by Brad Taylor
“Jennifer, it’s never just your life. There’s always someone else who’ll be hurt. That’s just the way it is.”
She was staring at me now, making me uncomfortable. The twinge had come back with strength unlike anything I had felt since I had lost Heather. It was almost unbearable, a confusing mishmash of emotions that made me want to flee the room. Stop it. Remember the mission. Focus.
She continued. “I understand that my death would affect others. I mean, my death would also crush my mother, but I didn’t think about her. This was different. The fear of dying wasn’t as bad as the fear of causing you pain.”
Where is this going? I had intended to give her a little support, a shot of confidence, like I had done many times to other soldiers in the past, but I was no longer on familiar ground. “Well, I’m glad I’m good for something. If pity gets the mission done, then I guess I’m a pathetic loser who’ll fall apart at the drop of a hat. Can we talk about something else?”
“That’s not what I meant. I… I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow and I just wanted you to know….”
“What?”
She leaned in and kissed me.
“You’re a good man. Much better than you give yourself credit for. Maybe better than anyone I’ve ever met. You didn’t kill your family. You should let it go.”
I sat still, frozen by her actions.
Jennifer laughed. “Wow. I finally made you speechless. I should have done that days ago.”
“Jennifer… I… uh…”
She put a finger to my lips. “Shhh. I’m not looking for any deep thoughts. I just wanted to say that… in case… you know.”
In case one of us dies.
I remained silent for a second, not wanting to dwell on tomorrow’s potential consequences.
“You asked about Heather,” I said. “She was… a lot like you.”
The words seemed to bring a sense of calm to her. She put her hand over mine.
“Thank you. I think that’s the best compliment you could ever give.”
“You’re welcome. Now, enough of the soul-searching.” I stood up, locking my churning emotions away and trying to concentrate on the mission. “We need to get some sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.”
She remained seated, saying nothing, but with a different glint in her eyes.
“What?”
“I… I’d rather you didn’t sleep on the floor tonight. Is that all right?”
The question took a moment to sink in. When it did, it separated my confusing emotions like oil and water. Jesus, you want to. The thought made me feel like a traitor, disgusting me to my core. I can’t sleep around on Heather. The notion was ridiculous, but overwhelmingly there nonetheless. Shit. What do I say now?
Jennifer had just been through a harrowing event, and had now opened herself up in the most vulnerable way possible. The close call itself may have been to blame. I didn’t want to hurt her. I sat down again, taking her hand.
“Jennifer… I… I… can’t do that….”
She blinked and looked at the floor. When she looked back at me, she was smiling, like I had confirmed something.
“I know. I just meant you could use a good night’s sleep. Off of the floor. The bed’s big enough.”
We both knew what she really meant, but somehow my answer had avoided giving her pain. I smiled back, relieved. No matter what happened tomorrow, tonight I had done something right.
88
At seven A.M. Bakr got out of bed and completed sunrise prayers, wishing for the thousandth time that he were allowed the small dignity of a prayer rug as part of his cover.
At seven-thirty, he walked to the end of the hall for his shower. He fidgeted in his room for another forty-five minutes, playing with the remote detonator and going through linkup options with Sayyidd in his mind. At eight forty-five, he packed up the weapon. Stepping onto the street, he looked left and right, then proceeded at a slow pace to the Internet café so as to arrive after it had opened.
* * *
Jennifer sat in her peasant’s dress with a different colored scarf in place on her head. The scent of vomit still occasionally wafted from her dress like the odor of a dead animal in the attic, the stench floating about with no clear source no matter how hard you walked around sniffing the room. She had done her best to clean the dress but had missed a spot somewhere.
She’d awakened before their alarm went off, the room artificially dark due to the heavy drapes, the corners showing the feeble light of dawn creeping in. Raised on an elbow, gazing at Pike’s slumbering form, she could barely pick out his features. This isn’t fair. Why are we all alone out here? Why can’t we just go home and forget about terrorists and WMD? Let someone else stop him. She had lain in bed feeling a sense of impending doom, as if she had been convicted at trial and today was the day she reported to jail.
