RABAT, MOROCCO
He was dressed like a tourist, in white shorts, a green T-shirt, and a nondescript white baseball cap. He had preregistered at the motel, arrived with two carry-on-bags, and stubbed out his cigarette before entering the lobby. When he saw that one of the other guests was smoking, he lit up again. There were three good reasons for smoking. First, it was one way to ferret out Americans. They tended to hang back from cigarette smoke, especially the younger ones. Whoever was farther away than a careful observer should be—he could be an American operative.
The second good reason for smoking was that it was an excuse to loiter, which is what Mahdavi Yazdi was doing now.
It was late morning and he was in the parking lot, under an oak tree, beside his rental car, watching the room where Qassam Pakravesh had died. The broken window had been boarded with plywood and covered with a waterproof tarpaulin. The light was off inside. Yazdi stood there through three cigarettes. No one came or went.
The Iranian agent went back inside. He walked down a corridor lit darkly with functional fixtures every few feet. The room was near the end, well away from the lobby. The door was old, operated by key access; Yazdi didn’t bother picking the lock. He slipped on a rubber glove, got a solid grip, and turned while pushing the door with his shoulder. The latch gave with a little snap. He stepped inside and braced it shut with a wooden chair.
There was enough light that he didn’t need to turn one on. He didn’t expect to be here long. He went directly to the rickety night table, opened the top drawer, felt inside along the top. He found what he was looking for, duct-taped out of view: Pakravesh’s cigarette lighter. He tugged it free, put it in his pocket, and left.
Back in his room, Yazdi drew the drapes, worked the bottom from the lighter, and pulled out a memory chip. It was the job of every field agent to create a visual diary of his travels and everyone with whom he had a meaningful encounter. That was the third good reason for smoking. An instinct lost from the Cold War: no one suspected a cigarette lighter of being a camera.
The intelligence chief plugged the stick into a slot in his cell phone. He scrolled through the images until Pakravesh arrived in Rabat. He studied them carefully, comparing the people he saw one to the other. Who was staring at him? Who appeared in more than one photograph? Who was the man who helped him to his room?
He transmitted a selection of photographs back to his office at VEJE: the other vendors at the waterfront, the stevedores, and the one who came to the hotel. He wanted to know if any of the faces matched those in their database. One came back positive in just a few minutes: Mohammed Tahir.
A revolutionary contact in Yemen was all the data that was in the open file—a file that was accessible to low-security workers.
He sent back an encrypted text to his deputy, Sanjar:
URGENT: I WANT EVERYTHING ON THIS MAN.
Then, eating a pita sandwich he’d bought, Yazdi sat on the bed, looked out the window at the parking lot, and waited.
Until something going on outside caught his eye. Scooping up his phone—and the cigarette lighter—he hurried outside.
The Royal Moroccan Gendarmerie had a good working relationship with INTERPOL. The two police groups left each other alone. When INTERPOL had an area of concern it had to be serious enough to merit cannibalizing their limited resources.
Lt. Abdelkrim el-Othmani was actually happy to get out into the field. For the past two weeks he had been investigating a scam in which senior citizens were phoned by a man allegedly representing their health care insurance firm and wanting to return the cost of medications. All the seemingly helpful officer needed was their bank account information—which he used to empty those accounts. The thirty-seven-year-old was no closer to finding the perpetrator than he had been when he started. All of the crimes, from solicitation to execution, were committed somewhere else in the world. The closest he got was finding out that the signal apparently originated in China. Given the number of Chinese throughout the continent, that did not surprise him. There were literally thousands of nationals, mostly training and financially supporting local militias to make them financially dependent. A lot of data was going home with them to Beijing, Shanghai, Hong Kong, and other hotbeds of black market activity.
But now el-Othmani was on a terror watch. Not a criminal investigation, which is what he thought when the captain gave him the address. He had recognized the motel from the morning reports.
