A young man dressed in white linen shirt and pants, barely out of his teens, arrived with the tea and set it down with graceful ease before disappearing soundlessly back into the depths of the suite. Kahn and Aram savored their drinks for an appropriate interval before Aram sat back and smiled.
“The five million has been transferred, as you asked. It should be in your account in about a day. First it must be bounced between several intermediary companies, but have no fear, it will be there by close of business tomorrow.”
“Allah be praised.”
“And how is our project coming?”
“I received word today that all is in place. Once this payment is received, the device will ship, and from there it is as good as done.”
“Excellent news.” Aram set his teacup down and smiled. “I heard from my sources that you had a problem at home?”
Kahn wasn’t surprised. Aram’s family was one of the ruling elite in his country, and intrigue ran in their blood. That he had connections within the Ri'āsat Al-Istikhbārāt Al-'Āmah, the Saudi Arabian intelligence service, was a given. And that word had spread of the attack on the safe house was not unexpected.
Kahn waved it away as though a minor irritant. “It was unrelated. A mole from the infernal Israelis. They are like flies – annoying, but in the end, incapable of doing anything meaningful.”
“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss the Mossad. They have proven to be resourceful in the past.”
“Perhaps, but in this case they risked an international incident for nothing. The Bangladeshi police are actively seeking those involved in the affair. All they achieved was to make life more difficult for themselves.”
“Then you are not worried?”
“Of course not. I assure you it was not connected to our effort. More a routine game of cat and mouse that’s as old as we are.”
“What are your plans from here?” Aram asked, apparently satisfied with Kahn’s response.
“I have been invited to spend some time in India with several other like-minded clerics before wintering in Tehran. That sounds like a welcome diversion.”
“Yes. Well, I should warn you that my contacts tell me there is now a considerable price on your head. The Mossad can be a vindictive bunch.”
“It is of no concern to me. They have no reach where I am going.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. All I am saying is, you must be watchful. They mean to make an example of you.”
“The West will soon have its hands full with more pressing concerns, thanks in large part to your generosity and commitment,” Kahn said.
“We all play the roles we are destined to. I am honored to be able to help with the struggle. It is time for a rebalancing of power, for the righteous to reclaim their birthright.”
Kahn suppressed a smile of his own. Aram was a member of the Saudi lucky sperm club, born into a vast oil fortune and then educated at the finest schools, receiving a degree first from Harvard University and later a doctorate in philosophy from Cambridge. He had as much in common with the Palestinian refugees or the Hezbollah fighters as Kahn had with a Hollywood starlet. But it appealed to his sense of self-importance to contribute to militant causes, which Kahn supposed gave him bragging rights with his cousins, all of whom were also generous financiers of global terror.
“Indeed it is. And this blow will be a mighty one, felt around the world.”
“We can only hope.” Aram finished his tea and stood. “It was good of you to come and see me. I am much relieved that you are well and that things are still on track.”
“The pleasure is mine.”
The two men embraced, and Aram escorted Kahn to the door. “My men are at your disposal. If you need anything at all, simply ask, and they will make it so.”
“Your hospitality knows no bounds. The hotel you arranged for me is fit for a sultan.”
“I know you have no interest in matters of the flesh, but when one is traveling it is always nice to be comfortable, is it not?”
“I cannot argue with you.”
The sky darkened outside the picture windows as they stood at the door, and the turquoise of the sea was replaced by impenetrable brown as the dust storm engulfed them. Even through the double-plated glass they could hear the wind’s fierce howl, and Aram eyed nature’s fury with detached interest. “This is one of the prices of having a place here. It’s usually beautiful, but occasionally we have to suffer through one of these. Have no fear, it will pass within minutes. You are welcome to stay until it’s over.”
“I have taken enough of your time. I will be fine in the lobby. Please, do not wait on my account.”
“Very well. Congratulations on your progress. I will be watching the news.”
Kahn nodded, one eye on the swirling beige cloud outside the window, and offered a small smirk of triumph. “Allah is great.”
“Praised be His name.”
Chapter 26
Manchester, England
Maya sipped coffee as she waited for Jeff to appear. She’d awakened early and gone for an hour run, and then made a light breakfast in preparation for a long day. Jeff had called the landline late the prior night and told her to be ready to spend the day practicing her surveillance skills, so she’d packed a purse with sunglasses, two differently colored baseball caps, a blue sweater, a long overcoat, and a cinnamon long-sleeved blouse, in case she needed to change any part of her appearance. Her jeans were loose fitting so she wouldn’t call attention to herself, and she’d worn black running shoes in the expectation of being on her feet for the duration.
When Jeff arrived, he was all business and no friendlier than the previous day. He set a thin file on the breakfast bar and helped himself to coffee. “That’s your assignment. A suspicious character in Birmingham named Imran Nazari that we’ve had our eye on.”
She quickly scanned the data sheet and studied the three photographs, all taken with a zoom lens from a clandestine position, she could tell from the angles. “Says here he’s based in London. What’s he doing in Birmingham?”
