Enemy of Mine

by Brad Taylor

  Wilcox knew what he said was true, with insurgents attacking anyone in uniform throughout this area of Yemen. What went unsaid was that Bashir had no leadership beyond himself. There was no noncommissioned officer corps to speak of. Unlike Wilcox, he had no team sergeant to rely on to accomplish the mission.

  He said, “All right, all right. Get the profiles, then leave as much food and water as you can, and tell them medical help is on the way. That’ll get ’em to stay until the army trucks get here. If they’re as beat up as you say, they’ll probably just sit for a while anyway.”

  Bashir waited a beat, then nodded and began issuing commands.

  The team sergeant spat in the dirt and said, “Guess we’d have been better off staying in the rear, huh?”

  Wilcox looked at the sky. “No. I don’t think so. Bashir wants nothing to do with these guys. At least we’ll get the bio data. If we hadn’t been here, we wouldn’t even have gotten that.”

  37

  S

  o you’re telling me we risked all of this for nothing? The Taskforce couldn’t get anything off of the computers that will give us a handle on Lucas?”

  Kurt read my expression from the VPN and said, “No, no, it wasn’t for nothing. We did get an incredible treasure trove of information related to Hezbollah operations, including apparently a possible operation in the Netherlands. We just didn’t get anything specific for Lucas. There were over a thousand names in the system you hacked.”

  “Run the names through all the airline databases leaving Lebanon in the last three days. He’s in there somewhere. We get a match, and we’ll follow up.”

  I knew I was grasping at straws, but didn’t want to let it go. We’d barely made it out of the Dahiyeh last night, with several more bits of high adventure before we had linked up with Jennifer and the van, to include Jennifer having to subdue a civilian in the apartment stairwell. I didn’t want to believe all of that work had been for nothing. Bringing the team in, attacking the heart of Hezbollah, and getting out by the skin of our teeth. It made me seethe.

  “Pike, the names are in Arabic. We can’t run them all against every database. We’d end up with a hundred false positives. We did scrub the list for phonetic spellings of English names, but that list is still in the hundreds. We don’t even know why they’re in the database. They could be targets or on the payroll. There’s just no way to tell. Give the analysts more time. They’ll come up with something.”

  “We don’t have time. The envoy’s only got a few more days before he reaches Qatar, and he’s in very real danger if Lucas is after him. What about infidel? Any of those names cross-checked with the term infidel?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Infidel is in there, but the cross-check wasn’t on the data you brought back.”

  Dammit. Should have stayed until we had everything from the hard drive. I knew that was just twenty-twenty hindsight talking, and I’d made the right call. Then I remembered what he had said earlier.

  “What was that about a hit in the Netherlands?”

  “Nothing much. Something to do with the Special Tribunal for Lebanon. Apparently, Hezbollah was looking at an operation against the STL, but they’ve been talking about that for years. We did a scrub, and the only thing remotely related is the death of an investigator in a gas explosion. The police have already closed the books on that one, though. They did a thorough investigation because of the nature of her work and some strange forensics they discovered, but they found absolutely no linkage to anyone related to Hezbollah. None.”

  Because they’re looking for the wrong race and religion.

  I said, “The case officer here thinks Lucas was a hired gun for outside work precisely because he wasn’t tied to Hezbollah by ideology and he was Caucasian. Run those phonetic names against the flight records leaving Amsterdam to Beirut for three days after the death of the investigator. Is that necked down enough? There can’t be more than a couple dozen flights, and no way would Lucas have hung around. If he had anything to do with the explosion, and he’s in that list of names, he’ll pop.”

  I saw Kurt turn and yell at someone behind him. He wrote instructions on a piece of paper, handed it to a man outside of camera range, then returned.

  “That won’t take but a few minutes. But you’re really grasping at straws.”

  I smiled. “Better than nothing. We got a team here ready to go.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Even if this does pan out, I need to get Council approval before you guys go hot-rodding after Lucas.”

  “I know, I know, but we need to prep now. We’re going to need equipment because we’re flying commercial. Can you get a bundle ready to drop? If we don’t get anything on Lucas, it won’t go anywhere. We don’t need Council approval for that.”

  Kurt said nothing. I could tell he thought the entire thing was wasted effort and that I was just wishing for a break. Getting a bundle operational was a lot of work, much more than simply building it. In addition to the equipment, Kurt would have to start planning flights to a bunch of tentative drop areas, including both the United Arab Emirates and Qatar, which meant diverting aircraft and building covers for their operations. I pressed him.

  “Sir, I know it’s a long shot, but—”

  Before I could finish, he turned from the screen and took a sheet of paper. I held my breath while he read it. He said something to the analyst offscreen, pointing at the sheet. He nodded and returned to the VPN.

  “I don’t know how you come up with this stuff. Two names matched. Both Canadian citizens. One leaving within twelve hours of the gas explosion, one three days later.”

  Yes.

  “Run those two names against Beirut flights for the last forty-eight hours. See if either of them were here and left.”

  The analyst returned in seconds, and Kurt said, “One name. Canadian. Left yesterday, headed to Dubai.”

  Bingo.

