by Tracy Brody
Tony had a helping of rice and chicken with cashews and raisins, then settled into a hammock. He hadn’t yet dozed off when the afternoon Azan blared over speakers, calling people to prayer. He checked his watch. Nearly three-thirty local time. Eight-thirty in the morning back home. What was Angela doing? Eating breakfast? Working out? Showering?
He should have told Mack and the chief to have Kristie and Stephanie invite Angela to lunch or a movie to keep her from being alone. Getting her tied in with the wives to feel like a part of the unit would be a good idea.
As the people began their prayers, Tony lay in the hammock and thanked God for Angela’s survival and for putting her in his life. Then he prayed something would convince her that staying wouldn’t put him in more danger than he already faced.
“Rashid is exiting the building.”
Lundgren spoke rapidly and loudly enough that it roused Tony out of his light sleep. He rolled out of the hammock and slid on his sandals, then took a second to adjust the coils securing his headscarf. Inserting his earpiece, he heard Liu acknowledge that he was tailing the guard.
“See you in a few.” Tony nodded to Rozanski and Grant, dressed like European tourists, then slipped into the hallway.
He hit the street and kept his pace brisk, following the directions Liu provided. This was just the first step. They had a long way to go.
“He’s going into a little market shop,” Liu reported when Tony had gone about a block.
Things rarely went according to plan on a mission, but the news still prompted him to growl. Tony slowed his pace, debating whether to continue past where Rashid had stopped. Instead, he ducked into a shop and browsed the prayer rugs.
He scanned the store, but nothing caught his eye as a gift for Angela. Outside, he caught sight of Rozanski and Grant strolling on the opposite side of the street.
“He’s exiting now. Looks like he’s headed back to the hotel,” Liu said.
Shit. Not what he wanted to hear.
“Wait, he stopped at a trash can.” Liu paused. “He’s opening a carton of cigarettes.”
Fine, take a smoke break. He had all night.
“He’s heading north again.”
That was good. Tony continued down the main thoroughfare.
“Bingo! He just went into the restaurant with the blue sign. Picture of a basket of fruit on it and the name starts with what looks like an S in red.”
Tony spotted the sign and watched the door for anyone else entering.
Precision timing essential, Tony counted the time it took entering the restaurant to walk to the counter. Two of the six booths in the brightly lit dining area were occupied. Rashid waited behind another customer, who waited for his order at the farthest of the three benches facing the cashier. At least he didn’t take the middle and ruin the plan.
When Rashid stepped to the counter, he gave a name, not an order.
Tony pulled out his phone and texted: To go, giving Rozanski and Grant timing details for staging themselves. Tony gave the menu board a cursory glance and sent the “NOW” text after Rashid took two bags from the cashier.
As Tony gave his order, he heard the impact. When the cashier turned to investigate the noise and raised voices, Tony peeked, too. He missed how they’d pulled it off, but one of Rashid’s bags lay squashed on the sidewalk with food spilling from the containers.
Rozanski got to his feet, and Grant was playing peacemaker as he held something out to Rashid.
Take it. Take it. Yes! Tony fought the smile when Rashid accepted the money and came back inside carrying one bag of food.
After placing his order, Tony took a seat on the middle bench, where he overheard Rashid complaining about the “stupid tourists” to the cashier. Tony activated the cloning program on his phone, then started watching the soccer video, grumbling that a penalty resulted in a free kick.
Rashid slumped onto the empty bench and started typing on his phone. He looked over when the Saudi goalie blocked the kick, and Tony cheered.
“What a block,” Tony exclaimed in Arabic. He turned the phone toward Rashid. “Watch this.”
“Who’s playing?” Rashid’s brow dipped.
“Al-Nassr. I missed this game in the spring. My cousin is a center back for Al-Nassr.” Tony grinned proudly, then scooted to the edge of the bench. He queued the video back. “Watch this.” He fumbled with the phone, extending the splinted finger before handing it to Rashid.
“It’s started syncing,” Porter reported over the comms link.
“Watch for number four.” Tony pointed at the screen when Rashid started to hand back the phone.
He watched for another minute. This time when he handed the phone back, Tony took it but angled it, encouraging Rashid to keep watching.
The cashier called a name, and the man on the other bench got up and took his bag.
Take your time with my order.
Porter didn’t give a progress update, but at least he hadn’t given any warning about losing the connection. Tension took a joyride through Tony’s body as he watched the soccer game like he cared. A great header and run kept Rashid engaged.
