“Let’s move,” Zayed ordered.
The docks were busy with boats coming in from the previous night’s fishing. The loud voices of men filled the air as they offloaded their catch directly onto the dock. Bartering in Arabic and Hindu, deals were being made as Zayed and Jill zigzagged past the fish for sale. In front of the docks was an open fish market, and as they walked by Jill eyed neat trays of ice complete with fish of all sizes and colors.
Most of the crowd was gathered at the end of the building. Zayed was again doing his clock surveillance. He stopped so fast that Jill bumped into him. Swiftly he pushed Jill to the right, launching her behind a dumpster.
“What the hell are you—”
Zayed hissed. “Quiet! There are two men that look like our friend in Doha. I don’t think they saw us.” Zayed leaned forward and then cocked his head around the dumpster. He quickly looked back to Jill. A man who was squatting above his fish looked curiously up towards them. “It looks like the same guy from the hotel, and he is not alone.”
“But how would they know we were coming here by boat?”
Zayed was silent for a moment and then said. “Everything has a price, Jill. He probably asked around, offering a cash incentive for any information.”
For the first time Jill noticed that there wasn’t a lot of women on the docks. “I need to get to a phone. I need to find out what the hell is going on.” For a moment Jill thought of just marching up to the two men and asking them, What the hell do you two want from me? None of this made any sense… and then it hit her out of the blue. “Zayed, I was being followed the day I left the US.”
This information seemed to take Zayed by surprise. “It could be connected.” His voice sounded perplexed. “Did anyone know you were coming to Doha?”
Dumbfounded, Jill thought about it. Her office knew and so did David’s. She hadn’t mentioned it to anyone else.
“Let’s just focus on losing these guys,” Zayed said. But Jill could tell by the worried line in his brow that he didn’t really know what to do.
Shoot, move, communicate, survive. Then Jill piped up. “We need to split up. If they paid someone in Doha, they would know that there are two of us and they will also know that I was wearing this.” Jill pinched her black robe.
“I’ll distract them.”
“You don’t have a weapon.”
“You need to get into a taxi and get to the airport. The airport has security and police; they can’t do anything to you there.” The taxi stand was approximately one hundred meters from where the two men stood. “I’ll run past them and they will have to react fast,” Zayed suggested.” They won’t have a weapon either. I’ll get a taxi. It’ll be too fast for them to think and they will follow me. Once they follow me, Jill, get a taxi and get to the airport. I’ll meet you there. Okay?” Zayed looked at Jill for confirmation. Jill was thinking when he repeated. “Okay, Jill?”
Jill nodded. She knew if she had to she could fend for herself, but she had on this robe and she couldn’t do much wearing it. She contemplated taking it off, but before she could decide, Zayed whipped around the corner of the dumpster.
Jill followed fast and peeked her head out. She spotted the two men who shifted and then braced as Zayed ran towards them. They looked like deer caught in headlights as he flashed past them. Zayed jumped into a taxi. Gravel spat as he sped away. As Zayed suspected, the two men raced after him, jumping into the next taxi.
Looking through the bodies of people, Jill saw piles of fish remnants that filled the gutters. Men sat on stools at cutting blocks, filleting fish with ease.
Alongside the building, a line of gold-and-white taxis awaited their next fares. Zayed’s scene had caused a commotion on the sidewalk at the front of the taxi line. Jill monitored her surroundings as she briskly walked to the last taxi in the line, jumped in the backseat, and hissed to the driver, “Airport,” then “khalas!” The driver seemed pleased to be jumping the line and slowly drove away.
The driver, wearing a pajamas-type of attire, was from Pakistan and drove quietly with a somber demeanor. Jill was getting more and more peeved that she couldn’t speak to anyone, and she was getting more pissed off with all this cloak-and-dagger bullshit. She plopped her backpack onto the grungy seat beside her. She wondered what would happen to Zayed if the men caught up to him. Her thoughts strayed to the day she left Doha. Could it possibly be the Chechens following her when she was in Tucson? Was it the case she was working on? She had no answers.