  “Send me the data, and get me Oversight Council approval to go to Dubai.”

  “Wait. This is pretty thin. I’m not sure I can convince the Council to let you go. Hell, I’m not even sure I’m convinced. You’ve got your company—supposedly working in Syria—which has mysteriously acquired three new employees in Lebanon, who will now all trek to

  Dubai. I’m not sure the evidence is worth the risk to exposure.” “Sir, come on! Yeah, it’s risky, but whether that’s Lucas or not,

  something is going on against the envoy. You know it and I know it.

  There’s still a couple of threads here that don’t make sense, starting

  with the computer bomb that Lucas gave me. The guy who was killed

  doesn’t match the description of the man that was supposed to conduct the meeting, and it still makes no sense for Lucas to kill him in

  the first place. We need to go with what we do know, which is that a

  host of people seem to want the envoy dead, with Lucas at the top of

  the list. And he’s in Dubai. The only good thing is that he’s working

  with the old itinerary, so we have some time to play with.” I saw Kurt wince, and said, “Right? We have time to play with

  before the envoy gets to Dubai?”

  “No. The decision was made to keep his itinerary the same. He’ll

  be in Abu Dhabi in three days, and Dubai the day after that.” “Who’s brilliant idea was that?”

  “State Department. The trip is too important, and changing the

  schedule would risk offending the very people he’s going to see. It was

  carefully chosen.”

  “Well, that’s just great. Your call, sir.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll brief the Council, and I’ll put on a log-tech for

  your equipment requirements, but you still only have a name. How

  are you going to find Lucas?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll figure something out.”

  “Don’t figure anything out before I get approval, understood? No

  more operationa
l activity.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it. We can’t do anything more in Lebanon anyway.”

  While Kurt was getting a log-tech on the line, I caught movement

  behind me and saw Samir poking his head in the door. I quickly turned

  the screen blank and said, “What’s up?”

  His face was ashen, like he’d just been told of a death in the family. “I need to speak with you. Urgently.”

  I turned the computer over to Knuckles and followed him out to the den.

  “What’s going on? You look spooked.”

  “My niece has been taken by Hezbollah. They want to talk to me about the deaths of their leadership. They suspect I had something to do with it. I told them no, and now they’ve captured her as leverage.”

  Holy shit. I could see why he looked like he was going to puke. If he went into Hezbollah-land, he wouldn’t be coming back out. At least not in whole pieces. But he couldn’t leave his niece to the same fate. Even so, it had nothing to do with me. He had his entire clan to help him out.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. We’ll be leaving soon. We can go right now if you need your house for a war council.”

  “That’s not why I’m telling you. I’m not going to my people. They’ll go berserk. Probably just capture some other Hezbollah in reprisal. They don’t have the skill to help, and this could turn into a shooting war very easily.”

  I said nothing, his words sinking in. He wants me to help.

  I held up my hands. “Samir, I can’t do anything over here. I don’t—”

  “I need surgical skill. I need to get her back without unnecessary bloodshed. Your skill. This has all happened because I helped you. Please. I will turn myself in and convince them I had nothing to do with the killings, but I want you to get her back.”

  Kurt’s last command was still echoing in my head. “Samir, I really have no authority to do what you’re asking. I can’t risk my men and possibly start another Lebanese civil war. I’m sorry.”

  “She’s nineteen, Pike. A university student. She knows nothing of war.”

  Jennifer had entered the room and had heard the last part of the conversation. She was staring at me, waiting to hear what I would say.

  38

  I

  nching toward the desk in the Dubai immigration line, every step forward built a sense of dread within the Ghost. He had had no trouble leaving Yemen, including obtaining the necessary items for his mission, but then again, not many have particular trouble leaving a country. It’s getting in that’s tricky. Now, he was about to find out if his forged Dubai visa, coupled with his Jordanian passport, would withstand scrutiny.

  He glanced again at the picture within the passport, mentally comparing it to his own visage. It should be close enough. They were both clean-shaven, and he’d purchased attire that was suitable for someone from Jordan. He closed the passport and studied the immigration desk, the people drawn toward it as if they were being sucked up by a slow vacuum.

  Watching two more travelers go through the routine, he noticed each stiffen during the interview, rigidly facing the official behind the counter. He wondered what they were doing. He watched the next man, and it hit him: They were taking a digital photo and conducting a retinal scan. Of every person in line.

  He ripped open the passport again, trying to find if it had some means of digital storage. All he saw was a bar code. Surely the Jordanian’s retinal scan wasn’t in that, was it? The Hashemite Kingdom didn’t include biometrics in their passports, did they? If so, he was doomed, because the scan of his eye wouldn’t match the scan in the passport. He looked to the rear, contemplating moving back into the terminal and claiming he had gone the wrong way. That he had a connecting flight. But he had no connecting flight. No boarding pass to present. The glaring lack of documents would invite scrutiny. Questions he couldn’t answer.

  While moving inexorably forward, he studied the immigration officials’ actions and relaxed a little. It didn’t appear as if they were comparing anything. Simply collating data, like what had happened to him yesterday with the Yemeni police.

