by Brad Taylor
“Will he still pay? We’ve put in significant time and money for this little adventure.”
Tyler entered the elevator and removed his hand, saying, “We’ll see.” The door closed, and he rode alone to the seventh floor. He entered his room, opened his laptop, then opened the Skype app, dialing a grayed-out contact called Raghead Number One. The Skype bubble gave its distinctive bleeping, but nobody answered. Tyler looked at his watch and disconnected, seeing he was a few minutes early for their preplanned meeting.
He stood, fixed himself a scotch from the minibar, then tried again. This time the screen cleared, revealing an Arabic man with a clean-shaven bald head and a neatly trimmed beard. Tyler smiled and said, “Hassan. Good to see you.”
“And you too, my brother. Give me some good news.”
“Before that, tell me you’ve followed procedures. You’re not on any local Wi-Fi in Beirut, right?”
“No, no. I’m on the resistance’s phone system. It’s secure.”
Tyler had met Hassan Kantar in Bulgaria, long ago. He was one of the many Syrian recruits the CIA brought over to train on small-unit tactics, before being inserted back into the cauldron that was the Syrian revolution. Along with others, Tyler had instructed him on the AK-47 and the RPG-7, back when he was fresh out of the Marines and still doing the grunt-level work.
They had somewhat bonded, because Hassan’s English was better than that of the rest of the recruits, and because the Syrian was so inquisitive. He spent every lunch and dinner break sitting down with Tyler, asking all manner of questions about the program, how they would be used, and whom they would be fighting—the Syrian regime or ISIS.
It was a touchy subject from the beginning, and Tyler had been instructed to avoid it, sticking strictly to the tactical training. The US position was that the men would fight ISIS, but the recruits they’d found most definitely hated the Syrian regime more.
It turned out, there was a reason for all the questions. The CIA had finally gotten around to vetting Hassan, and they’d discovered he was Lebanese, not Syrian, and worse than that, he was suspected Hezbollah—the Lebanese terrorist force that was fighting alongside the Syrian regime. He most definitely wasn’t a “rebel.”
Hassan was unceremoniously whisked out of Bulgaria and quietly flown back to Syria. The CIA program had been under relentless attack in Congress because of its lack of mission focus and, ironically, poor vetting procedures. There was no way they would let it be known that they’d allowed a potential Hezbollah spy into the training program.
Eventually, Tyler had formed his alliance with Stanko and had left the grunt work behind, becoming the primary supplier of arms and ammunition to the Syrian rebel train-and-equip program. From those beginnings, he’d tentatively branched out, and his first foreign sale not involving the United States was to Lebanon, a small purchase of magazines and ammunition. He was surprised during the negotiations to find his old “friend” Hassan Kantar involved. They’d rekindled their relationship, him for the inroads into the lucrative Lebanon arms market, and Hassan for . . . well, Tyler never looked too closely at that.
Tyler turned down the volume of his laptop and said, “You’re positive the connection is secure?”
“Yes, yes. Hezbollah built their own communications architecture to prevent the Zionists from penetrating it. And we’ve gutted the United States’ ability to monitor in this country.”
In 2011, Hezbollah counterintelligence had managed to penetrate CIA operations and over a span of months had not only publicly named US national clandestine agents on broadcast television but captured, tortured, and killed the entire indigenous network the CIA had built. It was a fait accompli, but even so, Tyler wondered if Hassan was being too complacent.
He said, “Two thousand eleven was a long time ago. They haven’t been sitting still.”
He saw Hassan wave his hand, the action appearing jerky due to the poor Skype connection. Tyler heard, “We are fine. Tell me, do you have good news?”
Here we go, thought Tyler. The problem was that, for whatever reason, Hassan had demanded a deadline. He wanted the triggers sooner, or not at all.
Tyler said, “The good news is, my contact does have the product. The bad news is, I’m going to be delayed in delivery.”
Hassan frowned and said, “How much of a delay?”
“Possibly a week. Possibly more.”
Hassan shook his head and said, “That is not good. Not good at all.”
“Why? Who cares if the delivery is delayed? What’s the rush? Project Circle has been dead for years. You can wait a little bit longer.”
Tyler and Hassan’s relationship had culminated with this deal. One hundred Krytron nuclear triggers smuggled from South Africa’s Project Circle by way of Israel, to which Hassan was willing to pay one million a trigger.
Tyler wasn’t stupid. He knew that Hezbollah was completely controlled, trained, and funded by Iran, but he simply followed the mantra “See no evil, hear no evil.” Had he done a modicum of research, he would have learned that the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action against Iran’s nuclear ambitions had proceeded on pace, but it had done nothing to lessen Iran’s cravings to become a nuclear power. The JCPOA had inspections set to occur soon, which would complicate the transfer, but that was far removed from Tyler’s radar.
After all, he needed to be able to tell Cohen with a straight face that he wasn’t delivering nuclear weapons components to the avowed enemy of Israel.
Hassan said, “You were supposed to deliver two weeks ago. I gave you the original deadline, and you missed it. Now you’re going to miss another?”
“Hassan, it’s not like we’re talking AK ammo here. These triggers aren’t growing on trees. It took longer than I thought.”
