Dead or Alive

by Grant Blackwood

  “Gets more residential to the south. At least during the day Nayoan will be on the clock-meetings, lunch, that sort of thing. Use the stroll to acclimatize.”

  As instructed, Jack walked south down Jones Street, then west up Lombard, getting a workout on the steep and winding pavement, until he reached the tennis courts at the top of Telegraph Hill, where he turned south again. The houses here were tightly packed and colorfully painted, many with balconies and porches overflowing with flowers. Jack had seen plenty of pictures of the 1906 earthquake here, and it was hard to mentally overlay that with what he was seeing now. The earth’s crust slips along a seam a couple of feet, maybe inches, and a city is ruined. Truly, you do not mess with Mother Nature. Hurricane Katrina had reminded America of that most recently, though nature had only costarred in that one. The rest was bad logistics and inadequate supplies. Made you wonder what things would be like if something worse befell the country, natural or man-made. Were we really ready for something like that? Jack pondered. Better question: Was there such a thing as being truly ready? China and India and Indonesia had been dealing with tsunamis and earthquakes since time immemorial, and still when it happened today the response and recovery looked like barely controlled chaos. Maybe the problem was the definition itself. All systems, whether they be governments or fire departments or police departments, had breaking points where circumstances outdistanced manpower and resources. Come to think of it, humans were probably different, and if so, doesn’t the concept of readiness become a matter of life and death, of survival or extinction? If after the catastrophe you find yourself alive, were you then ready for it?

  Mind back in the game, Jack commanded himself.

  At the forty-minute mark, he turned back north at the Feusier Octagon House and returned to the car. Clark and Chavez weren’t back yet, so he found a bench across the street under a tree and read the newspaper he’d picked up during his walk.

  “Smart not to get back in the car,” Jack heard behind him. Clark and Chavez were standing there. “Why?”

  “On a nice day like this? Who’d do that except for cops, detectives, or stalkers?”

  “Attaboy. Stand up, come over here. Same principle: Three guys don’t just sit around on a bench together unless they’re waiting for a bus or they’re bums.” Jack joined them under the tree and they stood in a semicircle. “Okay, we’re business schmucks,” Clark said, “standing around talking about the game last night or our asshole boss. So what’d you see?”

  “The vibe’s more laid-back than New York or Baltimore,” Jack replied. “People don’t seem to be in as big a hurry. More eye contact and smiles.”

  “Good, what else?”

  “Good mass-transit system, plenty of stops. Saw five cop cars but no lights and sirens. Just about everyone is wearing or carrying a jacket or sweater. Not a lot of honking. A lot of compact cars and hybrids and bicycles. A lot of little shops and cafés with back entrances.”

  “Not bad, Jack,” Chavez said. “Maybe a little spook in the boy’s DNA, huh, John?”

  “Could be.”

  After ten minutes more of the businessmen routine, Clark said, “Okay, almost lunchtime. Ding, you’re driving. Jack and I’ll roam a bit. Main entrance to the consulate is on Columbus and Jones, but there’s a side entrance, farther south down Jones.”

  “Saw a vending delivery truck pull up there during our walk,” Chavez said. “And a couple staff outside there smoking.”

  “Good. Let’s move.”

  Twenty-five minutes later, Jack was on the phone: “Got him. Coming out the main entrance. On foot, heading south down Columbus.”

  “Ding, stay put. Jack, stay on him, twenty yards back at least. I’m a block east of you, coming up on Taylor.”

  “Roger.” A minute later: “Passing the Motor Coach Inn. About thirty seconds from the corner of Taylor.”

  “I’m there, heading south,” Clark replied. “No matter what he does at the corner, cross the street and head west down Chestnut. I’ll pick him up.”

  “Gotcha. He’s at the corner now. Turning north up Taylor.”

  “I see him. Break off, keep going.”

  Jack strolled through the crosswalk to Chestnut and kept going. In the corner of his eye he could see Nayoan. “Losing him… now,” Jack called.

