“Where is the men’s room?” he asked with his charming smile.
“Make a left after the elevator,” replied the clerk, pointing behind Mike. “And don’t forget that the tour starts in a couple of minutes.”
Mike found the bathroom and entered, locking the door behind him. After confirming that he was alone, he found a garbage can under the sink. He removed the green garbage bag, which contained mostly used paper towels, and lifted out another bag that had been hidden underneath by Support Five a few hours before. He confirmed that the bag was holding the right things, then unlocked the door of the bathroom.
He chose the cleanest looking stall and closed the door behind him, then set the manual lock. He removed his beard and contact lenses, then spent five seconds scratching his face to get rid of the horrible feeling that the false beard had given him. He changed into the clothes that had been left and stashed his old ones in the bag.
He walked out of the bathroom and caught up with the group of tourists at the first exhibit. He stayed with the group for ten minutes before they passed the employee entrance en route to another room containing fifteenth-century French furniture. He exited via a small back alleyway and turned left toward Rua São Tomé, where he knew a yellow electric tram passed every fifteen minutes. Mike didn’t have to wait long before he climbed aboard. He got out a few stops later and hailed a taxi to bring him back to his hotel.
Nodding his thanks to the doorman, he took the elevator to the sixth floor, where his room was located. The Do Not Disturb card was still inserted in the electronic keypad. That meant that no hotel employee should have entered his room. Still, he’d left a postage stamp-sized infrared interruption counter that would let him know if anyone had entered the room in his absence. Mike had linked it to a nanny cam that had a direct view of the hotel-room door and would activate itself if the infrared counter was triggered.
Once he verified that no one had entered the room, he opened the minibar and poured himself a cold Sagres. The bitter taste of the pale lager felt good. He finished his beer rapidly and poured himself another one. He sat at the end of the queen-size bed and turned on the television. BBC World was talking about another bad day for the vast majority of European stock markets and the repercussion it would have on the Dow Jones.
The telephone rang, interrupting Mike’s thoughts. He looked at his watch before answering.
“Mike, this is Lisa. All is good?”
“Absolutely,” answered Mike. Any other answer was code that he was under duress.
“Glad to hear it. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
Soon after came five gentle knocks on the door. He let his wife in and offered her the last Sagres from the minibar. She declined and grabbed a small bottle of local white wine from the minibar instead. She took a seat in a red armchair next to the balcony door.
As Lisa turned on her laptop and inserted the flash drive Mike had given her into the USB port, Mike called IMSI headquarters. After the second ring, two beeps and then silence came across the line.
“Walton on a secure line. ID number four-nine-two-three-four.”
A few seconds later, a female voice came on the line. “Hello, Mike.”
“Nice to talk to you, Anna.”
“I’ll be sending a video of the man we believe gave the flagged bill to the prostitute. He’s Arab, so there’s a possibility he’s Abdullah Ahmad Ghazi.”
“Stay put until we review the tape,” said Mapother, who was also on the line. “Chances are that we won’t be able to come up with anything actionable, but we’ll see where this leads.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anna or I will call you within the next two hours,” said Mapother. “Isn’t it dinnertime in Lisbon anyway?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Once you’ve sent us the data, go have something to eat. But make sure to stay available.”
“That goes without saying,” said Mike, hanging up.
“Hey, honey, you hungry?”
―
After they returned from dinner at a local Portuguese restaurant, Mike dialed IMSI headquarters on his secure satellite phone.
Anna Caprini came on the line.
“Mike, the director’s expecting your call. One moment please.”
“Mike,” greeted Mapother moments later.
“Sir, I have Lisa with me.”
“And I’m with Jonathan.”
“Hey, Joe,” said Mike. “How are you?”
“Can’t complain.”
“I’ll let Jonathan talk you through what we’ve found out,” said Mapother.
“Let me first congratulate both of you on a job well done,” started Sanchez. “The video allowed us to identify the man in possession of the bill with ninety-nine percent accuracy. It’s Abdullah Ahmad Ghazi, an accountant with lowlife contacts, including ties to the Taliban in Afghanistan. In light of all the intelligence we reviewed, I’m confident to say he’s the Sheik’s moneyman. You find him, you find the Sheik.”
“Does the CIA knows this?” asked Mike.
“The CIA’s theory is that he’s some sort of courier. The thing is, nobody’s ever spent too much time on this guy. They wrongly thought he was too low on the totem pole.”
“That just changed, didn’t it?” asked Mike.
“Not really,” chimed in Mapother. “As far as the US intelligence apparatus is concerned, he’s not even on the radar. But we’ve been ordered to detain Mr. Ghazi and to bring him in for interrogation.”
Mike and Lisa looked at each other with quizzical expressions. As far as they knew, the IMSI answered to nobody but the president. It wasn’t even supposed to exist.
“Ordered, sir?” asked Mike finally.
“I’ll spare you the details other than that this came directly from the very top. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the two operatives in Lisbon answered at the same time.