Hassan tapped the table, then said, “Can you deliver worldwide? Bringing them that late to Lebanon may be problematic.”
Tyler said, “Where?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to confer with my superiors. Perhaps Afghanistan. Or Iraq. Maybe Turkey.”
It wasn’t lost on Tyler that all three countries shared a border with Iran. He said, “I can, physically, but I don’t own the infrastructure on the ground. That was your job in Lebanon.”
Meaning, he was carrying nuclear weapons components, something that the average customs official would most definitely have an interest in.
Hassan waved a hand again and said, “Let me worry about that. Call me in a week with an update. It might be possible to deliver them here, depending on how late you are.”
Tyler disconnected, thinking about the ramifications. This ultimate deal was getting harder and harder to execute. Then he thought about the payout.
It would be worth it.
46
Shoshana wound her way down Long Street, the stop-and-go traffic causing her to consider abandoning a plan for a drive-by of the hotel first. The street was packed with cars fighting the partygoers, all rowdy and some drunk, the bars and balconies full of patrons shouting and laughing. In between the revelers, like sharks swimming among an unwitting school of fish, she spotted several seedy characters. Furtive, feral teenagers advertising their purpose like a neon sign to Shoshana. Pickpockets. Or worse.
She saw the hotel one block up, then an alley to the left. She took it, driving right up against a trash bin, close enough to the wall of the alley that the passenger door wouldn’t open.
She sat for a minute, mentally tallying where she was in relation to the hotel. She figured she had about a hundred meters. She checked her Taskforce phone, first confirming the beacon was still in place, then flipping to the picture Brett had sent, memorizing it.
She left her purse, not wanting the aggravation of protecting it, but took a small strip of leather with two wooden toggles on each end, and a folding blade. She shoved the purse under the driver’s seat and exited, running into a teenager in the dim l
ight, high on something. He smiled at her and held out his hand, asking for money. She said, “You want to make a night’s wages?”
He nodded dumbly. She said, “Watch this car for thirty minutes. When I return, I’ll pay you. Don’t let anyone mess with it.”
He nodded like a puppy, saying, “Thirty minutes?”
“Maybe sooner.”
She walked away, entering the flow of people on the street. She stayed on the south side of the street, passing by the Long Street Hotel, assessing it for atmospherics. The bottom floor was a bar, which was par for the course on Long Street, the patrons spilling out onto the pavement, which would make her job easier. The noise alone would camouflage her intentions.
She was out for information on Aaron, and she would get that currency any way she could. In the end, the man in the room owned his own fate. She wouldn’t kill him, unless she found him complicit. If he had anything to do with Aaron’s disappearance, he would suffer the consequences. All that remained was how painful it would be.
She went fifty meters past the hotel, then jogged across the street. She began walking the other way and reached the side entrance to the hotel, a stairwell leading to the second floor, away from the crowds of the bars.
She pulled out her phone, checking the Taskforce beacon. She knew the hotel had only twelve rooms, all on the second floor, which would eliminate any three-dimensional problems finding the correct room. She saw the target was in the back, away from Long Street. She turned into the stairwell and saw a Caucasian man at the top of the landing. Talking to her target.
* * *
I pulled the car into the same parking lot on the waterfront we’d used earlier in the day, saying, “Everybody good with the plan?”
Brett chuckled and said, “Yeah, but I’m not sure Koko, here, can pretend to be on a date with you. Might want to switch to the angry girlfriend ruse.”
I looked at her and said, “You’re good. Right?”
Jennifer was still a little miffed that I’d let Shoshana go by herself to interrogate the hotel contact. She claimed it was because she was convinced Shoshana was going to torture and kill the guy—something she couldn’t tolerate—but underneath, I could tell, she was worried for Shoshana’s safety. Which was a little bit odd, considering Shoshana’s skill, but Jennifer had always been protective of her.
She said, “We should have done one, then the other. Check him out, then hit the warehouse. Four on one is better than one on one. She’s walking alone now.”
I said, “Jennifer, we have no sanction. She’s not Taskforce. Let her work the problem. We’ve got sanction for continued Alpha, which means the warehouse. That’s it.”
She opened the door and said, “Like that’s ever stopped you.”
I exited and said, “What, now you want to go off half-cocked?”
She said, “I want to protect the team. Period.”
“You mean Aaron.”
“Yes. We need to find him, for her. You’re putting Shoshana in danger, and I don’t mean her body.” She glanced at Brett, then hissed, “You’re putting what she wants to be in danger.”
I said, “You aren’t going to change who Shoshana is, and she’s in no danger.”
Before she could answer, I cut off the conversation, saying, “Brett, we’re going to get a beer at that corner bar right before the drawbridge. Give you time to check out the area. We’ll go slow; you go fast.”
The plan was pretty simple. Brett would penetrate the dock area, giving us real-time intelligence on what was there, and early warning. We’d walk up and use Shoshana’s key. We’d be in and out in thirty seconds, documenting what we found for the Taskforce.
Easy breezy.
