by JT Sawyer
“He was, but an interim position in Egypt came up on his radar so he jumped at it. He said the pay was too good to pass up and he could use a change of scenery for a while.”
“He’ll regret that decision, I assure you. I’ve done government-sponsored work in Egypt before with the Mossad. It’s not a region I enjoyed much, though the women are otherwordly.”
“That’s always how you remember a place, isn’t it? Every time we talk about a place, it’s always ‘there was this leggy redhead once in Brussels’ or ‘this brunette in Morocco.’”
“The women or the restaurants—that’s what makes a place memorable.”
“You should write a book someday just for tourists—call it Petra’s Field Guide to Fine Cuisine and Eye Candy on Each Continent.”
Petra raised his eyebrows. “It would take me too long to write, my friend.” He grinned then returned to catnapping.
“We’ll see what Von has to say about either of those subjects.” Mitch’s thoughts shifted to the CIA case officer Von Harut. Mitch and Petra had worked with Von in Sumatra last winter to quell a biological weapons attack in Jakarta, Indonesia and he owed Mitch a favor for saving his life in the jungle. Not that Mitch counted favors but he needed Von’s particular skill set with clandestine activities in Egypt now that Gideon’s capabilities were crippled.
“He knows we’re coming, right?”
Mitch canted his head and rubbed his chin. “Well, yeah, but I didn’t give an exact day. But I did text him last night. He responded this morning with the name of a mosque. I assume that’s where he’ll be.” Mitch held up his phone and showed Petra the name on the screen.
“He didn’t give a time when he’d be there—fantastic.” He shook his head and glanced at Mitch. “We should be able to run into him by the end of the week.”
Mitch tucked the phone away. “Don’t worry, I got an idea on how to pinpoint whether he’s there or not.”
“How’s that?”
“I remember his stride pattern—it’s very peculiar. Von’s got a lot of negative space in his overall stride because of his asymmetrical gait caused by an old ankle injury. As a result he digs in more with his toes on his right side than on his left, leaving a unique dish shape in the terminal impact point of his tracks.”
Petra raised his head off the backrest and narrowed his eyes at Mitch. “Now that you mention it, that’s what I remember most about him too,” he said with a ring of sarcasm. “We’ll just decipher his tracks in the dust in a city of millions.”
“You’re a cynical SOB as usual. That’s what I’ve always liked about you despite your poor taste in women.”
“And you’re a redneck with a hat size that’s an inch shorter than mine.”
At the jolt of the next air pocket Mitch leaned to his right and lightly elbowed Petra in the ribs. “Damn, sorry, buddy. This is a rough flight,” he said with a smile as both men chuckled.
Chapter 29
Ionian Islands, Greece
The weathered beige ferry arrived at the dock on the small island of Zakynthos. The formerly bustling tourist village of Laganas was a shadow of its former self and the sidewalks were heavily laced with the overgrown branches of olive trees and grapevines. Another economic downturn in Europe had stripped the region bare, with only a handful of young budget-strapped travelers venturing to the resorts on the island’s northern shores.
Dev paid the ferry captain and stepped off the boat, her tawny pack draped over her shoulder. The saltwater breeze mingled with the odor of festering trash next to an overflowing dumpster at the end of the wharf. The waves lapped against the algae-cloaked retaining wall, where she noticed a tenacious mussel clinging to the cement façade.
Dev walked along the quiet path, hearing the occasional shrill of laughter resound from one of the restaurants lining the two-lane street before her. She forced the hunger for the company of friends out of her psyche before it had time to gain a foothold and focused her slit-like eyes on the apartment buildings in the distance. She passed a number of classic Greek eateries followed by a Subway restaurant and an incense store.
Given her father’s social nature, she knew he would have chosen a place that was discreet but also close enough to the epicenter of bars and cafes. If it were her safehouse, she would have selected a more secluded spot nestled down a cul-de-sac in the country. One cloaked by palm trees with the ocean to the rear and a few stray dogs roaming around the front courtyard.