At the request of INTERPOL, el-Othmani was to carry a Geiger counter—one of two owned by the RMG—and follow a trail of radiation from the crime scene to wherever it took him.
“We have reason to believe this crime may have been connected to the break-in at the medical facility,” the captain told him. “We need to know whether radiation was involved and where it ended up.”
“Am I at risk?” el-Othmani had asked.
The captain—a former bodyguard to HM King Mohammad IV—replied matter-of-factly, “Only if you find the source.”
The lieutenant was told that if levels rose above twelve millisieverts he was to return to the station, where a soldier trained in the use of the district’s only nuclear protection suit would take over. The lieutenant did not have to ask why that individual wasn’t chasing the radiation. It was the captain.
After receiving an initial jolt at the motel where the readings began at eight millisieverts by the broken window and spiked again in the parking lot, el-Othmani was relieved to find them drop to seven as drove his white-and-black patrol car, following the trail wherever it led. The trip took nearly two hours, as the signal frequently fell to normal levels. That happened after he reached the medical center, proving that the captain’s theory was correct. Driving around, el-Othmani would find it again. It struck him as curious that the lead apron stolen from the dentist’s office did not seem to impact the intensity of the radiation. The signal eventually took him to the banks of the Bou Regregin neighboring Salé, and the Stack—the unofficial graveyard where small boats were left aground for whoever wanted to repair them or use them for parts or kindling.
The police officer stopped when he saw the tire tracks in the sand. He got out, holding the Geiger counter, and walked it slowly around the periphery. The digital readout hovered between 7 and 7.5. The higher readings were near a rough patch of sand.
The lieutenant called the captain, told him to bring the suit—and a shovel.
It was late morning when Kealey and Rayhan reached the coast of Morocco. A message was relayed by Clarke from Mostpha Bensami, INTERPOL Vice President for Africa, informing him that radiation had been detected in a patch of beach northeast of Rabat. Clarke sent him the coordinates, which Rayhan plugged into the GPS.
Two minutes later, Clarke called with an update. Kealey put it on speaker.
“They just dug a body out of the sand there,” Clarke told him. “Apparently died of radiation poisoning, if the Geiger counter’s any indication. The area is cordoned off for a half mile in all directions, including the waterway. No other details until the one guy with a radiation hazmat suit gets through looking over the site.”
“But it’s just a body?” Kealey asked.
“Seems to be. They’re not getting readings from anywhere else in the vicinity.”
“Crap. Would’ve been nice to wrap up something quick and easy for a change. Who’s handling the investigation?”
“Local police,” Clarke said. “Liberal Islamists, loyal to the king, want to protect all the investment dollars and foreigners in Morocco—just a checklist of good stuff. They don’t resent the questions, but we have to let them run with this for a while.”
“Understood. Any twitches from Iran?”
“You’re going to have to tell me,” Clarke said. “The news is all over town, on TV and the Web. If anyone’s in from Tehran, that’s where they’ll be.”
Clarke told Kealey the nearest place he could berth the boat was in Rabat, across the river. Kealey glanced at the map Rayhan had brought up and ack
nowledged their destination. He was about to hang up when he noticed that Rayhan seemed distracted: she looked up, her eyes following the shore as the high minaret of the coastal medina loomed nearer. Kealey asked Clarke to hold.
“Something on your mind?” Kealey asked.
“Yes. I’d like to go ashore as soon as I can,” she said. “We can meet up later. There’s no point in both of us being inactive for a half hour or more.”
He looked at Rayhan. “What’s the objective?”
“To put educated eyes and ears on the scene as soon as possible,” she said. “I may hear something about the radiation. Or I may see something. Someone.”
She looked like she was alert mentally and okay physically. “Fine with me,” Kealey said. “General?”
“You’ll be without a translator.”
“Lots of languages spoken in this town,” Kealey said.
Clarke was silent for a long moment. “I have no problem with that. We can track her if you lose touch. Ryan? Your mission, your call.”
