by Ethan Jones
“Waiting here and wasting time is driving me nuts.” Javin placed the phone in the inside pocket of his black jacket and tightened the knot of his blue tie.
Yael shrugged. “We’re not wasting time; we’re having supper. Try some basbousa.” She tipped her head toward the dessert plate to the left, which had two pieces of pastry soaked in syrup and topped with coconut shreds.
“Nah, too sweet.”
“Lamb, then.” She gestured at his half-eaten main course.
Javin nodded and picked up one of the kabobs and chewed the end piece. The meat was tender and juicy, but he couldn’t fully enjoy it. His mind was on their mission. The man he had referred to as Yael’s guy, was late. In their business, that could only mean trouble.
Javin worked as a covert field operative for the Canadian Intelligence Service, or CIS. The woman sitting across the table from him, Yael Rosenberg, worked for Mossad. The failed part of the joint assignment—snatching and grabbing Dr. Aliyev four days ago—had brought them to the Gulf State capital. The predicament made for strange bedfellows, but Qatar was as interested in thwarting Iran’s ambition to secure a nuclear weapon as Israel was.
“What exactly happened in Athens?” he asked.
Yael fixed a fold of her headdress that had slipped and was hanging loosely next to her left ear. “I’d say coincidence, but you don’t think there’s such a thing…”
“Do you?”
“Sometimes. Bad luck happens to everyone.”
“I’ve heard that before.” He rubbed his chin.
Yael glanced at his face covered by an evening shadow of black unshaved whiskers. “Your voice makes it sound like you don’t believe it.”
Javin looked around the half-filled room. The nearest patrons were two tables away, chatting quietly in between bites. He leaned closer to Yael and whispered, “No, I do believe it, but we can’t have bad luck happen to us.”
“I don’t have any control over it, Javin.”
“You have control over the people that work for you.”
Yael sighed. “No, not really. You know about my precarious position in Mossad, caused by you…”
Javin nodded. She still holds me responsible for what happened, although that was to be expected after attempting to kill me… Will she play fair now, or deep down does she still want revenge? He sighed. A strange set of circumstances had brought them together. Here they were, sitting across from one another, forced to work on the same joint operation, which made for a very explosive situation.
Yael said, “We’ve gone over this already. I asked for them to be reassigned, but my request was denied. Now, in their defense, they miscalculated. Misjudged the situation. Has it never happened to you?”
“We’re not talking about me—”
“We’re talking about my people, and me, by extension. So, are you saying my team is incompetent?”
Javin shook his head. “I’m not saying anything of that sort. But we’ve got to work better and smarter, if we’re to find the other scientist and bring him in alive.”
The second Kazakh nuclear physicist had disappeared. The joint CIS and Mossad team had searched for him in Greece and Turkey but had always been a few steps behind. Then a tip had brought them to Qatar.
“Have you heard from Claudia?” Yael asked.
“No, which means she hasn’t found anything.”
Claudia Aquarone was Javin’s partner in the CIS. She was following a lead that placed the vanished scientist in Italy.
Yael shrugged and leaned back against the green and red cushions set in the booth. “Sometimes I wonder how long we’ll be able to hold them back. We kill or capture some, but we won’t be able to do this forever.”
“Your politicians think otherwise.”
“They don’t think. They hope it’s not going to happen. No one wants a nuclear war. But they’ll have it.”
“If Iran starts it, Israel will finish it, right?”
“That sums it up quite well,” Yael said with a grin and in a dry voice.
A shuffling of feet came from behind Javin.
Before he could turn his head, Yael said, “He’s here.” She sprang to her feet.
Javin stood up and looked at the man making his way toward their table. He was dressed in a gold-and-white thobe, the robe worn by most men in Qatar, and a white-and-red checkered headdress. The thobe looked impeccable and fit perfectly around the man’s thin body. Tailor-made, Javin thought.