Approaching the intersection near the Hotel Poseidon, she saw a faded white two-story apartment building whose rear corner was shattered from past damage from the hurricane. She glanced up at the canary yellow neon sign of a hotel on the adjacent corner, which had a caricature of a heavily bearded statue of the Greek god of the sea. The bare-chested figure was leaning with one outstretched hand against a cement pillar while his other hand clasped a sparkling trident that was thrust towards the apartment complex. She recalled what her father used to say about Poseidon looking out for him in his time of need. This has to be the place. A faint smile formed in the corner of her mouth. All this time, I thought my father was talking about some historic stone monument watching over him and here it’s this Vegas rendition of the Lord of the Ocean.
Dev crossed the street and stood under a dwarf palm tree as she studied the egress routes around the apartment. The shabby building had knee-high weeds pushing through a tarnished wrought-iron fence along the sidewalk. A broken shutter dangled on a single bronze hinge. The lower stained-glass windows, which were adorned with dolphin murals, glinted in the fading sunlight and momentarily drew attention away from the ramshackle appearance of the place. To the right was a relatively new townhouse painted flat red with a spiral staircase and a rooftop porch, the haughty image of which only served to accentuate the declining condition of the apartments before her. Dev could see fresh tracks leading across the pebble-strewn pathway that led from the gate at the sidewalk to the front porch. She recalled Mitch’s lessons about the importance of examining stride and straddle to determine body size. It was from a short, stocky individual and for a moment she thought it resembled Mitch’s gait pattern, full of boldness and confidence. She stopped scrutinizing the ground and directed her attention back to the front door. An interior light flicked on inside the lower room to the right and she observed the silhouette of a portly older woman float past the arched window.
There were no logical clues before her regarding what she might be looking for. Visual analysis alone was not going to reveal the location of what she was searching for. Intuition was recognized as a critical survival tool amongst field operators like herself and she knew that she would have to feel her way as well as study her surroundings.
Dev entered the tiny foyer and walked up to the second floor. No way he would have chosen a place on the ground level so I’ll start up here. She strode along the hallway, her eyes moving methodically over each door. Dev bypassed the first four apartments, which were the farthest from the rear exits, something Anatoly would have considered. She walked to the last two doors and examined the openings. The one to the right had a well-worn bronze handle and the keyhole was significantly scratched with recent marks that indicated plenty of repetitive use. Anatoly wouldn’t have been inside of his apartment since last August so she bypassed this one for now.
Dev moved to the door opposite her. The hallway carpet by the entrance had a layer of fine dust embedded in the edges. The keyhole showed mild wear but nothing recent. She reached her hand up and felt the underside of the door handle, which felt rough. Squatting down, she saw four parallel lines made with the tip of a blade. Her heart raced as she snapped upright. This was another trademark of Anatoly’s—to scrawl minute lacerations in the handle so another operative could locate the room key if they were on the run since few people in her business carried a ring full of keys to their different safehouses around the globe.
This is one time when your paranoia will be forgiven. Dev smiled, knowing that the four knife marks
meant the key was located four meters to the right or left of the door. She scanned the flaking drywall in either direction, followed by the floorboards. Nothing stood out so she craned her head up and studied the ceiling tiles. Dev walked to the right four meters, running her fingers along the wooden trim adjoining the wall and ceiling, her hand stopping abruptly as she felt four more parallel marks etched into the oaken siding. She slid her fingers behind the threshold and pried back the curved molding, revealing a tarnished bronze key that broke free of its constraints and clanked to the floor. Dev felt her pulse quicken as she retrieved the key and rushed back to the apartment door. With the deadbolt lock released, the door creaked open and a stale odor rushed over her. She waved her hand before her nose as she walked in, examining the dusty wooden floor for any signs of recent passage, but none showed except the tail drag marks of a small lizard. Dev saw a green anole lizard scurry off as she walked into the dining room and thrust open the blinds. She moved throughout each room, opening the windows and doing a hasty search of the meager contents.
