by Brad Taylor
Jacob said, “So you think continuing with the attack is smart? Seriously? After that shootout?”
“Yes, I do. Think about it: If they knew the target, why try to interdict us in the street? Why not just wait until tomorrow? The crusaders are famous for sting operations, not random shootouts.”
“Maybe. Or maybe they planned on getting us tomorrow, but we caused them to jump the gun.”
“That doesn’t explain why they were following the girl. If they knew everything about us, they would have just swept in. No, they were following her because they know we exist, but not what we intend to do.”
They reached Via del Moro and Omar held up. Jacob said, “What?”
“The house is right down the street. No reason to walk into a trap.”
“But you just said you thought we were still safe.”
“I believe it, right up until it proves untrue. Wait here.”
Omar left him and went quietly down the street, searching for a hidden enemy. He saw nothing. He circled down the small alley behind the apartment, moving past rubbish bins and stabbing the barrel of his pistol into every shadow. He reached the back of the flat and saw the flicker of a television, then Carlos move in front of it. He hid his pistol and retreated back to Jacob.
“We’re good.”
They walked straight up to the front door, Omar first knocking before using a key. The door swung open and Devon was standing in the foyer, his face white.
Omar immediately withdrew his pistol, whispering, “What is it?”
Devon closed the door and said, “Our pictures are all over the news. Me, Jacob, Hussein, and Carlos. Old mug shots from Florida.”
82
The doctor came out of the bedroom and said, “She’s stable, but sedated. She’ll be out for a while.”
I said, “Doc, I really need to talk to her. She’s the key to a terrorist attack, maybe within the next twenty-four hours.”
“Mr. Logan, I don’t know what to tell you. Get some sleep. It looks like you could use it.”
“Fuck that. I can sleep when I’m dead. She’s getting sent to the US on a medical bird in the next six hours. That’s all the time I’ve got.”
“She’s going nowhere. That’s my call as a doctor. I’ll stay here until she’s able to fly, but I’ll never help your organization again if she leaves before I say.”
I admired his conviction, given that he had no idea who we were. I’d figured he was just in it for the retainer, and he’d do his job but not quibble if he was told to stop.
As soon as we’d loaded Christine into our Fiat, Shoshana driving and Brett providing medical aid, I’d had a choice to make: Either take her to a hospital and lose any chance to learn what she knew, or take her to the safe house. To do the latter, I needed to trigger a deep asset reserved for helping Taskforce members working undercover.
The Taskforce was big, with tendrils all over the world, but most of the activities were benign, with unwitting personnel servicing safe houses or operating cover companies. They were trusted individuals who knew they were doing something for the United States government, but were not read on to Project Prometheus.
Early on, we’d determined that we might need medical help after a fight somewhere, and driving to the local hospital with a gunshot wound wasn’t going to work. Kurt Hale had set out to recruit doctors in select regions of the world.
The idea was simple: Find military MDs on the verge of separating from service and ask if they’d like to get government assistance moving to an overseas retirement location, then a major monthly stipend for simply being on call—a call that may never come. This doctor—Colonel Shepard Linkletter—was an emergency room surgeon who’d seen multiple tours in Iraq during the hell of the surge. He’d already put in his retirement paperwork while serving at Aviano Air Base, Italy, when he was approached. He’d planned to stay in Italy anyway, and had snapped up the chance to have Uncle Sugar pay for it. As far as I know, he’d only been used once, when another Taskforce team had gotten into a scrape across the Adriatic Sea in Croatia.
I knew he existed because I’d heard the stories from the team he’d helped, but now I needed Kurt’s permission to activate him for someone who wasn’t on the Taskforce roster, not to mention that, in so doing, I’d contaminate the safe house for good. A lot of work went into procuring these clandestine operational houses, including stocking them with medical and other supplies, but once the doctor saw it, not to mention Christine, it could never be used again.