  Clark: “He’s heading right at me. Stand by.” A moment later, Clark’s voice changed. “No, no, I’m telling ya, their pitching roster is for shit. They got no depth. Man, you’re wrong. Ten bucks they tank the first game…” A few seconds passed. “Just passed me. He’s stepping into a restaurant-Pat’s Café, east side of the street. Jack, let’s have some lunch. I’ll get us a table.”

  Ding chimed in: “I’ll take a pastrami on wheat.”

  Jack turned north at the corner of Chestnut and Mason, then north again to Taylor. He found Clark at a table near the door, facing the window. The place was getting busy, catching the early lunch crowd. Jack sat down.

  “At the counter,” Clark said. “Third from the end.”

  “Yep, saw him.”

  “Who’s sitting on either side of him?”

  “What?”

  “Keeping track of your principal is only half the battle, Jack. He talk to anybody while you were on him, make any stops?”

  “No, and no close passes, either.”

  Clark shrugged. “Even mutts gotta eat.”

  Jack ordered a tuna fish on rye, Clark a BLT and a doggie bag for Ding. “He’s finishing up,” Clark said. “I’ll get the tab. We shake hands at the door, say, ‘See you next month,’ then you head back to the car. I’ll take our boy home, then meet you at the Starbucks on Bay.”

  Thirty minutes later they were sharing three cups of Gold Coast dark roast at a booth near the window. Outside, pedestrians and cars slipped by in the bright sunlight. On the TV mounted in the corner, Jack Ryan Sr. was standing behind a podium speaking. The sound was muted, but all three of them knew what was going on. So did the rest of the customers and the baristas, most of whom were either staring at the set or catching glimpses of the news ticker as they went about their business.

  “Man, he’s really doing it,” Chavez said. “Your dad’s got some brass ones, Jack.”

  Jack nodded.

  Clark asked, “He told you about it, I assume?”

  Another nod. “I don’t think he’s overjoyed at the whole idea, but it’s the call of duty, you know? To whom much is given, much is asked.”

  “Well, he’s given a lot already. Okay, to business: What’d we learn?”

  Jack took a sip of coffee, then said, “Nayoan likes pea soup, and he’s a bad tipper.”

  “Huh?” Chavez said.

  “He had pea soup and a club sandwich. Twelve bucks, give or take, according to the menu. He left a few quarters. Besides that, I’m not sure what we learned.”

  “Not much,” Clark agreed. “Didn’t expect much. If he’s in the bag for the URC, it could be a once-in-a-while thing. The odds of us catching him dirty in one day were nil.”

  “So what next?”

  “According to the consulate website, they’ve got a reception at the Holiday Inn Express tonight. Some kind of joint benefit party with the Polish consulate.”

  “Left my tux at home,” Chavez said.

  “Not going to need it. Point is, we know where Nayoan’s going to be tonight, and it ain’t at home.”

  Eight thousand miles away, the engineer emerged from the tent’s changing room and used a rag to wipe the sweat from his forehead and neck. On wobbly legs, he walked to a nearby stool and sat down.

  “Well?” Musa asked.

  “It’s done.”

  “And the yield?”

  “Seven to eight kilotons. Smallish by today’s standards-for example, the Hiroshima bomb was fifteen kilotons-but it will be more than sufficient for what you’re planning. It should give you, say, fifteen pounds per square inch out to a distance of five hundred meters.”

  “That doesn’t sound like much.”


  The engineer smiled wearily. “Fifteen psi is enough to demolish reinforced concrete. You said the floor is mostly earthen?”

  “That’s correct. With some underground hardened structures.”

  “Then you have no worries, my friend. This enclosed space you’ve mentioned… You’re certain of its volume?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the overstructure? What’s its composition?”

  “I’m told it is something called ignimbrite. It is-”

  “Yes, I’m familiar with it. Also called volcanic pyroclastic or welded tuff-essentially, compacted layers of volcanic rock. That’s good. Providing the overstructure is thick enough, the shock wave should be directed downward with minimal attenuation. The penetration requirements you gave me will be met.”

  “I’ll take your word for that. Is it ready for transport?”

