Enemy of Mine: A Pike Logan Thriller

by Brad Taylor

  It’s not supposed to work like this. It isn’t fair.

  Pike said, “What the hell? Asking you out for a beer causes you to cry?”

  Before she could answer, his phone rang.

  He said, “You’d better tell me you’re getting plane reservations.”

  He hung up without saying another word.

  She said, “What?”

  “He’s out of the damn café, and they want me to check it out. Jesus. Stick a fork in this operation. It’s over and done.”

  72

  Jennifer dropped me off at the nearest stairwell to the underground, on Münchener Strasse. I trotted down the stairs, wondering what that conversation had been about. Something was going on with her, and I didn’t know if I wanted to push to find out. Might not like the answer.

  Knuckles called and said, “He’s getting on the S-Nine. Headed west. You want us to pull off?”

  Jesus. “What the hell difference does it make what I say? You’ll just ignore me.”

  I hung up the phone and entered the café. I went to the box Knuckles had indicated, not wasting time with Internet Explorer. I shoved in the thumb drive and waited on the results.

  The first hit was simply an IP address, with nothing showing other than that the computers had talked. The second was the State Department travel site again, only this time two names were highlighted. Both had entered Germany two days ago through Berlin. Now both were headed out on flights to Doha, Qatar, from Frankfurt in six hours.

  What the hell is he doing?

  I racked my brain trying to find connections. Nothing here indicated anything with the peace process he’d tried so valiantly to “protect,” yet there was no way these two State personnel weren’t involved in it. And the fact that he was even looking told me he was as well.

  I brought up the final website and saw a plane reservation. For one Lucas Kane. To Qatar. I flipped to the State page and saw it was the same flight.

  I thought about the implications and realized something else. He’s just entered into the Taskforce crosshairs again. Officially. That fucker is mine.

  I shut the computer down, dialing my phone. “Knuckles, get the men back to the hotel. Pull off Lucas now.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You sound like a broken record.”

  “No, dammit. Get them back before they get any more burned. We’re going to need them. Lucas is going operational.”

  Back in the hotel, I contacted the Taskforce through our company VPN. Before talking to Kurt, I needed additional evidence, so I had some analysts do a little research first. While they plugged away, I considered what I was going to say. How I could soften the blow of the team’s location and current activities. I didn’t come up with anything solid, and, after getting my research answers, decided to simply tell the truth.

  Kurt was smiling on the screen, but I was fairly sure I would knock that grin off pretty quickly.

  “Hey, Pike. Good work the other day. Your usual high-adventure, but the Council was impressed.”

  “Great. We’re going to need the love. Where’s Blaine and the support crew right now?”

  “The Taskforce bird ‘broke down’ in Shannon, Ireland. I know it’s BS, but let it go. Why?”

  Here we go. “You need to get them to Qatar immediately. Lucas Kane is doing something operational. I don’t know what, but he’s headed there in six hours.”

  There goes the grin.

  “What the hell are you talking about? How do you know anything about Lucas Kane?”

  “I tracked him to Frankfurt. I’m on him now, and he’s flying to Qatar on the same commercial flight as two State Department personnel.”

  “You did what? Jesus Christ, Pike! We have no authority for this. No Omega in Europe. What the hell are you doing? Trying to destroy the Taskforce?”

  I didn’t reply, letting him get some steam off. He finally said, “Well? You going to tell me why you’ve got a rogue Taskforce team running amok? Give me some incredible reason why you disobeyed direct orders from the president of the United States?”

  “Lucas murdered my family. I came here to kill him.”

  His mouth opened, then closed without saying anything, so I continued. “Jennifer found Heather’s driver’s license in his room, along with Ethan Meriweather’s. Lucas killed them both. She also found another license. I ran a check on the name through the Taskforce law enforcement section. It was Meredith Madison, the senator’s wife. Remember she was killed in a hit-and-run? Never solved? And Senator Madison retired shortly thereafter? Lucas killed her as well, for God knows who.”

