Operation Snowdrop
Page 6
A cab drew up and the driver popped up the trunk to allow Sabena to place her bag inside. Sabena opened the door and slid into the seat. The cab had a strong smell of bakhoor, an Arabic incense made from wood chips and soaked in fragrant oils. Sabena sniffed and could just about discern an accompanying smell of disinfectant. Obviously, the driver was trying to cover up for a former passenger’s misconduct.
“Yeah, lady? Where you wanna go?”
Sabena leant forward and gave the driver the hotel address. As she spoke, she checked out his name. Khalid Abu Sanoogah. Sabena recognized the name as Tunisian. The cabbie had a light tinkling of some music in the background. She unconsciously started to get into the beat, and the driver noticed.
“You like the music, lady?”
“Yes, I do. Turn it up.”
The driver smiled and turned up the volume. The sound of drums and the swaying chant-like rhythm had an organic, mellifluous feeling and it washed softly over Sabena. She breathed out and in, taking everything slow, and just for once, out of the eye of Al Douri and Al Nadir spies and acolytes, she relaxed.
Sitting back, Sabena watched as the road rushed by. Deftly, the cabbie merged the car onto the ramp and slipped on to the I-90, heading toward Back Bay. Perhaps it was the bakhoor, the driver’s accent, or maybe the music, but it transported Sabena back to a moment before her life was swallowed up into the chaos of Salim Al Douri.
A small village, Bou Salem, in the Jenouba Governorate in Tunisia. She was twelve. It was March, and it had just rained. Dusk was drifting in. She’d walked down a dusty ochre path. The rain had brought forth a smell of fresh vegetation and jasmine, a sweet sensation floating in the air, just touching her nose. She smiled, enjoying the fragrance, and noticed an old woman in a doorway of a white stone block. Music came from inside the block. It was a strange but mesmerizing arrangement of drums and strings with a hypnotic rhythmic vocal. Sabena was drawn in.
The old woman was sat on a wooden crate with a woven multicolored blanket over the top. In front of her was a large pan, dark and burnt on the inside. It was perched on top of a gas burner. In the pan were beans with onions and herbs. Wafting into her nose was a tasty spicy aroma. Amongst the smells, Sabena could make out fresh lime or lemon with garlic. She knew these smells; her mother, when she cooked, used these ingredients.
Sabena wandered over and reached out to the old woman.
“Shunnu hatha?” asked Sabena in Arabic. What is it?
Her father, a linguist, had taught her many languages at a very young age, and now even as she was approaching teenage-hood, alongside her native Italian, Sabena was fully conversant in Spanish and French and had working knowledge of Arabic, Russian and German. He’d adopted the view that learning languages as early as possible was the way to develop the brain’s linguistic cognitive capabilities and extend the capacity for remembering new languages. Sabena, his experiment and protégé, was the evidence that validated his theory.
“Foul moudamas, jarabi habibti.” Fava beans, try my dear.
Sabena nodded. The old woman ripped off a piece of bread that was in her lap, scooped up a generous portion of the foul moudamas, and handed it to her.
“Shukran Jeseelan,” said Sabena confidently. Thank you very much. She took a big bite of the offering. The taste was rich and delicious. Sabena ate fast and stuck out her hand for more.
The old woman laughed.
“Swayya akthar?” A little more?
Sabena held her hand out steadfast to the old woman, who placed in it another helping of the spicy bean mix.
“Ana asif,” said another voice. I’m sorry.
Sabena heard footsteps following the voice. Her father came up and pulled her away from the old woman.
“La, la, maafi muskila!” said the old woman. No, no problem!
Sabena turned around to the woman and waved over her shoulder as her father gripped hold of her hand tightly and led her back to the tour bus.
The feeling of a persistent vibration brought Sabena out of her reverie. She reached into her bag and brought out her smartphone. Military grade encryption was one thing, but being on a comms network that was completely cloaked to all prying eyes was very much another. Al Douri’s cloaked LEO satellites that orbited planet earth provided a level of unbreakable technical resilience that formed the cornerstone to his diabolical and audacious terrorist crimes.