The man could afford such luxury and much more. He was the aide to one of the princes of the ruling royal family in Qatar. The prince was low in the ranks, with very little chance of ever getting close to the throne. So he had turned his ambition toward playing the geopolitics game outside the accepted realm and, at times, at odds with the official policy of the kingdom. If power weren’t going to be given to the prince, he was ready to take it.
At any cost.
The aide slid around the tables with the agility of a tiger, although his pockmarked face made Javin think the man was in his early sixties. He had a beak of a nose and a thin mustache the color of charcoal. His face formed an apologetic smile as he extended a hand toward Javin. “Salam Alaykum.”
The common Arab greeting meant “Peace be upon you.”
“Alaykum Salam,” Javin replied. His words meant “And peace unto you.”
The aide said, “I’m sorry to have made you wait. A business deal took longer than expected.” He spoke in English in a strong voice, with barely a hint of an accent.
“No worries. I’m glad you made it.” Finally. He kept the thought to himself as they shook hands. “My name is Javin Pierce, but please call me Javin.”
“I will do that, Javin. I’m Ali Khalifa Al-Attiya.” He turned toward Yael. “Rosenberg, right?”
Yael nodded. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Al-Attiya returned the nod but didn’t shake hands with Yael.
She didn’t expect him to, fully aware of the Islamic custom that prohibited men from touching women to whom they were not related or married. She had not even offered her hand.
Javin gestured toward the seat next to him. “Please…”
Al-Attiya looked over his shoulder at the restaurant’s door.
“Is someone else coming with you?” Javin asked with slight concern in his voice.
“No, I hope not.” Al-Attiya sat down. “Besides the meeting, we took a small detour, which delayed my arrival.”
“A detour?”
“Yes, my guards suspected we were being followed. So the driver took a few extra turns, trying to see if there was someone behind us.”
The waiter who had served Javin and Yael appeared tableside at that moment. “Something to drink, sir?” he asked Al-Attiya in English.
“Mint tea for now,” he replied in Arabic, a language Javin spoke fluently.
The waiter nodded and left them.
When he was beyond earshot, Javin asked, “Was someone following you?”
“Neither the guards nor the driver noticed anyone. To be extra careful, they dropped me off a block away. No one knows I’m here—well, besides the prince and the people who work for me, but they can be trusted.”
Javin fought the impulse to shrug or to speak the words that had popped up in his mind. No one can be trusted, unless they’ve earned their trust under fire… Instead, he nodded. “I’m glad to hear that.”
Al-Attiya nodded. “Yes, otherwise, it would make everything much more difficult.” He waved a dismissive hand. “But how are you liking Doha?”
Javin shrugged. “I didn’t come here for the sights.”
“But you still can have some fun, go out, enjoy.” Al-Attiya gestured toward the doors with his hands, in a very animated way.
Javin nodded. “We are. We took time off to enjoy supper.”
Yael gave him a cockeyed glance as if to remind him of his earlier comment about wasting time.
Al-Attiya said, “You should come here with your wife. Are you married, Mr. Pierce?�
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“No, and call me Javin.”
“You told me that already. I forgot. Do you have a girlfriend?”
Javin didn’t answer, not only because that was none of Al-Attiya’s business, but also because Javin didn’t know exactly what to say. There were two women in his life, and he needed to figure out which one of them would actually be his girlfriend. The decision, however, was proving to be much more difficult than he had expected.
Javin shrugged and tipped his head toward Yael.
She got the hint and shifted closer to Al-Attiya. “Do you have the intel?”
“I do, of course, otherwise, what’s the point in my coming here?”
“Right, no point.”
Al-Attiya reached inside his robe and pulled out a phone. He held his thumb over the screen and, when the phone lit up, coming to life, he tapped a few keys. Within a few moments, he had found what he was looking for. He slid the phone across the table, but before Javin could study it, the waiter appeared with Al-Attiya’s tea. “Anything else I can bring you? The menu perhaps…”
Al-Attiya flicked his wrist at the waiter. “No, nothing else.”
The waiter bowed and left.
