Enemy of Mine

by Brad Taylor

  It made him physically ill, and forced him into bed with organizations whose goals he did not embrace and to whom he never would have given the time of day. Which was why he was searching for a coffee shop in south Beirut, in the heart of Hezbollah territory. Far from the protection of his Palestinian brethren.

  It was only a two-hour journey by time, but seemed much further as he left the area controlled by his people and entered Beirut, a freefor-all of sectarian feelings. The civil war had ended over ten years ago, but the scars from it still existed. It was a risk just entering Hezbollah’s domain, regardless of the fact that they’d asked him to come.

  He traveled through the city proper, following the old green line from the war. Reaching the south of the city, he began traveling west, toward the suburb officially known as Haret Hreik, but called the Dahiyeh by everyone else. The home of Hezbollah.

  The Beirut he knew was left behind. More and more propaganda began littering the streets, with images of Hassan Nasrallah, the leader of Hezbollah, plastered everywhere, along with pictures of suicide bomber “martyrs.” Green-and-yellow flags with a fist holding an AK47 emblazoned on them fluttered in the breeze. Sullen men were on every street corner, armed with assault rifles, glaring at him. Begging him to do something that would allow them to stop him.

  He had believed that Hezbollah was but one militia among many, and that the Sunni groups were just as powerful. He now saw he was wrong. There would be no Lebanese incursion here, like his home had suffered in 2007, because of one crucial fact that made all the difference: Hezbollah was armed better than anyone else in the country, including the military. And men on the street corners were proud to show that off.

  It aggravated him to see it, because no other group or sect was allowed to bear arms in Lebanon. Actually, by a United Nations resolution, neither was Hezbollah, but nobody seemed to question this fact. Nobody but the Zionists, that is.

  He parked his car on a side street and got out to walk. He knew he was close, and circling the block was getting him nowhere.

  No sooner had he stepped away from his vehicle than an enforcer carrying a radio approached him. The usual young jihadi with something to prove, a strong beard, and a stronger attitude. The Ghost knew the type, and, although it disgusted him, he also knew he was at the man’s mercy. This was the last place on earth he, a Palestinian Sunni, should raise a ruckus if he wanted to live.

  “What do you want?”

  The Ghost went into supplication mode, knowing his frail-looking physique would help.

  “I’m supposed to meet someone at a coffee shop, but I’m having trouble finding it.”

  He gave the name of the shop, along with the names of the men he was to meet. Immediately, the man’s posture changed. He turned and barked into a radio. When he returned, he was polite.

  “This way. They are waiting.”

  The guard led him through an alley, glancing back to make sure the Ghost followed. Possibly trying to figure out why this frail Palestinian was meeting the top tier of Hezbollah’s military wing. He didn’t care. He’d long since given up on posturing, letting his actions speak for him.

  There was no doubt in his mind that, should things get dangerous, he had an even chance of living to see tomorrow, and a fifty-fifty chance was better than most of the odds he had faced. It would mean he would have to kill this man-boy, but he’d be able to do it.

  Unlike the schoolyard fights he’d lost as a kid, where the ultimate victory was the bully shoving his face into some offal, this would mean death, and every human, no matter how tough in a simple fistfight, was at heart a frail beast when the object was killing. No armor, no fangs, no poison. A pathetic sack of flesh with a multitude of vulnerable points. If one knew where to strike.

  As in the past, his physique gave his Hezbollah guide enough confidence to let down his guard, which would be his undoing, should it be necessary. Unlike the toughs on the street, he’d been in the cauldron. Killed with all manner of weapons, including none at all.

  7

  K

  nuckles gunned the engine to get out of the kill zone, ignoring the questions coming through his earpiece. When there was a break in the radio traffic from Blaine, he simply said, “Stand by,” and switched from the command to the operational net, giving everyone else the situation as he knew it, and further instructions. “Johnny, collapse on the house. The girl’s the new target. Decoy, set up a trigger for Johnny’s team. Follow the girl. She’s going to meet up with Crusty.” Retro had his knee in the back of the guy they’d ripped off the moped, going through his pockets. He pulled out a cell phone, and rapidly found the last-called number, reading it out to Knuckles.

