by Brad Taylor
He jogged across the street with his partner, entering one of the ubiquitous concrete hostel/apartment buildings that dotted the landscape, but this one had been specifically chosen. Jam-packed into the cloistered area of east Amman, it was built next to a hill and was one story taller than the building next to it, so close that the concrete balcony was only five feet from the adjacent roof.
Unlike his frantic run earlier, this had been planned. He needed a way to enter his building, ensuring the clerk at the bottom saw him, then exit without being seen. He’d initiate the assault, letting his team do their deadly tango, then return without ever having exited the front. All the desk would know—and would provide the police, should that become necessary—was that he’d entered, then stayed in his room for the duration of the attack. Thus, he couldn’t be complicit.
That, coupled with his stall shopping a moment ago, should be enough to escape scrutiny. The name he’d used in this building wasn’t in a passport. All they knew was what he looked like, and the fact that he had entered, then never exited.
He walked inside the tiny anteroom, a thin piece of wood to the right making a counter, worn smooth by years of use. Behind it was the custodian. Ringo had no idea what he was paid for, because every request since he’d first rented the suite of rooms had fallen on deaf ears. He walked over and, speaking in Arabic, said, “Did you get the shower on the third floor to function?”
“No. Not yet. I’m working on it.”
“And the sink?”
“No.”
“And the toilet? Does it flush now?”
“No. No, no, no. I’m not a miracle worker.”
Ringo smiled and said, “You’re pretty much nothing at all, aren’t you?”
The clerk, a gnarled older gentleman, stood up and said, “This isn’t London, you little shit. I do what I can. If you don’t like it, leave. Find another place with running water. If you can.”
The man who’d met Ringo outside laughed at the slur against his English accent. Ringo bristled, and said, “Maybe I will. Maybe I will.”
He walked away, aggravated, but confident the clerk would remember the conversation. Remember him walking up the stairs.
40
Jennifer watched Shoshana enter the broken-down brick structure and wondered if she was just going to start slaying. She didn’t think so, but her opinion meant little in determining what the Israeli killer would do. Put bluntly, she was regretting her decision to allow the operation to continue. Regretting how she’d ceded control to Shoshana.
As soon as the men had entered the makeshift apartment building, Shoshana had said, “I’m going in. I’ll provide early warning if they leave from another exit.”
Jennifer had said, “No. You’re not. We have the building. Jeez. Do you want to pin his location to a bathroom or something? This is enough.”
“No, it’s not. All we know is they’ve entered. We don’t know if they’ll stay. We don’t know if this is the bed-down. Maybe they’re just getting explosives or weapons here, and they might exit out of another door.”
Shoshana had stood without another word, leaving Jennifer alone at the café table. And then Pike had called. He’d found her van, empty, and wasn’t just a little aggravated.
“What the hell is going on?”
“We’ve got the site. I’m at a café outside. You have my location?”
“Yeah, I see it. We can’t get there in a vehicle. We’ll have to go on foot, depending on how accurate this sat photo is.”
“It’s good. Where are you?”
“Next to your van. Where you’re supposed to fucking be.”
She ignored that little jab. “Continue up the street through the markets. You’ll see a narrow alley on the left. Really just a garbage lane. Bypass that one and take the next. It’s bigger, with some outdoor cafés. Take that to the north and you’ll get to me.”
He said, “Got it. Don’t move. You understand?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m going nowhere. You have situational awareness of the Jordanians?”
“No. They should be rolling now, but I have no contact.”
“How will you pass the location?”
“Showboat. He’s talking to the Taskforce.”
“And they’ll feed it to the CIA, who will then feed it to the Jordanians? Seriously? That’ll take forever.”
She heard, “Best I can do. Don’t let Shoshana convince you to do anything stupid. Or anything more stupid.”
He hung up, and she waited, thinking of Hussein. Wondering if anyone would tell his father what had happened to him. Did the CIA do that sort of thing? Or would they let the Jordanians attempt to figure it out, not caring if they ever did?
Hussein’s last conversation replayed in her head. The panic in his voice, then the despair. Ending with quiet resignation at his own death. It made her queasy. Outside of his father, he probably had no family. His mother was more than likely dead from AIDs in prison, and he’d given no indication about brothers and sisters.
The thought of siblings made a piece of the conversation snap into her head, about friends he did have. Ringo had called Hussein a name. An innocuous one on the surface, but hiding a much greater danger below.
Hussein was a Lost Boy.
The realization made her head swim. It held such gross implications, on so many levels, she had trouble acknowledging the impact.
They’d been told that Hussein had killed a CIA source reporting on an insider threat involving Americans. Unknown, non-Arabic Americans, planning an attack against the White House, called the Lost Boys. Hussein was a CIA source himself, recruited, vetted, and inserted into Syria, and he’d just been called a Lost Boy.
Beyond the CIA web of lies or incompetence, there was one concrete fact: Her team had used Hussein to stop this attack in Jordan, but in so doing, they’d given up their ability to penetrate an attack by American citizens against her very own seat of government. The one reason the Taskforce had been created. They’d killed the only lead they had.
She felt sick.
