by Brad Taylor
“When push came to shove, you didn’t go out on your knees, begging for your life. You may not like it, but you’re a meat eater.”
She sat for a minute with her mouth open, not believing he’d actually said what he had after she’d opened up about how the death had affected her.
“Jesus, Pike, it’s not something to brag about. It’s not something I’m proud of. I don’t want—”
“Wanting’s got nothing to do with it. Some people have it, and some don’t. No different from a higher IQ or the ability to run fast. It’s a talent, nothing more.” He pointed to the next room. “And they don’t brag about that shit either, but they do respect it. Which might end up saving their lives someday because they won’t be guessing on how you’ll react.”
It clicked that he was talking as if she was going to stay with them, as if the killing she’d committed had changed her mind to continue. That wasn’t going to happen.
“Pike, I… I think I’m going to—”
She was cut off by a shout from the other room. “Pike, you’d better get in here. Kurt’s sent a message, and it’s about as fucked up as a football bat.”
Pike held up a finger to her and said, “Hold that thought. Looks like we get more fun.”
She watched him leave the room, the conflicting emotions bouncing through her.
35
The customs agent didn’t appear to be particularly vigilant, but looks could be deceiving. Standing behind a party of four from the United States, Rafik felt sweat drip down his side. He silently cursed, knowing no matter how well he pretended to be calm, his body could still give him away. He studied the agent to see how closely the man scrutinized the passports.
Rafik knew his was perfect. A copy that couldn’t be discerned from an official Algerian one. It was the Czech Republic tourist visa that concerned him. He had no idea what a real visa looked like and had nothing to compare his against. He’d looked at the loadmaster’s passport, but the man had a work visa for his job with Noordin’s travel agency. It was similar, but different enough to be of little use. With dark humor, he supposed this was a good test. The same people who were providing him with explosives that could slip through customs had made the visa. If this fails here, then the explosives will fail to get through customs as well. Might as well find out early.
Before he knew it, he was being called forward. The agent smiled perfunctorily and said, “What brings you to the Czech Republic?”
Rafik beamed and said, “A visit. My first visit to Europe.”
The man took his passport, Rafik waiting on the inevitable barrage of questions, but none came. Before he knew it, he was through and headed to the baggage claim, the stamping and swiping happening so quickly he didn’t have time to realize he was holding his breath. He stopped on the far side to watch the loadmaster.
Because four Arabs with tourist visas and one Indonesian with a work visa traveling together would cause questions, they had placed the loadmaster in between them. He was the next in line, and if he was going to sound an alarm, it would be to the customs official.
Rafik watched him lean into the window, apparently talking. Rafik gauged the distance to the baggage claim door, calculating his chances of getting out. When he turned around, he saw the loadmaster walking stiffly toward him. He kept the relief from showing on his face, but the incident drove home how much this operation depended on luck, how many single points of failure littered his operational plan. All it will take is one link to fail. And I have so many more links to build.
He knew it was a single link—a courier—that had killed Osama bin Laden. A single thread that had unraveled, leaving the sheik to face the barrels of the Great Satan’s commandos. He buried the doubts, saying, “Good, you get to live another day.”
The loadmaster said nothing, simply stopping and staring at the other passengers.
“Go get your bags. Call the pilot and tell him to meet us at the plane. Wait for us outside.”
Before he could leave, Rafik touched his arm.
“Please don’t cause unnecessary bloodshed. Wait for us.”
The loadmaster jerked his arm away as if he’d brushed a stove, then walked through the baggage claim door.
By the time Rafik and the others had collected their bags and processed through customs, the loadmaster had made contact.
“He’ll meet us at the plane in fifteen minutes. It’ll take that long to get there.”
“Where is it? At another airport?”
“No, it’s technically at this airport, but all private and general aviation aircraft go to terminal three, which is separated from the main airport by the tarmac itself. It’s about a mile away, but we’ll have to drive out of the airport and down the highway to get there.”
