by Brad Taylor
She ran forward to the edge and said, “I can see the plaza and the Kasbah. He’s almost to you.” She jumped, grabbing the same iron bar he’d used, and swung herself sideways, using the momentum to generate centrifugal force. She released, falling to the lower roof and hitting hard. She rolled upright, and the target was gone.
44
In the plaza, sitting next to Retro working a tablet, I heard, “I lost him. He’s off the roof.”
Knuckles said, “I have him, I say again, I have him. We punched into another alley, and he dropped right in front of me. He’s in between me and the cops. They’re running like a bat out of hell, but they don’t know he’s behind them.”
I looked at the tablet, seeing the position of his phone no more than thirty seconds out, and said, “Okay, okay, everyone slow it down. He’s going to try the nonchalant route. Knuckles, keep on him. When he gets to the plaza, it will be critical. I need a direction. Veep, where are you?”
“Still up high.”
“Get your ass down here. Stage at the Kasbah. Jennifer, you get off and go west, near the entrance to the plaza. Retro and I will stage the vehicle.”
I saw the police twenty meters away, busting out of an alley in between two cafés, running together and looking left and right at the locals and tourists in the paved area, the people gathered in the afternoon sun mildly surprised at the activity. I said, “I got eyes on the police. Let him escape.”
I heard, “Pike, Koko, I’m in the square at your three o’clock.”
She was maybe forty meters away, casually strolling to the Kasbah, but looking like she’d just rolled down a hill, her hair all over the place and sweat running off her face.
I couldn’t resist. “Holy shit, Koko, did that guy smoke you?”
She said, “Oh yeah. He did.”
Veep said, “I’m here. At your ten o’clock.”
I said, “Okay, get in the rear SUV. Start it up and wait. Knuckles, status?”
“He’s hanging back. Letting them go.”
“Roger that. Everyone take a breath and let it play out.”
I watched the police, now separating and starting to search, questioning people on the square. They would realize soon that he hadn’t come running through here and would know he was still trapped in the old town. Two more police cars arrived, spilling out men.
I said, “Knuckles, they’re searching hard, and he’s boxed in. He’s going to get captured if he hangs around.”
“What do you want me to do, go tell him?”
And then I had a stroke of genius. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Tell him you’re from Frank and Jalal and that you’ve got a vehicle for him. Get him across the square and into my SUV.”
“Will they see him crossing the plaza?”
“They might, but it’s pretty crowded, and we can head straight out. By the time they get to their cars, we’ll be gone.”
“It’s a single highway. Gone where?”
“Gone to the first intersection, the one going up the mountain next to the gate of the city. The road that goes into the national forest. Break, break, Veep and Jennifer, stage there. We’ll transload the package and keep going.”
“Then what?”
“You guys head back to the hotel, and we’ll meet you there.”
I saw Jennifer start moving across the square and heard, “What if you’re arrested?”
“For what? Driving the same type of Toyota everyone else does?”
Knuckles said, “This is starting to sound like Madrid.”
I saw Veep moving to the vehicle and said, “Yeah, and that worked out fine.”
Jennifer said, “I’m going to ask you later for your definition of fine.”
Knuckles said, “I’m moving to him now.”
Off the net, Retro said, “What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing. Stand by here, monitoring the net. We’ll all have our phone beacons on. Just keep track in case something goes wrong.”
He laughed and said, “Like it’s going to?”
I scowled at him and said, “Give me the keys.”
He did, and Knuckles came back, “Okay, I’ve talked to him.”
I broke across the square to our Land Cruiser, saying, “How’d that go?”
“He’s eye-popping scared. We’re coming. He’s a believer. Get the car ready.”
I saw Jennifer and Veep already on the road. I jumped in the seat and fired mine up.
Knuckles said, “We’re out. Where are you?”
I saw them and said, “Look to your eleven o’clock.”
“Got it. On the way.”
Retro said, “Hold up, hold up, the cops are clustered together like they’re quitting. Might not be necessary.”
“Too late. We’re in the open.”
I said, “Get him across.”
They made it halfway before Retro said, “They’ve spotted you.”
I said, “Make his ass run.”
Knuckles practically carried the skinny man to my vehicle, the target’s eyes bulging out of his head in fear. I heard the cops start shouting and leaned over the seat, throwing the door open. Knuckles bodily shoved our target inside, then jumped in behind him, shouting, “Go, go!”
We took off out of the square, hitting the main highway out of the city. I called and said, “Retro, status?”
I heard the target say, “Who are you guys? How do you know Frank?”
Knuckles said, “Shut the fuck up.”
Retro said, “They’re loading up. They’re coming.”
“Time?”
“You got about a two-minute head start.”
I went screaming around a corner, threading through the new city, and hit open highway, goosing the gas pedal. I said, “Snyder, we’re going to pass you to another car and then keep going, pulling the cops with us.”
He nodded, then said, “Who’s paying for this? How did you know they’d find me?”
I said, “Jalal.”