Javin removed the hand he had used to cover the phone while the waiter was around. The agent glanced at a grainy, blurry image of Dr. Shamil Niyazov. The picture was taken from a distance, and the physicist seemed to be behind the window of a restaurant or a café. It must have been a cold, rainy day, as raindrops and moisture were visible on the glass. But there were no doubts in Javin’s mind that the man in the picture was their target. “Where and when was this taken?”
Al-Attiya dropped a spoon of sugar into his cup and stirred it slowly. “Last evening. In a place where it rains a lot.” He grinned.
Javin tossed the phone on the table. “Are you going to tell us?”
“Yes, in a minute. I’m getting to the point, but I see that you’re not a very patient man.”
“What can I say? Patience has never been my forte.”
“Maybe it’s time you start working on that virtue.” Al-Attiya motioned with his hand at the phone and brought the teacup to his lips. “Have a look at the next picture.”
Javin did as he was told and frowned. The man staring at him from the picture was young, no older than forty, but the long, black bushy beard made him look older. The man had a large thick nose, piercing gray eyes, and a receding hairline. The picture showed only his head and the top of his chest, but it was sufficient to show the man was wearing an orange jumpsuit. “What am I looking at?”
“Mohammad Shinwari. Along with four other detainees, he was transferred from the Guantanamo prison to the United Arab Emirates. There’s a file in there about him and the others.” Al-Attiya gestured to the phone. “The US wants to close that prison, right? So this group was one of the many released to allied countries. They were considered safe to be released and transferred, since they presented no risk to the security of the United States.” Al-Attiya emphasized the last two words more than necessary. “Yes, the US, that’s their only concern, forgetting where they released these wolves. As the saying goes, the old wolf never forgets its old ways…”
Javin skimmed through the file, but the screen was too small for him to read the writing, both in English and Arabic. “I want a copy of this.”
Al-Attiya nodded. “Go ahead and email a copy to yourself or put it on a server somewhere…”
Javin hesitated. He wanted to leave no digital trace on Al-Attiya’s phone.
The aide noticed the reluctance on Javin’s face. “As I suspected… keep the phone then.”
Javin began to shake his head, but Al-Attiya put his hand on Javin’s arm. “I insist. A gift, and there’s more to come.”
“I think you’re misunderstanding our relationship,” Javin said in a warm but firm voice. “I’m not here for money or rewards…”
“Of course, of course, I wasn’t implying that you were. But considering what is expected of you, I wanted to make it clear that you shouldn’t think of money as an issue.”
Yael’s eyes flitted between the aide and Javin. “The prince’s checkbook is blank?”
“I wouldn’t say that, precisely, but you’ll need to cover the expenses for your operation—”
Javin raised his hand. “Hold on a second, what op?”
Al-Attiya raised his bushy eyebrows, which almost met near the middle of his broad forehead, forming a deep V-shaped frown. “Have you not been paying attention, Pierce? The operation to find this man, the released terrorist…” He tapped the table with his index finger.
Javin glanced at Yael, then turned his head to Al-Attiya. “We come to you looking for someone and you do the same?”
Al-Attiya shrugged. “Of course, why wouldn’t we? You are looking for the Kazakh doctor, and we know where he is. Now you’ll have to find the man we want. An eye for an eye, right?” He grinned at Yael.
“Don’t tempt me,” she replied in an ice-cold voice with a menacing scowl.
Al-Attiya returned the grin. “As testy as they described you. I like that. It means you can do this job.”
“What exactly is the job, besides finding the former prisoner?”
Al-Attiya looked around and moved closer to Javin. “Let me explain the situation. The prince contacted close associates of this… this dirty scoundrel early on, shortly after his release. It appeared as if the man were heading in the right direction. He wanted nothing to do with his former life and just wanted to start again, rebuild whatever was left after fifteen years of incarceration.”
Javin’s attentive eyes scanned the room. No one seemed to be paying attention to their conversation.
Al-Attiya continued, “The scoundrel wanted to leave his old life, but the old life kept dragging him back. Soon, old ‘friends,’ former and active Al-Qaeda operatives in Syria and Lebanon, began to contact the man while he was living near Dubai. Of course, this violated the conditions of his release, but the UAE’s minders couldn’t care less. As long as he didn’t plot to attack their kingdom or the US, they turned a blind eye to his subversive activities.”
