As soon as I arrived, Sandy showed me the clothing choices she’d made for me. I approved most of them, and after that, while my suitcase was being packed by one of Sandy’s assistants, I changed into a guayabera and a pair of dark slacks for my flight to Costa Rica.
When I’d come out of the dressing room—looking like a refrigeration salesman—Sandy had deposited the clothes and shoes I’d just removed—along with my wallet and any other items identifying me as Titus Ray—inside a metal box about the size of a small footlocker.
The last thing I did was hand over the keys to my Range Rover. I did so reluctantly, because I’d just purchased the car two months ago, and I’d already fallen in love with it—or at least the idea of owning my own vehicle.
I said, “My car is parked over by the west gate in the parking lot used by Security.”
“Why is it parked over there?”
“Because there’s a handgun underneath the front seat, plus a spare in the glove compartment, and I have extra ammo clips in the side pocket of the duffel bag in the back.”
She smiled. “I can see why they wouldn’t let you drive inside the complex. Speaking of weapons, I know you don’t want me to issue you a firearm before you leave, so I’ve instructed the embassy in San José to provide you with whatever you need when you get there.”
I seldom requested the necessary credentials permitting me to get on a plane with a gun. Doing so was too much of a hassle and only served to draw attention to me.
I never wanted to draw attention to myself.
Never.
Sandy said, “I’ve already spoken with Ben Mitchell about the type of weapon you’ll need.”
Carlton had set me up with Ben Mitchell, the “Economics Officer” assigned to the American Embassy in Costa Rica. He was my contact while I was in country. In reality, like me, he was a covert intelligence officer.
Carlton had told me Mitchell had been with the Agency for five years and was classified as a Level 2 officer. While I was a Level 1 officer, I didn’t think Mitchell’s lower status would be a problem for me on this particular mission.
I wasn’t acquainted with Ben Mitchell, but that didn’t surprise me. I’d been in Iran and Afghanistan for the past seven years, and I hadn’t traveled south of the border for several years.
Mitchell was scheduled to meet my flight from Miami. Meeting a refrigeration salesman from Global Resources was a natural thing for him to do in his role as the American Embassy’s Economics Officer.
I was sure he would think Rafael Arroyo was a great guy.
However, as it turned out, Mitchell didn’t come to the airport in San José to meet Rafael Arroyo, because, after leaving Agency’s headquarters in Langley, Virginia, I had decided to change my plane ticket and take an earlier flight.
After landing in San José, I’d rented a car and arrived at my present location without having had any contact with Ben Mitchell.
That’s the way I preferred to work.
Completely alone. Solo.
Now though, as I observed the boxy concrete house from the shelter of the apartment building, I was beginning to regret my decision to ditch Mitchell.
Having another set of eyes at the rear of the house might prove beneficial, and, since I’d come to the address directly from the airport, I didn’t have a weapon on me.
Knowing what I knew about Ahmed, I had no intention of confronting him without some kind of firepower.
When I’d entered the Calle Alturas neighborhood earlier, I’d spotted a man and a woman inside a Toyota Highlander parked about a block away from the safe house. I knew they had to be members of the surveillance team Mitchell had brought in to keep an eye on the house until I arrived. They were clearly amateurs, and if Ahmed were in the house, it wouldn’t be long before he would notice them as well.
If he hadn’t already spotted them.
The rain finally let up, and I stepped out of the doorway and walked over to a small pastry shop located next door to a video store. Three small café tables had been placed on the patio in front of the pastry shop, and when a waiter had finished drying off one of the wrought-iron chairs, I sat down and ordered un café sin leche.
Once the waiter had gone inside to get my coffee, I felt inside my pants pocket for my satellite phone and punched in the numbers I’d memorized before leaving Langley.
When Ben Mitchell came on the line, I told him my location and asked him to meet me. He said he would be driving a late model Jeep, and then he hung up on me.
He sounded ticked off.
I was savoring the last drops of my second cup of Costa Rica’s finest beverage when I spotted Mitchell driving down Calle Alturas.
He followed my instructions and parked one block south of my location. As he made his way up the busy street carrying a hard-shelled briefcase at his side, I had plenty of time to observe him.