Rafik hailed a cab, having a little trouble explaining to the driver that they wanted to go from terminal two to terminal three. Finally convincing the man that he wasn’t misunderstanding Rafik’s English, they pulled out of the airport.
Reaching the exit for Prague, the driver made one last attempt to ensure he wasn’t making a mistake, pointing at the sign showing the city to the left. Rafik pointed to the exit on the right, reading TERMINAL THREE.
The driver shrugged, and followed directions. Winding down a graffiti-painted four-lane road, terminal three came into view. Consisting of several three-story buildings, some modern, others resembling relics from the Cold War, it appeared more like an office park than an airport. As they hit a roundabout, Rafik saw the pilot waiting on the sidewalk and pointed him out to the driver.
The pilot smiled nervously as they approached. When he saw his partner, his face lit up with real joy. He helped them with their bags, saying, “The plane’s here. No trouble. We had no trouble.”
Rafik said, “Where is it?”
The pilot led them into the building, winding down hallways until they could see the tarmac on the other side through the windows. He showed his badge to a man at a desk and exited the building again, turning left toward the general aviation section. Rafik saw the stolen DHC-6 Twin Otter on a pad next to another cargo plane, a Casa 212. Both with the same tail numbers.
“You didn’t repaint the tail?” Rafik said. “Idiot. What if someone sees the two numbers?”
The pilot looked like he had sucked a pickled egg. “Wait. I can’t paint the thing right here. That would only highlight the number. It needs to be brought into scheduled maintenance, inside a hangar.”
He paused, waiting to see what Rafik would do. When no violence or threats erupted, he continued, “I’ll do it this week. I have it scheduled.”
“That may be a problem.”
“Why?”
Rafik glanced at Kamil and said, “You’re going to Montreal, Canada. With some cargo I need.”
The pilot paled. “I can’t do that. I… I—”
Rafik faced him and bared his teeth. “Shut up. You will do it. File the flight plan.”
The pilot stuttered, his mouth working but no words coming out. Eventually, he said, “When?”
Rafik looked at Kamil. “It depends. We have a call to make. Show me the cargo.”
Walking up the staircase of the Twin Otter, the pilot popped the clasps on two pelican cases, both four feet by four feet. Rafik opened the lid of the first one. Inside, seated into foam receptacles, were what appeared to be simple metal disks. He pulled one out. Eight inches in diameter, it was slightly curved and would have looked exactly like a lid off of a soup pot except it was much thicker.
Opening the other pelican case, he pulled out a plastic container. This too was eight inches in diameter and about eight inches deep, looking like a soup pot made for the lid he held in his other hand. He lined up the holes on the outside of the lid with the holes on the edge of the pot, the curved side down. The match was perfect, as he knew it would be.
He smiled. “Such a simple-looking thing. With so much destructive power.”
Kamil said, “The Great Satan’s own technology will be their downfall. It’s a sham
e that they spend so much time and money creating these weapons only to have them used against themselves.”
Rafik laughed. “Not a great deal of shame. Not at all.”
Rafik placed the pieces back into the cases. Turning to the pilot, he said, “I need to find an air express service. One that will go to the United States.”
“Both DHL and FedEx fly right to this terminal. They have an office downstairs, but I don’t know if they’ll take a shipment from here. You might have to take it downtown first.”
“That’s stupid. Go figure out how to schedule this cargo for shipment. Tell them it’s from your office. I’ll give you an address when you get back.”
Kamil waited until the pilot had left, then said, “I don’t think we should send the package from here if that’s not what’s usually done. We should get it into the system without shortcuts so it’s harder to track. And no way should that pilot get the address. We should do it ourselves.”
Rafik whipped his head around, incensed at Kamil questioning his authority. He was about to tear into him when the logic of his statement sank in. Kamil refused to break eye contact. Rafik patted his face. “Always looking out for me. For the mission. Okay. We’ll do it your way. Get the information when the pilot returns. Before that, though, call the kafir here. Set up the meeting like we discussed. Be sure you actually see the explosives. Those men would sell us a crate of clay. Islam won’t help you, no matter how much they say otherwise.”