  Back on command net, Knuckles gave an abbreviated SITREP. Before Blaine could ask a question, Knuckles said, “Got a number I need a lock on. And I mean now.”

  Knuckles waited, knowing that Blaine was pulling his hair out, wanting to cut the whole mission, but also knowing he wouldn’t do it with a chance of success. Although that success was now looking pretty damn slim.

  After a pause, Blaine said, “Give it to me.”

  Yes. Knuckles read it off and gave his location.

  While it was being run, Blaine said, “What’s your heat state?” “Probably pretty bad, but nothing overt as far as I can see. Why?” “I’m thinking we don’t push this. We pull back and wait for him to

  surface.”

  “Sir, he knew he was being hunted. It was a pretty elaborate ruse. We need to get him now, and not just because he’s a terrorist. We can’t let him talk to anyone else. We still have a thread in the girl, and maybe the phone.”

  “You know he tossed that phone the minute the moped guy said he was going down.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. And we have the girl. Get Birdseye in the air.”

  The entire force was in Tunisia ostensibly conducting geographic surveys in the El Borma oil fields near the border with Algeria. As such, they had a Piper Navajo aircraft with them equipped for “aerial photography” to “facilitate” follow-on seismic surveys. In reality, the bird was specially equipped for man hunting, and included unique optics that might be needed now.

  “Save that bullet. If I launch the bird, he’s going to do one lap around the city, then fly to the fields. I can’t have him overhead for any length of time without questions.”

  Knuckles silently cursed the restrictions of working under the elaborate covers created by the Taskforce. It made them as inefficient as the terrorists they chased.

  Blaine said, “Just sent you the grid for the phone. It’s off now, but last location looks to be right outside the Medina.”

  Well, almost as inefficient.

  “Roger. We’re on the move.”

  “Watch yourself. You hear me? I don’t want you pulling any Pike shit.”

  Retro climbed into the front seat, a grin on his face at the reference to his old team leader. He brought up the computer map as Knuckles intersected the P12 highway.

  “What’re we doing?”

  “We’re going to get that guy one way or the other.”

  “So we’re winging shit now?”

  “No. Amateurs wing shit. We’re working under pressure.”

  Johnny came on the net. “The woman has just entered the Medina. Gonna be tough staying on her in here.”

  Match.

  The Medina was an ancient shopping area that had been built and rebuilt countless times for more than a thousand years. Surrounded by stone walls that gave it the image of a fortress, it housed a ton of cheap souvenir shops, museums, and mosques, and was literally a maze of cobblestone streets that ran seemingly at random. It was the perfect place to avoid detection. Or pick up on surveillance, since the gate to the Medina was a chokepoint everyone would have to use.

  “Stick with her. His last location was just outside. They’re going to meet inside. Does she still have his luggage and computer?”

  “Yep. And she’s moving fast.”

  “Which gate?”


  “The big one. The martyr gate.”

  “Watch for countersurveillance through the chokepoint. I don’t think he’ll have any, but so far everything I’ve thought has been wrong.”

  “I’ve already got men inside ahead of her. Figured it was prudent.”

  Smart man. Making up for the moped mistake. Knuckles pulled into a restaurant parking lot off of the road that paralleled the port and killed the engine. “Good to go. We’ll be about five minutes behind. Coming in through the Jedid gate south of you.”

  Retro said, “What about Crusty Two?”

  Knuckles glanced back at the man, now flex-cuffed and gagged. “Put him to sleep.”

  He waited while Retro cinched the man’s collar into his carotid arteries, causing him to pass out. Knuckles knew he would only remain unconscious for a few minutes, and he hated the thought of leaving the terrorist to his own devices while they were gone. He’d done that once before, and the guy they had captured had escaped.