An hour later, after examining every nook and cranny in the tiny apartment, she sat down on a leather recliner near the porch. Opening a can of beans and a package of stale crackers, she eagerly drove her fork into the cold gruel and started eating while interspersing her bites with the crumbly mess.
There has to be something here—I’m just not looking hard enough. When she had finished her expedient meal, she slouched back and closed her eyes. She thought of Mitch and Petra, hoping they had made it out of Switzerland alright. How she wished Mitch was sitting beside her now and could lend some of his unconventional wisdom to her undertakings. She wondered what happened to David and if she would ever see him again. Is he in prison or… She forced the thought away and pried her weary eyes open.
The green lizard was resting six feet away near the base of a grandfather clock positioned against the east wall. Hmm, how did you get in here if all the windows and patio door were sealed shut? She flicked a cracker wedge at the tiny creature. It scurried away, disappearing into a thumb-sized hole in the floorboards to the right of the clock. She waited for it to reappear but the jagged entrance was devoid of movement. Dev stood up and looked at the wall. It was a four-foot-wide section between the bathroom and the kitchen. Perhaps there’s a service panel back there for the utilities.
Lowering her center of gravity, she partially squatted and shoved the heavy clock aside. The wall behind it was smooth, with no indication of any drywall disturbance. She rapped her knuckles on the wall and felt like her fist could easily punch through.
She stepped back and drove her boot into the surface. The fine lattice work of one-by-two wood behind the plaster easily crumpled. After a third kick, the opening was large enough to duck into. She pulled out her flashlight and climbed inside the four-by-eight chamber, watching the lizard dart out between her boots. Sorry about that, fella.
Shining her light on the wall, she found a switch. With the fluorescent light above sputtering on, Dev looked ahead and saw dozens of black-and-white satellite images of the desert. She slowly moved forward, her boots crunching over the chunks of drywall. The photographs were very similar, with each one showing a lone figure standing outside of a cave entrance beside dozens of tubular bundles. Time stamped at the bottom of each photograph was the date from just over one year ago along with the words Sierra Leone.
Chapter 30
Mitch and Petra stood in the late morning shadows outside of a bi-colored mosque on the fringe of Cairo. The prayer session inside had just finished and the worshippers were exiting out the side entrance where both men stood.
Mitch had arrived a half hour earlier and had studied the three dozen or so shoes neatly arranged on the porch to the right. He had narrowed his search down to six pairs of shoes whose soles he had inspected. Mitch was certain that two could belong to Von based upon the sole wear patterns and size. While they waited in the searing heat, Mitch’s mind floated back to Arizona, where he once used such footwear analysis skills to crack a murder case for the FBI.
The crime had occurred in the desert south of Phoenix and the only sign left behind by the killer was some shoe prints in the sand where he had exited his vehicle to dump the body of his victim. Mitch studied the crime scene photos for weeks, always looking for some tread-wear pattern or microtear unique to that individual. During his days off, he would visit some of the shoe stores in south Phoenix and try to match up the tread pattern in the photos with the display models.
Finally, he located a match then contacted the shoe manufacturer and obtained their sales demographics for that particular type of footwear. The typical buyer was in their early twenties, middle class, played tennis, and was white. Mitch already knew that the individual was left-handed based upon the stride pattern. Plus, there was a tiny comma-shaped micro tear in the heel of the right track. All of this research eventually led back to one of the victim’s work associates. A search warrant for the suspect’s house turned up the matching footwear, which later revealed traces of the victim’s blood. A month of sleuthing based entirely around footwear analysis had caught the killer. Later that year, one of his colleagues, an expert in tire tread patterns, used a similar approach to identify a suspect’s vehicle in a hit-and-run homicide in Texas.
Mitch’s attention darted back to the present. As the last of the men exited, one pair of shoes remained untouched on the porch. Mitch was puzzled. They were the pair he was almost certain belonged to Von. Mitch walked under the two-tiered granite arch that hung over the entrance, looking for any signs of the man.