“Yes,” Sabena snapped, still keeping a lilting Greek accent. When she was undercover, she never broke her disguise.
“All is in place for tomorrow.”
Sabena recognized the deadpan voice of her deputy, Pedro Russo.
“Of course.”
“The full duration is not needed but use the time if you think so.”
“Of course.”
Sabena said very little in these conversations. She was also a little tired after the flight, so used was she to her private plane and its comfortable bed. She’d forgotten what the average person in the street had to endure when they took to the skies. At least she could wangle a business flight, which was passable for an energy researcher from Cambridge.
Pedro sensed she wanted to go and he issued his goodbye.
Sabena swung a glance out the window, her finger still tapping on her knee to the cabbie’s music, and then she swiped down her smartphone and brought up various file names in bright green. She tapped on the screen and a burst of intel packages took up and overlaid the screen.
She clicked on one file called STEE Kinley.
She reviewed his background with the UK’s FCO, and his postings in Jordan, France, China, Russia, Egypt, Venezuela, Indonesia, and finally, Syria. The guy was leaping all over the place. Either he pissed off people too quickly or there was another reason for his constant movement. Sabena checked out his role. Business Attaché. That would explain his nomadic career pattern. Business attachés didn’t remain in the same country for long; their job was to engage and support development activities for UK companies wanting to do business in that country.
Even so. That many postings?
But looking at Kinley’s career record, everything was in place. It was the perfect portfolio for a career diplomat. Sabena clicked back to Kinley’s photo. Gorgeous looking chap, she thought, licking her bottom lip. Then she was aware of eyes on her.
She flicked a look up at the driver, who was a second too slow in his response.
“Eyes on the road, driver,” snarled Sabena, fixing him with a deadly stare.
The driver swallowed deeply.
“Yes, lady!”
And for the rest of Sabena’s journey through Back Bay, his eyes never left the road.
Chapter 11
Sabena had reviewed her location and where she needed to be. It was just a short walk from her hotel to The Westin. Although it was still bitterly cold, the weather would be refreshing. It would blow away those sentimental memories she’d harbored on the taxi ride.
She was The Slayer. She had a reputation. She couldn’t afford to slip.
Dressed in subdued tones of grey and black that went with her current demeanor, Sabena entered The Westin. As she’d expected, security was high, with armed guards positioned at the entrance and portable body-scan cubicles and x-ray scanners positioned immediately inside the lobby.
Sabena sauntered through the security checks, keeping her eyes naturally ahead, but not overtly so. At the reception point, she gave her cover name. Another armed security official checked on the list, nodded, and waved her through toward the breakout area where morning coffee was being served. Sabena slipped in amongst a sea of men in suits. There was the odd woman but, no doubt, this was a testosterone gathering. Here’s to equality, thought Sabena wryly, and she positioned herself on the other side of a pillar near to the kitchen entrance.
She took out her phone, clicked on an application, and in front of her, the scene changed; her contact lenses running Al Nadir’s SmartLens kicked into operation. Each face she looked at threw up streams of data floating dire
ctly in her eye line. The immediacy of the intel popped up as Al Nadir’s AI analyzer checked out each face against millions of lines of intel on their systems. Unfortunately for Sabena, nothing stood out as meaningful to her mission.
She dug into her handbag, took out her bland, nude-colored lipstick, unscrewed the bottom, and picked up the nanodot RF receiver that was positioned in the center of its base. Then she slid its transparent membrane cover between her thumb and forefinger. Swiftly, she screwed back the base and returned it to her handbag.
Sabena moved away from the pillar, scanned the room, and read the intel stream at speed.
Energy ministers, CEOs of power companies, oil and gas executives, energy lobbyists, leading academics and some ‘energy enablers’ from various governments across the world. Again, nothing flagged up as significant. Not to Al Nadir anyway.
