by Brad Taylor
“Yes. I can. It’ll have to be two separate hits, but we can make it work.”
Jennifer said, “Pike, we don’t have sanction for that.”
I said, “Jennifer, he cut off an American head. Nobody’s going to deny us Omega. Anyway, it won’t be Omega. Aaron here will execute.”
Shoshana said, “How can we trust you? How do we know you won’t just run when you’ve got your man?”
I said, “Really? That hurts. You can’t trust me?”
“No. We can’t. That British fuck is going to die, and if you trick us into helping you and fail to follow through, you’ll pay a price. Understand?”
The comment brought a smile from both Aaron and me. He said, “I guess your goodwill with her is gone.”
Understanding that at least he trusted me, and liking the change of position, where I could torque Shoshana a little bit for a change, I said, “Well, she’s a pain in the ass anyway. Put her on ice and let’s get this done. I’ve got the manpower.”
I glanced at Shoshana, mightily trying not to let the smugness seep through.
I waited on the outburst, and instead, Shoshana was nothing but calm. She said, “Aaron, he might be right. All you guys can get his target, then we use his men to get ours.”
I raised my eyebrows, confused at her passive response. She sat down next to Jennifer and rubbed her thigh, moving ever closer to her crotch. She said, “Us women will stay here, in our place. In our room.”
My jaw dropped of its own volition, and I leapt up. Jennifer slapped Shoshana’s arm away, then put her hand to her forehead, rubbing it like she had a migraine.
Shoshana saw my reaction and grinned. I realized too late that I’d just failed in my play, and I was the one burned.
30
Hussein’s father kissed him on the cheek and waved him away, a large smile splitting his face. Hussein returned the joy with a grin of his own, twirling his newly issued badge and bouncing out the front door of the opulent Grand Hyatt hotel, his first day of work completed. Truthfully, his first day in more ways than one.
Hussein had never held a job for more than a couple of months, always quitting or getting fired, the sole purpose having been to gather enough money for a few nights of blissful sedation. Never solely for the pleasure of the job itself.
Today had been different. Today, he had been respected. Valued. And in turn he’d worked harder than he ever had, for the first time not wanting to let anyone down.
He barely noticed the people he went past as he pulled off his apron and folded it in his hands. Walking in the shadow of the Citadel, he placed the cloth reverently in his backpack, then laid his badge on top of it. The sight of his newly earned credentials brought him crashing back to earth, the badge reminding him why he was really in Jordan. What his real work would entail.
He sat heavily on a stone park bench and squeezed his eyes shut. There has to be a way out of this. Something to prevent the killing.
He cursed the CIA for bringing him into this cauldron. Cursed his mother for never having told him about his father. He could have avoided the boys’ school. He would never have met Jacob, and the CIA would never have come calling. He could have had the life he’d dreamed about late at night, after his visits to the white house. When the pain ceased to control his mind.
He rubbed his face, staring at the ground, struggling for a solution.
He could tell Ringo that they hadn’t given him a key. That he hadn’t been entrusted with a badge. But Ringo will only tell you to force someone to open the door. Failure isn’t an excuse.
He could disappear, taking the badge with him. Move in with his father and hide. But Ringo will still execute the mission, and he’ll kill father in the process.
Maybe he should go to the US embassy. Throw himself at the damn CIA and tell them everything. Turn himself in. But you killed a man. You carved his head off. And you brought in Jacob. You recruited and turned loose the Lost Boys.
How could he tell them that? They’d torture him in a secret prison for the rest of his life. And Ringo would still kill his father.
The flopping of the Kurd he’d slaughtered flashed in his mind. The body bucking underneath him, the knife handle becoming slippery in his hands from the fountain of blood.
He curled up on the bench and began to cry.
* * *
“He’s doing what?”
“Crying. Shoshana said he’s sitting on a bench bawling his head off.”
What the hell?
We’d tracked Hussein since leaving work, and he’d taken the same path he had since we’d started chasing him. Humans are naturally creatures of habit, and Hussein was no different. I had half the team waiting on him at the end of a narrow alley, a route he always took when heading back to his apartment, a trash-strewn footpath not unlike the one I’d met Jennifer in earlier. They would block his escape. Shoshana, having the ability to blend in better than anyone on my team, had been given the mission for a loose follow. The other half of the team was with me. The endgame for the traitorous bastard.
“Crying about what? Did something happen?”
Jennifer, who’d acted as the trigger for the surveillance but was now in my vehicle, said, “Not that I saw. He was smiling and almost skipping when he left the hotel.”
“Well, maybe we ought to just pull up to him and throw him in the van while he’s still blubbering.”
Aaron spoke into his phone, then said, “Too many people around.”
“That was a joke. We stick with the plan.”
Aaron smiled. “Good. I won’t have to tell you what Shoshana actually said.”
I grimaced and said, “What, did that little empath decide he’s a nice guy now?”
Shoshana marched to her own drummer, relying on some primordial instinct she could sense in front of her instead of reams of paper handed to her from some intel analyst. And more often than not, she was proven right. Seeing Hussein cry may have altered her calculus.
