“So the open drop I saw today was Alviri letting you know how to contact him in Marrakesh?”
Mitchell nodded and pulled Alviri’s brochure out of his shirt pocket. He glanced down at it and said, “He wants me to meet him at the Koutoubia Mosque, northeast quadrant, at five o’clock tomorrow evening.”
“That makes sense. The Summit officially starts tomorrow, so he should have plenty of notes to pass along by then.”
Mitchell stuffed the brochure back in his pocket and said, “Okay, I’ve told you what I’m doing here in Marrakesh; now, it’s your turn.”
“My turn?”
“Yeah. Tell me what Douglas asked you to do for him.”
* * * *
I could have been mistaken, but I got the distinct impression Mitchell had been expecting to hear I was doing something more exciting than just taking a few pictures of some security officers for Carlton.
After I finished telling him about the favor, he said, “Some photographs, huh?”
“Yeah, just a few shots of Prime Minister Madi’s bodyguards.”
“Any idea why Douglas would ask you to do that? That seems more like an assignment he’d give a Level 3 operative than something he’d ask a Level 1 operative to take care of.”
“I agree, but there’s a certain amount of risk involved, so he may feel he needs a veteran operative who knows how to handle a dangerous situation.”
“Yeah, that would be you all right.”
Maybe it was the way he said it, or maybe it was the tinge of insecurity I’d felt earlier when I’d seen the ease at which Mitchell had conducted himself with Nikki, but his remark rubbed me the wrong way, and I suddenly found myself really irritated with him.
Angry might be a better word.
“Listen, Ben. Don’t minimize the danger of anything you do as a covert operative, whether it’s taking a few snapshots or servicing an open drop.”
He slowly set his coffee cup down on the table. “I may not have the experience you do, Titus, but I think I’m aware I need to be cautious no matter what I’m doing.”
“Is that so? What safeguards did you put in place at the El Badi Palace today to make sure you weren’t being set up?”
“I . . . uh . . .”
“Did you know Alviri could have used the open drop as a means of identifying you as a foreign agent to the Moroccan police? Believe me, spending time in one of their infamous Moroccan jail cells isn’t a pleasant experience. Your chances of surviving incarceration in that kind of environment are practically nil.”
Now, he was the one who sounded irritated. “Of course I knew the meeting could be a set up. I’m not exactly a novice at this, Titus.”
“So what safeguards did you have in place?”
Mitchell tilted his head and stared at me for a few seconds. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“No, I’m not kidding you, Ben. When it comes to your personal safety, you always need to take precautions.”
“I had someone watching my back the whole time. I made sure of it. I wasn’t about to meet Alviri without backup.”
“You mean you made sure you had backup by standing in the front row during the lecture so everyone else was behind you?”
He didn’t crack a smile.
Evidently, he didn’t find my sarcastic remark that funny or he refused to acknowledge the humor of it. I was guessing the latter.
He shook his head. “I can’t believe this. You actually didn’t spot her.”
I suddenly realized he was serious.
“Uh . . . yeah, I spotted her.” After a beat or two, I added, “I was just testing you to make sure you weren’t—”
“Don’t give me that, Titus. You didn’t identify her, did you?”
I was too embarrassed to say anything.
He said, “My backup was standing right there in front of you while the tour guide was giving his lecture. She removed her red headscarf so I would know someone was showing interest in me.”
After a few seconds of silence, I owned it. “Okay, you got me. I didn’t spot her. I had no idea the woman with the red scarf was one of ours.”
He grinned at me but didn’t say anything.
“I apologize, Ben. I was out of line.”
He brushed the air with his hand. “Apology accepted. You’re on your honeymoon. You’re preoccupied. I wouldn’t expect you to be at the top of your game.”
Well, that stung a bit.
But I wasn’t about to argue with him because when he mentioned my honeymoon, I suddenly realized a lot of time had passed since I’d left Nikki at the El Badi Gardens.
I pulled out my cell phone to call her, but then I noticed she’d sent me a text twenty minutes ago. “I’m back at the entrance now. Where are you?”
I immediately texted her back. “Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”
I threw some money on the table and said, “I’ve got to go, Ben.”
“Sure, see you back at Langley in a few weeks. I don’t suppose I need to tell you to enjoy your honeymoon.”
“No, and I don’t suppose I need to tell you to take care of yourself.”
As I started to leave, he said, “Watch your back, Titus.”
* * * *
I made it over to the El Badi Gardens in record time, but the whole time I was rushing over there, all I could think about was the fact I’d been so preoccupied with getting answers out of Mitchell, I’d totally forgotten about Nikki.
I wondered what her reaction had been when she’d returned to the park bench and hadn’t found me there. Had she been worried? Concerned? Angry?
As I crossed in front of the palace, I told myself I was being ridiculous. Nikki was a cop, a law enforcement professional, someone who wasn’t likely to be concerned if things hadn’t played out exactly the way she’d anticipated.
Wrong.
One look at her face when I walked up told me I was badly mistaken about her level of concern.