That feeling had remained throughout the morning, and persisted still. Sitting in the back of the coffee shop, she jumped when her cell phone rang, spilling her cup of coffee halfway to her mouth. She heard two simple sentences.
“He’s on the move. He’s going slow, so it’ll probably be five minutes before you see him.”
She acknowledged the call and hung up, the sense of dread building in her gut. Four minutes later she saw Carlos down the street, walking at a leisurely pace toward the café. It would take him a couple more minutes to get there, but that would only be more time for Pike inside the hotel. She picked up her phone and dialed, wishing it were still yesterday, not wanting to set things in motion.
* * *
Outside of Bakr’s hotel, one of Lucas’s team members from Norway sat looking at a map, trying to determine if he was in the location dictated by the computer plot of the beacon. He glanced up to get his bearings on the street, looked back at his map, then did a double take when he saw Pike exit a Pajero SUV fifteen feet to his front.
He had pulled into the parking spot five minutes before merely to pinpoint his location, one of several sites being reconnoitered by Mason’s team based on the trail left by Pike’s pager. This was supposed to be just a familiarization day, necking down possible locations and getting a feel for the area. Fumbling with his cell phone, he calmed down enough to dial, ducking to prevent Pike from seeing him.
“Mason? Yeah, I’ve got Pike. He’s fucking right in front of me. The girl’s not with him. He just went into a hotel.”
He paused, listening. “I don’t know if he’s staying here or not, but if you want him, I need to get the team here ASAP. I’m not going to try take him out on my own. I haven’t seen the girl, but let’s face it, he’s the threat. Get rid of him, and she’ll be easy.”
He listened a few more seconds. “Yeah, I get that we can’t track the girl, but this guy’s been pretty damn dangerous from the beginning. You sure you want to attempt a capture?”
Hearing Mason’s reasoning, he relented. “Okay, I can do that. If you get a team here, I should be able to close on him fast enough to prevent him from doing anything.”
He listened a moment.
“If he gives me any trouble, I’ll smoke him right here. If not, he can tell us where to find the girl. I don’t recommend going in after him. We can ambush him when he comes out. Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll both come out.”
* * *
I entered the hotel like i belonged there, carrying the bump key and a small mallet I had purchased the day before. I moved straight to the stairwell, the distance and direction exactly as described by Jennifer. Exiting the third floor, I paused in front of Carlos’s door. I strained my ears, listening for any movement behind it or from the rooms down the hall. Hearing none, I placed the key in the lock. It slid in easily. I moved it forward, feeling the clicks of the pin tumblers through the key. When I went past the last tumbler, I pulled the key back out until it clicked once. Looking left and right, ensuring I was alone, I raised the mallet and gave the key a sharp rap, applying torque as soon as the key seated past the pins. The lo
ck broke free, the cylinder turning. I rotated the key and turned the lever, pushing the door. It didn’t budge. I paused a half second and pushed again. The door was still locked. Puzzled, feeling the press of time, my instinct was to simply kick in the door. Hold on. Solve the problem. I went through possibilities in my mind. I remembered that European locks sometimes go two full rotations to open. I repeated the procedure with the bump key, feeling a sense of relief when the lock cylinder turned again, releasing the door. I entered the room.
Once again, Jennifer’s description was spot on. The room was small, consisting of a single floor lamp, an end table, a chair, and a twin-sized bed. No closet and no bathroom. I went to a duffel bag on the chair first, sifting through the clothes. Finding an American passport, I saw that Jennifer had been right. The name inside was Carlos Menendez. Hispanic. Very smart. I wrote down the name and passport number for future reference. I saw nothing else of interest. I moved to the nightstand, opened a drawer, and found a wooden box inside. I pulled it out, setting it on top of the end table.