“No, no. She could care less about him if it leads to our target. She wants al-Britani planted in the ground. Your man means nothing to her.”
Then again, like a vampire craving a feeding, she was also a little bloodthirsty.
Aaron looked at me, phone to his ear. He nodded and said, “Hipster’s moving. Same line of march as predicted.”
* * *
Hussein wiped his eyes, the last of the hitches subsiding, and wearily stood. He trudged forward, his emotional state as raw as skin scraped on concrete. He mindlessly continued moving, blotting out the persistent image of the Kurd. Blotting out all thoughts of where his path was leading even as he continued walking it.
There was one solution left.
He could kill himself.
It would be nothing less than he deserved, and would free him from all of the pain. But that murdering sociopath Ringo would still kill his father.
For the first time in his pointless existence, he cared about something other than his own skin, and if killing himself would solve the problem, he would have gladly done so.
But it would not.
He continued walking robotically, head down, lost in his despair. He turned into the shortcut alley next to his apartment, barely two arms wide, knowing his fortune was upon him, but not realizing the route it would take.
Kicking cans and plodding forward, he didn’t hear the van block the entrance he’d just used. Didn’t hear the footsteps behind him. Didn’t even register anyone was in the alley with him until he felt a caress on his shoulder. He turned, seeing a woman wearing a hijab. Her eyes were cold steel, looking into his soul and seeing the damage he’d wrought. He stumbled back a step, confused, trying to assimilate how she knew, when a man appeared behind her. A big man, with a wicked scar tracking through his razor stubble and hard eyes expressing the same knowledge. No mercy. No sympathy for his plight.
And he was holding a gun.
31
Omar leaned into the window as the aircraft crested the mountains, th
e low clouds finally breaking to show the valley below. They began to lower into the bowl and Omar saw the concrete of Tirana spilling out, threading into the fingers and ridges in the distance. The international airport grew larger and larger, and he recognized a string of old Soviet fighters on the tarmac, rusting and stoic. Proud defenders of a system that no longer existed.
His plane hit the runway fairly roughly, jarring open two overhead bins far past their service prime on the Alitalia 737. The pilot applied the brakes, the engines reversing with a whine, and Omar wondered if they were going to drive off the edge. He began squeezing his armrest, exposing his anxiety as he stared out the window at the land racing by.
Truth be told, he didn’t like flying. Actually hated the idea, but it might have been because the only aircraft he’d ever been on were ones that allowed goats in the aisles. Flights where the passengers clapped at the landing, amazed they were alive.
As they did now.
Omar didn’t join them, but he wanted to. They taxied to the terminal, and his thoughts turned to his bigger worry: getting into Albania.
He had no idea how strict the immigration process was, or even if his cursory Internet search would be proven true. Unlike the Lost Boys, he had no United States citizenship to hide behind. His passport was Russian, albeit with a Schengen visa.
Created for the travel of citizens within twenty-six countries in Europe—the so-called Schengen zone—it allowed them to cross borders hassle-free. Albania was not a member, but in the strange world of international diplomacy, they recognized the visa for entry into the country. At least the Internet said they did.
He hoped it was true, as this city had been chosen for a reason.
A majority Muslim country, Albania had been part of the mammoth Soviet Union, and, like all countries behind the Iron Curtain, had banished religion when the communist overlords secured control. After the wall fell, and the country gained independence, the Islamic faith once again flourished, and, like just about anywhere with a sizable Muslim population, sympathizers could be found.
Unlike other countries, with security services clamping down on the immigrant population, Albania had yet to draw the eye of the crusaders, making it a good location for the transfer of weaponry.
Omar remained seated until the flow of people allowed him to exit the plane. He followed the passengers to a waiting bus, then entered the immigration hall and got in line, one of the few times when his queue, as a visitor, had been shorter than the one for citizens. He presented his passport, hiding the trepidation as he had many times before. After a brief exchange, where he explained he was seeing friends, his passport was stamped and he was through.
He hadn’t even had to provide a hotel or show any other proof of his intentions, which gave him comfort that Albania had been the right choice.
Twenty minutes later, in a cab where he’d given up trying to understand the driver’s limited English, he entered the city center. Surrounded on all sides by concrete buildings with a depressing utilitarian bent, it reminded him of Grozny. Well, at least before Grozny had been leveled by the Russians.
The driver pulled over at a traffic circle and pointed across the street, muttering something unintelligible. Above a store selling luggage he saw the small sign of his hotel. He paid the fare and made his way across the street.
The hotel was a ten-room threadbare affair with a faint, musty odor, complete with actual metal keys and a communal bathroom at the end of the hall. He cared not a whit about comfort, only that it was inconspicuous. He paid in cash, thanked the clerk, and climbed the narrow stairs to his room.
He dropped his bag on the floor, then sat on the bed studying a tourist map of Tirana he’d found at an airport kiosk. He memorized his location, then found the restaurant where he was to meet his men. It looked a short walk away, maybe ten minutes, in an area called the Block.