The first thing I noticed was that he was about my height—six feet—but, unlike me, he appeared very young. He had a round, boyish face, and his thick, dark hair was disheveled, as if he’d recently been caught up in a windstorm. However, since there was no wind to speak of, I suspected this was simply the type of modern hairstyle adopted by guys under forty these days.
Although he wasn’t obvious about it, I saw him carefully assessing his surroundings, including me. However, he barely gave the faded green house on the corner a cursory glance.
When he reached the pastry shop, he extended his hand, put a smile on his face, and said, “Mr. Arroyo, I’m Ben Mitchell.”
We shook hands, and, as he seated himself, he signaled the waiter he wanted what I was drinking. While the waiter was getting his coffee, we chatted about Global Resources.
For any interested observers, I took out one of the company’s brochures and made a big show of unfolding it and pointing out the features of an expensive refrigeration unit.
Once the waiter had placed his coffee on the table and left, Mitchell leaned in toward me and asked, “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
His smile had disappeared.
“I’m tracking a terrorist who killed one of our covert operatives in Dallas last month. Weren’t you briefed in on this?”
“Of course, I was briefed in.”
Mitchell picked up a spoon and studied it.
He appeared to scrutinize it so intently, someone might have thought he collected spoons for a hobby. After a few seconds, he laid it back down on the table and looked up at me.
I noticed his eyes were slightly dilated, and I saw a muscle on the left side of his face begin to twitch. I immediately recognized these as signs Ben Mitchell was having trouble controlling his temper.
I recognized the symptoms because I had often exhibited them myself.
He said, “I was told to meet you at the airport later today. Mind telling me what you’re doing here now?”
I was amused by his anger, and, until a few months ago, I would have enjoyed seeing just how much I could have harassed him before he finally exploded. Now, though, I resisted that temptation and explained myself—sort of.
“I took an earlier flight.”
He nodded his head but kept looking at me, as if he expected me to continue giving him an explanation.
I thought about the nonchalant way he’d done the recon on the cement house while appearing not to do so, and I decided to give him what he wanted.
“Look, I came in earlier than expected because I’ve been doing this long enough to know my chances of staying alive are always better if I do the unexpected. Being predictable gets you killed.”
He shifted his eyes over to a couple of kids riding their bikes down the sidewalk and gave them his full attention for a few seconds.
I sensed his anger was dissipating, and it made me wonder if Ben Mitchell was a short fuse but quick recovery kind of guy.
He turned and looked at me once again. “How long have you been with the Agency?”
I knew that old trick—gain control of your emotions by c
hanging the subject—and he had just executed it perfectly.
“I was recruited back in the late ‘80s.”
“An old-timer, huh?”
“I prefer the word seasoned.”
He gave a short laugh. “Okay, how do you want to play this?”
I suggested he move his surveillance team in the Toyota Highlander further down the street and then have them point the vehicle in the opposite direction. I also told him I wanted a specific description of anyone they saw entering or leaving the house.
He called and gave Josué, the driver of the Toyota, my instructions. Then, I explained about the exfiltration procedure Carlton and I had worked out at Langley. The plan’s endpoint culminated when we had Ahmed safely tucked away in a luxury cell at the Jihadi Prison Camp at Gitmo. Before that happened, though, Mitchell and I still needed to give the details some fine-tuning.
He glanced down at his watch. “I’m due back at the embassy in fifteen minutes. Will you be sticking around here?”
“Looks like Josué and his partner have this covered for now. I’ll go check into my hotel and meet you back here in a couple of hours. Let’s meet at the restaurant on the corner.”
He agreed, and then he headed back to his Jeep. Once I saw him drive off, I picked up the black briefcase he’d left behind and made my way over to my rental car.
Just to make sure I wasn’t under surveillance, though, I made several stops along the way—once to select a CD from a sidewalk display, once to purchase some fresh pineapple from a fruit vendor, and once to buy a lottery ticket from a kid with a dirty face.
As far as I could tell, no one appeared to be the least bit interested in me, and, when I drove away from the neighborhood, I felt certain my prospects for capturing Ahmed were excellent.
Later though, I wondered if I’d stayed around the neighborhood a little longer, if I could have prevented what happened next.
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One Night in Tehran: A Titus Ray Thriller Page 27