  He didn’t see a choice.

  8

  T

  hey were through the Jedid gate and into the maze, a small knapsack filled with equipment bouncing against Retro’s back, when the next call came in.

  “She’s stopped in a courtyard, sitting on a bench next to a mosque. It looks like a women-only mosque. We’re sticking out big time.”

  Shit. Crusty was proving to be pretty damn smart after all. “Clear out. Can you send a guy through the courtyard every few minutes? Does it naturally lead somewhere else?”

  “Yeah, it does, but I’m going to run out of people in three minutes. We can’t park our ass here.”

  “I’ve got two more. Start the rotation and we’ll follow up. We can start back the other way one by one if we have to. Where are you?”

  Instead of directions, Knuckles heard, “I have no idea. Sending a picture.”

  Knuckles pulled out his phone, got the SMS text with the picture, and saw the mosque, a small one hemmed in by the usual stone-andstucco buildings left and right, separated by less than four feet. Knowing the photograph was geo-tagged with its location, he initiated the GPS feature of the phone and loaded the picture. Within seconds, he had an arrow directing him to Johnny’s location, along with a distance scale showing three hundred meters.

  “Got it. On the way.”

  By the time Knuckles reached the courtyard, Johnny had used up all of his men, one after the other slowly walking through the open space and continuing on. Knuckles knew the individual walks of thirtysomething males would look out of place to anyone on the hunt, regardless of whether they did anything suspicious. He began calculating how to camouflage what they were doing and saw it was impossible. They’d get one pass each on the mosque. Maybe two at the most, but no more than that.

  We need Jennifer for this bullshit.

  The thought came unbidden and surprised him.

  There had been a lot of discussion about females in the Taskforce after Jennifer and Pike had stopped a terrorist strike the year before. Knuckles, along with everyone else in the Taskforce, had argued against the idea. There had never been a female on the sharp end of the spear, and he, along with plenty of other operators, was determined to see that didn’t change. There was no way a female could do what they did. Sure, Jennifer had risen to the occasion, but she was different. It wasn’t like they all would.

  During the debate inside Taskforce headquarters, Pike had said nothing. He’d simply looked at Knuckles with disappointment.

  Now Knuckles realized why. Pike had never argued the point at the time because he knew words alone would do no good. The men would have to realize what Jennifer brought to the table on their own. Like now. A man and woman together could spend all day in that courtyard and not draw attention.

  He stopped short of the entrance to the courtyard, inside a cobblestone alley with brick-and-stucco residences built hundreds of years ago hemming him in. He sent Retro in first and backtracked out of the alley. While wandering through a meat market, waiting on Retro’s call of being off target, he got their first indication of movement.

  “All elements, she’s off the bench and standing on the steps to the mosque. There’s a woman in a burqa walking toward her.”

  Burqa? The full-length dress that covered a woman from head to toe was not unheard of in Tunisia, but it certainly wasn’t competing as a lead in Tunisian woman’s fashion. Knuckles had seen very few in his multiple tours here.

  He said, “Keep eyes on. Keep eyes on.”

  “She’s eyeballing me. I can’t. I’m off target.”

  Knuckles broke protocol and sprinted to the entrance of the courtyard, slowing down to a walking pace when he came within view of the mosque. He saw the burqa take a bag from the mistress as they both walked up the steps and entered the mosque. The gait of the covered woman triggered a memory in Knuckles’ mind, gleaned from countless hours of surveillance.

  Crusty.

  If it was Crusty, his plan was pretty ingenious, since there was no way a western male would be able to penetrate a female-only mosque. Crusty didn’t have to run any countersurveillance on his mistress, as they’d be able to lose whoever was on them just by entering. Except we have some tricks as well.

  He called Blaine, sending him the geo-tagged picture of their location. “Get Birdseye up. Crusty’s got some plan of escape out of that mosque, and I’m betting it’s the roof.”

  Blaine said, “He’s already airborne, doing a ‘pipeline survey’ north to south. He’ll be on team net, ETA thirty seconds.”