  The thought brought a bolt of adrenaline, causing his face to flush and sweat to pop on his neck. Did the Yemenis share such data? Was there a database on the Arabian Peninsula that was fed by such sweeps? It wouldn’t matter that he had no reason to be suspected of anything. The scan in Yemen was for a Saudi citizen, not the Jordanian passport he held in his hand. The difference alone would get him arrested. Then, when they gave his bags a much more thorough search than normal, they would find the explosives.

  He looked up again and saw there was only one more person ahead of him. Too late to run now. He felt queasy, like he’d eaten something rotten. He should have done more research on Dubai immigration. He had thought using the Jordanian passport was the perfect break from all that Hezbollah knew, especially now that they were hunting him out of misplaced vengeance, but he wished he had stuck with the original forged passport.

  The traveler behind him gently tapped his shoulder, causing him to flinch. The man pointed, and he realized he was being waved forward. He walked woodenly to the counter and presented his passport.

  The official saw the visa for Dubai, then the missing national identification number.

  “You are from Jordan?”

  “Yes. Well, the West Bank, but the passport and visa are from Jordan.”

  “What is the purpose of your stay?”

  “I’m visiting a friend. I hope to find employment in Dubai.” “Who is your friend?”

  He read off the name and address of a man living in the old section of Deira, near the banks of the Dubai Creek. At least this much was backstopped. The man was real, a friend, and knew he was coming. After Yemen, the Ghost would rely only on those he knew he could trust. Knew the purpose of his cause.

  “What does your friend do?”

  The Ghost felt a trickle of sweat track down his cheek. He wanted to wipe it away, to hide the traitorous reaction of his body, but realized the motion would only draw attention to his nervousness.

  “He’s a maintenance worker at the Al Bustan Rotana Hotel. He said I might join him there. They have openings.”

  This part was not true. The friend did work at the Rotana Hotel, but the Ghost had no idea about their employment status. All he cared about was the fact that the man’s job would allow him to penetrate hotel security for his mission.

  The official pointed to a lens on a stalk behind his chair and said, “Look here until I tell you to stop.”

  The Ghost did so, giving a silent prayer.

  The man glanced at the screen, apparently satisfied. He stamped the passport and handed it back, already waving the next man forward.

  The Ghost snatched up his passport and willed himself to walk casually to the baggage claim area, and his next challenge—getting through customs.

  He found his first suitcase already circling on the baggage carousel. Two bags behind it was the large computer box, swathed in cellophane for the journey. It looked no different than a half dozen other boxes on the carousel, but contained the explosives and detonators he’d acquired in Yemen.

  He placed both on a luggage cart and passed through the door marked “Nothing to Declare.” He was directed to an X-ray machine, along with four other men, all competing to get out of customs. He waited for his luggage to be spit out on the far side, surreptitiously watching the official tasked with reviewing the screen. The man barely looked at anything coming through, and in short order, the Ghost was free, feeling the bracing heat of the Dubai afternoon.

  He took three deep breaths, glancing left and right to see if anyone had followed, still not believing he had made it into the country. He heard someone shout, “Ash’abah!” and turned to see his friend pull up in a rusty, belching sedan.

  “Hamid. It’s good to see you.”

  Hamid exited and helped with his bags, then said, “Where to first?”

  He gave out the address to his hawaladar, then s
aid, “I need a place to stay. A hotel that won’t be visited by anyone in authority.”

  “Nonsense. You will stay with me. I have a flat in the old town. It’s secure, trust me.”

  The Ghost smiled and said, “I have one other favor.”

  “What? Anything to repay my debt.”

  “I need you to get me in to the Al Bustan Rotana as an employee. I have some work to do there before they lock it down for a visit from an American.”

  Hamid’s face fell, and the Ghost said, “What? You told me you were being promoted to a leader in the maintenance department. I won’t tie you to the work. You’ll be safe.”

  “It’s not that. I would do anything for you, but I no longer work there.”

  At first, the Ghost didn’t grasp what Hamid had said, the words too destructive to contemplate. The very idea of using the Rotana Hotel had come from his friendship with Hamid. His entire plan relied on Hamid’s employment. The symmetry of attacking the United States envoy in the same hotel that Mossad had killed the Hamas operative held a poetic justice in his eyes, but it was predicated on gaining access. He’d never thought to ask if Hamid still worked there.

  He considered attacking at the hotel anyway, but knew it was futile. He wanted a surgical killing. A statement that vied for publicity precisely because it duplicated the Mossad hit. Now, it would have to be a large, messy attack. And he didn’t have the explosives for a car bomb.

  Hamid continued. “Right after they opened the Burj Khalifa, they had a problem with the elevators. Some tourists were trapped for hours. They fired the maintenance crew, and I applied to replace them. I’ve worked there for over a year.”

  The comment tickled something in the Ghost’s memory. He reached into his carry-on bag, pulling out the American’s itinerary and saw what had triggered the recollection. The Burj Khalifa was the tallest building in the world, an engineering marvel that rose like a spear out of the desert, towering over every other building in the Dubai skyline. The envoy had left his ambassadorship six months before the building opened in January 2010. He was now scheduled for a royal tour to the observation deck one hundred and twenty-four stories above the earth.