  “Of course. It has a relatively low output signature, so passive detection measures won’t be your worry. Active measures are a different story altogether. I assume you’ve taken steps to-”

  “Yes, we have.”

  “Then I’ll leave it in your good hands,” the engineer said, then stood up and headed toward the office at the rear of the warehouse. “I’m going to sleep now. I trust the remainder of my fee will be deposited by morning.”

  63

  THEIR CONTACT MET THEM near Al Kurnish Road on the east side of Sendebad Park, within a stone’s throw of the Australian consulate. Hendley had declined to explain to Brian and Dominic the nature of his relationship with the Aussie, nor had their boss felt it necessary to share the man’s name, but neither brother thought it a coincidence their bogus passports and visas bore Australian seals.

  “Afternoon, gents. I assume you’re Gerry’s boys, yes?”

  “I suppose we are,” Dominic said.

  “Archie.” Hands were shaken all around. “Let’s take a stroll, what say?” They waited for a break in traffic, then jogged across Al Kurnish to a dirt parking lot beside the wagon wheel-shaped Al Fatah building, then down to the water’s edge.

  “So I understand you’re on a little snipe hunt?” Archie said over the rush of the waves.

  “Guess you could call it that,” said Brian. “Guy got murdered here last week. Hung first, then decapitated and feet chopped off.”

  Archie was nodding. “Heard about that. Nasty bit of work, that. Call that the ‘naughty no-step’ around here. You think this bloke got out of line, did a little freelancing?”

  Dominic nodded.

  “The Swedish embassy, yes?”

  Another nod.

  “And you’re after the whos and whats, I take it?”

  “We’ll take anything we can get,” Brian said.

  “Well, first thing you need to know about Tripoli is that it’s a damned safe city, all things considered. Average street crime is pretty low, and neighbors watch after one another. The police don’t get overly concerned about this group killing a member of that group unless it spills over onto the streets or one of them does something to draw attention to itself. The last thing the Curly Colonel wants is bad international press, not after all the public-relations work he’s done. The truth is the URC has been rather quiet for eight or nine months. In fact, there’s some spin on the street that the Swedish embassy business wasn’t URC.”

  “Not sanctioned, at least,” Dominic said.

  “Ah, I see. A lopped head and chopped feet tends to send a strong admonishment, doesn’t it? Still, could be worse. Usually the family jewels are involved, too. Well, the apartment where your fellow got clipped is off Al Khums Road. Pretty tight-knit place. As I understand, that particular apartment was empty at the time.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “I know some French ex-pats that are pretty friendly with the cops.”

  “They just used the apartment for convenience, you think?” Dominic asked. “A studio?”

  “Yeah. Poor dill was probably killed somewhere else. You saw it on a website? URC or LIFG?” Archie said, referring to the Libyan Islamic Fighting Group.

  “URC,” Brian replied. “Anyone else the URC might have farmed the job out to?”

  “Plenty. Wouldn’t even have to be a group. There’re crims in the Medina-the Old City-that’d slit your throat for twenty U.S. Not robbery per se, but murder-for-hire, mind you. But that video… Seems a tad highbrow for your average ape.”

  “So why didn’t they just do the deed somewhere in the Medina?” Brian asked. “Kill him, then tape it, then dump the body on the street.”

  “Then the cops’d have to go into the Medina, see? This way everybody gets to pretend it happened somewhere else and the natural balance remains. How many sites did this video go up on?”

  “Six that we found.” This from Dominic.

  “Well, there’re plenty of Internet service outfits around, but the groups that run those sites usually do the hosting themselves, with a dedicated server so they can pick up and move-physically and electronically. If the URC farmed out the killing, then you’re probably out of luck; if they did it themselves, it means the message came from high up the ladder. The kind of job you don’t leave to chance. If that’s the case, then there’s going to be some overlap-some local URC captain in touch with one of the mobile hosts.”

  “I take it this ain’t something you look up in the yellow pages,” Brian said.

  “You take it correctly. I may know a man. Let me make some calls. Where are you staying?”

  “The Al Mehari.”