“Huh-huh,” came the sound of someone clearing his throat behind Mitch and Petra. Mitch turned around and saw Von Harut standing a few feet away. The dark-skinned man was clad in a white cotton tunic and jeans. He was flicking his toes upward and then curling them down into the sand. “You have a strange fetish for people’s shoes, my friend.”
“Found you, didn’t I,” Mitch said as he smiled and hopped down the steps towards Von.
The two men embraced forearms and did a half hug. “Damn, you could’ve made this a lot easier for me if you’d just told me the time to meet you here instead of having us bake in the sun all day,” said Mitch.
“Just wanted to make sure it was you after all. Never can be too safe, you know. Not too many people with your tracking skills so I thought I’d use that for verification.”
Petra moved up next to Mitch and extended his hand. “Good to see you again.”
Von nodded and returned the handshake. “Likewise.” He walked up the steps and retrieved his shoes then waved his hand for them to follow him. “Let’s go somewhere with a little more privacy.”
They walked for three blocks, eventually taking a short flight of stone steps up to the roof of a small diner that overlooked the city. Von requested a corner table where they could be alone. After their drinks arrived and the small talk ceased, Von leaned back in his chair, studying both men and finally settling his gaze upon Mitch.
“So what can I help you boys with? Word is that you are fugitives and on the run from the Shin Bet.”
“I wish it were that simple,” said Petra. “Besides, the Shin Bet is the least of our troubles. There are a few teams of mercs we’ve had to dodge since all of this went down.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
“Ah, the usual, you know—guns, intel, and a ride out to the desert southwest of Marsa Matru.”
Von raised his eyebrows at the last two words. “Oh, is that all.” Von laughed and slugged Mitch in the arm. “I always did like the fact that you never sugar-coated anything.” He leaned forward, interlacing his fingers and whispering, “That’s not a region you want to be in by yourselves. There’s a lot of gun-running across the Libyan border that goes on not far from there.”
“Well, a local guide who knows the terrain would sure be an asset.”
“Is this connected to what just happened with Gideon in Israel?”
“Yep.”<
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Von scratched the back of his head while jabbing the tip of his butter knife into a small depression in the granite tabletop. “I got a few days off and could go for a look at that part of the desert. Might be some useful intel for my current operation.”
“Just like that—you’re on board,” said Petra.
“Look,” he said, fixing his eyes on Mitch. “You got me out of a tight spot once and for that I owe you big time. Besides, I’ve been working solo for the past month and could use some good company.”
Petra rested one elbow on the table while glancing at the menu. “Just don’t ask Mitch to sample any seafood while we’re here, OK?”
“Shut up,” said Mitch with a scowl.
“You’ll have to tell me about that one sometime,” said Von, who was perusing the offerings.
“Trust me, it’s a good one,” said Petra.
Chapter 31
Cavel spun the black SUV around as he headed with David back to Israel to hand him off to the Shin Bet commander. David was going to be taken to the courthouse in Tel Aviv and face a public trial, with or without his signed confession. The heavily sedated Gideon member was curled up in a ball in the back under a canvas tarp and Cavel grew more annoyed with the giant man’s heavy breathing with each passing mile on the highway.
Cavel wasn’t sure if he was more irritated with the noise or with the sudden orders from Uri to return David to stand trial as the fall guy for Gideon’s crimes. Either way, at the end of the day, Cavel would be back in the field tracking down Devorah Leitner and deleting the rest of her staff once they were located.
The chase was all that mattered to Cavel—not the considerable money he received from Uri, or the globetrotting, or the benefit of endless arm-candy. It was the hunt for the selected target and the gratifying call back to his boss upon completion of the kill, those smooth words that rolled off Cavel’s tongue like a fine bourbon. Then came the resulting depression, the let-down after the job, the boredom and alcohol-infused nights of nothingness until his phone rang again with the promise of a new mission.