“Sounds okay,” he said. “I can relay any updates. I’m about ten minutes from the mouth of the river—the target sandbank is right there. I’ll leave her in Salé, then swing back to park the boat.”
Clarke gave his okay and Kealey put the phone back on his belt.
“You haven’t been in the field before,” Kealey said.
“Blend in, eyes open, mouth shut except to ask relevant questions. I took the mandatory JICT.”
That was “just-in-case training.” Along with rudimentary weapons skills, it was required of all DNI employees. It didn’t carry the actual risk to life and liberty, but it was not bad for what it was.
“Do you have any particular agenda, or is this a scouting mission?” Kealey asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” she said. “I’ve been in the air and on the water so long I may just be eager to get on solid ground and do some real work.”
Kealey smiled a little. He liked that answer. It was honest. “Find a spot for me to let you off—I don’t suppose you brought a bathing suit?”
“No, and they are not wildly popular among Muslim beachgoers. A woman of my descent would stand out. I would get disapproving glances.” Rayhan was looking at the satellite image on the GPS. “There appears to be a natural sandbar. If you come in on the eastern side I can wade ashore. I will put on a head scarf.”
“No one will think that’s unusual?”
She picked up one of the fishing rods and a small tackle box. She placed her passport and wallet inside. “Not now they won’t. If anyone asks, I’ll say I was looking for—steelheads.”
“Perch and mullet,” he said. “I’ve fished off the Spanish coast. That’s what I caught.”
She repeated the names. Kealey admired her resourcefulness. He handed her the wheel as he picked up the binoculars.
“Wait! Ryan, I’ve never—”
“Throttle up slowly and it’ll be more like an ATV, slapping up and down instead of side to side,” he said.
He looked along the shoreline beyond the river and spotted the sandbar she was talking about.
CHAPTER 10
FÈS, MOROCCO
The Maghreb Highway is a mostly modern road that runs through Mauritania, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, and Libya. The section Mohammed was on consisted of a two-lane roadway headed southeast, a lush tree-lined divider, and then a two-lane highway running the opposite way.
But he was not mindful of the scenery, the greenery that looked nothing like his native Yemen but more like Internet photographs he had seen of the countryside in Europe. Countryside he had hoped to set aflame one day. At least, those were the thoughts that helped him to sleep each night, that helped him get past his hatred for the oppressive West and their Middle Eastern allies.
He was tired but otherwise felt well, apparently having survived whatever exposure he had received from the cargo he carried. He actually felt refreshed. Losses were expected in his line of work, supporting the cause of jihad. After the initial blow had been absorbed, balance returned along with focus. That sense of purpose nurtured him even more than the clean, dry air around him.
Mohammed had gone nearly one hundred miles and was nearing Morocco’s second largest city when his phone beeped. It was Hassan.
“As-Salmu ‘Alaykum—” Mohammed began.
“Get off in Fès,” Hassan said quickly. “Go to the University of Al-Qarawiyyin. Find Professor Mustapha Boulif. Tell him you are from the River Dahwah. Do you understand?”
“The University of Al-Qarawiyyin, Professor Boulif. The River Dahwah.”
The River for the Propagation of Islam, Mohammed thought. He smiled at that. He felt proud.
“Offer no information other than what he asks,” Hassan added. “Nothing, do you understand? If anything happens—”
“He will know nothing, I understand,” Mohammed said.
“Hassana, you will hear from me no more,” the caller said and hung up.
The sun, already luminous, seemed to shine even brighter, directly on Mohammed as he looked at the sign coming up. From the highway, Morocco’s second-largest city looked like a stretch of old, ivory stone with tile roofs and an occasional minaret. He got off the highway, boldly asked a traffic officer for directions, and reached his destination in ten minutes.
There was only street parking in the old Arab quarter, but punishments for theft were severe, and theft of battered old vehicles like his were rare. Still, rather than driving around to try and find a spot, he located a public lot on the northeast side of the medina. Before he left the van, he dutifully destroyed the cell phone as he was instructed and dropped it down a sewer grate. From there, it was only a short walk to the university.