  Nothing came from the computer, Kurt’s face stunned. Reflecting on my statements. Eventually, he focused back on me. “Pike, I honestly don’t know what to say.”

  “Sir, that’s water under the bridge now. I didn’t kill him, and during the surveillance operation we found evidence that he’s still got designs on the peace process. He’s headed to Qatar, and I need to beat him there. Can you get me a plane?”

  “What? Slow down. This is coming a little fast. What do you have?”

  I gave him a rundown from start to finish. When I was done, I said, “I need to get to Qatar ahead of him. I’m sending Brett and Decoy on the flight, but I need to prep the terrain, and I need that support package with Blaine.”

  “It’s nine hours from Ireland to Dubai. Lucas will be there in twelve. I don’t have time to get them to you first. I don’t even have Oversight approval to begin.”

  “Sir, no offense, but Lucas isn’t going to wait on the Oversight Council to pull their head out of the sand. He’s on the hunt, and someone’s going to pay.”

  Kurt said nothing for a moment, coming to grips with the threat. Finally, he nodded and said, “Make sure it’s him.”

  Yes. An evil grin slipped out. “Trust me, I fucking intend to.”

  73

  Lucas arrived at the Qatar Airways counter a full three hours before the flight was due to depart, not knowing what time his targets would check in. He had no idea what they looked like, but he was confident he could pick them out when they approached the counter.

  His plan was fairly simple: Like he had with the investigator, he would use an RFID tag to trigger an explosive device that would eliminate the targets, only this time it would be the men alone killed, leaving their luggage untouched. Unlike the other hit, he wouldn’t be using the baggage tag. Instead, he’d use the electronic tag built into the passports the men used.

  The idea came to him when he had tried to get another passport in Lebanon and had been told the modern ones were too hard to forge. Precisely because they were now embedded with an RFID tag that contained all of the information inside the passport. It was an electronic fingerprint that could be fed to his explosive device.

  The plan posed some significant challenges, not the least being stealing the information in the first place. To allay security concerns, each U.S. passport had a mesh shield embedded in the cover, preventing anyone from gleaning data when the passport was closed. This was the primary problem Lucas would have to overcome; the targeted identities could only be stolen, and the explosive device could only be triggered, if the passports were opened in the respective RFID reader’s presence.

  He checked his watch and saw the flight was only an hour and a half from takeoff. SAD boys like pushing it. Probably hungover. A second later, he watched two men in suits glancing at the airline names displayed above each counter. They were both dressed like businessmen, but they couldn’t hide a bluntness. An edge that didn’t fit in with the attire.

  When they walked past him, he saw both pulling ordinary suitcases and one toting a Zero Halliburton aluminum briefcase in his other hand. It was swathed in a tangerine colored fabric and had a self-locking zip-tie sealing the container closed. Very smart.

  The consulate had prepared the money as a classified diplomatic pouch, and now these two muscleheads would pose as simple State Department couriers, delivering it to the destination. Given the peace summit, the pouch wo
uld appear completely natural.

  Dip-pouches, by international convention, were inviolate. No security post or government official could inspect the contents; provided the couriers produced the correct paperwork. What puzzled Lucas was the size of the pouch. No way could there be a hell of a lot of money inside a briefcase. The largest denomination the United States currently issued was the hundred dollar bill, and that would fill the available space fairly rapidly.

  This had better be fucking worth it. Go through all the trouble only to get a hundred grand and I’ll be pissed.

  The men finally committed to the Qatar Airways flight, and Lucas pulled his luggage up behind them, flipping the switch in his carry-on backpack. He watched each man present his passport, praying the lady behind the counter would hold it above the counter. She didn’t.

  He stuck with them, continuing the procedure through immigration and security, finally getting a chance to check the reader at the gate. He saw he had both identities.