“He’s been skulking about there for the last few days. Why is one of the questions we have. Your job is to follow him and keep your eyes open, while avoiding detection.”
“He’s not overtly linked to Kahn?”
“No. But his name has come up several times as a prominent advocate of radicalism, and Birmingham’s close enough to Manchester to be of interest.”
She looked at him distrustfully. “Are you sure you’re not just making busywork for me to keep me occupied?”
His expression didn’t change, but she thought she saw the hint of a smile before he took a long sip of coffee. “It’ll take us a couple hours to make it to Birmingham. We have another agent in place. You’ll replace him and be relieved at the end of the day.” He drained his cup and set it down. “Come on, then. I’ll take you to the train station.”
Maya cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not coming with me?”
“Afraid not. I have other duties that demand my attention here.”
“Ah,” she said, keeping her tone neutral. So he was shunting her off to get her out of his hair – her instinct had been correct.
The atmosphere in the car was tense as he negotiated the morning traffic. When they arrived at the station, she got out and turned to him. “I have your number if anything comes up.” He’d given her an encrypted cell number, as well as the phone for the other agent in Birmingham.
“Should be a milk run.”
“I don’t suppose you have a gun for me,” she said.
“That’s frowned upon here. But from your dossier, I’d think your entire body is a lethal weapon. Did I misread that?”
“Seems like if I were going to misbehave, England would be a good place to do it, since nobody’s armed.”
“Maya, this is a surveillance operation, not an assault. Sorry to disappoint you. Most of what we do errs on the side of the discreet. One might even sa
y mundane.”
“Let’s hope the bad guys are as sensitive to the local customs as you are. My experience has been that criminals aren’t concerned with gun laws.”
Jeff sighed, exasperated. “Try not to leave a trail of bodies behind you. You’re just following the man, right?”
She threw him a disarming smile. “Of course.” Maya glanced at her watch. “I better hurry, or I’ll miss the train.”
He watched her stride away and shook his head slightly. “Wouldn’t want that,” he muttered, and then pulled away from the curb.
The ride to Birmingham was only a third full with grim-faced commuters and pensioners, Birmingham the drab industrial city clearly not a dream destination. When she arrived at the euphemistically named International Station, she was underwhelmed by the gray buildings brooding in the drizzle – if anything, the first impression was even gloomier than Manchester.
The target, Nazari, was in a coffee shop in what passed for the business district nearby, and she picked up surveillance from the other watcher without ever seeing the man, only speaking to him on the phone. She stood across the street at a florist’s shop, keeping an eye on the café as she surveyed the display and occasionally pretended to text someone on her phone.
From what she could tell, Nazari was in no hurry, taking his time as he read the paper. After a half hour of that, a bearded man entered the café and sat with him, and Maya managed a couple of surreptitious photographs from her vantage point, for later examination. Eventually the pair left the café on foot, as she’d been told to expect, but then surprised her by getting into a car parked a half block away.
Maya flagged down a taxi and felt like an idiot telling the driver to follow the blue sedan. The driver was good-natured enough, though, and cackled with humor at the idea.
“What is it? Cheating boyfriend? Husband?” he asked.
“Something like that.”
The driver, a hard fifty if he was a day, studied her in the rearview mirror. “Dump the wanker, luv. You can do better, trust me on that.”
“I’m seriously thinking about it.”
The ride only lasted a few minutes, and the sedan parked in a lot in front of a sleek modern semicircular building. The cabby dropped her off, and she asked the driver to wait for her.
“No worries, but I have to leave the meter running.”
“Of course.”
She trailed the two men for several blocks, past flats with shops on the ground level, and waited as they paused in front of a pub – the Old Fox Theater Bar – that boasted having been at the location for well over a century. They turned the corner and she gave them twenty seconds before following them, and stopped when she found herself facing an empty sidewalk.
Rather than standing out conspicuously, she elected to continue walking, pausing at a men’s clothing shop and then again in front of a small market. Wherever Nazari and his mystery friend had disappeared, it had to be one of the proximate shops, but she didn’t see the men as she covertly observed the windows.
When she reached the end of the block, she pretended to answer a call on her cell as a drizzle began, and ducked into a doorway for cover. The other possibility was that her target had entered one of the homes, in which case there was no guarantee when he’d reappear, if at all.
The rain intensified and she cursed her luck, as well as Jeff, for giving her this duty. She was ready to dart across the street to the welcome interior of a café when she spotted Nazari exiting a residence halfway down the row of buildings.
Alone.
She ran a quick mental calculation of the taxi fare she was racking up and just as quickly dismissed the thought as Nazari picked up his pace, obviously no more thrilled to be in the inclement weather than she was. The rain made following him more difficult, and she let him get a good block of distance from her before taking up the chase.
Maya pulled her overcoat tight, glad she’d had the foresight to wear it, although an umbrella right about now would have been a welcome addition to her spy goodies. She tried to ignore the soaking she was getting as she eyed her quarry, who was getting just as much of the downpour.
Which made her question what could be so important to be out in the inclement weather.