She saw movement on the third-floor balcony of the target building and recognized al-Britani standing with another man. The sight of him crystallized the death of Hussein, and another, critical realization.
He knew Hussein was a Lost Boy. Which means he knows who the others are. Knows what they’re planning.
She saw al-Britani gazing across the rooftops to the north, pointing. She leaned forward, trying to determine what he was doing. She studied his building and saw that it was one story taller than the adjacent structure across from him. Only three stories tall, it was followed by two more buildings going up the side of the hill, each a story smaller than the one before, with the last one a single story in height and built right into the hillside. If al-Britani were to move across the roofs, he’d have an easy path to the hilltop. He’d be on foot, racing down the back side without ever having reached the street.
And she realized what he was going to do. How they were going to leave, but now she couldn’t let that happen. Facilitating the Jordanians to stop the attack had become a secondary consideration. Capturing al-Britani took precedence.
Torn, knowing she was making a call based on intuition alone, she clicked her earpiece.
“Pike, Pike, this is Koko, I have a Prairie Fire here. I need you to call off the Jordanians.”
Prairie Fire was the code word for a team about to be overrun. A call that would cease all operations to protect those who made it. She knew she was misusing the command, but also knew it would snap Pike into attention.
And it did. Pike came on immediately, “What’s your status? What’s going on? You have shots fired?”
She said, “No, no. I’m fine, but the mission has changed. You need to call off the Jords. We need to take down al-Britani. We need to conduct an Omega on him, and get him out like we were going to do with Hussein.”
“Why?”
She saw al-Britani come out on the roof again, this time with three people. All
were carrying duffel bags. They stacked them against the balcony railing, then went back inside.
Prepping to move.
She stood, looking up the street for Pike. She said, “I can’t explain it now. I need you to trust me. What’s your ETA?”
“We’re five minutes out on clandestine foot. Two and a half to three minutes if you want me to break cover.”
Meaning he would start running roughshod over anyone in his path with guns drawn.
She said, “No, no, don’t break cover, but I do need you quickly. Target’s about to move.”
“Where’s Shoshana?”
Jennifer studied the adjacent building, looking for entry. If she could get inside and go to a stairwell, she could access the roof. She could bottle them up right there. Sandwich them between their balcony and Pike coming in from below. She saw an iron gate.
She stood and jogged down the street toward the secondary housing structure. She said, “Shoshana’s inside the target building. I’ll have her go out into the street so you can link up. Pike, they’re going to exit using the roof of another building. I need you here now.”
“Jennifer, back off. Let the Jordanians handle this. The attack doesn’t stand a chance. They can’t reach the hotel and execute, even if they leave the building. Don’t let Shoshana push you into something. Al-Britani is their target, not ours.”
She reached the building, stopping at the wrought iron gate blocking the alcove to the main door. She tried to enter. It was locked from the inside.
She said, “Pike, he’s our target now. He knows the Lost Boys.”
41
Pike said, “The Lost Boys? What the hell do they have to do with this?”
Jennifer backed up, looking skyward at the side of the building. What she saw pleased her. Rough-hewn brick and balconies. She glanced back up the street, seeing the crowds and realizing there was no way she could do what she wanted out front.
Knowing Pike hadn’t heard the final words between al-Britani and Hussein, she said, “Pike, I can’t explain right now. I need you to trust me. Al-Britani knows who the Lost Boys are. He said so while you were assaulting. It didn’t click before, but he said it. Get Showboat ready to receive. He was waiting on Hussein, so it shouldn’t be any trouble.”
She jogged around the brick to the alley separating the target building from hers. She entered, running swiftly, glancing upward. She saw a metal ladder being maneuvered above her, bridging the gap between the balcony of the target building and the roof of hers. She kept going, reaching the back of the building in a narrow, fetid alley.
She scanned for a matter of seconds, planning her route and repositioning her purse to her rear. She pulled her cell and dialed Shoshana’s number, knowing Shoshana, not having a specially modified Taskforce phone, was unaware of what had transpired. She answered and Jennifer said, “Target’s in the corner room, northeast, third floor. He’s preparing to escape across the rooftops. Pike’s on the way. I need you to meet him out front.”
The suspicion leaking through the phone, Shoshana said, “Why?”
“We’re going to take him down.”
The suspicion evaporated. “Us? No Jordanians?”
“No. Listen, we aren’t working with a lot of time. I have to get to the roof. We need al-Britani alive. You understand?”
When she didn’t reply, Jennifer said, “Shoshana? Do you understand? Capture only.”
Shoshana said, “I’ve already told you, that’ll depend on him.” Then she hung up.
Jennifer cursed under her breath, sliding the phone into her back pocket. She grasped the brick in her hands and pulled herself off the ground, feeling the clock ticking. Wondering if they weren’t already too late.
She began climbing the rough cinder block, using the cracks, seams, and window ledges to go ever higher, having no more difficulty than a gecko on a plate of glass. She reached the top, cinched her hands on the small parapet, and raised herself slowly, peeking over the edge toward the balcony. She saw one of the men throwing a duffel bag across, and noticed that two other bags were already on the rooftop.
