by Brad Taylor
She smiled and said, “Then I guess I have to be on my best behavior.”
I grinned at her all dolled up and looking like something out of a Playboy photo shoot before the clothes came off, and said, “There’s no reason to get stupid.”
She laughed and said, “Seriously, did you think about what I just said? We don’t even know where this guy is, and he’s been here for two days.”
6
Amena saw the man enter the Oceanographic Museum and paused. They didn’t have the money to enter the museum, but there was another way.
Adnan saw her look and said, “No, we’re not sneaking in.”
She said, “Yes. We are. We’re going to steal that man’s phone.”
Adnan threw up his hands and said, “Why does this guy’s phone matter? We can find another one tomorrow.”
Amena glared at him and said, “It matters.”
Adnan said nothing for a heartbeat, then said, “This is not worth it.”
“No, this is worth it. That man deserves it. I heard him talking.”
Adnan played his final card, saying, “Father will be home soon, and it’ll take us at least an hour to get back. He’ll be there before we are, and he won’t be pleased.”
Amena said, “He’ll be pleased with me. That man works for the regime that sent us away. The man who killed Mother.”
Adnan stomped about, completing a circle, then said, “We can’t do this! You’re asking too much.”
Amena looked him in the eye and said, “This is for Mother.”
And that was enough. Adnan had been the first to pull the rubble away from the body of their mother, and she knew it.
His voice barely above a whisper, he said, “Okay.”
She gave him a grim smile and said, “Come on. We’ll enter the same way I always do.”
The museum was a favorite of Amena’s. A place of solitude and reflection, where she could pretend she was someone else before she went back to stealing from people she’d never met. She knew what she was doing was wrong, and pined for an existence like Jacques Cousteau, a man allowed to pursue something he loved. And yet she also understood that Jacques Cousteau was but a myth for people like her. He had achieved a life at the pinnacle of the apex—pursuing a dream of self-actualization. She was still at the bottom of the pyramid, fighting for survival. And she understood why. Cousteau didn’t grow up with barrel bombs destroying everything he knew, and the man inside the museum had helped to launch them.
She said, “Come on,” and they circled back around the building the way they’d come, leaving the road and sliding down the wall toward the cliff. Amena reached the edge and looked over, seeing the water of the Mediterranean a hundred feet below, the museum itself built directly into the rock, running another two stories down until it stopped about thirty feet above the water.
Built in 1910, the structure had a modern-day veneer of security out front, with metal detectors and cameras, but a Victorian-age level of security in the back, the only protection being a simple window latch—if one could reach it.
Amena began sliding down the grass of the cliff, one hand on the building and the other on the rocks to her right. She reached the first window—the one she’d used many times before—and peeked inside. A workroom of the museum, outside of the exhibits, it housed mops and other cleaning supplies, with a stack of paintings against the wall. More of a storeroom than an office, with a desk piled with books and dust, she’d never seen anyone inside of it. And she didn’t see anyone now.
The window was decades old with multiple layers of paint, the panes of glass surrounded by ancient metal. She pried the bottom edge, and it came free. As it had the first time she’d found it. It opened enough for her to snake her hand in and reach the crank, and she started turning, the window opening wider and wider, but each inch it did made it harder to turn. Eventually, she stopped, seeing a gap of about a foot and a half. Enough.
She said, “You first.”
Adnan slipped by her, his hands holding the window ledge and his eyes on the rocks below. He hoisted himself up, then slithered inside. She followed.
She moved immediately to the door and cracked it.
He said, “What now?”
She peeked out the door, saying, “Now we find him,” and slipped through.
They were on the second level, the one dedicated to housing the aquarium’s offices. She ran lightly to a stairwell, ignoring the signs saying the exit was only to be used in an emergency, knowing from past intrusions that it wasn’t alarmed. She climbed down a floor, to the bottom level, and stopped, making sure Adnan was behind her. When she saw him, she opened the door and exited into the flow of people.
Amena skipped past the exhibits, not looking at any of them, then was held up by a cluster of visitors staring at the ocean thirty feet below them—a jagged hole in the floor showing an original research portal, covered by a rough-iron grate.
Amena bulled through the crowd, having seen the hole many times before, reentering the exhibit hall with a laser focus on finding the man with the phone. She passed a bench in front of a Plexiglas wall illuminated by a black light, behind it a swarm of jellyfish billowing and flowing.
Adnan said, “Wait, shouldn’t we stop here?”
Amena scowled, not liking the joke. It was her favorite place in the aquarium. A spot where she could sit and watch for hours, wishing her life were different. She said nothing, charging onward.
Eventually, they had cleared all four floors of exhibits without a sighting, and Adnan said, “Let’s just go home. This is getting stupid.”
Amena went to the elevator and said, “We haven’t seen the roof.”
“The roof? It’s just a restaurant.”
The door opened, and Amena said, “Yes, it is. Come on.”
Adnan dutifully followed her, muttering under his breath. The elevator went up to the top and Amena exited just as three Asian men entered.