Kamil pointed at the loadmaster. “What about him?”
“Keep him. There’s no telling where you’ll have to meet them. An aircraft may be useful, and I want to give this pilot a reason to transport you to Canada. I’m taking Farouk. I’ll leave Adnan. Use his expertise in explosives to inspect the cargo.”
Kamil said, “What do I do if this contact fails? They aren’t the most trustworthy of people and have no allegiance to our cause.”
“Get the explosives. Don’t let it fail. Do what you need to do.”
Seeing Kamil’s reticence and knowing the source, he said, “Old friend, we do what we must. I know how you feel, and maybe someday we’ll get the chance to teach them the true meaning of Islam. Stay focused on the goal. Using them is no different than using the weapons on this plane.”
36
The Marine staff sergeant on duty at Post One kept eyeballing Retro and me, like he thought we were going to steal the ashtray in the lobby. We’d done nothing wrong, and told him we were simply meeting someone, but he clearly thought we were suspicious. I decided to wait outside. Better for him not to remember who we met. Motioning to Retro, I walked out into the courtyard.
“Man,” Retro said, “you’d think that guy’d lay off a little with all the security around this place.”
He had a point. The U.S. Embassy in Cairo had pretty much taken over the neighborhood, with all the streets blocked off and guarded by Egyptian police. The only people allowed in the neighborhood were those who lived there. If you got past that, you still had to contend with both an outer and inner embassy wall, each complete with a security checkpoint just like an airport, before getting inside to the Marine manning Post One.
“He’s just doing his job,” I said. “I don’t know what the hell’s taking that agency guy so long.”
“Maybe he didn’t get the word how important we are.”
I laughed. “Bullshit. You heard Kurt. I guarantee that guy got a call straight from the seventh floor.”
The message Kurt had sent stated that the picture on his father’s roll of film might belong to a man named Richard Ellis, a United States congressman. The kicker was that he was currently in Cairo. I’d immediately called Kurt through the VPN and put him on conference, wanting to confirm the information and what I was supposed to do. At the end of the call, the consensus was to simply confront him—to shake the tree and see what came out. We both thought something was awry, and decided to let him tell us what it was.
The problem was precisely that he was a United States congressman and would have to be handled carefully. If we were wrong about the picture, we needed to leave the congressman without any impression that he was being investigated. To that end, we’d come to talk to the CIA and get a little help with the “interrogation.”
Mixing the Taskforce with CIA personnel was risky, and the reason we didn’t want to sign in with Post One, but apparently the president himself was involved. That sort of overcame any bitching we had. No doubt he put out some tough love, which is why I thought the director of the CIA—a member of the Oversight Council—would be calling from his seventh-floor office at headquarters.
I saw a middle-aged man exit the door next to Post One and head our way.
“You guys here to meet someone from the State Department?”
“No. From another agency.”
He smiled. “We going to dance all day?”
“Depends on who called you.”
“How about the president? That good enough?”
I was a little startled. “The president called you?”
“Naw. But he might as well have. Big shit storm apparently.”
It would be embarrassing to spill my guts to some State Department weenie, so I pushed just a little further to be sure. “And you are?”
“Mack Gleason. I’m the head honcho here. Look, I don’t know who you are and I was told not to ask. No record of us meeting. That’s fine with me, but I’ll need something to go on. I have no idea what this is about.”
That was enough for me. I hadn’t expected the actual chief of station, but I suppose I should have, given the level of interest. I told him everything I knew, which raised his eyebrows.
“Holy shit. You think Ellis is a traitor? I’m supposed to see him tomorrow.”
“I don’t know what to think. There’s definitely some sort of Chinese connection, but it beats me what it is. On top of that, this whole thing is tied into an Indonesian terrorist. Either way, I want to find out what’s going on.”
