finally, Knuckles had used a rear naked choke to render him unconscious. I didn’t want to leave him alone, but I only had four people and needed everyone for the bed-down site.
While Knuckles and I came up with a half-baked plan, I’d sent Brett and Decoy to pinpoint the location using the beacon Lucas had emplaced, which was still pinging strongly.
I said, “Give me a grid.”
Seconds later, a text message came with a photo attached. I loaded it into the GPS software of my phone and started walking in the direction of the arrow. After winding through the souk for a couple of minutes, I spotted the stairwell from the photo Decoy had sent. He was right—it was very narrow and sandwiched between two different shops selling handmade tourist crap.
I pulled up short and called him back, looking at Knuckles as I spoke.
“Got any ideas?”
Decoy said, “Not really. I’m thinking we blow off the clandestine side of things and just go on up there like we own the place.”
“Yeah, but if the guy hawking the Rolexes is friends with whoever lives there, he’ll know we don’t belong.”
Knuckles interjected, “Send Brett up first. He engages the Rolex guy and gets inside the apartment where they’re selling the stuff. Once we have that guy out of the way, then we walk up like we own the place.”
Even though he was standing right next to me, he had said it on the radio. I nodded my head, liking the plan. “You guys copy that?”
“Yeah, we got it.”
“Let’s execute. Decoy, you got the lock, Knuckles, first in. Brett, when you’re done, take up early warning at the bottom.”
“This is Brett. Roger all. I’m moving. I’ll key the mike when I’m inside.”
I saw him turn the corner, then advance up the stairs. We waited for about thirty seconds, then heard Brett saying “Do you have a gold Submariner?” followed by a muffled response.
Knuckles and I walked straight to the stairwell, meeting Decoy at the entrance. We sprinted lightly up the stairs, taking them two at a time, no weapons drawn yet. The landing to the apartment was just as narrow as the stairwell, with room for only one person. Decoy took a knee and began working the lock manually to prevent anyone from hearing the noise of the electric gun.
Three minutes later he looked over his shoulder and gave an exaggerated nod. Knuckles and I pulled our Glocks from their concealed holsters and nodded back. Decoy turned the tension wrench, then pulled down on the door handle, swinging it open. He leaned over backward and we went by him into the room.
The first room was tiny, about ten feet by twenty feet, with a desk holding a thirteen-inch television and a makeshift pallet on the floor. It was empty. Knuckles continued on into the second room, and I followed, bumping into him because the room was even smaller than the first. It contained a bed and a sliding-door closet, but no human beings.
I backed out and found Decoy.
He said, “Bathroom’s behind the entrance door. Clear.”
“Start searching. See what you can find.”
Five minutes later we had all we were going to get. There was very little to exploit—no computers, cell phones, or other electronic devices—but we found enough evidence to say that Lucas hadn’t been lying about the bed-down location.
Knuckles had discovered several maintenance uniforms for the Burj Khalifa building, and Decoy, spraying an aerosol can on various items in the room, had turned a backpack splotchy pink. The can held an explosive residue reagent, and the color meant the backpack had contained plastique of some type.
I was coming up with how I could use what little evidence we had to convince Blaine to let us continue fishing when Brett called.
“Man entered stairwell. Unknown on the way up.”
56
The radio call caused everyone to perk up.
I remembered where the tenant worked and said, “What’s he wearing? Traditional dress?”
“No. He’s wearing some sort of maintenance unifo
rm.”
The words hung in the air as we each stared around the tiny room for a place to hide in ambush, looking like we were in a seventies sitcom. There wasn’t even a lampshade to put on our heads.
“Decoy, bathroom. Let the door open, then close it behind him. Knuckles, other room. When he enters, let’s get on him quickly. No Tasers. The threat is him screaming. Don’t let him make any noise.”
Just as we got situated, with Knuckles facing me on the opposite side of the bedroom entrance, I remembered a potential giveaway and whispered into my radio, “Decoy, lock the door. I say again, lock the door.”
I heard a whispered “Roger,” then the distinct click of the old lock, hoping the man in the stairwell was either deaf or too stupid to recognize the sound.
Thirty seconds later the lock snicked again, then I heard the door creak open. What I didn’t hear were any footsteps entering the room. No shuffle, no keys thrown on a desk, nothing. I gave Knuckles a quizzical look. He just shrugged, both hands on his weapon.
The man spoke up in Arabic. I didn’t understand the words, but it wasn’t too hard to figure out what he was saying. Anyone in there?
We’d left the room a mess, and he’d seen evidence of our search. I held my breath. All we needed were three small steps. Just enough to clear the door.
I strained my ears, trying to determine if he’d entered or not. He said the same thing in Arabic again, clearly suspicious. Then I heard what sounded like a piece of lumber hitting a wall.
I breached the doorway and saw Decoy dragging an unconscious Arab into the room from the landing.
He said, “He was about to leave. I clocked him with the door. I didn’t think it would knock him out, but it did. Lucky he didn’t fall down the damn stairs.”
I closed the entrance door while Knuckles and Decoy searched him, finding key cards and identification for the Burj Khalifa but little else. I radioed Brett and gave him a status, asking him to check out any reaction on the lower landings.