He didn’t look convinced, and I said, “Come on. You didn’t think you were the only American working for him, did you? We have to stick together.”
He nodded, soaking it all in as he was rocked back and forth from the driving. We hit the outer gate and I reversed completely onto the switchback, jerking up the parking brake and causing the wheels to lock up into a slide, the tires smoking and the vehicle skipping into the turn. I saw our other vehicle and slammed on the brakes.
I said, “Get the fuck out.”
He hesitated, and Knuckles kicked the door open, saying, “Get out, get out, get out.” He rolled onto the gravel, and Veep jerked him upright. I withdrew my Glock, handing it to Knuckles. I said, “Give Veep our weapons.”
He looked at me quizzically, and I said, “Just in case . . .”
He shook his head and passed our weapons out the window. I glanced at Jennifer behind the wheel of the other vehicle. She pursed her lips and shook her head, her face still grimy. I grinned and gunned the engine, swinging the vehicle around and blasting back onto the road.
We raced down it for about a quarter of a mile, then hit the checkpoint we’d seen on the way in, but this time, it was active, with two trucks blocking the road. We slowed to a stop, and I rolled down the window, waiting on one of the uniformed members to approach.
None of them did; instead they pointed FN FAL rifles at us from across the hood. I said, “This doesn’t look good.”
Knuckles jabbed a finger to the rear of the trucks, where a Mercedes was tucked, the door opening. A man exited, walking toward us. Knuckles said, “No, that definitely doesn’t look good.”
The man waved his hand, and the rifles lowered. A tall guy of about six feet, dressed in an impeccable suit, he approached me, and I saw a thin face and the ubiquitous Saddam Hussein mustache, then noticed a small discolorati
on on his forehead, like a bruise.
In flawless, unaccented English, he said, “Where is Snyder?”
I said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. We’re just tourists.”
He shook his head and said, “Okay, license and registration, please.”
Shocked that he’d ask for something like I was on a highway in California, I immediately complied. He saw me reaching for the glove box and said, “That was a joke.”
Confused, I leaned back, saying, “What have we done?”
He said, “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”
An unmarked panel van pulled up. He rattled off some Arabic to the men around him. I glanced at Knuckles, saying, “Sir, we’re just tourists.”
He said, “Yes. Yes, of course. Get out of the truck. And for God’s sake, whatever you do, keep your hands in view. I really want to talk to you, but not at the expense of my life.”
45
Johan tossed his final package on the bed, next to the cell phone he’d taken off of the dead man in Gibraltar. It was at 2 percent, and about to die.
Fuck. He’d forgotten to purchase a charger when he’d bought the scanner, and now he might not have enough time to get there and back. Once it went dead, the phone would ask for the passcode after charging before allowing anything else to happen. The Touch ID would be worthless.
He grabbed his hotel key card, preparing to once again go to the Fnac electronics store off of Plaza Puerta del Sol, when he had an inspiration. He dialed housekeeping, asking for lost and found. When it connected, he said, “I’m afraid I’ve left my iPhone charger at my last hotel.”
The dimwit on the other end said, “We wouldn’t have it here at our lost and found, sir.”
Johan rolled his eyes and said, “Yes, I realize that. I’m wondering if I could borrow one from your lost and found. One that’s been there for a spell?”
The bellman hesitated a moment, then said, “Let me ask my manager.” A minute later, he came on and said, “I’ll send it up. Just return it before you check out.”
Johan thanked him, then began unpacking the equipment he’d purchased, courtesy of a wire transfer from Dexter. First, a digital flatbed scanner/printer combination. Next, a laptop computer and digital imaging software. Finally, a collection of art supplies: latex glue, graphite powder, a roll of clear packing tape, squares of double-stick tape, and plastic, transparent overhead projection slides for the printer.
He heard a knock on the door and cracked it open, preventing the bellman from seeing inside the room. He was handed the charger and tipped the man ten euros in return, guaranteeing the charger would be forgotten.
He closed the door and plugged in the phone, seeing the charging icon appear. It would take at least an hour, but Johan didn’t mind. He had plenty of work in front of him.
He placed four pieces of double-sided tape directly under the lamp on the glass table next to his bed, then slit open the first Ziploc bag containing a section of wax paper with a thumbprint. Using tweezers, he pulled it out and placed it on the first section of tape, then repeated the action with the other Ziploc bags until he had four sections stuck to the end table.
He then used the graphite powder and a brush to dust each of the thumbprints, the fat and sweat left behind causing the graphite to reveal the print. He gently blew away the stray graphite, then cut a five-inch strip of the packing tape. Ever so slowly, knowing this step was crucial, he lowered the tape over the graphite, picking up each print, one by one.
Once that was complete, he placed the sections of tape on the flatbed scanner, sticky side down, in essence gluing them in place.
He booted up the computer, connected to the scanner via Bluetooth, and scanned the image at 2,400 dpi, the highest resolution available. When it came through, he smiled. The image was clearer than the images he’d produced when he’d learned the technique in training. A result of the march of technology. Even so, he brought up the graphics suite and digitally enhanced each one, sharpening the ridges and whorls of the prints. Once he was satisfied, he reversed the prints, making them into negative images.