She ignored them, saying to Adnan, “Just one lap, then we’ll go home.”
She saw one of the Asians look at her weirdly, and she realized it was because she was speaking Arabic. She hid her eyes and raced away.
She went around the giant metal shark, ignoring the people taking selfies, but didn’t see the man with the phone. She was beginning to think she’d missed him somewhere inside, and that Adnan was correct. This was stupid. Then Adnan came running to her. He said, “I found him. In the restaurant.”
He led her back to the elevator vestibule, went inside, then cracked open the door and pointed. She leaned over and saw the Syrian, sitting at a table all by himself, his phone in front of him on the glass tabletop.
She withdrew back inside and said, “Hold the door to the stairs open.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Steal that phone. And I’ll be coming back on the run. No sneaking here.”
7
Reluctant, Adnan said, “Amena . . . this is stupid.”
“Just hold the door. It’ll work out. We know this place like the back of our hand, and most of the hallways and exhibits are dark. We’ll get away easily back through the window we used while he’s still searching. He’s a rich man, and that phone will feed us for a month.”
Adnan said nothing else, turning from the elevator to the stairwell door. He tested it, finding it unlocked. Amena nodded, then said, “Can you lock it?”
He fiddled with the bar handle, seeing he could, in fact, lock it closed. He said, “Yes.”
“Good. The key is to beat him down the first flight of stairs. If he’s right behind us, it’s trouble. I get through, and you slam the door closed. From there, we go straight to the office.”
“What if he’s on top of us?”
“I’ll throw the phone at him. He’ll be more worried about that.”
Adnan nodded, but she could tell he was st
ill unhappy. She took a deep breath, then left the vestibule. She quickly surveyed the restaurant, noting where waiters were loitering, where the kitchen exit was located, and how the tables were arranged. She didn’t want to repeat running through a gauntlet of people trying to stop her. She wanted a clean line back to the vestibule.
She wasn’t going to get it. The man’s table was the second farthest away in the room, right next to the outdoor area. In between the vestibule and him were multiple tables, with two occupied by patrons. She had a choice of either running past the wait station or weaving between the two occupied tables. She decided on the tables, as the patrons were seated and focused on their conversations, while the waiters were standing and focused on the activity in the room. She decided the tables were a lesser threat.
She circled around as if she were going outside, to the deck, then began to shadow the wall until she was approaching the man’s back, with her lane to the door directly in front of her, straight between the occupied tables. Her breath quickened, her pulse beginning to race. She glanced at the bartender and saw his back was turned. One waiter was helping a table behind her, on the deck, and another was at the wait station, filling glasses of water.
She came within arm’s reach of her target, staring at the back of his head, afraid to commit. She figured she would have a space of one second, maybe a second and a half, before he reacted, and she needed every bit of it to put distance between him and her. She wavered in her commitment. It wasn’t enough time.
A memory of her mother floated out. A good memory. Not the one that forced her awake most nights, sweating and screaming—the one where her mother was severed in two—but a memory of gathering flowers, the warm summer day illuminating her mother’s hair.
She took it as an omen, and surged forward, banishing her fear. She brushed past his shoulder, reached over his arm, and snatched the phone.
Before her hand had even left the table, he leapt up, surprising her with his reaction time. Scaring her. She felt her adrenaline surge and took off running, feeling his hand snatch the collar of her shirt. She jerked her head forward, feeling the collar tear and the hand drop free, but she knew he was on top of her.
She reached the gap between the two tables, seeing the patrons all startled at the commotion. One tourist stood, and she flung his chair behind her.
She heard a ferocious crash, and finally dared to look behind her, still running flat out. The Syrian was on the floor, having fallen over the chair, the other patrons now waving their arms and yelling.
She refocused on her escape, and the bartender came over the wood of the bar, landing in front of her, blocking her way forward. She knew the phone would do nothing to stop him. Getting rid of it now meant little. He waved his arms, attempting to wrap her up, and she let him. He spoke to her in French, telling her to quit fighting. She struggled for a second, then stopped, appearing to give in.
She saw the Syrian rise, covered in some liquid that had fallen off the table, his sunglasses askew on his face, the rage emanating out. She felt the bartender’s arms relax, and she shot her free hand to her rear, slid it up his groin, then squeezed his genitals with a strength born of fear. He shrieked, a high-pitched wail, and released her, falling back and holding his privates.
The Syrian began running toward her, and she darted the final feet to the vestibule. She ripped the door open and saw Adnan, eyes wide, holding the stairwell door. She shouted, “Run, run!” and went by him, hearing it slam shut behind her.
They took the steps two at a time, the rattling of the door above echoing through the stairwell. They reached the next landing and Adnan stopped. Amena said, “No. Keep going.”
They skipped to the next floor, then the one beyond, and Amena paused, catching her breath. Adnan said, “What was all of that noise? The screaming?”
In between hitches of breath, she said, “He was much faster than I thought. They almost caught me.”
Adnan cracked the door and said, “We’re on the entrance floor. What do you want to do?”