Kurt had been surprisingly amenable, going so far as to initiate a casualty evacuation plan with another Taskforce aircraft flying from Germany to get Christine to a trauma center, and by the time I’d arrived back at the safe house, Dr. Linkletter was calling for directions. He’d shown up twenty minutes later with his wife in tow. She turned out to be a former civilian DOD nurse, so the team was a twofer.
He’d immediately begun working on Christine while his wife turned one of the bedrooms into a mini-ICU. After an hour and a half, with me just sitting on my hands, he’d come back out, telling me she wasn’t going anywhere.
I said, “Okay, Doc, how long until she’s conscious and lucid? Best guess?”
Before he could answer, the doorbell rang. I put a finger to my lips and nodded at Jennifer. She looked through the peephole, then opened the door. Knuckles and Retro came in, lugging suitcases. Knuckles took one look at me and said, “So my rush down here was for nothing?”
“So far. You and Retro got the room on the left upstairs. Retro, how’s your leg?”
“A little stiff. Stitches itch like hell, but it’s okay.”
“Can you run?”
“If I had to, sure.”
“I mean, can you run without leaving a blood trail?”
“Questionable.”
I said, “Okay, everyone get some sleep. We’ve got no lead right now, and can’t talk to our source until . . . Doc? You never answered my question.”
“Best guess, seven to nine hours. Who do you want me to wake if it’s sooner?”
“Me. I’ll be in the bedroom right next door.”
Knuckles said, “You get your own room? What’s up with that? How come I’m sharing?”
Retro picked up his suitcase and snickered. I said, “I’m sharing, just like everyone else.”
“With who? Brett? Aaron?”
He saw me scowl and grinned, really enjoying punching my buttons. “Come on. You gotta say it.”
“Shut up, Knuckles.” I walked off to my room, a bewildered doctor looking on. He saw Jennifer follow behind me, and broke into a knowing smile. I said, “You shut up too.”
I opened my suitcase, pulling out a T-shirt as Jennifer closed the door. She said, “You really shouldn’t let him get to you like that.”
I changed into the T-shirt, saying, “Really? You’re the one who was sneaking out of our hotel room in Nairobi. Anyway, I’m getting a little sick of his jokes. He needs to get over it.”
She put on a pair of sweats and slid into the miniature European queen bed. She patted the pillow next to her and said, “He is over it. You’re the only one it aggravates now.”
I said, “You’re going to sleep in sweats?”
“Well, yeah. I’m not having that doctor come in here to wake you up while I’m wearing my panties and a T-shirt.”
“So I get the ribbing without any of the benefits? What’s up with that?”
I got the disapproving-teacher glare, and she changed the subject. “Christine’s going to live, right?”
“Yeah, she’ll live.”
“We should have been quicker. I knew that bastard was going to harm her. It happened so fast.”
“Actually, that was my question to you. Do you think you took Jacob out of the fight?”
“I honestly don’t know. I hit him. I know that, but he got away under his own power. Omar wasn’t carrying him. What did you and Aaron find?”
“Nothing. No blood trail, no Lost Boys. They managed to get o
ut, and I couldn’t find any evidence he’d been hit in a bad way.”
She rolled over, turning out the light. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this. We’ve never done a chase where we’ve been completely behind the ball at every step of the way. You should have seen Omar. That man is a demon. He’s going to kill a lot of people.”
“I know. Get some sleep. At least Kurt’s got the Lost Boys in the system. I saw them on TV tonight. Jacob didn’t look anything like the Jacob I saw, but at least they’re out there.”
She rolled back over and said, “We should let Shoshana go. She wants to, and she’s got a weird thing with Omar. I don’t want to sound crazy, but she’s got some inner bloodhound that can find him.”
“She won’t care who gets hurt if I let her off the chain. She’s crazy. I can’t control her. All she wants is him dead.”
“You can, Pike. If you get her to say it. Tell her to find him and call. She’ll do that. If she says so.”