89
Bakr sat at his usual table, staring at the in-box for the e-mail account between him and Sayyidd. The box was still empty. Bakr felt drained, cheated of the gift for which he had so patiently waited. What the hell was Sayyidd up to? Why hadn’t he e-mailed? Bakr couldn’t bring himself to think the unthinkable — that Sayyidd had been captured or killed. Surely he was just hung up on his trip with Walid. They were too close to paradise for something to happen now.
He calmed down, mentally chastising himself for his pathetic wheedling. The forty-eight hours were up, and he had told Sayyidd he would immediately leave, but he decided to give his partner more time. Too much was riding on Walid’s coordination. If Sayyidd didn’t send an e-mail by this afternoon, he would begin looking for routes into Israel on his own, planning his next steps. He would return tomorrow morning and check again, giving Sayyidd an extra twenty-four hours. If there was still no response, he would assume the worst and leave Bosnia, heading perhaps toward Turkey, then onward into Syria.
Leaving the café, Bakr chastised himself again for his weak constitution, purposely picking up his gait to get away from the thoughts of self-pity.
* * *
Inside Carlos’s hotel room, I was carefully checking the box for any indications of booby traps when my phone rang.
“Yeah? How long? Okay. I’m headed out. No, I haven’t found anything, but I really haven’t had time to check it out completely.”
I started the chronograph feature of my watch, figuring I had about two minutes to finish up. Sure the box was clean, I lifted the lid and found my first indication of terrorist activity. I pulled the remote detonation device out of the box and turned it over in my hands, considering what I should do with it. I looked for some way to disable it without Carlos being aware, but quickly dismissed the idea, since I couldn’t read the Cyrillic writing and didn’t know enough about its operational capability to ensure I did it correctly without his knowing. I placed it back in the box and returned it to the drawer exactly as I had found it.
Before I closed the drawer I noticed a scrap of paper with an international number written on it. I copied it down, assuming it had been placed there by Carlos, since the end table and room were completely barren, without a trace of rubbish.
I searched the rest of the room but found nothing at all. I had confirmed the detonation device the terrorist had referred to in his e-mail, but still could not prove or disprove any connection to WMD. I looked at my watch, seeing one minute and forty-three seconds had passed since Jennifer’s call. Out of time. I need to go.
I left the room, getting as far as the stairwell before I remembered I hadn’t relocked the door. I ran back and inserted the bump key, gave it a whack, and attempted to turn the cylinder. It refused to move. I repeated the procedure with the same results. A gunfighter’s mantra floated through my head. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast. Ignoring the clock, I started over, carefully feeling the pin tumblers and setting the key perfectly. I gave it another whack, breaking the cylinder free. I turned it over once, feeling the cylinder lock up again. No more time to mess with it.
Trotting rapidly down the stairs, I considered my next move. I had no proof of WMD, but I was personally convinced that Carlos had it and was carrying it around on his back. I contemplated taking out Carlos by myself but quickly tossed that idea. It would be impossible for me to get close to him without being recognized and I had no idea if the device was armed and ready to explode, inside a glass container that could be thrown, or simply in a Ziploc bag that would break in a scuffle. The idea of wrestling Carlos for control of a device that could kill hundreds by just being released into the atmosphere was best left in the category of last resort.
I reached the second floor landing and made a decision. Alert the Taskforce. I hated to do it, and knew I had promised I wouldn’t without positive proof of WMD, but I decided that the circumstances warranted action. I pulled out the pager/beacon and hit the series of keys necessary to trigger the emergency signal. Nothing outward changed. It beeped once, returning to show the time. Reaching the first floor, I placed it back in my pocket and exited the stairwell.
Nodding to the old man behind the desk, I left the hotel and walked straight to my SUV, purposely not looking in the direction of the Internet café. I unlocked the driver’s side door, looking down and hiding my face from anyone coming down the street. I was about to sit down when I felt the barrel of a pistol jammed into my kidney.
“You make a single fucking move, and I’ll kill you right here. I know your capabilities, so trust me I won’t be guessing about your intentions. You understand? Nod if you do.”