“But why me? I don’t have any arrest authority. This is a job for the LEGATT. It’s for the FBI.”
I couldn’t tell him that the adjutant general of the United States wasn’t read on to the Taskforce, unlike the director of the CIA, and so the FBI’s legal attaché wasn’t someone we could use. Hell, I couldn’t even tell him my name.
“You’ve been pulled in because this is very, very sensitive. Very political. We’re not sure of the information, and need to find out discreetly. This is exactly what you guys do, and not something I’m very good at. We need some help. If it ends up being something, it’s all yours. You pull in the LEGATT and we disappear, never to be mentioned. Okay?”
He was easygoing, like most of the CIA folks. He rolled right into the mission.
“Okay by me. So what’s the play? What are you going to do?”
“Shit, man, that’s why I’m here. I don’t know. My plan was to knock on his hotel-room door and beat the shit out of him, but that didn’t go over so well at home, given the political stakes. We’re looking for ideas. You guys are the experts at nuance.”
“Well… like I said, he’s coming here tomorrow for a briefing. From what I got from headquarters, he used to work for the CIA as a case officer, and he’s now on the Intelligence Committee. He likes to flaunt that by hitting up the station of every country he happens to visit. Makes him feel important to leave his fellow congressman at the door as uncleared.”
I rapidly analyzed the gift just dropped in my lap. The congressman himself had just taken a huge burden off of my shoulders, since we wouldn’t have to set up some phony meeting that would raise his suspicions. If he was innocent, we could get away clean.
I said, “How do these briefings go? Are there a lot of people in the room?”
“Yeah,” he said. “At least initially. We give a one-over-the-world, then, when it’s time to get down to truly secret stuff, we take him alone to a secure room and continue.”
I said, “What’s the briefing on?”
>
“Nothing important, really. He didn’t ask for a specific topic. We’re just going to give him our standard dog and pony show, letting him feel like he’s getting secrets. Now I’m not so sure that’s smart.”
“No, no. That’s perfect. Sway the briefing to include a bunch of Chinese stuff. Throw it in midway, completely out of synch with the rest of the briefing. Get a feel for his demeanor during the first half of the briefing, then see if it shifts when the Chinese are mentioned.”
Mack thought about it, then said, “Yeah, I can do that. I’ll get a case officer in the room and introduce him as an analyst. He can focus on the congressman and knows what to look for. But I’ll tell you, that’s exactly why this won’t work. The congressman used to be a case officer. He’s trained to detect deception, just like my guy. He’ll know how to hide everything we’re going to be looking for. If he’s really a traitor, he’s been pretty damn good at it to stay out of sight all these years.”
“I’m not so sure about that. If he’s bad, he’s got something to do with that terrorist strike in Alexandria, which means he’s willing to take drastic action for something. It also means he might be desperate. He might be able to hide his reaction if he knows he’s going to be questioned, but he’ll be off guard here.”
“Yeah, well, I suppose it won’t hurt to give it a shot. What do you want to do if he spikes?”
“Bring him alone to the secure room. Retro and I will be waiting. When he sees us, we’ll get a reaction. If he’s bad, he tried to kill me, which means he knows what I look like. We’ll take it from there.”
“And if there’s no demeanor break during the briefing?”
“Text us. We’ll vacate the room, and you just go on with your briefing.”
37
Congressman Ellis was enjoying his time in the embassy, forgetting for a moment the stress of the transfer. His background as a case officer, along with his standing on the Intelligence Committee, allowed him greater access to CIA stations than most any other elected representative, but in truth, he just liked getting close to the field again. He enjoyed the back-and-forth with the chiefs of station, even though he knew the briefings were all sterile and made for public consumption. It allowed him to feel like he was on the inside. Still a case officer like Mack, the one doing the briefing. Very few other representatives could make that claim, and he enjoyed the notoriety.