She thought about it, bringing up the floor plan in her mind. They would have to go through the exhibits, threading their way past the tourists, but then they’d be in the main foyer. There was a ticket taker there, but he didn’t have a radio, so it was unlikely he would know what had just occurred. They could run straight out the front door. Once they were on the street, they could disappear.
The original plan would lead them deeper into the aquarium, to the floor of offices, and the workers most certainly had telephones at their desks. For all she knew, one of the rooms was the security office itself, full of police.
She said, “We leave from here. Walk like guests until we get to the lobby. Then run out.”
Adnan nodded, and Amena noticed his hand was shaking. She said, “Don’t worry. We’ll get out.” She held up the phone and said, “This was worth it.”
She opened the door, the exit gloomy to protect the exhibits, the light from inside the stairwell spilling out. She got her bearings, and said, “Left. We need to go left.”
Across the hall, she heard a bell chime, and saw the elevator door open, exposing the Syrian and the bartender, the latter holding a small radio. The Syrian locked eyes with her and shouted. The bartender used the radio. She panicked, saying, “Go, go!”
They raced down the hallway, hearing the footsteps behind them, and Adnan jerked her to the left, deeper into the aquarium. She said, “What are you doing?”
He took off running again, saying, “He had a radio. We can’t get out of the front.”
She followed, saying, “We can’t get out of the office either.”
He said, “I know. There is another way.”
Amena chased him past tanks full of coral and seahorses, then down a long escalator, going to the lowest level. She reached the bottom, hearing the pounding of feet above, and said, “What are you doing? This is going the wrong way.”
He looked behind her, and she saw his eyes grow wide. He said, “They’re coming!”
He ran around the corner and she saw the Syrian barreling down the escalator, the bartender not far behind, still shouting into his radio. She followed, not thinking clearly, now in a full panic. She turned the corner, and she saw the jellyfish again, this time with two small boys sitting on the bench in rapt attention at their dance. She kept her eyes on the back of her brother, racing by them without a glance. She saw the hole in the floor ahead, more tourists gathered around it. Behind her, she heard the Syrian yelling. To her front, down the hallway, she saw two security guards coming right at them.
This is it. We’re done.
Adnan ran into the crowd of people around the hole, pushing through them and sliding toward the grate. Amena stopped, seeing the guards to the front and the Syrian to the rear. She shouted, “Adnan!”
He looked at her and she tossed him the phone, saying, “I’ll lead them away. I’ll get caught. You hide.”
He said, “No, no! This is it!”
And she watched him slide into the hole and disappear. Her mouth fell open, the crowd around the grate gasping in shock. One man turned and saw the guards coming forward. He jogged to them and began shouting in French, waving his arms, engaging them. They stopped running.
She heard footsteps behind her and saw the Syrian was only twenty meters away, bellowing like a bull. She darted to the hole, squeezing between the startled tourists. She looked down at the sea thirty feet below, seeing her brother treading water and staring back at her. She turned around, saw the Syrian reaching for her, and slid into the hole, scraping past the iron grate that would block all but a child.
She hung by her arms, her hands clamped like a vise to the grate, her feet dangling below her, afraid to let go. The Syrian reached through the grate and grabbed her arm, violently trying to pull her up. She sank her teeth into his thumb, tearing the flesh. He screamed, and jerked his hand back like h
e’d been stung by a bee.
She took one more look at the frothing water below, and let go.
8
We crossed the parking lot from the restaurant toward the famed Monte Carlo Casino, about ten minutes behind our target. Out front, of course, was a line of cars that would make any gearhead drool, with Ferraris and Lamborghinis showcased behind a yellow cotton rope. It looked like a museum display, which is pretty much what it was. I’d been told the secret by our valet at the hotel, and now it just made me grin.
Jennifer saw my amusement and said, “It’s not that bad. They’re just keeping up an image. Same as you and me. I’m just surprised we’re actually going to the casino. I’m waiting on you to spring something else on me, like maybe I have to climb a rope to the roof while you get to go inside.”
I said, “Come on. I look good, you look good. Nothing else will go wrong.”
She grinned and said, “Sure. If today is any indication, we’re getting some high adventure before the night is over.” Which made me smile, because we both loved a little high adventure.
Jennifer was on her third outfit of the day, because after she’d gotten all dolled up, we’d found out that we had to waste the remainder of our afternoon meeting the CIA guy for his “input” on the Syrian connection. The one where Carly was supposed to act as liaison, because apparently us DoD folks couldn’t understand English. Jennifer, of course, was incensed, because getting ready for the night is sacrosanct for a female, and it doesn’t work in reverse, but now she was supposed to do it. Not my fault that all I had to do was put on a tie.
Our plan had been to meet Knuckles and Veep in the exquisite cocktail bar on the first floor of the Hermitage, reviewing final mission planning for their cracking of the Korean’s hotel room, but we were short-circuited with this new demand. The CIA meeting was supposed to happen tomorrow—after the mission—but Kurt gave the order, so off we went.