by Brad Taylor
“Did you not provide documents for a Palestinian known as the Ghost?”
Bari became more agitated. “Yes, but Majid told me explicitly to do so. He gave the order.”
“Well, that’s going to be a little hard to prove, since he’s got a hole in his neck the size of a dog’s head.”
“He did! You must tell them that!”
“I will, depending on how much you help me. If you really didn’t mean to assist the murderer, then you should want me to find this Ghost.”
“I will, I will.”
Bari turned to a computer and rapidly began typing passwords. In seconds, the Ghost was on the screen.
“Here. Here is the man Majid sent.”
The computer showed a Saudi Arabian passport for a person named Ahmed al-Rashid, complete with the picture of a stone-faced Arab wearing thick glasses.
Lucas inwardly smiled. “Print that. What else did you do to help him?”
“He had me make a visa for Yemen and a visa for the United Arab Emirates.”
“A visa for UAE? Why? The Kingdom is a member of the Gulf Cooperation Council. He doesn’t need a visa to go there.”
“He had me make the stamp, but I didn’t use it in the passport. He took the stamp with him.”
Lucas considered this twist. Forging the Yemen visa made sense, because, while a Saudi citizen could obtain one free of charge upon entering the country, it would mean a greater paper trail, as the Ghost would have to make up a Saudi Arabian address and where he would be staying in Yemen. The UAE visa, on the other hand, was confusing. Why take a stamp?
Because he’s not going to keep that passport. He’s going to get another one, and he doesn’t know which country it will be from.
The Ghost was proving to be pretty damn smart.
“What else did you help him with?”
“Nothing. I swear. Wait, he did ask me for the names of two hawaladars, one for Yemen and one for Dubai.”
Lucas absorbed the information, realizing that the Ghost was laundering whatever money Hezbollah had provided him before they could change their mind and shut off the funding.
Hawala was an ancient banking method still used in the Arab world to transfer money across the globe. Completely outside traditional banking, it simply consisted of two trusted agents in each of the countries in question. One went to the first agent, said they wished to transfer money, and gave the funds to be transferred. The first agent took a commission, gave a code for the second agent, and all that remained was to travel to the second country, meet the agent, present the code, and pick up the money.
The key component was that both agents of the hawala exchange trusted and knew each other. No records were kept on who transferred the money, only on the balance between the two agents. Thus, in order to receive the money, a personal meeting would have to occur, where the code would be presented. A meeting that Lucas could intercept.
“Write down the names and addresses of the agents here in Beirut. Both for Yemen and Dubai.”
When Abu Bari had finished, Lucas asked, “Can you make me a new passport? Either United States or a Canadian one?”
“Yes, but it will take time. Both Canada and the United States use electronic chips in their passports now. Impossible for me to forge. The only way to create a new passport now is to use an old one that is still valid, and they are few and far between.”
Shit. Damn anti-terror methods are making it hard to earn a decent living.
Lucas knew all about the electronic chips. They were RFID tags like the one he had used to kill the investigator; each included all relevant information on the passport, including the picture. He knew the United States had gone to them, but didn’t realize that Canada had as well.
The only documents he currently possessed, outside of his authentic personal papers, was the Canadian passport he had used in the Netherlands-and he certainly wasn’t going to hang around to get another.
“All right. I think I’m done here. All I need you to do is write down a sentence on a piece of paper.”
Bari’s eyebrows scrunched together. “What sentence?”
“Just a statement saying you didn’t know you were helping the murderer and want to prove it to the leadership. Write, ‘It was the Ghost. I didn’t know before he came,’ then any other Islamic crap after that you would like, begging forgiveness. I’ll pass it to the leadership and maybe they’ll leave you alone.”
Bari’s hands trembled as he wrote. Perfect. Looks like a dying hand.
Lucas circled around behind him, pulled out his carbon-fiber punch-blade, and patiently waited for him to finish.
When Bari set the pen down, Lucas said, “Move the paper to the shelf in front of you.”
Bari did so, asking, “Why?”
Lucas punched him in the neck with the blade and watched the man writhe on the ground, bleeding out. “Because I didn’t want to get blood on it.”
After the body had quit twitching, Lucas positioned it on the floor with an arm outstretched, holding the pen. He then placed the paper under the hand. He left the computer as it was, with the Ghost’s Saudi passport prominently displayed on the screen.
He knew that any competent forensics team would ascertain in seconds that it was staged, but counted on the bumbling paranoia of Hezbollah not to have the skills or desire to check. With any luck, they’d be chasing the Ghost and save him the effort, freeing him up to secure his retirement.
His security work in this section of the world was done, he knew. No way could he continue anywhere that had the potential for Hezbollah reach. Unfortunately, the Middle East was the last place left. Working anywhere in Europe or South America would put him inside the radar of the United States, which wanted him badly. Africa remained an option, but the thought disgusted him. In truth, he wanted an out, and Hezbollah had provided it.
Inside the Martyrs’ headquarters, before he’d killed the boy, he’d found out everything he could on the Ghost and had learned something very, very interesting. The Middle East envoy was bringing a large sum of money to the peace talks. Money that was black and completely in cash. Money that would set him up for the rest of his life, sitting on a beach without an extradition treaty. All he had to do was prevent the Ghost from killing the envoy before the meeting.