  He raised his head, a grin slipping out. He found himself looking into the eyes of a passenger across the room. The man glanced away, now studying a blank wall. The guy’s demeanor triggered an alarm. He looked vaguely familiar, an indistinct tickle saying Lucas had seen him before. Lucas bent down and pretended to dig through his bag, giving no outward indication that the man had caught his attention, but he was now a person of interest.

  An hour later, he was above ten thousand feet and allowed to use his computer, the two “State Department” personnel directly behind him, the unknown across the aisle and one row up.

  He connected to the in-flight Internet and dialed the ISP of the device, holding his breath. He’d checked it at the Internet café, and it had worked, giving him a shot of confidence that his hotel contact had emplaced the device correctly, but now was the moment of truth. If he couldn’t input the data, the IED might as well really be a flower vase.

  The reader went through a self-test, connected to the Internet, then the ISP. He hit send and waited while the two readers talked. He saw the bar for the upload moving agonizingly slow, like an anchor pulled from the mud. He was about to reload, convinced the system had locked up, when it whipped to the end in the span of ten seconds. The data was gone.

  He relaxed for the first time in days. It was out of his hands now. In six hours, the two men with the diplomatic pouch would either be vaporized, or he’d be flying to the Far East empty-handed, looking for a job.

  74

  Our aircraft pulled into the VIP terminal of Al Udeid Air Base, an hour southwest of Doha, and I wondered who would greet us. The entire coordination had been hastily done, and chances were high that someone on the tarmac was expecting a three-star general to march out and start handing out challenge coins. The only good thing about it was we were two hours ahead of Lucas. Just enough time to get set.

  I’d given Brett and Decoy their marching orders to board Lucas’s plane, getting them out the door, then had Knuckles and Jennifer pack up while we waited on Kurt. He’d eventually called and said he had a C-21 aircraft at Ramstein Air Base an hour away from us. The C-21 was the military version of the Learjet 35 business jet and was used to transport dignitaries and generals around the world. This one was hauling a three-star around when it had broken down. It was in maintenance and due to continue its journey today. Somehow, Kurt had managed to cloak that it was ready to fly, with the general thinking he had another day of TDY in Germany. In the meantime, we’d stolen the plane. It was a one-way trip, with the general getting his bird back tomorrow morning none the wiser.

  Now was the tricky part: getting out of this aircraft and off a U.S. Air Force base in a foreign country without anyone remembering who we were. Which would be tough considering we didn’t have any vehicles, and this base was treated as if it was in a war zone.

  I looked out the window and saw two men in civilian safari clothes. The kind CIA office clerks wore whenever they went overseas. Zip-off cargo pants and multipocketed shirts. It was a good sign, especially since I didn’t see anyone in uniform.

  The stairs lowered, and I went out first. A man walked up, and I prepared to roll with whatever came out of his mouth. A skill perfected over years of lying about who I was or what I was doing.

  He stuck his hand out and said, “Channing Gray. I understand you’re here in support of security for State and need a vehicle.”

  Wow. This is going to be easy.

  I shook his hand and said, “Pike Logan, and yes. We’re behind schedule, so whatever you could do to expedite would be appreciated.”

  He pointed at a white SUV and said, “That’s yours. I just need the fund cite to release it. My boss isn’t willing to pay, so it’s going on State’s bill.”

  Dammit. It’s all taxpayer money. I faked a number, adding in an occasional letter, and praying he knew less about fund cites than I did. He studied the number, and I began coming up with excuses as to why it didn’t look right. A second later, he handed me the keys saying, “Inspect it for damage before you go. If it’s not noted, we’ll charge the fund cite when you return.”

  I nodded my head, then completely ignored the request. We loaded up the SUV and headed out, seeing the massive search of inbound vehicles at the entrance gate, but we were free to go as a vehicle leaving.

  75

  As soon as the wheels hit the ground, Lucas turned on his new cell phone and dialed the porter. If he wanted the remainder of his money, he’d be waiting outside. The phone began ringing, and he noticed the unknown two rows up dialing as well. That, in itself, wasn’t suspicious, but Lucas really wished he could hear what the man was saying.