She looked for cover and saw the outbuilding that held the stairway to the floors below. She waited until the man returned to the apartment, then pulled herself over the side and scampered behind the cinder blocks.
She keyed her radio. “Pike, Pike, I’m on the roof and they’re about to cross. Where are you?”
“Just met Shoshana. We’re on the way up. Third floor, northeast corner, right?”
She slid her head around and saw one man walking across the metal ladder, hands outstretched for balance.
She whipped back around, getting out of sight and drawing her pistol. She said, “Shit, they’re starting to cross over! What do I do?”
“Seriously? This is your damn plan. But if it were me, I’d get a barrel in their face before they’re all on your side of the roof. Just passed the second floor. About ten seconds out.”
She rolled away from the outbuilding, seeing two men had reached her side, with another on the bridge. One was digging in a duffel bag. The other saw her and shouted. She stood up and sprinted straight at them, holding the pistol in a two-handed grip. She skidded to a crouch fifteen meters away and, feeling ridiculous, screamed, “Freeze! Stop right there!”
She heard gunfire inside the apartment and knew Pike had entered. The man on the ground whirled around, pulling an AK-47 from the bag. She placed two rounds into his head, controlling the recoil of her weapon even as the standing man charged her, unarmed. She saw the third man leap to her roof and a fourth jump on the bridge, firing into the apartment with a pistol.
The charging Arab was on her in an instant, leaping at her and screaming. She backpedaled, pulling her weapon into her chest and breaking the trigger three times. He landed on her, knocking her to the ground with literal dead weight. She rolled him off just as the third man reached her. From her back, she popped two rounds into his head and rolled out of the way of his falling body.
She heard a bullet gouge into the brick next to her, spraying her with slivers of masonry. She brought her weapon up, refocusing on the man on the bridge. She saw it was al-Britani. He fired again, missing, and she snapped two rounds past his head, knowing at least he spoke English and understood surrender. The shots caused him to duck and lose his balance. He began windmilling his arms, and she held her breath. He fell sideways, slapping his hands through the gaps in the metal ladder.
She cocked her ears to the apartment, hearing no further gunfire. She heard, “Koko, Pike. Status?”
She exhaled in relief, and said, “I’m okay. Three down out here.”
“Yeah, you could have told me there were eight of them. We busted into a hornet’s nest. But no jackpot. Doing site exploitation now. Got a laptop, but not much else.”
“I have precious cargo out here.”
“You got him? Alive?”
“Not yet. He’s on the metal bridge. Hanging on for dear life.”
She saw Shoshana come out onto the balcony. Jennifer smiled and walked to the parapet of the roof, weapon held high. She shouted, “Careful! He’s still got a pistol.”
Shoshana nodded, but kept walking forward. She reached the balcony railing and looked out at al-Britani. He saw her, but made no move, holding on to the metal ladder with a death grip.
She leaned forward and spoke to him. Jennifer heard Arabic and wondered what she was saying. She saw al-Britani’s face go white. Shoshana spoke again, and he released one arm, trying to raise the pistol while still holding on.
Shoshana gave a wicked smile, and Jennifer saw the dark angel appear. She knew what was coming next. She shouted, “No!” just as Shoshana pushed the edge of the ladder off the railing. Al-Britani screamed all the way down, the noise cut abruptly as he hammered into the concrete four stories below.
She saw Pike come flying out of the apartment. He glanced down into the alley, then across at her. Jennifer was shocked, standing with her hands gripping the parapet unt
il her knuckles were white.
He turned to Shoshana, glaring at her. Knowing what she’d done.
All innocent, the dark angel long gone, she said, “What? I told him to give up and he pointed his weapon at me. It was self-defense.”
42
Yes, it didn’t end like we intended.” Kurt inwardly winced at his own words. He was becoming more and more like the politicians he hated, now parsing his statements like the best of spin doctors. To his front were eight of the thirteen members of the Oversight Council, including President Warren. To his back was a damaging PowerPoint slide outlining the failed attempt to capture both Hussein and al-Britani.
“Didn’t end like you intended? Seriously? It sounds to me like it ended on the opposite side of the universe from what you intended. That comment is like Noah saying, We had a little rain.”
This from the secretary of defense, usually an ally in Oversight Council meetings. If Kurt had lost him, he was in serious trouble.
Kurt said, “Sir, you know you can’t predict what will happen in an operation. The enemy gets a vote. This time—”
Secretary of State Jonathan Billings said, “That’s absolutely right. You can’t predict where every operation will go, but you can predict which operations you’ll do, because we give you that authority. You had none here. And I, for one, would never have given authority. You’ve just proven why this body exists, along with why Pike Logan can’t be trusted. I knew bringing him back in was a mistake. We’re looking at a major international incident.”
Kurt said, “It wasn’t Pike’s call. It was Lieutenant Colonel Blaine Alexander’s, the Omega ground force commander. And he made the call based on inherent in-extremis authority in our charter. We had strong indications of an imminent attack, and he decided to intervene. That’s what we pay him to do. He was within his authority.”
Alexander Palmer, the national security adviser, said, “The attack wasn’t imminent until you intervened. And what the hell were you thinking by using the Israeli Mossad?”