As they drove through Abu Dhabi, Jill noticed that it was strikingly similar to Doha—but larger and more spread out. The car was old and rickety. Jill looked at the clear plastic envelope attached on the back of the driver’s headrest. His ID photo looked like any one of the many terrorist mug shots she was used to seeing in her files. The driver’s name was Abdu Bin Amin. Jill did her own surveillance, which was much more subtle than Zayed’s. Everything around her depicted any other normal city—just newer.
The traffic flow changed drastically as they left the congestion of the city. The car began to rattle more as the driver sped along, too fast for Jill’s liking. They darted around slower-moving vehicles, and her left shoulder hit the door as he jerked the car over a lane. A large white patrol SUV screamed past the dodgy taxi, going more than 120 mph, followed by a large white Land Cruiser. Bumpers almost kissed as they flashed past. The patrol jerked fast in front of them and all of a sudden the taxi driver hit the brakes hard. Jill grabbed the driver’s seat in front of her to support herself. Then her body was thrown back in the seat when the driver accelerated.
“Hey, slow down.” Jill scowled.
Grudgingly quieting herself, she couldn’t help but see something in his stern stare back at her through the rear-view mirror. What was it?
As the taxi sped down the freeway, the grassed median strip flicked past in a green blur. Sprinkler systems lined the lush area for miles it seemed. The road was extremely busy, crazy drivers abounding, and Jill figured her driver was one of them. They seemed to be holding a steady pace when all of a sudden the driver slammed on the brakes accelerating a millisecond after they passed the speed camera. Holding onto the handle above her door window, Jill was concentrating on the hope that she would get to the airport in one piece.
Staring out the window, a grand structure dominated Jill's view. This massive white mosque was unlike anything she had seen before. She was astonished at what she experienced at the fishing village and how it fit with such beautiful architecture.
It took about thirty minutes to get to the airport, but to Jill it felt like being on an endless roller coaster. As she pulled up to the airport, she was surprised to see Zayed. He was speaking to what appeared to be a police officer. She looked at Zayed and he gestured her to not stop and to instead go into the airport. Once inside she looked out the glass walls and did her scan. Nothing. Two minutes later Zayed was inside. “What was that about? What happened to those two men?”
“Did you not see the car crash on the way to the airport? Zayed asked with surprise. “It was their taxi. Guess I had a more experienced driver.”
“But why were you talking to that policeman?” Jill asked.
“Informed him of the accident; it’s what any good citizen would do. I told him I thought they were drunk. That should hold them up.” Zayed smirked. “We need to get moving, Jill. It won’t be long until they catch up to us. We need to be past security so they can’t follow us or find out where we are going.”
Speechless at his nonchalance, Jill followed Zayed to security.
The airport was filled with passengers and security guards. The terminal looked like a giant octopus-shaped spaceship and was remarkably small, with lime-green gaudy ceilings. Zayed spoke to one of the security guards, who pointed him to the only stall where they could buy tickets. A large gold sign hung behind the desk. ETIHAD, NATIONAL AIRLINE OF THE UAE. “Great, this should be interesting,” Jill grumbled to herself.
The Filipina lady behind the cou
nter was wearing a gray hat with a polyester cream veil cleanly tucked under her chin. After several minutes and a few “yes, sirs,” and “yes, ma’ams,” they determined that they could get to Kabul via Tehran. The first leg of the flight would be on Etihad with the second on Afghan Airlines. Both these airlines did not sound very inviting to Jill any which way she looked at it, but the good news was they would not have to wait long. There were several flights a day to Tehran, and with only a two-hour layover they would be landing in Kabul at around 8 p.m. local time.
The blank-faced security man at the X-ray machine didn’t give a second thought to what was in Jill’s bag. He was busy chatting with other Emirati men dressed in security clothes. She smirked thinking about her flashlight pen concealed under her abaya.