I did as he asked.
“Raise your hands where I can see them, but don’t make it look like you’re surrendering.” The man jammed the barrel again. “Don’t do anything stupid. I can kill you and get out of here clean.”
I placed my hands on the door and roof of the car, feeling the press of time. I was facing the direction Carlos was coming from and would be impossible to miss. I didn’t mind the gun in my back but needed to speed this up.
I turned my head slightly, about to say something when I was cut off angrily by the man with the gun, “Keep facing forward! Don’t move a fucking muscle until my partner arrives.”
I attempted to hide my face, saying, “Look, I’m willing to do whatever you want. I’ll come quietly. Can we just get moving?”
“What the hell are you looking at? Raise your head.”
I continued looking down.
“Raise your fucking head or you’re dead. Do it now.”
I sensed the fear in the man and could almost feel his finger tightening on the trigger. I reluctantly raised my head, seeing another man approaching out of the corner of my eye.
The man gave me a wide berth. “Car’s on the way. Should be here in five seconds.”
“Good. This guy scares the hell out of me.”
I ducked my head again, counting out the seconds. I reached to five with no car when the man with the gun said, “I tell you to raise your head again, and we’ll be throwing a body in a car. I’m not sure you can feel it, but that’s a fat barrel in your back. There will be no noise.”
I raised my head, hearing a car pull up.
I looked up the street, trying to see anyone resembling Carlos in the distance. Spotting no one, I scanned the people closer to me. I saw a man resembling Carlos approaching, no more than twenty meters away. I was about to push my luck and lower my head again when the man met my eyes. I recognized the terrorist at the same time he recognized me.
90
Jennifer picked up a loose follow as soon as Carlos left the Internet café, staying on the opposite side of the street. When he increased his pace to a fast walk, closing in on the entrance to his hotel, Jennifer felt the anxiety in her stomach begin to skyrocket. Why hasn’t Pike called? What’s he doing? Carlos was one block away and about thirty seconds from getting so close tha
t Pike couldn’t possibly leave without being seen. She kept his pace, almost forced to break into a trot, the speed of events ratcheting up her anxiety even further. She pulled out her cell phone, preparing to call Pike again, when she saw Carlos abruptly stop. She paused, watching closely. She saw Carlos spin around and take off running the way he had come.
Stunned, Jennifer looked down the street, trying to identify what had caused the reaction. She saw Pike standing next to his car talking to two other men, a second car idling next to him. She turned back to the terrorist, seeing him in a wild run, his pack flopping crazily on his back as he dodged through the foot traffic.
She watched him for a split second longer, then returned to Pike and the two strangers. She saw Pike drop his keys out of view of the men, then move toward the sedan in the middle of the street.
She felt light-headed, the crowds around her fading into the background, the pressure to make the right decision crushing her like a physical thing. Pike had said he hadn’t found the WMD, which meant that Carlos must be carrying it. And Carlos has seen Pike. He knows we’re after him. He was now running to parts unknown with a massive deathtrap on his back, under pressure to use it sooner rather than later.
She saw Pike get in the back of the sedan. She knew that the men who had him intended to kill him. Would kill him, possibly in the next few minutes. She watched the door close, frozen in place. What can I do about that? Nothing. In fact, they wanted her as well. Showing herself now, attempting some pathetic action to stop three trained killers from driving away with Pike, would only guarantee both their deaths. She felt a burning sense of helplessness.
She ran the choices through her mind, her brain working at the speed of light. What would Pike do? He wouldn’t dither back and forth. He’d make a decision and execute.
She began a fast walk in the direction of Carlos, knowing what Pike would tell her to do. Go after the terrorist. Save the many. Screw the few. Do what was best overall, not what you would like to do. She broke into a run, going through in her mind what she should do next, evaluating options for the surveillance and tracking of Carlos. She looked back the way she had come, watching the car make a U-turn and begin driving away from her.