Concerned, she knew the nanodot had to fix to something soon otherwise the membrane would disintegrate, and the dot would integrate onto her.
The PA rang out that proceedings were about to start, and she watched the delegates start to file into the conference room. She ambled in with the rest of the throng.
And then she saw him.
The intel flashed up red with a warning. Suspected British Government agent.
Matthew Llewellyn Kinley.
She kept her eyes on him and maneuvered closer, but not too close, not too soon. He was in conversation with the French energy minister. His head of blond hair was cut in such a way as to entice fingers through it. As she watched, a joke transpired between the two men.
Sabena allowed a whisper of a smile and made her way into the conference room. Kinley walked in, still heavily focused on his discussion with the minister, but Sabena noticed his bright blue eyes flashing in all directions as different people caught his attention. One, in particular, grabbed his eye, an attractive but rather thin blonde-haired woman decked out in a sharply-tailored suit that shouted FBI. However, not once did Kinley glance in Sabena’s direction. Stein-Muller’s mask had definitely worked its magic. With her startling, mouthwatering looks hidden, she was indeed invisible.
And invisibility had its benefits.
Sabena rubbed with practiced adroitness against the arm of Kinley’s suit jacket, carefully splitting the membrane and depositing the nanodot RF receiver.
It had a short range and less than a few hours’ lifespan, but Sabena felt confident he’d make his play that morning. Something about his posturing and over-confident swagger suggested to her that Kinley was mentally psyching up for something.
Sabena endured a tedious hour and a half of slit-wrist-inducing presentations and debates. Her eyes focused on Kinley. Her earpiece was an everyday earbud. It didn’t warrant a second look. Delegates around her just believed she’d clicked on the ‘simultaneous translation’ app that the conference promoted.
What she was hearing was Kinley making sotto voce, snide comments to another guy, an energy lobbyist from DC, and inferring how he’d love to ‘energize Miss FBI.’ Sabena was fascinated with Kinley. How she’d love to break him. He was way too much of a smart ass. Too cocksure of himself. He needed bringing down a peg. Or three.
During the break, Sabena noticed Kinley had slipped away with another delegate, a Russian energy official that her SmartLens flagged up as a ‘potential Russian security agent.’ He’d sandwiched himself with the Russian in an alcove on the side toward the cloakroom. Sabena could see his lips moving very fast. In her ear, a stream of information started to cascade into her mind.
The receiver that was linked to Sabena’s phone connected to the cloaked LEO satellites nearby and auto-tasked to receive the uplink connection for the intel to directly stream to Al Douri’s private laptop.
The duration of the meeting was no more than ninety seconds. They shook hands, and Sabena felt sure something had passed between them, but she couldn’t see. Kinley’s sleight of hand was very good.
Sabena knew Al Douri would be chomping at the bit having heard what was implied and threatened during that brief parley.
For appearances, or at least until Kinley departed, she knew she had to remain at the summit. Throughout the day, she attended sessions and mingled with other summit delegates. She smiled shyly when another Greek delegate came up to her at lunch and started chatting in their native Greek. Thankfully, her father had impressed upon her the need to learn the classics, so Greek and Latin had been the next on her list after returning from her trip in Tunisia. Sabena, as Eloisia, chatted fluently to the man who called himself Dimitri from Corfu. But her one eye was always on Kinley.
His engagement with the Russian agent was the first and last. The nanodot RF receiver lasted until four in the afternoon, far longer than Sabena expected, and then it disintegrated.
The drinks reception at eighteen hundred hours gave the opportunity for more discussions, and Dimitri the persistent Greek made a beeline for her. But seeing Kinley suddenly depart, she made her excuses and left.
Kinley headed out of the hotel and across Copley Square to Dartmouth Street. Sabena kept back a decent number of paces. The key to tailing was making everything very natural. Keep the walking pace balanced and not too heavy, but also not too light, so it feels stealthy. Sabena had nailed tailing years ago.