He rounded another corner and she increased her speed. She reached the intersection just in time to watch Nazari duck into a shop. She continued past it and frowned. A paint supply store.
Maybe he was planning a remodel?
When she reached the corner, the drizzle abated, replaced by a steady wind from the north. Pools of standing water rippled as she waited for Nazari to emerge from the shop, which seemed to take forever. After fifteen minutes he walked out the door, looked in both directions, and retraced his steps back along the sidewalk.
Maya now had a problem. She was fully exposed without the cover of the rain. If she took up the chase, there was a good chance he’d spot her, assuming he was looking for a tail – which, if he was up to no good, he would be. Her instinct told her to stay in place, and she was rewarded when he spun near the corner and looked back – a move that could only mean that he’d sensed something and was on the alert.
And which also confirmed that whatever he was doing was, at the very least, suspicious, if not overtly illegal.
She counted to herself as she peered from the doorway, forcing herself to wait before she followed him, noting that the shop he had stopped at boasted a swarthy pair behind the counter. Not evidence of anything but cultural diversity, but if she had to guess, the two men weren’t Swedish. Was it odd that a known Muslim radical frequented stores operated by other Muslims? Absolutely not. Or possibly. That was the problem with not being sure what you were watching for – anything, nothing, or somewhere in between, could have meaning.
When she turned down the street, Nazari was nowhere to be seen. She was careful to peer into each shop as she passed, but didn’t spot him.
Ten minutes later she returned to the parking lot. The car that had brought Nazari was gone.
But not the taxi.
The driver glanced at her as she climbed into the rear. “Saw your bloke take off about five minutes ago.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You’ve run up a pretty sum here. Hope it was worth it.”
She sat back against the seat, stared through the window at the dingy surroundings, and wondered what it was she’d just seen, and cringed inwardly at having to submit an expense report for such a high cab fare.
“Me too.”
Chapter 27
Manchester, England
A statuesque blonde with a pair of slacks that looked painted on strode across the VIP suite with the limber grace of a gymnast toward a flushed fifty-something man wearing a burgundy velvet jacket, his hair dyed a color unknown in nature, a martini in one hand and a copy of a popular soccer magazine in the other.
“Look at these wankers. You’d think the bloody Krauts won the war the way these poncers go on about ’em. My money’s on our boys. Kicked their asses back to Berlin then, and we’ll do it again,” he proclaimed to two bored-looking older gentlemen sipping claret.
“Yes, quite, but you have to admit they have an impressive roster this go-round,” one of the pair said.
The blowhard’s hand unconsciously tugged at his hair transplants with delicate fingers and then waved the comment away. “Tosh. I’ll put a thousand quid on us taking them by at least two goals.”
“Mortimer, do you want some appetizers? They’re delish,” the blonde said, slipping an arm around the red-faced man’s waist with the practiced skill of a ballroom dancer.
Mortimer offered her a smile of questionable dental work stained yellow from years of smoking. “Too right, Gracey, old girl. What do they have there? Looks like dog kebabs. What ever happened to good old honest chips?” He laughed at his own joke, braying as a few heads on the other side of the room swiveled his way.
“They’re rather good,” Grace assured
him, seeming not to notice his loud exclamation.
“Is that Yorkie or greyhound?” he said, and favored everyone with another grin.
“Oh, Mortie, you’re so bad,” she chided, edging closer and pressing a surgically augmented breast against his arm. “Come on. Keep me company. It’s boring around all these stuffed shirts,” she whispered.
“Keep that up and you’ll find out just how bad I really am,” he said in a stage whisper worthy of a regional performance of Othello.
“Oh, Mortie…”
Abreeq watched the spectacle from by the bar, where he was wiping glasses, having been unexpectedly promoted on his second night by his new supervisor and deemed worthy of working in the salon. He couldn’t complain, and it would make his ultimate move with the device that much easier if he was both in the front and the back of the house.
He held a wineglass up and scrutinized it like a jeweler studying a diamond and then set it in a rack behind him before reaching for another in the green plastic tray behind the bar and repeating his cleaning chore. The bartender, an affable sort named Raymond with a face that reminded Abreeq of nothing so much as a human crossed with a chipmunk, leaned toward Abreeq and spoke in a low voice.
“Look at the pair on that one, am I right?”
Abreeq grinned like a fool and winked at his fellow worker. If he wanted a partner to leer at the super-rich and their pneumatic mates, Abreeq was his man. It beat scrubbing congealed gruel from plates for hours on end.
“A magnificent specimen,” Abreeq agreed, studying a redhead Raymond was boring holes through with his eyes. “Your future ex-wife.”
Raymond laughed heartily and then grew serious as a middle-aged man in a suit, absent the tie, approached and ordered a glass of their most expensive single malt Scotch, spitting the name at him like merely speaking with the service staff might diminish his standing. Raymond’s expression didn’t change, and Abreeq wondered whether he was a trifle touched, or clever enough to know to control his face under all circumstances.
Ops Files II--Terror Alert Page 13