“Almost there,” Porter crooned.
Might not be close enough. Tony’s jaw locked as the cook put a Styrofoam container on the serving ledge.
The counter clerk came and looked at the ticket. Instead of calling a name, he waited, talking with the cook through the window. When a second order was up, the clerk bagged them together. Still no go-ahead from Porter.
The clerk called a name—not the one Tony had given. When Rashid got up, Tony did, too. The clerk’s gaze shifted from one to the other. “Nabil?” he repeated.
“That’s me,” Rashid said.
Tony laughed and pointed to himself. “Nabil Mohammed. What are the chances, my friend?”
“Shawarma and falafel,” the clerk read.
Nabil took the order and gave a farewell nod.
“Let me get the door. Don’t want you to have another accident,” Tony offered.
“Idiot tourists too busy taking pictures to watch where they were going,” he said in the stilted manner of speaking a secondary language.
“Got it!” Porter said in time to keep Tony from turning into a stalker.
“May Allah have mercy on you,” Tony said, then went back to wait for the food.
Tony ducked in the back entrance of the office building and made his way upstairs. The room was crowded with everyone there, besides Dominguez, who was keeping an eye out to make sure Tony hadn’t been spotted returning.
Mack gave a slow clap. “Another Academy award-winning performance.”
“I’d like to thank my supporting cast.” Tony motioned to Grant and Rozanski. “He take the Euro trackers?” He handed the phone to Porter.
“Yeah, called us a few choice names in Pashto, then we gave him more than enough to buy more food so he wouldn’t spend those,” Rozanski said.
“Good job. And I’ll take al-Shehri in prison over an Oscar.” He unwrapped the tape and removed the finger splint and tossed it to Grant. Then he peeled off the prosthetic nose.
“We’ll keep your name off the Hollywood Walk of Fame since your performance might draw some critics.” Lundgren gave an approving nod.
Tony chuckled and opened the food container.
“I thought you ate before you went out.” Grant eyed the sandwiches.
“When is Vincenti not eating?” Walt Shuler laughed.
“When he’s sleeping,” Mack said. “But, thankfully, after his rhinoplasty, I don’t need earplugs.”
Tony didn’t mind the ribbing. Successful missions left him famished, though, so he picked up one of the lamb wraps without apology.
“Karma, we have contact.” Porter grinned wickedly less than ten minutes later.
The room went silent. Porter pulled off his headphones and played the audio for the team to hear.
“That’s the TV,” Lundgren said.
“I’m recording everything. I’ll start downloading an
y messages saved on the phone.”
“As soon as you do, send them to command to be translated,” Lundgren ordered.
“And have Intel see if they can dig up any known associates with the name Nabil. He didn’t give his surname. If they need help translating, Angela is available,” Tony threw out.
Lundgren studied him for a drawn-out moment. “Pass it on,” he said to Porter.
Lundgren’s affirmation made Tony feel close to Angela as he climbed into a hammock alone, rather than into his bed with her.
Forty-Eight
The knock at the door made Angela’s heart beat faster, though it didn’t send the same panic through her as the time Kristie and Darcy Hanlon had shown up. It’s probably Doc’s kids popping by.
Dinner with Tony’s friends two nights ago had gone unbelievably well. By the end of the evening, she was picturing more get-togethers with them, and she’d offered to tutor the older two in Spanish.
She approached the door from an angle, but instead of kids, she caught a glimpse of a camouflaged sleeve. Living close to post, she’d become accustomed to seeing men and women in camouflage; however, an assassin could pick up fatigues at any surplus store to get her to let her guard down. She opened the drawer in the entry-hall table and gripped Tony’s Beretta in her hand.
Before opening the door, she took a quick perusal of the soldier at the front door. His salt-and-pepper hair was shaved on the sides and slightly longer on top. His craggy face had the olive hue she associated with the Mediterranean. Would Vasquez send an Italian or Greek hitman? No, the man’s posture assured her he was the real deal.
She tucked the gun into her waistband before opening the door.
“Agent Hoffman, I’m Colonel John Mahinis. Sergeant Vincenti’s commanding officer.”
Her curiosity morphed to a different state. She could think of only one reason he’d be here. One that made her knees buckle. She grabbed hold of the doorframe to keep from sinking to the floor. “Tony? He … Is he hurt? Or …?” She couldn’t draw air into her lungs.