  Archie checked his watch. “I’ll meet you there by five; we’ll have a drink.”

  He was an hour early and came with his own car, a mid-’80s forest-green Opel; as was almost everything else in Tripoli, the car was covered in a fine layer of red-brown dust.

  “You have a rental car?” Archie asked as they pulled west onto Al Fat’h Street amid a cacophony of horns and squealing of brakes.

  “Whoa!” Brian shouted from the backseat.

  “Traffic laws here are nonexistent. Call it Darwinism at its most basic. Driver survival of the fittest. So: the rental car?”

  “No, we don’t have one.”

  “Once we’re done, you can drop me back at the embassy and use this. Mind that second gear, though. It’s wonky.”

  “Just as long as you don’t expect it back in one piece.”

  “This is rush hour. It’ll quiet down in another couple hours.”

  Tripoli’s modern-day walled and labyrinthian Medina was born during Ottoman occupation and had served for centuries as much as a deterrent to invaders as it did a center of commerce. Situated beside the harbor and bordered on four sides by Al Kurnish Road, Al Fat’h Street, Sidi Omran Street, and Al Ma’arri Street, the Medina was a warren of narrow streets, blind, winding alleys, arched walkways, and small courtyards.

  Archie found a parking spot near the Bab Hawara gate, along the southeastern wall, and they got out and walked two blocks south to a café. A man in black slacks and a tan short-sleeved shirt stood up from his table as Archie approached. They shook hands, embraced, and Archie introduced Brian and Dominic as “old friends.”

  “This is Ghazi,” Archie said. “You can trust him.”

  “Sit, please,” Ghazi said, and they settled at the table beneath the umbrella. A waiter appeared, and Ghazi fired off something in Arabic. The waiter left and reappeared a minute later with a pot, four small glasses, and a bowl of mints. Once tea was poured, Ghazi said, “Archie tells me you have an interest in websites.”

  “Among other things,” Dominic said.

  “There are many men who provide the services Archie mentioned, but one in particular might be worth your time. His name is Rafiq Bari. The day after that Web video went up and a day before that man’s body was discovered, he moved his business-quite suddenly and during the night.”

  “Is that all?” Brian said.

  “No. There are rumors that he’s done work for certain people. Websites that appear and disappear-proxy servers
, redirects, rotating domain names, all of that. That’s Bari’s specialty.”

  “How about ISPs?” Dominic said, referring to Internet service providers. “Any chance these people are creating their own rather than using commercial companies?”

  Archie answered this one. “Too much hassle, I expect. There’s not a lot of oversight with that sort of thing here. A name and a credit card number is all it takes. Domain names can be registered in bulk and changed at the drop of a hat. No, the way this Bari fella does it is the way to go, at least here.”

  Dominic said to Ghazi, “Who’s he living with? Any family?”

  “Not here. A wife and daughter in Benghazi.”

  “What’re the chances he’s going to be armed?”

  “Bari himself? Very unlikely, I would think. When he moves about, he sometimes has protection.”

  “URC?”

  “No, no, not directly, I do not believe. Perhaps hired by them, perhaps, but these are just Medina people. Thugs.”

  “How many?” This from Brian.

  “The times I have seen him… Two or three.”

  “Where do we find him?” said Brian.

  By the time they dropped Archie back at the consulate, the sun’s lower rim was nearly touching the sea’s surface to the west. All across the city, streetlamps, car headlights, and neon signs were flickering to life. They’d decided that Dominic, who’d undergone the FBI’s defensive driving course, would be behind the Opel’s wheel. True to Archie’s prediction, the traffic had slackened somewhat, but the roads still bore more of a resemblance to racetracks than to urban thoroughfares.

  Archie climbed out from the backseat and leaned his arms against the passenger door. “That map of the Medina you’ve got is a fairly good one but not perfect, so keep your heads about you. Sure this can’t wait till morning?”

  “Probably not,” Brian said.

  “Well, then loosen up and smile. Act like tourists. Window-shop; haggle a bit; pick up some swag. Don’t march through the place like diggers-”