He returned to the printer, removing the tape and cleaning from the glass the residue of graphite and adhesive. He inserted a plastic transparency slide, then used the thickest toner setting available. When the slide came out, it looked like an overhead transparency from an FBI briefing. It had the fingerprints on it in reverse, but the slide wasn’t actually flat. The toner had been applied on top of the plastic, creating a tiny mold, which was why he’d used the greatest resolution. More toner meant more realism for the mold.
He gingerly set the sheet next to the printer, then applied the latex glue over each print, building two layers. He left it to dry, checking the phone. Almost 70 percent. Good enough for government work.
Ten minutes later, he peeled the first piece of latex glue off of the transparency. He used an X-Acto knife to trim the edges, then stuck it on his thumb. He powered up the phone, getting the lock screen. He breathed on the mold to give it a little bit of “human” moisture for the sensor to work through, then applied it to the Touch ID. The lock screen jiggled left and right, telling him it wasn’t a match. He adjusted and tried again, getting the same result. He gave up after five attempts, moving to the next latex mold.
Thirty minutes later, on the second-to-last print, the phone magically unlocked, surprising the hell out of him. In truth, he had started this as nothing more than a time killer while he waited on his visa application to be approved for Morocco. He’d given it about a 5 percent chance that he’d have the right print. There were just too many variables in play, but it looked as though 5 percent was all he needed.
He quickly went to the phone settings, bringing up the Touch ID interface, intending to add his fingerprint. The phone asked for his passcode. He cursed, knowing he was now stonewalled. He had the ability to turn off the autolock, but that was a catch-22. Without the screen locking, it would drain the power at an exponential rate, forcing him to plug the phone in three or four times a day to prevent it from dying and locking him out completely. His only other option was carrying around the dummy print everywhere he went.
He spent the next hour inspecting the phone, finding some loose information in text messaging, but most appeared to be for the target’s actual work. He found an app called Wickr, something he’d never heard of. He Googled and discovered it was an end-to-end encrypted messaging platform, with a self-destruct feature for specified messages. The homepage caused him to chuckle because of a statement hailing the application as empowering democracy. He was fairly sure the man he’d killed wasn’t using it for anything good.
He opened the app and hit a password. Just perfect. He attempted to open the mail app and ran aground again with a password screen. He was thinking about typing in something like JihadJohnny when his own cell phone buzzed. He picked it up, seeing it was Dexter. He answered pleasantly, remembering the threats from his last conversation. Since then, sitting around his hotel room, he’d seen the news about a sinister connection to Gibraltar, and he assumed that Dexter had done what he’d asked. Maybe he had been too hard on the guy.
“Hey, boss. What’s up?”
“I see you got the wire transfer.”
“Yep. Already used it, and it was money well spent. I got into the guy’s cell phone. Hey, do you have any contacts with IT forensic guys? The hardest part about cracking an iPhone is actually getting past the lock screen. I’ve done that, but I have some programs that have passwords. You know anyone who can bypass them?”
“I’m not sure. What are you trying to do?”
“Read his email. Check a messaging app. Things like that.”
“I don’t know of anyone in the private sector, but I might be able to locate someone in the government.”
Johan chuckled and said, “You really think I’d hand this phone over to the government
? It would directly tie me to the dead guy. By the way, I see you got that information out. The news is talking about a—quote—possible connection to Gibraltar—unquote. I’m assuming that was you.”
There was a pause; then Dexter said, “Yes, yes. I told you I’d get it done.”
“Well, did they find anything out? Did they make any connections?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I’m not read on to the investigation or anything. It’s not like I’m at the Pentagon.”
“So you don’t know if they’re exploring leads in Morocco?”
“I’m sure they are. There’s no reason for you to continue. They’re very good at this sort of thing.”
Johan gave a mirthless laugh, saying, “Yeah. I’ve seen how that works. Where does my visa stand?”
“Well . . . that’s why I called. It’s available tomorrow. You just need to show your credentials with Icarus and your H-1B visa. I got it done, tying you to the armorer on the movie set, but there’s really no reason to go now. You saw they’ve made the connection.”
“I saw some reporter stating there might be a connection. What I know is that attacks like this aren’t a one-off. There’s a planner behind it, and he’ll just keep on planning for the next one. If you don’t wipe out the queen, the nest keeps working.”
“How are you going to do that? You’re just a single man.”
“I have an address in Fez. I’ll just go check it out. If it leads to something, it leads to something. If not, I’ll come home. Where are my tickets?”
“I’ll email them to you. They’re vouchers you can redeem for any flight.”
“Okay, thanks. And the weapon?”
“That’s a little bit harder. I’m in contact with my guy, but he can’t get it free. It’s a controlled item.”
Johan let the first bit of aggravation come through. “Dexter, we talked about this. Shit, you just told me I’m ostensibly going there to help him. How hard can this be?”
