The Polaris Protocol

by Brad Taylor

  The light in his cell flicked off, then back on, signaling that someone was coming to visit. It startled him, since it had been so long since his last interrogation, and he was embarrassed at the excitement he felt. He put his back to the door and placed his hands through the slot, waiting to be cuffed, mentally preparing for the duel.

  He felt the steel on his wrists and stepped forward, facing the mirror at the back of his cell. He saw it open, and was shocked at who came through it.

  The man said not a word, waiting on the door to close again. As the echo of footfalls faded, he spoke. “Hello, Ash’abah.”

  The Ghost smiled at the Arabic butchering of his nickname but said nothing, staring at the man in the mirror to confirm. He didn’t really remember the height or the color of his hair, but the blue eyes and the scar on his cheek were branded like acid on his brain. It was the man who had captured him.

  “You can call me Mr. Pink. Have a seat.”

  The Ghost did so, turning around and sitting at his small table, remaining silent.

  “You remember me, don’t you?”

  He spoke for the first time. “Yes. You’re the man who stopped my attack. The man who brought me here.”

  Pink grinned. “How about that airplane ride? You couldn’t pay money for high adventure like that.”

  The Ghost barely remembered his drugged trip on the Skyhook extraction system. A violent jerk off the ground, spinning in the hurricane-force wind, then being hoisted in the back of an aircraft. From there, it was one sedated journey after another, until he’d ended up here.

  The Ghost said, “What do you want? I don’t think it’s answers you seek. That’s not your skill.”

  Pink smiled. “Perceptive, aren’t we. No. I want you to listen to something. And then I have a favor to ask.”

  The Ghost was off balance, his routine shaken by this strange turn of events. He felt the redline of danger but nodded.

  The Ghost watched as a digital recorder was placed on the table. Pink held up the headphones and said, “May I?”

  The Ghost nodded again, and Pink placed them over his ears. He hit “play,” and the Ghost focused on a conversation in English, then in Arabic. When it was complete, he returned his eyes to Mr. Pink.

  “What you heard was a Mexican drug cartel member talking to Hezbollah about selling nuclear secrets from the United States. There is an American who is bringing them down. Did you understand the Arabic?”

  The Ghost said, “Yes. Someone is bringing money to pay, and the men speaking intend to kill him.”

  “Yes. That’s correct. That someone is coming from Pakistan, and he’s due to arrive tomorrow. The American with the secrets arrived yesterday.”

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “We cannot let Hezbollah get nuclear secrets. They’ll turn them over to Iran, helping them with their quest to build an atomic bomb.”

  “So?”

  “We want you to pretend you’re the man coming from Pakistan and lead us to the meeting.”

  51

  At first the Ghost thought he’d misunderstood. The statement was so ludicrous it defied logic. He thought his English had failed him.

  Pink said, “You’ll be in no danger, and we won’t ask you to do anything overt. Just lead us to the meeting. We’ll do the rest.”

  The Ghost couldn’t help but smile. The idea was preposterous. It was a trick of some kind. “So, you’re going to take me out of here, fly me to Mexico, and allow me to meet with members of Hezbollah?”

  “Yes, that’s about the sum of it.”

  “But I can’t do that under your watchful eye, with you handcuffed to me. If that were possible, you wouldn’t need me. You’re going to have to let me go on my own.”

  “I know.”

  The Ghost shook his head. “I don’t know what your little interrogators told you, but clearly you think I’m an idiot.”

  “No, I don’t. Remember, I’m the one who caught you. I do not underestimate anything about you.”

  The Ghost said nothing for a moment, contemplating. The idea was fantastic, and clearly a lie. There was something else at play here. Why else would this man—his sworn enemy—come begging? They were trying to set him up for something.

  He said, “Pretending what you said is true, why would I help? You consider me a terrorist as well. What makes you even fantasize that I would help?”

  Pink said, “Let me ask you a question: Do you hate the United States?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you hate Hezbollah?”

  “No.”

  “Really?” Pink smiled. “Hmmm . . . seems to me that you have every reason. They sold your ass down the river in Lebanon and don’t care one little bit about Palestinians. They’re currently fighting against Sunni insurgents in Syria. Fighting with a Shiite dictator who hates you for daring to defy him. They’re trying to prevent the creation of a government that would help your cause.”

  When the Ghost didn’t respond, Pink said, “I’ve read your file. I’ve seen the assessments of your intelligence. You should be proud to hear that they’re off the charts compared to any other detainee. What’s funny is that with all those smarts you get tripped up whenever talking about Hezbollah. We have very little for Hamas and other Palestinian groups, but quite a lot on Lebanese Hezbollah. Why is that, do you think?”

  Pink leaned back in his chair, tipping onto the back legs and locking eyes with the Ghost. He rocked back and forth while the Ghost remained silent. Finally, he said, “The man coming to the meeting works for al-Qaeda, but he’s Palestinian. Is your hatred for America so great that you’ll let him die so Hezbollah can help out Iran?” Pink leaned forward on the table. “It’s really just a question of who you hate more. The enemy of my enemy and all that Arabic bullshit.”