I lay in bed, feeling the incredible pressure to stop an attack, and an absolute helplessness that I would fail. I said, “Maybe I will. Let’s see what happens tomorrow.”
Tomorrow came a hell of a lot earlier than I thought it would. Around dawn, I was awakened by my cell phone. I fought through the fog and answered. It was an intel analyst from the Taskforce. He said, “Pike Logan?”
I sat up, rubbing my eyes and saying, “Yeah. Who is this?”
His next words woke me up completely.
“Kurt Hale gave me an order to contact you as soon as we identified a credit card purchase in Venice. We did. The pay-as-you-go card was used to buy a cell phone. We have the number. Do you need it?”
83
Omar shook Jacob’s leg, saying, “Get up. It’s time to get ready.”
Jacob groaned, gingerly feeling his groin, his eyes still puffy from the pepper spray. He peeled down his pants and saw an ugly purple bruise on his hip. He said, “What time is it?”
“Seven in the morning. You have to be in position at nine. We need to get Carlos and Devon dressed.”
Jacob sat up, scratching his head. “Have you thought more about the attack? You still want to go?”
“Yes. I’m convinced that they don’t know what our target is. If they did, they wouldn’t have put your faces all over the screen. They’re trying to scare you away because they can’t predict where it will be. They don’t know, but they’re looking. Which is why I’m changing the plan.”
“How?”
“As we discussed, you won’t be the martyr. I’m taking the final martyr vest with me. I’ll create a diversion. A strike that will draw the police and deflate their fear. They’ll think the attack has occurred.”
“You’re going to be a shahid?”
“No, young lion. I’m going to kill infidels. We’ll still meet as we discussed. Take the ferry to Tunis. I’ll be waiting.”
“But how will we get inside? Even if they don’t know our attack plans, the Lost Boys’ faces are all over the news. Surely they’ll stop us.”
“I don’t believe so. Have some faith. Remember when we discussed the attack? The threat of the security?”
“Yes.”
“Vatican City is not Italy. Yes, they talk, but the target is not an Italian citizen. You are all over the news in Italy, but that means little for the Vatican. I studied it extensively, and the Vatican coordinates with the Italian police, but does not fall under them. Maybe they have the bulletin, but they might not.”
“Maybe isn’t a way to plan for success.”
“Look at it this way: Those pictures are over six years old. You don’t even look like them, and your passport information isn’t for the Lost Boys.”
“How will we get in without you? You’re Chris Fulbright.”
“Wake up Carlos and Devon. Let’s get them ready. While they shave and shower, I’ll call my contact. I told him you were sick before. I’ll tell him I’m now the one who’s ill. I’ll get a feel for him and tell him it wouldn’t be in the best interests of the rest of the church groups for me to come contagious.” He smiled. “A sacrifice on my part.”
Jacob went to the other sleeping pallets, shaking the legs of Carlos and Devon. They woke up and Omar stood above them, projecting the aura of the first time Jacob had met him, his power absolute.
“It’s time. Prepare yourself for martyrdom. Cleanse your body and clear your mind. Your greatest triumph lies ahead.”
84
I got one more negative contact from Knuckles and began to wonder if the phone was turned on. I said, “You sure you’ve got the right IMSI in the box?”
Piqued, he came back, “I got what you gave me. Maybe you’d better ask the Taskforce asshole who sent the information.”
I looked at my watch, feeling the time slip away. It was now past seven thirty, and our opportunity to find the bed-down site with the phone information was growing smaller and smaller. Soon, it would be on the move, and we would lose the chance to hit them together, at a place of our choosing. I feared the next hit would be the one of their choosing.
The Taskforce intel analyst had given me the information on the handset purchased in Venice, a so-called drop phone bought at a train station kiosk. They’d gone into high gear and hacked the database of the phone vendor, learning the serial number and—more importantly—the international mobile subscriber number, or IMSI, attached to the phone. This was the unique identifier the phone would use to communicate with the network, and something that could be tracked.