After security, Zayed piped up. “You can take off your abaya now if that makes you feel more comfortable.” He approached her, pushing the boarding passes into his breast pocket.
Jill was relieved. She looked for the usual female triangle silhouette. Zayed pointed, as if reading her mind. “There, over there.”
Jill saw only an obscure picture of an abaya. She marched over to the washroom door, hesitated slightly while looking at the symbol, then walked in.
The room was strikingly clean for an airport, she thought. Large toilet stalls with doors that went all the way to the floor were a nice improvement from North American standards. The first stall she attempted to open displayed a large square porcelain box inset into the ground. There was no toilet, only a hole in the white glass with two steps on each side and a foot pedal for flushing. Not! On her next attempt she found a regular toilet. There was no toilet paper—just a leaky water sprayer attached to the side of the stall.
Jill took off the black robe and stuffed it into her carry-on. She hoped she wouldn’t have to wear the heavy garment in the heat again. Exiting the stall, she wondered how the black robed women used the washroom—with no toilet paper, they must spray themselves clean while gowned. She shuddered at the thought.
Jill stood in front of the mirror staring. Somehow she looked different. Perhaps it was dehydration from the heat, but she noticed small lines ever so slightly crinkling around her dark circled eyes. Reaching into her carry-on, she brought out a small red bag. Her image transformed as she glided the deep red lipstick on. A bit of eyeliner and mascara and she was ready to greet Abu Dhabi airport.
Pulling out her mobile, she turned it on. Jill waited, glancing at herself in the mirror. On the screen came two words … NO SERVICE. “Shit,” she blurted when she looked around to see if she was alone. She suspected that this pay-as-you-go phone would not get international service. She needed to get in touch with Leila and Karine, and with fading hope … David. She needed to get intel on the Chechens that were following her. She was, however, feeling a bit more comfortable with Zayed assisting her in Afghanistan, and for that she was thankful. There was hope in finding David, she thought to herself as she looked at the phone. There was. And she was going to figure out how. She did not know if the phone was unlocked so she could use a different country’s sim, and turned it off to save battery power. She adjusted her hair one more time and exited the washroom.
Zayed leaned against the wall to her right. He didn’t see her at first and Jill could tell by his facial expression that something was not sitting well with him. Walking through the crowds of people, something felt off-kilter.
Suddenly, Jill stopped fast, just as the airport began to shake as if she was in an earthquake. Jill looked around; no cups on tables were moving, none of the crystal glass in the gift shop ahead shifted nor rattled. Jill was stuck as if someone had hit pause on a DVD.
Zayed calmly walked over to her and said, “Sea legs. It’s you, not the building.”
What a strange sensation. Jill felt as if she was teetering uncontrollably.
“Come, Jill,” Zayed said in a soft, soothing tone.
“I need to find a phone to call my office. See if anyone has heard anything,” she claimed.
“Zein, fine, I’ll be here.”
Jill found it hard to hold his glance and turned away. The giant, tiled circular roof, in bright lime-green, made her think that the architect was smoking some strong shit when he designed the building. Small shops were all around and she could only count twelve gates. Airport-style chairs were scattered everywhere. Jill saw a security guard and walked up to him to ask about a public phone. To her dismay, he didn’t seem to know what she was asking for.
“What airport doesn’t have public phones?” Jill snarled to herself. Then she saw a bunch of men standing around an array of computers.
Jill didn’t see a connection for her laptop, so a public terminal would have to do. She couldn’t log into VPN but she could check her e-mail using the US Marshal secure webmail system. She hoped for some news. Jill silently crossed her fingers that the servers were not blocked, given the state of affairs in the Middle East. As she began to log in a strange thought crept into her mind. Slowly, Jill looked up and around then over at Zayed, who was puffing on a fag and getting ready to light another. A quick, soft surveillance scan. The airport was busy and nothing caught her eye. Paranoid. If she had more time she would spend it profiling. First Zayed, then the Chechens. It was when she profiled that her instinct would push her into the tunnels. Push her to find the answers that she was looking for. She needed her notebook to do this, and Google was always a bonus, but she also needed privacy. Perhaps on the plane she would find some reprieve.