Brett speed walked across the street, blending in to the crowds out for the nightlife. Jennifer and I took our time, walking slowly, hand in hand. We reached the waterfront and the bar, taking stools out front. We ordered a beer and glass of water each, knowing we’d drink the water and leave the beer. It was a travesty, but I had a personal rule about screwing over waitstaff just because we were on a mission.
Jennifer said, “You sure Shoshana will be okay?”
“What do you mean by ‘okay’? She won’t get hurt, of that I’m sure.”
“I mean . . . she’s on the edge. We saw that in Haifa. She’s not right, here. If she kills someone in cold blood, because she’s hell-bent on finding Aaron, it’ll take her back.”
“Back where? She’s a killer. It’s what she does.”
“It’s what she did. We need to find Aaron our way. Show her she doesn’t have to be a beast.”
I leaned over and took her hands. “Jennifer, you can’t save every stray dog. Carrie is Carrie. She is what she is.”
“So you are what you are?”
“Yes. Precisely. That’s my point.”
“But you aren’t what you were.”
That was dirty pool, pulling in my past with the implication that I was just one more stray dog she’d saved. Which, unfortunately for my argument, happened to be true.
“Jennifer, we may be too late to do anything about Aaron.”
She nodded, knowing what I was saying was true but not wanting to address it. She said, “Shoshana wants to talk to me. She said so. When you were out of the room.”
I asked, “About what?”
Jennifer balled up a napkin and tossed it at me. I batted it away, and she said, “About Aaron. Relationships. About not killing for a living. And how you keep throwing her back into that life, like a damn pimp.”
I said, “Hey, that’s not fair . . . ,” and my earpiece came alive. “Pike, Pike, this is Blood. It’s clear. One guard, but he’s making a lap. You got a ten-minute window.”
47
Shoshana immediately backed away from the stairwell, before the men could focus on her. She retreated to the bar that occupied the first floor, bumping up to a table on the outside patio and waiting for them to pass.
A man slapped his hand on her shoulder, causing her to whirl around. He said, “Hey, sheila, you looking for a drink?”
Two things went through her mind: One, he was Australian; two, he provided the perfect cover. She reverted back to her time in the Gaza Strip, when she hunted men with her body. She said, “I’d love one. Scotch, straight up.”
The man left, and she was accosted by two others, both friends of his. She engaged them in conversation but kept an eye out, off the porch to the alley. She saw her target pass by and moved to follow. One of the friends said, “Where are you going? He hasn’t even brought the drink back.”
She said, “I’m sorry. You guys have it.”
The other, clearly drunk, said, “That’s fucking bullshit, you slash. You can’t get him to buy you a drink and then just toss off.”
She saw the targets getting away and apologized again. The drunk blocked her escape, incensed. She grabbed him by the crotch and the throat, slamming him into the wall, saying, “Don’t fuck with me.”
She stared into his eyes, and he wilted. She dropped him to the floor and threw some money on the table. She exited the bar, the Australians lamely shouting insults her way, but none followed.
The street was crammed with people, and she’d lost sight of her target. She brought out the Taskforce phone and saw the beacon still inside the hotel room. He’d left it behind.
Damn.
She started threading through the crowd, moving with an economy of motion she’d learned in the markets of the West Bank. She broke through a gaggle and saw the Caucasian and her target entering a car. She focused on the vehicle, fusing the model, color, and every dent into her brain, then immediately reversed course, running flat out back the way she’d come, back to her car.
She rounded the corner to the alley and saw the high teenager sitting on the hood. Just like she’d asked. She smiled, unlocking the door. The teenager said, “Hey
, it’s only been about ten minutes. You promised pay for thirty.”
She dug her purse out from under the seat, pulled out a wad of rand that would last for a week, and threw it into the street, saying, “You did good work.”
He scrambled to pick up the money, and she reversed the car, whipping it hard enough to catch him with the front quarter panel. He flipped over the hood, hitting the ground on the far side. She rolled down the window, shouting, “You okay?”
He stood up, holding the wad of cash and smiling. “I guess that was for the last twenty minutes.”
She rolled out of the alley, forcing her way into the traffic of Long Street and ignoring the honking.
She couldn’t make any headway on the two-lane road and prayed the target car was stuck in the same mess. She beat the steering wheel, working into a rage that would consume anyone who approached, when the target car passed her going the other way.
She looked as it trailed by, moving ten miles an hour, her target in the passenger seat, oblivious to the death that was in the opposite lane. When it was past, she cut across the traffic, causing screaming and honking. She pulled into an alley, did a three-point turn, and began following, now four cars behind.
They made a left and rights, leaving the nightlife and passing through the colorful Bo-Kaap neighborhood, the narrow alleys bringing her back to the West Bank, and then eventually they started going uphill on a switchback road, leaving all traffic behind.
She made a hairpin turn and realized they were headed to Signal Hill, an old naval fortification from the time of sails.
The road was a skinny two-lane affair, with houses on the lower part of the slope to her right and rocky hillside to her left. If the target car stopped anywhere on it, she would be forced to continue, as she had no plausible reason to do the same.
She decided to back off, letting the car get far enough ahead that all she could make out was the glow of the headlights in the darkness. When she lost the glow, she advanced until she made contact again, driving with only her parking lights.