We’d done the large-scope search, and seen the phone had only been used a few times. Some of the calls had been placed in Venice, one had been in between Venice and Rome, but the latest were in Rome itself, telling me the phone purchased with the suspected credit card was now running around the capital. All I had to do was find it, which I most definitely had the capability to do.
We had the general location of where the phone had been due to its constant talking to cell towers, but that wasn’t enough of a refinement for a surgical assault. It did show me a pattern that proved hunting the IMSI was worth the effort, because the phone’s last tower contact had been in the vicinity of our gunfight the night before.
I’d awakened the pilots and Knuckles, telling them what I had and getting them moving to the rock-star bird.
In addition to transporting my team around in style and hiding our equipment, the Gulfstream had a suite of surveillance capabilities nestled among all of the electronic gear that allowed the aircraft to fly. One was the ability to geolocate a cell phone down to a ten-digit grid. Basically acting as a flying cell tower, the aircraft would suck in and reject thousands of cell phones, searching for the correct IMSI. Once that was found, the phone would be locked and we’d trace the signal straight-line to a location, taking three readings and finding where they intersected.
Knuckles came back on, the connection from the aircraft to my computer making him sound like he had a head cold. “We’ve lapped Trastevere twice, with no joy. I’m recommending a grid pattern search.”
The Trastevere area had the longest stay of the phone, according to the cell tower data, and I was hoping it was the bed-down location, but nothing had registered. The cell was either off or already on the move to a different location.
The IMSI grabber in the aircraft was limited in range—it couldn’t suck in every phone in Rome—and thus had to be targeted at a specific area. Knuckles was asking to start flying over Rome like he was mowing the lawn, but that posed its own problems—namely the air traffic control over the airspace of Rome. They’d want to know why we wished to fly willy-nilly across the city.
I said, “What’s the pilot’s take?”
I waited, then heard, “He’s saying he can do it, but it’ll be short. He thinks he can convince them that we’re sightseeing, flying over the Colosseum and the Vatican before we get on our way. We won’t get the city.”
I thought about it, knowing it would be the last thing we did. I was about to give them the go-ahead when
Jennifer came into the room, holding my Taskforce phone. “Analyst on the line. He’s got a lead.”
Into the computer I said, “Stand by. I got the Taskforce on the phone. Head out of the city and loiter.”
I took the cell from Jennifer, put my hand over the mic, and said, “Christine?”
Jennifer said, “Nothing yet. Doctor says she’s still out from the sedatives and the trauma. Her vitals are good, so he thinks she’ll come around soon.”
Not what I wanted to hear. Well, I mean I was glad her vitals were good, but, Jesus, couldn’t she wake the hell up already? I put the phone to my ear and said, “What do you have?”
I’d given the analyst the mission to identify all the calls our target cell had made, and I was hoping they had something I could use to broaden my search.
“We think we have the bed-down location. One of the contacts made by the handset was to the Hotel Imperiale. It’s the only hotel they’ve called, and the same one of your linkage target. Our evaluation is they’re staying at it. We recommend penetrating through cyber and getting a guest readout. We can analyze for anomalies if they’re using an alias.”
Not a bad bit of analysis, but unfortunately way off. This analyst was dedicated to finding linkages through electronic tethers, and not an all-source guy who could provide predictive intelligence based on multiple inputs. He had no idea what had transpired last night, but at least he was trying.
I said, “Thanks for the information. Who else has that phone called? Do you have the other IMSIs?”
I could hear the deflation over the phone. “Yes. There are a few other numbers, most mundane. We’ve got one other pay-as-you-go cell, bought in Rome. But I really think you should focus on the hotel.”
I said, “I might. Give me the IMSI.”
He did and I relayed it to Knuckles, telling him to put it in the system, re-attack Trastevere, and if that was a bust, to conduct his limited grid search. It was all I could do.