“I’ve been worried about you, Titus. I can’t believe you went off without telling me.”
“I’m so sorry, Nikki. I should have at least texted you. Ben and I went for a walk after you left us.”
“That must have been some walk.”
“We actually didn’t go very far, but then we decided to stop for coffee and—”
“Coffee? You stopped for coffee?”
“We had some confidential matters we needed to discuss without being overheard.”
“When you were drinking your coffee and discussing your secrets, did you remember you had a wife? Did you remember you were on your honeymoon?”
I reached over and gave her a hug. “Of course, I remembered I had a wife. And how could I forget I was on my honeymoon?”
She buried her head in my shoulder. “I was really worried about you, Titus. I was afraid something had happened to you.”
After a few seconds, she raised her head and looked at me. “What’s Ben doing here in Marrakesh? Is he here on an assignment or is he also here doing Douglas a favor? Were those the confidential matters you needed to discuss?”
I suddenly realized Nikki seemed to be as upset about Mitchell and me sharing classified secrets with each other as she was about me going off without telling her.
I felt sure I knew a way to make it up to her on both counts.
Chapter 8
After we took a taxi back to La Mamounia, I asked Nikki if she would mind if we walked over to the Royal Mansour Hotel before we went back up to our room and changed for dinner.
“Do you want to see the hotel’s security set up?” she asked.
“Yeah, that’s partly it, but I’d also like to tell you why Ben’s here in Marrakesh, and since it wouldn’t be a good idea to talk about Agency business in our hotel room, a short walk seems to be in order.”
That brought a smile to her face. “Sure, I’d like that.”
As we walked north on El Yarmouth Boulevard towards the Royal Mansour, I told her what Mitchell had revealed about Abbas Al
viri and his offer to share intel with the CIA. I also explained how Mitchell planned to meet Alviri at the Koutoubia Mosque where he’d hand over an envelope full of American dollars in exchange for the notes Alviri had made on the Iranian president’s meetings at the Summit.
Nikki asked, “When Ben meets Alviri tomorrow night, will he have backup?”
“Oh, yeah, he’ll have backup. Ben’s very responsible about that sort of thing.”
“Did you tell him Douglas wanted you to photograph the Iraqi security detail?”
“Are you kidding? Of course I did. He insisted I trade information with him. When it comes to finding out what’s going on, he has the tenacity of a bulldog.”
“Sounds like someone else I know,” she said, squeezing my hand.
“Now who could that possibly be?”
We were both quiet for a few minutes, but then she spoke up and said, “What about you? Don’t you need backup when you’re hanging around the lobby taking pictures of the Iraqis this evening?”
I hesitated for a moment, but then I thought, why not? I knew it would make her happy and making my wife happy was becoming a big deal with me.
“Are you volunteering?” I asked.
“Are you serious? Would you really let me be your backup?”
“Of course, I would. All I need is a second set of eyes on the situation.” I leaned down and gave her a kiss. “And your beautiful eyes would be perfect.”
She gave me a suspicious look. “Are you trying to make up for what happened this afternoon.”
“Guilty as charged. How am I doing, Detective?”
“Hmmm,” she said with the hint of a smile. “You might want to ask me that question a little later this evening.”
* * * *
When we arrived at the private drive leading up to the Royal Mansour, we were met by a large contingent of security personnel; most of them were members of the Royal Moroccan Army.
After one of the officers politely explained the hotel was off-limits to the public for the duration of the Arab Summit, Nikki and I stood at the security barrier pretending to admire the architecture of the building before returning to La Mamounia.
As we were about to leave, a charter bus entered the circle drive in front of the Royal Mansour. The placard in the window said Reserved for Press, and a few seconds later, a group of journalists began disembarking at the entrance.
Among the weary-looking travelers was a disheveled, sandy-haired guy wearing a loose-fitting knit shirt.
After he descended the steps of the bus, he was greeted by a member of the hotel staff, but all the while, I noticed he was surveying his surroundings with a practiced eye.
I recognized his actions for what they were—a careful analysis of his environment and a systematic scan of persons on his periphery. In other words, he was practicing pure espionage tradecraft.
Not only did I recognize his actions, I also recognized him.
The journalist’s name was Keever Pike.
* * * *
Pike was a Level 1 covert operative with the Agency, but he was also a respected award-winning journalist who primarily covered the Middle East.
About a year ago, Pike and I’d worked together in Damascus on Operation Citadel Protection. Our primary mission had been running an asset named Marwan Farage, a Hezbollah terrorist and close confidant of Hassan Naballah, the head of Hezbollah in Syria.
The intel we’d gathered from Farage had helped the Agency thwart a chemical weapons attack on Washington, D.C.
Although Keever Pike was an excellent operative, he could be opinionated, contentious, and extremely aggravating.
However, his observation skills, plus his sense of humor, made him a tolerable partner, and I usually enjoyed working with him, if only to see how far I’d let him push me before I decided to push back.