So he could do it.
31
The Ghost picked up his battered suitcase and entered the bustling flow of people headed to customs. The Sanaa airport overflowed with people of all types, including a surprising number of Westerners, most likely journalists trying to figure out the latest spasm that would rock the turbulent country.
The airport was on the verge of being decrepit, with grimy walls and listless guards who apparently were paid to simply stare at the floor.
He approached the immigration desk, worried that his dialect would give him away. He had no real knowledge of how someone from Saudi Arabia spoke and hoped the man at the counter didn’t either.
His fears were unfounded, as the official took a cursory glance at his visa, stamped his passport, and waved him through.
He exited the airport and was accosted by a swarm of taxi drivers standing next to a smorgasbord of different vehicles, all with white bodies and orange quarter panels. He selected one and asked the driver to take him to the old city.
His first task was to retrieve his money from the hawaladar before the man’s business closed for the day. After that, he would need to find a suitable replacement passport.
He ignored the bleating horns and the maniacal swerving of the cab driver, lost in his own thoughts. He had a lot of preparations and fewer than four days to accomplish them.
He hadn’t realized the cab had pulled over until the driver rotated completely around and pointed to a massive stone archway crossing the road. “Bab Al-Yemen.”
He paid with his dwindling reserve of money, took his suitcase, and gave the name of a travel agency, asking where it was. All he had been told was it was near the gate to the old city. The
driver shrugged, saying he had no idea.
On his third attempt, he found someone who knew the location and was happy to see it was less than a hundred meters away, across the square.
The hawala system was usually no more than a form of extra income. A way to make a commission in conjunction with a primary business. In this case, the hawaladar owned a travel agency. The Ghost entered and ignored the proprietor’s efforts at conversation. He showed his passport, recited the six-digit code, and walked away with a thick wad of Yemeni rials. No signature, no paperwork of any kind.
He entered the old city through the great stone gate and found a hotel, a rundown affair that catered to the lower income. The room consisted of nothing more than a mattress on the floor, a dangling light bulb, and a mirror on the wall, but it was clean. He left his luggage and began to wander the old city, looking for a suitable target.
His criteria was simple: First and foremost, the target needed to bear a fairly close resemblance to himself. Other than that, the target needed to be traveling alone and not necessarily here on business. Someone who wouldn’t be missed for a few days at least. He had decided on Sanaa’s old city for this reason, as most of the people here would be tourists, although he knew the pickings would be slim given the upheavals Yemen had been going through.
He wandered the souks in the darkening gloom, beginning to think this mission might need to wait until after he’d conducted his business. Using Hezbollah’s contacts, he had established a meeting with Khalid al-Asiri, a technical bomb-maker. A member of al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula, the man was reputed to be a master at camouflaging explosives and was responsible for constructing the ingenious printer-cartridge bombs that almost brought down two cargo aircraft in 2010, along with underwear-bomb devices splashed all over the news. The meeting was the following day, in Zabid on the coast of Yemen, and not something he could miss.
If he found nobody tonight, he would have to spend an extra day in Sanaa after his meeting, a day he couldn’t afford. The alternative was to use the tainted Saudi passport. A passport that too many people knew about.
As he stopped in the middle of a spice souk, the smells made his stomach rumble. He was about to leave and search out a restaurant when he noticed a man haggling over a bag of spices. He was younger than the Ghost and didn’t wear glasses, but was slight of build with the same facial characteristics. Unlike the locals in the souk, he was wearing a full-length dishdasha without the ubiquitous sport coat over the top. The Ghost edged closer until he could hear snippets of conversation. His interest picked up when the man, attempting a harder bargain, stated he was leaving in two days and couldn’t come back tomorrow. Not from Sanaa. Good sign. When he heard the man say he wished to mail the spice to his mother in Jordan, he backed off and waited, ignoring his stomach.
He followed the target for another three hours, until it was completely dark. Finally, carrying all of his purchases, the Jordanian entered a hotel, an economic step above his own, but still on the cheap side. The Ghost stopped short in the small lobby and surveyed the establishment. It had a few chairs, a table, and one lone staircase. If he went up, the clerk at the counter would surely see him. Difficult to do what he needed and get away.
The hotel maintained an old-fashioned keyboard behind the counter, and the Ghost took note of the key number handed across, debating his next steps.
He went back outside and surveyed the street. He circled the hotel, looking for a side entrance he could use, but found none. He did find a group of young boys playing in the dirt and came up with an idea.
He approached them and said, “I’ll give you each two hundred rials if you’ll play a joke on my friend inside the hotel.”
The boys were skeptical, but when he produced the money, they eagerly stepped forward.
“All you have to do is tease him until he chases you out. Get him to chase you down the street. I’m going to slip in and surprise him on his birthday.”
Now all smiles, they took the money and began jabbering among themselves, coming up with a plan as they circled around to the front. When they entered, the Ghost waited to the side.