Logged in, Jill saw several messages regarding work updates. One was from Eric stating that the missiles had been transferred successfully. She was in luck when she found one from Karine. The e-mail contained more information confirming that her destination should be Kushka.
In 2005, US operatives discovered a biological weapons laboratory under construction in the Kushka foothills, with evidence that Russian scientists were helping Al Qaeda develop anthrax.
Karine reminded Jill that it was 300 miles through mountainous terrain, and attached two articles on recent bomb attacks by the Taliban. Jill quickly read them and noted several of the town names. I must look at the map once I get settled on the plane.
No word from David or Leila. As for Zayed, Karine said only that she could not find any information and that she had placed a call to Jeff, David’s editor, to see what information he knew about him. She asked if he was possibly using an alias. The e-mail ended with: Please be careful Jill.
Jill sent a quick e-mail with Zayed’s full name that she heard him tell the captain of the boat. She noted that bin meant “son of” in hopes that it helped her search.
'Zayed Mohammed Bin Saleem'
Jill gave Karine her flight itinerary in case David got in touch. Just as she was about to close her webmail a pop-up told her … New Mail.
It was from Stan Brown again. But this time his e-mail was a little more pointed.
Jill,
I know you are reading my e-mails. Why are you not calling me? Please, it’s important.
Stan
What could he possibly want? Jill knew that it could not be about David’s whereabouts. If anything happened to David, she or her office would be the first to know. Maybe the newscasts were now disclosing David’s name?
She e-mailed Leila.
Leila, please e-mail me. I will explain later why I had to leave the hotel. Hostile.
Jill
Jill looked around for any sort of television and wondered if that was what Stan was contacting her about. Two large screens to her right zapped the logo of CNN. Jill clicked send. Having Karine call Stan Brown was her best bet, as every now and again they would hear from David’s family about some new melodramatic crisis in the hope of getting David’s attention. Jill couldn’t deal with anything like that right now.
Jill closed the browser, erased her history, and walked closer to the TV that was entertaining a large gathering of brown men in casual shirts and trousers. Standing there, she looked over to where Zayed sa
t. He was intently watching her. After about ten minutes of tag-lines on CNN, Jill resigned herself to the fact that there was no new information released about David yet.
Zayed continued to stare at Jill as she walked in his direction. His scrutinizing affirmed for Jill her thoughts of uneasiness about him. Or was she just being paranoid again? Paranoia was a symptom of post traumatic stress disorder and Jill had to work hard at deciphering between paranoia and instinct. Most days it was easy, but when stress raised its ugly head, it was hard. She chalked her thought up to paranoia. Well, for now anyway. Shifting in his seat, he softly scratched his ear and asked, “Any new information?”
Jill hesitated then plopped down beside him, still feeling slight unease about what Karine had just told her, or rather hadn’t told her about him. Jill was still puzzled by his presence. Then without giving it another thought, she said, “My contact confirmed that the LSA briefs came from a town called Kushka. She also sent me directions and how to get there.”
“Kushka?” He was surprised.
“Do you know of this place?”
“No,” he said, sounding a bit evasive. “Where is it?”
“On the Turkmenistan border. Right on the border actually.” They sat in silence.
“How long do you think that will take us?” Jill asked Zayed, shattering the lull.
He wasn’t sure and said it would depend on the condition of the roads.
“The last time I was in Afghanistan, most of the roads were well paved on the main routes anyway,” he said. “The question is … is Kushka on a main route?”
To her, he sounded like he already knew.
“Karine sent me a map and I have it on my laptop. When we get on the plane we can take a look at it. But I do need to find a phone. I should call Stan, David’s father.”
There was an immediate shift in Zayed’s body language. Jill looked him straight in the eye and said pointedly, “You know Stan Brown?”
Jill Oliver Deception Thrillers Page 10