―
The details were actually quite simple. Word had quickly spread through the upper echelon of the CIA that a very interesting marked bill had surfaced—a bill possibly belonging to the seventy-million-dollar parcel the agency had lost in the opening days of Operation Iraqi Freedom. The CIA had already written off the funds and closed their file on the matter. Now, because the new discovery might indicate their findings had been wrong, they didn’t want to hear anything about some missing marked bill showing up somewhere in Europe.
Donald Poole, the director of the CIA, was furious when he learned that somehow a closed CIA file had been left open on the Interpol network. He became livid less than ten minutes later when Richard Phillips, the director of National Intelligence—also known as the DNI—told him the FBI had launched a formal complaint over the CIA’s use of the FBI network. The DNI smoothed some of Poole’s feathers when he promised that the FBI wasn’t going to investigate anything or anyone regarding this issue—as long as the CIA didn’t try to make matters worse by sending their own people over to Europe.
Following his conversation with the CIA director, the director of National Intelligence called Mapother’s direct line.
“Charles, Dick Phillips here.”
“Isn’t it a bit late, even for you, Dick?” asked Mapother, taking a look at his Rolex.
“I could say the same for you, old friend,” replied the DNI. Phillips was the only politician other than the president who knew about IMSI’s existence. He continued to be a source of support for Mapother and IMSI.
“What can I do for you, Dick?”
“Listen, Charles, I know you have carte blanche to do pretty much anything you want, but I have a favor to ask you.”
“I’m listening,” said Mapother, who already knew what his friend wanted.
“I have a small problem,” Phillips began. “Many years ago, the CIA lost about seventy million dollars in Iraq.”
&nbs
p; “I heard about that somewhere.”
“How do you know anything about that?” asked Phillips, surprised. “Scratch that,” he said two seconds later. “I don’t want to know. Where was I?”
“Seventy million,” supplied Mapother.
“That’s right. The CIA, after a somewhat hasty investigation, concluded that enemy forces had shot down the helicopter that was carrying the money and the Special Forces squad tasked with protecting it. It was written off as having been lost in action.”
“And now some of that money has popped up in a Portuguese whorehouse.”
It took the DNI a few seconds to reply. “I won’t ask you how you know that, but essentially that’s correct.”
“You want me to look into it?”
“I was hoping you could see where it could lead us. On a strictly unofficial basis, of course.”
“I’m already on it,” said Mapother. “The guy’s name is Abdullah Ahmad Ghazi. He’s an accountant with ties to the Taliban. We’re pretty sure he’s the Sheik’s moneyman.”
“Good God!”
“What do you want me to do with him?”
“Wouldn’t you agree that it would be nice to know where he got that bill? And why money that was supposed to have been lost in Iraq ended up in the hands of someone with connections to the Taliban?”
“I’ll see if I can arrange for someone to speak with him.”
“Thanks, Charles. I appreciate it. One last thing.”
“Shoot.”
“Can you act quickly? I convinced Poole to keep the CIA standing still on this one by promising him the FBI wouldn’t be investigating the missing seventy million. I don’t know how long those promises will last, though.”
“I understand. I’ll call you as soon as I have anything.”
“Thanks again, Charles. I’ll owe you one.”
CHAPTER 59
Ottawa, Canada
Simon Corey was intrigued by the unexpected call he received from the CIA director, Donald Poole. As the director of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service, Corey had a lot of latitude in terms of what he could do. Most of the time, he asked for the consent of the prime minister only after an operation had started, and he didn’t answer to anyone else. Corey knew that his arrogance never ceased to annoy the prime minister, but nobody could deny that the head of the CSIS had an outstanding track record.
However, since the blunder in Paris fifteen days ago, Corey had been walking on eggshells. Donald Poole wanted Corey to use CSIS personnel to help him find out what was going on in his own backyard, behind some important backs. And Corey was hesitant about sticking his nose in places it didn’t belong.
Poole was playing a dangerous game, but he had successfully backed Corey into a corner. If Corey said no to the CIA director’s request, Poole could make his life miserable by more or less stopping the flow of information that the CIA provided CSIS. If he said yes, he would have to act behind the back of his own prime minister.
Damn it! He was in a tight spot. He would have to keep the operation low-key. He dialed Kevin Loewe’s extension and waited for him to pick up.
“Yes, Director?” answered the assistant director of collection.
“When you have a minute, would you be so kind as to come and see me?”
“I’ll be right there, sir.”
Loewe entered Corey’s office less than five minutes later. He brought with him the three most important files he was working on.
Corey was seated behind his desk and gestured for Loewe to have a seat in one of the armchairs. “I need an agent who speaks English and Portuguese,” he said.
“For an operation in Portugal?”
“Yes. A covert operation approved directly by the office of the director.”
Loewe cleared his throat. “I understand.”
Yes, you do. And you don’t like it one bit. But it’s my neck on the chopping block, not yours.
“The danger level for this mission is low. I just need a trained field agent who will be able to take surveillance photographs and do a little digging for our American friends.”
Loewe offered the obvious choice. “Zima Bernbaum?”
“She just got back from a difficult mission. Is she ready?”