* * *
Twenty minutes later he was standing on a narrow street called Pashko Vasa, trying to locate an address and having no luck. It had seemed easy on the map, but the buildings were all jammed together with no obvious numbering on the doors or windows.
He could at least read the corner signs. He knew he was on the correct street, and he thought he was at the right location, because his instructions had told him to stop at an Alpet petrol station.
Which was to his front.
He did a slow circle, eyeing the buildings, then heard his name called. He glanced up and saw someone waving from a second-floor window. He recognized Anzor, his friend, then saw the name painted below the window, feeling like a fool. The restaurant was on the second floor, above other businesses.
No wonder you couldn’t find it.
He waved back, then jogged across the street to a stairwell below, seeing a small sign proclaiming, CHEERS FOR BEERS. He followed footsteps painted on the tile, going up one flight and entering the restaurant, an expansive open area clad in warm wood, with two full-length bars lined with beer taps.
The room was empty at this early hour, with only the bartender washing glasses. The far wall had large windows, all swung open to the street below. Anzor and two other men were sitting at a high-top table in the corner, near the windows.
Omar nodded at the bartender, then walked to the table, the men standing and smiling. In Russian, Anzor said, “We were wondering if the famous Omar had lost his navigation skills.”
Omar hugged him, then the other two, pointing at the table, where three pints of beer rested. He said, “Where I come from, that would get you lashed at the very least.”
Anzor laughed and said, “Not from what I remember in South Ossetia.”
In 2008, Russia invaded the country of Georgia, ostensibly to support the breakaway independence of the province of South Ossetia, a Russian supporter. Still in Chechnya at the time, Omar had seen the water begin to boil before the invasion. He’d traveled into Georgia through the Pankisi Gorge, joining a paramilitary unit. He’d fought the Russians in a short, sharp war, at one point risking his own life to attack a prisoner convoy of captured paramilitaries destined for a torturous death. In so doing, he’d saved the three men in the room.
It had nothing to do with Georgian politics. He simply hated the Russians.
Omar laughed and sat down, saying, “Georgia was a long time ago. And a world away from where I am now.”
Anzor said, “I know. We hear the stories about the famous Chechen taking over Iraq, and we laugh about how we knew him when he was but a foot soldier. But we never heard anything about taking over Albania. Why are you here?”
Omar said, “I should ask the same of you.”
Anzor glanced at the two other men and said, “We have business here. Not all of us yearned to fight forever.”
Omar knew not to press, understanding the “business” was illicit, either human trafficking or drugs—neither of which mattered to him.
He said, “Does this business have the ability to procure arms? Do you require protection?”
Anzor glanced at his two friends for confirmation. One nodded. He said, “Yes, Davit can provide the necessary things. Understand, sometimes the police are more trouble than the criminals. Protection is required, if you want to survive.”
Omar smiled, “Of course. As always.”
The one who’d nodded, Davit, said, “How much protection? What are you doing here?”
“I’m here simply for a business transaction, but I’m not at all sure about the integrity of the meeting. It was supposed to occur tomorrow, but the man coordinating the transaction was killed in a crusader air strike. Now the meeting has been postponed to the following day by people I have never met. It makes me skittish. All I want is the same thing you do for your business. Protection while I’m there.”
Omar saw all three visibly relax. He said, “What? Did you think I was enlisting your help for something offensive?”
Anzor laughed and pointed to the third man. “Levan thought you were planning an attack and wanted our help.”
/> Omar looked at him, and Levan raised his hands. “You have to admit, with your reputation, it would cross my mind.”
Anzor said, “We’re businessmen now, and we can’t get entangled in your politics. We were chased out of the Pankisi because every intelligence organization in the world was hunting men like you. Nobody looks at us here in Albania, but an attack based from this area would change that. It would definitely hurt our business.”
Omar said, “Are you not Muslim? Do you not feel a duty to help your fellow Ummah? Do you not remember the Pankisi?”
Anzor said, “Yes. And we do our part, contributing money to charities that help the cause. In your world, your religion trumps everything. In mine, it’s business. We are opposite sides of the same coin. The Ummah needs your sword, but the edge is kept sharp with money. My money.”
Omar nodded slowly, then said, “It’s just protection for a transaction. I promise. All I need is for you to prevent something from happening that will interfere.”
Davit said, “We haven’t forgotten what you did for us. We all bear the scars. That’s why we answered your call. It’s just . . .”
Omar waved a hand, telling him without speaking he didn’t care about the debt. He opened his knapsack, pulling out his map. He pointed to a huge expanse of green south of the city center and said, “Do you know this area?”
Anzor said, “Yes, of course. It’s Tirana Park.” He smiled and said, “We’ve conducted business there as well.”
“Do you know the amphitheater?”
Anzor nodded. Omar said, “That’s the meeting site. Can it be protected?”
“Yes. It will be hard, but it’s not impossible. There are many ways to escape from that area, and I’ve had to use most at one time or another.”
Omar grinned. “Your business doesn’t sound that different from mine.”
Anzor laughed, bumping Omar’s knapsack at the table and causing a book to slip halfway out. Davit saw the black-and-yellow cover, then read the title.