Kinley never once swung a look behind. He turned into Newbury Street, which was bustling with activity despite the stark cold, and he entered one of the cafés. Sabena followed and ordered a macchiato. He sat at the back and flicked through his phone, sipping his coffee.
Sabena pretended to read the local newspaper. Kinley hadn’t moved for an hour.
Was he waiting for someone?
Had he clocked her following and just wanted to screw with her?
Was he really a boring old fart that liked to sit on his own?
Suddenly, Kinley got up and marched quickly toward the entrance. This action took Sabena by surprise; she’d gotten used to him just sitting there, staring at his phone and drinking his obviously-cold latte.
She left five dollars on the table and got up. But outside, there was no sign of Kinley. Cursing her idiotic and laxed surveillance, she started to walk down Newbury Street in the parallel direction of Commonwealth Avenue in the direction of her hotel.
“Did I see you at the summit today?”
The voice came from a side alley. Sabena turned, startled, and faced a smiling Kinley.
“Oh, yes. I was there. I’m Dr. Eloisia Magalos.”
Sabena stuck out her hand to shake Kinley’s. She kept her eyes slightly to the side of him as if she was terribly shy and self-conscious.
“Lovely name. Greek, if I’m not mistaken?”
“You’re not. I am.”
“What part?”
“Thessaloniki.”
“Beautiful,” said Kinley.
Sabena was aware of him coming closer to her.
“Yes, it is. But I haven’t been there in a while. I’m in Cambridge now.”
“That has its own special beauty. The canals, the banks, all just ripe for summer picnics.”
“True,” said Sabena. She was a little worried as to where the conversation was heading. Surely, he couldn’t be trying to hit on the woman she was disguised as.
“What are you reading there?”
“Renewable energy. I’ve designed a new type of battery to hold the charge longer.”
“Clever girl.”
“Well, yes, I suppose I am. I’d better be off now. I’ve got some reading to do before tomorrow’s sessions.”
“Yes, of course. See you tomorrow?”
“Yes, I wouldn’t miss it.”
“No, neither would I,” said Kinley with more than a little seductive intrigue.
Sabena felt his eyes on her as she walked away.
Chapter 12
Sabena luxuriated in the back of the Cadillac SUV Salim had sent for her. Her work in Boston was done, and to linger longer would inspire unnecessary opportunity for Kinley to pry, or even try and seduce her. It
was obvious that Stein-Muller’s nanocream mask had only a limited efficacy when a letch was on the prowl.
She took out her smartphone, clicked on an app and saw her own frumpy fake face on the screen for a few seconds. She shuddered, pleased to soon be rid of the ghastly plainness of her Greek incarnation. Vigorously, Sabena stabbed on the button
Within minutes of deactivation, Sabena was aware of a soft tingling sensation ripple across her face. She knew the nanocytes in the face cream had abruptly stopped communicating their bonding signal with each other. Breakdown of the material was imminent. She felt a pull on her face like an abrasive toner had hit her skin cells, and the fake skin started to fall away and disintegrate. Sabena took out her compact and watched. She enjoyed the feeling of shedding, imaging herself like a snake when a new, fresh version was waiting to emerge underneath.
Of all Stein-Muller’s creations, the nanomask was the most amazing. He’d developed biomimetic programmable self-reproducing nanocytes that could create synthetic skin cells over the top of existing skin. He’d used biomimicry to evoke a similar process as the one a chameleon powers up to change its exterior skin to match its surroundings. The difference was that the change was not to match the environment but instead was to match the face on the app. Stein-Muller had made it idiot-proof for all Al Nadir operatives to use as and when a mission called for it. It was just a case of selecting the face, smoothing the innocent-looking face cream into the skin, and clicking on
Sabena brushed away the remaining sparkly dust, and her mind wandered to Kinley again. He’d gotten under her skin. She felt he’d played her somehow. Although there was no way he’d have known who she really was, there was something he’d still detected.
Sabena hadn’t wanted to leave Boston, despite the risks. She’d wanted to know what he knew. But Salim was having none of it. He had video called and his model features had scowled at her over the screen.