“She’s the best available agent we have right now. She’s done with her debrief, and our psychologist cleared her for operational duty.”
“All right. Send her to my office. I’ll brief her personally on what I want her to do in Portugal.”
CHAPTER 60
Lisbon, Portugal
Despite spending many hours on Google Earth and studying the map of the city, Mike was still not a hundred percent at ease with his real-life surroundings. He wished he could have spent more time on the ground before being tasked with capturing Abdullah Ahmad Ghazi. However, his training had taught him how to improvise and get the job done with a minimum of preparation.7
The Chiado neighborhood, where Mike had been discreetly tailing his target for the past half hour, was an elegant and sophisticated district full of theaters, bookshops, and cafés. As his target ordered an espresso at an outdoor coffee bar, Mike concealed himself behind a pillar. He was pretty sure that Ghazi didn’t have a clue he was being followed. His mannerisms were genuine, and he made no attempts to change direction unnaturally.
They had picked up Abdullah Ahmad Ghazi’s trail when he exited the Hotel do Chiado, where he’d been staying for the last three days. Finding the accountant had been easier than they’d expected. Thanks to the flash drives Zima Bernbaum had seized in Paris, IMSI analysts and Support Five were able to comb through Ghazi’s credit card statements and discovered that the accountant was staying at a hotel in Lisbon. Mike and Lisa had originally feared that he would be long gone, but it seemed that Lisbon was his place of residence.
Why was he staying at hotels, then? The IMSI agents had come to the conclusion that Ghazi was meeting frequently with people he didn’t wish to be associated with—like terrorists. They were hoping that Ghazi would lead them to bigger players, but after twenty-four hours of surveillance, there was nothing to report. Ghazi had spent most of his time shopping around the neighborhood.
Mapother had approved an additional six hours of observation and had even ordered Support Five leader Jasmine Carson to help Mike and Lisa during the surveillance phase of the operation. But at the end of the six hours, they would have to grab Ghazi before someone at the CIA decided to make a move of their own.
They got their break shortly after lunch. To an untrained eye, their opening could easily have been missed, but Mike didn’t fail to notice a stealthy exchange between Ghazi and another man less than fifty feet away.
“Brush pass with a man wearing a pair of blue jeans and brown T-shirt at the corner of Crucifixo and Conceicao,” said Mike into his lapel microphone.
“Got it,” Lisa replied. “I’m eighty feet behind you and will take chase on number two. Carson, stay with Mike.”
“Understood,” answered Carson, who was walking a parallel street one block south. “You’re solo with number two.”
“Number one seems to be heading for his hotel,” said Mike. “I’ll give him some slack in case he doubles back.”
For the next two minutes, the three IMSI agents were silent as they followed their subjects. Mike had guessed right: Ghazi entered his hotel lobby by the front entrance. There was a slight possibility that Mike would miss a second contact between Ghazi and another person waiting for him in the lobby, but he doubted it. More likely, his sole contact was the man whom Lisa was trailing now.
“Number two is taking evasive actions,” Mike heard Lisa say through his earpiece.
“I’ll give you a hand. Ghazi’s back at the hotel,” said Carson. “What’s your location?”
“Eastbound on Commercio approaching Ouro,” Lisa replied.
“I’m one block north, approaching Ouro,” Carson said.
“Shit! He got into a cab on Ouro,” Lisa exclaimed seconds later.
“You want me to intercept?” asked Carson.
“Negative. Let him go,” Lisa ordered. “He was probably a gofer. Mike, can you confirm that Ghazi is back in his room?”
“Stand by,” Mike replied as he unlocked his PDA.
Last evening, as his wife had taken over watching Ghazi eating out, Mike had broken into the accountant’s room and installed two hidden microphones and a video camera. The microphones—one in the bathroom, the other near the queen-size bed—were easy to conceal. Although no bigger than a dime, they had the ability to transmit live via any secure smartphone that was equipped with the correct application and authorization code. The bugs were linked to the small video camera, which was hidden in plain sight as an eight-outlet power bar.
“Ghazi’s in his room,” said Mike, moments later. He was looking at a clear video feed of Ghazi removing his shoes.
“Let’s meet in Mike’s room, arriving at seven- and ten-minute intervals,” Lisa said.
Twenty-five minutes later, the three IMSI agents were watching Ghazi on Mike’s computer. Ghazi was nervously pacing the length of his room.
“He keeps looking at his watch,” Carson mentioned.
“He’s probably waiting for someone,” Mike said.
“Or a phone call,” Lisa offered.
“Whatever happens,” Mike continued, “we’re taking him down tonight.”
CHAPTER 61
Zima Bernbaum, traveling under the alias of Sophia Mendes, checked in at the Hotel do Chiado just as the three IMSI operatives were finishing their third review of their operational plan to capture the Sheik’s accountant, Abdullah Ahmad Ghazi.
Zima had made a stop at the residence of an ex-CSIS field operation officer who provided her with a Walther PPK with two magazines of ammunition, as well as a syringe filled with a powerful sedative capable of incapacitating a 200-pound man for up to thirty minutes.
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