Founded in the ninth century as part of a mosque—which is, today, the largest in North Africa, able to hold tens of thousands of Sunni worshippers—Al-Qarawiyyin is the oldest university in the world. For a man from a small village in Yemen, the youthful activity in the courtyard was an inspiration. Beyond the large rectangular area was row after row of long, white buildings with green tiled roofs and clean white columns. To his right was the high minaret that had led him here. All around, young people, like him, moved in pairs, in groups, conversing, reading, filled with obvious respect for their surroundings and the topics of discussion. He felt like he was part of it without knowing a single soul.
He asked for Professor Boulif and was directed toward a small room in one of the long buildings in the center of the complex. It wasn’t an office like he had imagined, but a white room filled with long tables. A young man sat in the back, typing on a laptop. He was thin, dressed in a Western-style suit, button-down shirt, and no tie. His hair and beard were black.
“Pardon me,” Mohammed said, entering the room quietly. “I am looking for the professor.”
“You have found him.”
“Professor Boulif?”
“Yes. And I am, as you can see, engaged—”
Mohammed ignored the burning in his belly and stepped forward tentatively. “The River Dahwah,” he said softly.
The man glanced up from his laptop. He wasn’t just looking—he was studying the newcomer. “Who sent you here?”
Mohammed’s voice was dry, raspy. “I was instructed to not give his name.”
“Where did you meet him?” the professor queried.
“Do you wish to know the city or the place within the city?”
The smallest smile tugged at the professor’s lips. “The structure and its location.”
“I met him in a shack. On the river.”
Boulif had no doubt who and what this man before him was. He was draped in uncertainty, afraid of a strange world outside his homeland, and a stranger mission. But he was urged forward by some kind of certainty. That could only be faith or money, and this man did not look like he had a dirham.
The professor motioned Mohammed to sit where he was and place his hands on the table. The young man obliged.
“Why did he send you
?” the professor asked.
“I have something—” Mohammed stopped as he heard footsteps in the hallway. He turned around until the student had passed.
“Shut the door,” the professor said.
Mohammed rose—unsteadily, finally feeling the long hours and the stress of events. He clasped the doorknob to steady himself as he closed the door. He turned.
“I have come into possession of a nuclear device,” Mohammed said.
The professor’s demeanor changed. Suspicion and caution gave way to a flickering sense of urgency. “Go on.”
“I believe it is an unfinished suitcase bomb. An Iranian assassin had it in Rabat—it appears to be German, from the Second World War. My companion died after being exposed to it. It is sealed in a very heavy box—lead, I believe. It is in my van under an X-ray apron for added protection.”
The professor had listened intently. He had shown no expression after that little grin.
“I am going to ask you a series of questions,” Boulif said. “Answer them immediately and truthfully. Where is your van?”
“In a lot not far from here.”
“Where are you from?”
“Yemen.”
“How did you come to meet the Iranian in Morocco?”
“He killed my brother in Yemen. I killed him.”
The little smile returned. “You trust a stranger with a confession of murder.”
“No one in this river is a stranger,” Mohammed said in earnest—naive, trusting truthfulness.
The smile broadened and the professor nodded once. “Go back to your car and drive to Jarir, number twenty-six. You have a watch?”
The man raised his wrist.
“Good. I will meet you there in one hour.”
SALÉ, MOROCCO
Mahdavi Yazdi stood at the back of a small crowd of onlookers, most of whom were men who told each other that they were too old to be worried about the effects of a little radiation. Many of them were fishermen who had already made their morning haul and brought it to market. They were talking about the Stalk and how it had been there for decades, about how bodies were occasionally found in the river—mostly people who thought they could swim or criminals who shook down the wrong black marketer—but no one could remember an instance of someone having been buried on the beach.
The Courier: A Ryan Kealey Thriller Page 16