  He hadn’t shown Lucas any interest whatsoever on the entire six-hour flight, making him feel a little bit better about his paranoia, but Lucas had lived a long, long time precisely because he assumed everybody was out to get him, and he wasn’t about to relax now.

  The plane reached its designated parking area, and everyone stood up to retrieve their carry-ons. Lucas ignored the men behind him, knowing they would all be in the same bus in a matter of minutes. Better not to show any interest whatsoever.

  They reached immigration and, as first class passengers, were all shuffled into the diplomatic line, with the two CIA men let through before anyone else. Lucas didn’t mind that, since they still had to retrieve their luggage from baggage claim. Lucas was going to let his luggage spin around the carousel until someone picked it up and put it in storage. If all went as planned, he’d be back at the airport in under an hour. He’d retrieve his baggage and return to Europe, leaving while the officials here were still trying to sort out the disaster. He hadn’t planned anything further than that. It all depended on what the dip-pouch contained.

  He parted ways with the fake State Department escorts, heading straight for the exit and the porter he’d paid to pick him up. He saw the original person of interest from his flight was doing the same. No luggage. Another spike.

  He decided to test it, swerving toward the bathroom. Inside, he dialed his contact, telling him he was on the ground. He exited the bathroom, looking to see if the unknown was waiting, knowing he would be if he was surveillance.

  A quick survey told him the man was not in the immediate vicinity. He relaxed, then caught another guy from his flight. A black man who had been in first class with him. He was now hanging out next to the baggage carousel, the belt no longer moving, the only luggage on it Lucas’s own. The man was leaning against the wall doing nothing, the crowd swirling around him.

  No bags at his feet, no apparent reason to stay, but there he was. Another person to watch.

  Lucas ignored him and went through the exit, seeing his porter, smiling like the Cheshire cat.

  “Hello, sir. Luggage?”

  “It’s coming later. Just get me to my hotel.”

  They exited the airport, heading north on Ras Abu Abboud Street. Reaching the Doha port, the driver drove along the Corniche, passing by the Emiri Diwan presidential palace where the peace talks would be h
eld. Lucas wondered how many of the Diplomatic Quartet, as the Palestinian/Israeli diplomacy group was known, were staying in the same hotel as the envoy. He hoped all of them, because his strike would generate that much more confusion as they tried to assess the political purposes behind it.

  The porter continued north along the Corniche, heading toward the diplomatic quarter. When they stopped at a traffic light Lucas flipped his visor down, lowering the makeup mirror. And felt the adrenaline flow. The black man from the airport was directly behind him in a rented SUV.

  He said, “Don’t take me straight to the hotel. Take a left at the roundabout by the Sheraton and stop at the City Center mall. Drop me off quickly, then keep going.”

  “Why? It is too hot to walk.”

  “I need to buy phone minutes. I’ll be okay. Once you drop me off, I need you to go back the way we came. Park at the Souk Waqif, then do some shopping.”

  He held out a wad of Qatari rials. The porter looked at the money with suspicion.

  “Why? Why do you want me to do this?”

  “Look, I’m a businessman from America. I told you that. People over here don’t like Americans, and I just want to make sure nobody is out to get me.”

  The porter smiled, like he’d heard a child telling a ghost story, and said, “You have nothing to worry about here. This isn’t Iraq.”

  “Well, it’s worth money to you if you’ll do it.”

  Lucas saw him shrug. “Okay. Your money is fine with me. I tried to tell you it wasn’t necessary.”

  They made the turn at the roundabout, and Lucas surprised the porter by bailing out of the door the minute the vehicle slowed to a safe speed. Lucas watched him continue on, then backed up into a pile of construction debris, squatting down and looking for the black man. What he saw was the Caucasian pass by, the one who’d glanced away in the airport hours ago. And he was following the porter.