  They sat for thirty seconds without speaking, Pink content to let the silence blanket the room like a fog. Finally the Ghost said, “Let’s say I do lead you to this meeting. What’s in it for me?”

  Pink said, “You’ll get to prevent the death of a countryman, and have my undying gratitude.”

  The Ghost scoffed and Pink continued. “You know I can’t promise you release, but I will talk on your behalf. We’ve got everything we’re going to get out of you. Any information you have now is old and stale. Not worth our time. I’ll do what I can, maybe get you moved to some sort of house arrest where you get to see more than these four prison walls. That’s the best I can do. No way will they release you, because you’ll go right back to killing people. You and I both know the truth of that.”

  Despite himself, the Ghost began considering the offer. He had no doubt that Pink was lying about something in the mission, but he hadn’t lied about what he could offer. He could have but didn’t. Reluctantly, the Ghost felt a grain of respect for the man across the table. He wouldn’t admit it, but Pink had spoken the truth about Hezbollah and Iran and had pushed the correct buttons much more adroitly than any of the interrogators before him. Pink wasn’t like the people who had questioned him this past year. He was someone more like himself than the Ghost cared to admit. Which meant he was someone to guard against.

  All of that, however, was superseded by one thought: escape. His biggest issues were first getting out of prison, and second getting out of America. And this man was offering to do both for him.

  As he was spinning these thoughts in his head Pink spoke again.

  “I’m sure you’ve already considered the greatest benefit. You help me and you might get the chance to escape. There’s no way you can get out of this prison, and even if you could, you’ll last about thirty minutes on the street in America. I’m going to take you to a foreign country and give you a passport to get there.”

  The Ghost felt his face flush and saw Pink smile. Before he could recover, Pink said, “Of course, it’ll be my job to prevent that, but he
y, a man can hope.”

  Despite himself, the Ghost smiled back. He’s inside your head right now. Nobody had done that in his entire existence. His slight build and unremarkable features had allowed him to earn the nickname the Ghost. Had caused him to be underestimated by every one of his enemies. His intelligence had allowed him to kill all of them. All but one.

  The man across the table.

  Yes, he’s someone to watch against.

  But the challenge intrigued him. Worst case, he could thwart the murdering thugs of Hezbollah, something he would relish. Best case, he escaped. Then he thought of the man he was to replace.

  “What of the person coming from Pakistan? If I’m to pretend I’m him, where will he be?”

  Pink said, “I won’t lie to you. He’s going to be kept from the meeting. That has nothing to do with you. You come or don’t, he’s gone either way.”

  The Ghost appreciated the honesty once again. “How will I pretend I’m him? They’ll know I’m not.”

  “They have no idea who he is. They’ve never met him. You’ve played this game enough to pull it off. Last time we met, you were acting like a citizen of Saudi Arabia. Surely you can act like a Palestinian with a different name.”

  “I know nothing of al-Qaeda.”

  “Neither do they. You know enough about underground organizations to fake it. Look, I’m not saying it’s risk free. The only thing risk free is staying here in your cell. You want to do that for the rest of your life?”

  The Ghost said, “If I agree, what’s the next step?”

  Pike pulled two devices out of a bag, each a small black box the size of garage-door opener affixed to a metal band.

  “These are GPS trackers. They’ll get fastened to your ankles underneath your pants. You’ll notice there are two of them, and that’s for a reason. The trackers will have a geographic boundary that I’ll program once we’re in the country. Each one also has a small explosive charge. If you exceed the boundary I’ve set, it’ll sever both of your feet at the ankles.”

  The Ghost simply stared and Pike continued. “I told you it would be my job to prevent escape.”

  52

  Walking down the promenade of Motolinía Street, the sicario kept his pace the same as that of the shoppers around him, occasionally stopping to gaze into a window or buy a trinket. Wearing a hat and wig, he no longer looked like an apparition from hell, but instead blended in nicely with the multitude of tourists and locals out to enjoy the sunshine. His purpose was different, however. Having suspected a car following behind him less than thirty minutes ago, he was trying to determine if he was under surveillance. If he was being targeted by Los Zetas. Or perhaps the phantom gringo hit team from Tepito.

  Originally, he’d planned on driving straight to the meeting place, leaving Booth taped and gagged in the trunk, but had opted to stop short and take the walk to the final destination. Having captured many men, he knew the tactics well and understood he was safer on foot, moving in a crowd.

  It wasn’t the best of circumstances, as it left Booth to his own devices in the trunk while he was gone, but he was fairly confident he’d instilled enough fear into the man that he wouldn’t attempt to do anything rash. He’d told Booth what would happen should he attempt to escape. He’d kill him, plain and simple. Maybe slow, maybe fast. That all depended on the circumstances at the time. Either way, he’d take the life out of the man for disobeying, no matter where on earth he chose to run.

  It wouldn’t be for vengeance or because of any emotion. It was just what he did. The only thing he did. He had no other skills, but the one he possessed was valuable, he knew. He watched soccer on TV and thought to himself that in his own way, he was just as good as the best players on the field. They kicked a ball, which was seemingly easy, but only one in a thousand could do what the men on the field could do.