In short order, he heard a commotion, followed by the desk clerk shouting. Something rattled to the floor, bringing on more shouting. Seconds later, the boys came flying out of the doorway, laughing and shouting. The clerk was a few steps behind them, but a lifetime of tobacco ensured he’d never catch up.
As soon as his back was turned, trotting down the street, the Ghost slipped inside and bounded up the stairwell. He quickly looked at doors, finding the one that matched the key he had seen. Not wasting any time on an elaborate ruse, he simply knocked. When it was opened, he pushed the target back, entered, and closed the door.
The man got out one exclamation of surprise before the Ghost hammered his windpipe with the knife-edge of his hand. The target collapsed to his knees, holding his throat. The Ghost threw him on his back, straddled his body, and trapped his arms to his side.
He placed a hand over the man’s mouth and nose, and rode the bucking body until it quit moving. The Ghost held on for an additional minute, then checked for a pulse. Finding none, he searched the body, pulling out the man’s travel documents from a pocket. He opened the passport and was relieved to see the man was indeed from Jordan. The picture looked passable as well.
He slowly stood, feeling shame at what he had done. He glanced at the corpse and consoled himself by remembering the cause he was serving. The fact that the target was Jordanian helped, as the Hashemite Kingdom had a long history of persecuting Palestinians.
He was about to place the passport into his own pocket, when he noticed something that made him feel ill. There was no Jordanian national identification number. The target lived in Jordan, but wasn’t a citizen. Which meant one thing: He was a Palestinian, from the West Bank or somewhere else.
The Ghost had killed one of his own.
Lucas finished packing his possessions, deciding what he would take and what he would be leaving behind forever. He got it all down to a backpack and one duffel bag. It left him no room for any specialized equipment, but with any luck he’d be able to get that in Dubai.
He had a list of Hezbollah contacts all over the world, and routinely used them as cutouts to get hotel rooms and operational equipment. He’d have to be careful setting up any meetings, but with the secrecy of the Martyrs Battalion and his little ploy with the forger, he was fairly confident he could leverage assets outside of Lebanon without them turning on him. It wasn’t like Hezbollah sent daily updates around the globe, and most of the contacts were simply part-time help with a specific skill-set. Hezbollah wannabes, as it were.
He was sure the Ghost had gone to Yemen, but was equally confident he was headed to Dubai next, and he had the location of the hawaladar there, giving him a handle. At first, he’d worried that the assassin would attempt his attack in Yemen, but a review of the envoy’s itinerary showed Yemen wasn’t on the agenda. No, the Ghost was going to attack in Dubai, and that’s where Lucas would stop him. He was pleased at the Yemen delay, as it would give him time to travel to Qatar and begin building his own trap, before the inevitable clampdown in security for the peace conference.
Finished packing, he toyed with the idea of going out on the town. He was leaving Beirut tomorrow, never to return, and hadn’t ever sampled the nightlife here. He’d seen it, of course, the loose women and brash men partying the night away, but had never entered that realm due to the secrecy of his job. In no way could he be entangled with a female inside Beirut. Although he’d often dreamed about it. Snooty little bitches from rich sugar-daddy Lebanese. He would have loved to show one a good time instead of the whores he’d had to pay while on assignment outside of the country.
Why not tonight? It’s not like you’ll be here in the morning to worry about the consequences. And Hezbollah stays so far removed from the discos they’re no threat.
Fuck it. He left the hotel and headed to Rue Monot in the Ashrafieh district. He
looked for a disco that was dimly lit and not too loud. Dim, because he’d been told time and time again that his eyes were a deal breaker, and he didn’t want to scare away any potential partners on first glance. Years ago, a date had said they reminded her of a bruise-purple and rotting.
He returned two hours later, a statuesque young Lebanese woman in tow. He’d convinced her to have a nightcap of coffee, although she’d said she didn’t have time to stay long.
As soon as the door closed, he leaned in and kissed her. When she tried to pull away, he clamped a hand on the back of her neck. She broke free and slapped him hard across the face.
He rubbed his red cheek, getting aroused at the exchange. Wanting to push it further. “That’ll cost you a little foreplay. Fuck the coffee. Take off your clothes.”
She attacked him in fury, using her nails as claws. He blocked her amateurish attempts and slapped her hard enough to knock her down.
From the floor, her anger dissolved into abject fear.
“A fighter,” he said. “I like that in a woman.”
32
Jennifer flipped through the channels on the ancient television, but without cable all she picked up were local Beirut stations speaking Arabic. She turned it off and glanced at her watch for the umpteenth time. Still a half hour before hit-time.
Footsteps in the hallway outside her door caused her to quit breathing. She glanced at the abaya dress she’d carelessly thrown on the bed, calculating how long it would take her to get it back on. When the footsteps receded without a knock on her door, she exhaled, wondering yet again how she had been talked into this. Pike had said there was no way they’d do a frontal assault into the Hezbollah communications node, but he hadn’t mentioned that the alternative was Jennifer infiltrating the place by herself.
After getting picked up at the marina by Samir, they’d conducted a complete mission analysis of the communications facility from his house. Using all of the data the case officer could supply, which was considerable, they searched for a weakness.