“Who was he targeting?” Yael said.
“We don’t know, but the prince was determined to find out, especially after rumors that a terrorist plot was being hatched against our country. You’re aware that our relationship with the UAE is at the worst level of all time.”
Javin nodded. The two Gulf States had been locked in a bitter diplomatic fight, exchanging accusations of sponsoring terrorism and backing militant groups in Syria and Iraq. The repercussions of those clashes had spread to a fierce trade war, along with blockades, expulsions of diplomats, and cutting off of contacts between the countries.
Al-Attiya said, “So the prince offered this scoundrel a healthy compensation in exchange for intelligence about this plot. He took the money, all of it, but has yet to provide any concrete piece of intel. And, to make matters worse, the man has disappeared.”
“Along with the money,” Yael said.
“Right, but that’s not a concern; as I said earlier, the prince thinks nothing of a few thousand dollars. To him, that’s just the tip, like you and I don’t blink when we leave ten dollars after supper. The prince wants to know about the threat to our country, what these terrorists are plotting, and that’s where you, the two of you, come in.” He gestured with his hand, pointing at Javin and Yael, as if his words were not clear enough.
Javin said, “Okay, and I assume you have a starting point for us?”
“The most recent information we have is all in the file. He was last seen in Bahrain, another travel condition he has broken, then he disappeared. One of our sources places him in Spain, another one in Germany.”
“Spain is much nicer at this time of year,” Yael said with a grin.
Al-Attiya shrugged. “The prince wants him found, at any cost.” He cast a glance around, his eyes flickering like a tiger ready to pounce on its prey. “But there’s a deeper underlying concern he
re. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but I will.” Al-Attiya gave his whisper a conspiratorial tone.
“The money?” Yael said.
“Yes, yes, it is the money. But it’s not what you think. The prince is worried about his reputation if it became known that he gave a hundred thousand dollars to a terrorist, a former prisoner who confessed to plotting attacks against American and Muslim civilians. While the purpose was to obtain intelligence, the truth can be easily misconstrued as if he financed terrorism.”
Javin nodded. If such news spread, the prince would have a stain on his name and image that would be difficult to remove, regardless of how much money he employed for such an effort.
Al-Attiya said, “Moreover, there are rumors that the prince met with militia group leaders in Lebanon. I organized a visit for him to Beirut three months ago. His schedule for an entire day was free. I inquired, but I was told not to make any plans. The prince was going to make arrangements himself, something that he seldom does.”
Yael nodded, and her face formed a frown of suspicion. “Yes, and I don’t think he went to Beirut for the girls there…”
Al-Attiya shook his head. “No, no, of course not. The prince has no mind for women, other than his wife, of course. So, if this is what I think it might be, and if it came to the surface, this could be the prince’s downfall.”
Javin drew in a deep breath as he processed Al-Attiya’s information. “Is that why you’re telling us this, because you don’t want to go down with the sinking ship?”
It took Al-Attiya’s a moment to understand Javin’s expression. “Yes, yes, that’s exactly my worry. The prince might be able to bribe his way out of any trouble. On the other hand, my head will be the first one to roll. Do you know what happened in Saudi Arabia after the journalist’s murder?”
“Yes, I’m familiar with the case,” Javin said.
Back in 2018, a Saudi journalist living in the US, Jamal Khashoggi, had been murdered inside the Saudi consular office in Istanbul, Turkey. The CIA and other intelligence agencies had pointed the finger at the Saudi crown prince Mohammed bin Salman as the one who had given the order for the journalist’s elimination. He had often attacked the prince and had advocated for regime reforms in Saudi Arabia. However, the Saudi authorities had cleared the crown prince of any involvement in the affair. They had tried eleven officials involved in the murder—who were said to have operated on their own initiative—and had sentenced five of them to death. Three others had received a combined twenty-four years in prison.