  It was the same with him. The sicario had seen the masterpieces hanging in the museums, painted by men who had a talent that defied description, and thought to himself that he was like them, only in a different type of art.

  And he wasn’t wrong.

  Walking up the promenade, he knew this skill meant little here. He was entering a world of strategy and negotiation where violence was of no use. The big question was whether the men Carlos had contacted really had money and the desire to purchase Booth’s protocol. Something he would find out in the next few minutes.

  It had turned out to be relatively easy to locate the men. Leaving Booth chained in the bathroom, the sicario had returned to the airport and cornered a man who worked at the rental car counter he had seen the foreigners use. Knowing they had to have shown a passport and international driver’s license, he’d bullied the rental clerk into divulging that information. From there, he’d contacted an informant for Los Zetas who worked in the immigration department at the airport. Someone who’d provided information in the past for cash.

  The contact was a risk, because the man could just as easily tell others in Los Zetas that he’d shown his face, along with the information he’d sought, but he didn’t see any other way around it, and the danger was slim. The immigration agent had no idea of the ongoing status of Los Zetas, so his appearance would get back to them only as a coincidence.

  For a single American fifty-dollar bill, the agent had given him the inn the three men had provided on their immigration cards. A midlevel hotel in the Zona Rosa.

  He talked to reception at the hotel, and a couple of twenty-dollar bills later, he had the room number of one of the men. He’d slipped an envelope under the door with his cell phone number and had waited.

  The man had eventually called, as the sicario knew he would, and they’d arranged for an initial meeting. The sicario had picked a famous restaurant and bar called La Opera, near the tourist section of the Zócalo. Unlike previous occasions, when he was a valued member of Los Zetas, he didn’t want to meet anywhere near their territory. He’d chosen the Zócalo because of its proximity to the presidential palace and other government buildings—meaning tight security. For once, he feared his own associates more than the officials who hunted them.

  He reached the corner of 5 de Mayo and took a left, leaving the walking promenade behind, fairly certain that nobody was still following him, if anyone had been at all. He passed by the entrance to La Opera and continued to the next block. He stopped, standing next to a vendor selling tacos and studying his back trail. Nothing suspicious appeared. He looped around and entered the restaurant, his eyes taking a moment to become accustomed to the gloom.

  Like the streets outside, the bar was starting to pick up, the late-afternoon crowd hitting happy hour as in bars all over the world. He’d picked this time specifically because the streets would soon be packed with vendors selling everything from “handmade” sombreros to watches and packs of gum. A sea of people that he could escape within, should it become necessary.

  A man in traditional Mexican attire, complete with a sash, approached and asked how he could assist. The sicario said he was meeting someone, and before the host could respond, a swarthy gentleman came forward, speaking in English. “Do you wish to have a margarita?”

  The sicario responded, “No. A glass of water would be fine.”

  The restaurant host looked confused, but the swarthy man smiled and stuck out his hand. The sicario shook it, pleased that the foreigners had the ability to follow instructions.

  Each now sure the other was whom they were supposed to meet, they moved to the table already obtained by the foreigner. After sitting, the man said, “You may call me Farooq. It means ‘one who distinguishes truth from falsehood.’”

  The sicario smiled and said, “As in ‘one who will not pay for something that doesn’t work’?”

  “Yes. That’s about the sum of it.”

  “You may call me Pelón.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “A man with
no hair.”

  Farooq looked confused, as if there was a hidden meaning, and the sicario said, “It’s just a nickname. If you’d prefer something with substance, something that’s closer to my nature, you may call me Muerte.”

  “Which is?”

  The sicario rested his eyes on him, and Farooq instinctively recoiled from their weird glow, as they all did, no matter the nationality. “Death. I am death.”

  Farooq said, “As in you’ll kill me if I don’t pay for services rendered? Really? Trust me when I say your threats mean nothing to me, and it’s not how I like doing business.”

  The sicario said, “I mean no threat. You asked. It’s simply who I am.”

  Farooq said nothing for a moment, and the sicario let the silence stretch, not concerned. Eventually, it was Farooq who broke it. “So now you have this protocol? What happened with Carlos?”

  “I killed him.”

  Farooq searched the sicario’s visage for the bluff but was left wanting. He made a move to stand, saying, “I’m not sure I can continue, under the circumstances.”

  The sicario caught his wrist and said, “Don’t leave. I have what you want. Carlos was but an impediment. You shouldn’t care who profits, only that you get it.”

  Farooq sat back down and said, “We were called here by Carlos, a man my organization has worked with in the past. I don’t know you at all. No offense, Mr. Death.”

  The sicario realized he was losing the sale, losing his chance at a stake for a new life, but he’d never conducted such negotiations. All he’d ever been tasked with was punishment. He had no tact or skill in this world, unlike Carlos.

  He said, “Farooq, I speak plainly, but it is only because of my nature. I have what you want. All I ask in return is what you were going to pay Carlos. That’s it.”

  “We only pay for results. Can you prove it does what Carlos said?”

  “I’m not sure what Carlos told you it does, but I can bring the man who will explain it all. He can show you it works, on the Wi-Fi network of this restaurant.”