  Knuckles smiled at Blaine bending his own rules, and poked him in the eye. “What happened to one shot with the bird?”

  “He’s circling north of the city. You’ll still only get one pass. Don’t push it.”

  “Roger that.” Knuckles switched back to the team net. “Johnny, do some research on the buildings adjacent to the mosque. If he were going to jump, which one would he go to?”

  Birdseye came on. “Knuckles, on station. You get about five minutes on target before I deviate from my flight plan. After that, it’s a thirty-minute turnaround from the oil fields.”

  “Roger. You got eyes on the roof?”

  “Clean shot. Can see it clearly through optics.”

  “Retro, you getting the feed?” He knew that Retro had stopped what he was doing as soon as he heard the Birdseye call, locating a concealed position that would allow him to set up his downlink and handheld video screen.

  “Roger. Nothing moving right now.”

  Johnny said, “Looks like the buildings left and right are apartments. The one to the rear is a small hotel. It also has an alley that leads to the Medina wall.”

  That’s it. He gave instructions to Johnny, setting his team up in a box around the hotel. He left Retro in place and called Decoy to meet him in the alley as the assault element. Before Decoy arrived, Retro said, “Got movement on the roof. Burqa woman and the mistress just exited.”

  “Decoy, what’s your status?” Knuckles said, “If that’s Crusty, we’ll know shortly. He can’t jump from roof to roof wearing that sack.”

  “Two minutes. Brett and I’ll be there in two minutes.”

  Retro said, “Mistress went to the left/east wall and looked across to the adjacent building.”

  East? That’s not the hotel.

  “Say again? Which wall?”

  “She’s running. She’s across. East building. I say again, east building.”

  Shit.

  “Burqa’s off. It’s Crusty. He’s throwing the luggage across.”

  “Roger all. Johnny, box the east building now. We’re on the way.”

  Knuckles took off, running into Decoy and his other teammate when he rounded the corner. They said nothing, just falling into step behind him.

  Johnny came on. “We’re set. Only way in and out is the north and south.”

  “Which one will he use? Where should we stage?”

  “North. Stage north in the alley. South fronts some shops. He’ll probably wa
nt to stay out of sight this close to the mosque.”

  Yeah. Why would he come out so close? Risky.

  Retro came on. “They’re still going. They didn’t enter the building. They’re going to the next building to the east. I say again, the mistress just jumped to the next building to the east. Crusty’s throwing luggage.”

  Jesus Christ! Johnny came on before he issued a command. “Moving. This building makes more sense. Exits north, south, and east. East exit is just a walkway, but it leads to the Medina wall. It’s hemmed in on both sides by buildings.”

  “Roger.” Knuckles knew they were falling behind Crusty because they had to run about twice as far around the buildings as he did straight across them. If Crusty sprinted down the stairs and out the door, they might miss him. It was going to be close.

  “Knuckles, this is Birdseye. We’re out of space. I’ve got to continue on.”

  Knuckles couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. At a dead sprint, panting into his Bluetooth earpiece, he said, “Negative. Do not leave. I say again, do not leave.”

  “Not my call. Can’t risk the cover and I’ve already deviated wide from my flight plan. I’ll give you optics as long as I can, but it’s going to be a rear view from a distance.”

  Knuckles swore, but knew he was right. If they managed to get Crusty, and someone mentioned strange aircraft orbits that tied it to his disappearance, the ensuing investigation would be catastrophic. They’d already raised their signature by running all over the place like a Laurel and Hardy movie.

  He reached the corner of the third building and held up, pulling out his smartphone. He initiated the moving map and saw Johnny’s team setting up, each man a glowing green icon. “Johnny, I’m coming in now. I’ll be passing your south team shortly.”

  “Roger. I got you.”

  “Knuckles, this is Retro. The camera angle’s off. They’re across the building, but they disappeared behind the roof access. I don’t know if they went in or not.”