Now, Pike’s observation skills were in evidence as he glanced over toward the security barriers. When he spotted me, he smiled, or at least, I presumed the smile was meant for me.
Pike was known as a ladies’ man, so he could have been smiling at Nikki. When I deliberately put my arm around her, his smile morphed into a wide grin.
I didn’t reciprocate.
Seconds later, he turned and followed his fellow journalists into the hotel.
As we were walking back to our hotel, Nikki said, “You’re awfully quiet. Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong,” I said, taking a quick look at my watch. “I’m just trying to figure out how to handle things when the Iraqi delegation arrives in a couple of hours.”
“Is that when you plan to photograph the security detail?”
“It might be the best time. In my experience, there’s always a little confusion in a hotel lobby when a large entourage arrives, especially high-ranking government officials.”
“And I’m guessing you’ll take advantage of that.”
I nodded. “I’ve decided to make dinner reservations for us in one of the hotel’s restaurants for eight o’clock, preferably at Le Marocain since the restaurant’s waiting area is within sight of the lobby. After tonight, I’m anticipating it won’t be that easy to photograph the Prime Minister’s delegation coming and going through the lobby.”
“Why?”
“They’ll probably be using a private entrance, and that means taking pictures of the bodyguards will be a whole lot harder.”
“Why wouldn’t the Iraqis be using a private entrance tonight?”
“Because I’m willing to bet Prime Minister Madi wants to make a grand entrance for publicity purposes.”
“That makes sense. It’s his first Arab Summit as Prime Minister.”
“That’s partly it, but Madi also wants his enemies, along with his friends, to know he’s not in Iran’s back pocket, so I imagine he’s informed the press of his arrival for that reason. That way, everyone will know he’s staying at La Mamounia and not at the Royal Mansour.”
“I guess that means there’ll be all kinds of media types in the lobby broadcasting the event.”
“Possibly. There’s no way of knowing that until we come down to the restaurant around seven-fifteen or so.”
“How do you know when the Iraqis will be arriving?”
“It was listed on the Agency’s Daily Briefing Summary this morning. The Prime Minister’s plane lands at six-thirty, so, unless there’s heavy traffic on the airport road, there’s a good chance they’ll be at La Mamounia between seven-thirty and seven forty-five.”
“What happens then?”
“Usually, in situations like this, a few members of the security detail will enter the hotel first to check things out. Once the all-clear signal is given, the rest of the detail will accompany the dignitaries inside.”
“Your plan is for us to be outside Le Marocain waiting for our table to be announced when the delegation arrives?”
“That’s right. From there, I should be able to walk across the lobby, blend in with the rest of the photographers, and shoot a few frames of the Prime Minister’s bodyguards. After that, we’ll go inside Le Marocain and have ourselves a delicious dinner.”
“As your backup, what specifically should I be concerned about?”
“Not that much really. If you notice anyone taking an unusual interest in what I’m doing, just send me a text, and I’ll take it from there.”
“That’s it?”
“I don’t really expect to draw anyone’s attention. I’ve played a photographer’s gig before, so I should be able to blend in with the rest of the press.”
That’s more or less what happened.
Maybe a little less.
* * * *
Nikki and I were dressed for dinner and in the elevator a little after seven o’clock, and we were walking up to the hostess’ desk at Le Marocain—located on the eastern end of the hotel lobby—at exactly seven-fifteen.
After we’d seated ourselves in the waiting area outside the restaurant, a waiter brought us each a large glass of iced khoude
njal, a sweet black tea containing ginger, cinnamon, and a variety of other spices.
I wasn’t a big fan of the beverage, but it hardly mattered. My focus was on the front entrance of La Mamounia where I expected to see members of Prime Minister Madi’s security detail entering the hotel ahead of Madi’s arrival.
As I’d anticipated, news crews were setting up their equipment, and several members of the media were wandering around the lobby with their press badges dangling from lanyards around their necks.
Although hotel security officers were in evidence, they appeared to be taking a backseat to a small contingent of soldiers from the Royal Moroccan Army who were stationed at various positions around the lobby.
Nikki smiled as she glanced over toward the entrance. “Obviously, you were right. Something’s going on over there.”
I returned her smile. “What can I say? I’m really good at what I do.”
She shook her head. “While that may be true, your humility could use a little work.”
“Humility is way overrated.”
She ignored my remark and took a drink of her tea.
After observing the scene for a few minutes, she said, “Those photographers are all wearing press credentials, and you’re not. Have you considered that might be a problem for you?”
I picked up my Nikon D810 camera. “If this is strapped around my neck, they won’t be looking for my credentials.”
“You’re probably right, but if I see any of those guards giving you more than a few seconds of attention, I’m letting you know about it. The thought of visiting my husband in a Moroccan jail cell doesn’t sound all that appealing to me.”
I realized she was serious, so I reached across the table and took her hand. “That won’t happen, Nikki. Believe me. I know what I’m doing.”
“Then why did you make sure I had the Agency’s emergency contact number before we left the room?”
Two Steps Forward Page 7