“He’s fine.” The colonel’s hand under her elbow steadied her. “I’m here to see you on a professional matter. I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d—”
“You could have started with that.” Her knees became less like jelly as she drew in a few ragged breaths.
“Let’s sit you down.”
The intensity of her reaction to the possibility of losing Tony hit her like the proverbial two-by-four. She thought she could leave Tony if that were best for him. Man, was she wrong.
Porter found little stored on the guard’s phone, which showed they were careful about deleting texts and messages. Though they now had the number of someone else in al-Shehri’s party from the text Nabil sent while the restaurant replaced the ruined food order.
Tony had fallen asleep hopeful they’d get a needed break. He woke to the news that Intel had not found anyone named Nabil on the watch list, but they had managed to restore a few deleted texts and hacked into the phone records for a log of calls.
Using the cell’s microphone, they were listening to everything the men said, which confirmed there was an additional bodyguard with al-Shehri. Though the addition didn’t concern the team, they hoped it’d be easy enough to identify him if he made a food run today.
Tony could use a good run himself, but couldn’t risk it or even running the stairs, so he settled for sit-ups, push-ups, and wall sits. He’d started a trend with the rest of the team, who rotated in the cramped space to exercise and relieve their boredom.
The chief and Rozanski flanked Tony, and the three were engaged in an unofficial wall-sit showdown when Shuler, who had listening duty, waved for quiet.
“Got an incoming call.”
Lundgren pushed off the wall first. Tony looked to Rozanski, whose gaze extended the challenge.
“Which phone are they calling?” Lundgren asked.
“Not Ras—I mean Nabil’s,” Shuler said. “One of the others.”
“Let’s stick with calling him Rashid since we wouldn’t know he’s Nabil.” Lundgren took the headphones from Shuler. He motioned for a pen and began writing notes.
Curiosity and quivering quad muscles made Tony acquiesce and stand.
“Thank God.” Rozanski leaned forward and limped away.
Lundgren’s frown deepened as he tuned out everyone else and listened for several minutes before pulling off the headphones.
“To summarize, El-Waddi is checking out of the Four Seasons and has not agreed to see al-Shehri, who’s staying—for now. They’re contacting some cousin who has a connection that may help.” Lundgren ended with air quotes. “It’s vague but backs up the idea he’s trying to raise money. So, we’re holding here as long as they do.”
“What’d I miss?” Tony walked back into their lair after a trip to the bathroom to find Lundgren listening through headphones again.
“Got a response from that cousin about a meetup,” Mack said.
Already? It hadn’t even been two hours. Hopefully, it was a fast and hard pass on helping. Then al-Shehri would decide to pack it up, and the Bad Karma team would track him home, do a little cleanup for the good of mankind, and he could go home to Angela.
“I don’t know who the hell Azam is, but he wants to hear al-Shehri’s pitch,” Lundgren filled them in.
“Meeting here or al-Shehri’s?” Tony refocused.
“Neither. Azam is having his jet pick up al-Shehri tomorrow afternoon. Which doesn’t give us much time if we’re going to get him here. Have Intel look into this Azam. He’s got a private jet, so sounds like he can afford to fund terrorist activity.”
“All right,” Lundgren said loudly enough to get everyone’s attention without being overheard by the pair who’d shown up for work in the office next door. “Intel has a line on Azam. As the number-one son, Azam Khalid inherited his dad’s oil company, and his billions, three years ago. He lives in the port city of Jeddah and owns a Lear jet, so that fits. He’s got no known ties to extremist groups, but his wife was cousin to one of the 9/11 hijackers. Their third child, a son, is named after him.”
“Honoring a mass killer? Isn’t that sweet?” Shuler scoffed.
“We have to make sure Azam doesn’t transfer money to al-Shehri so he can launch a second attempt at whatever US target he has in mind. So, how do we get close to him before he jets off?”
As the team tossed around ideas, Tony tried to think outside the box. What had Angela said about getting close to Vasquez? His sister had hired her as a nanny. Wait. No. She hadn’t applied for the job. Vasquez’s sister had hired her away from a friend. Likely the Agency intervened to ensure those families needed a new nanny. That same play with taking out one of al-Shehri’s guards wouldn’t work for them, though. He walked it back in his mind.
“I know how we can do this,” Tony cut through the chatter. “We get al-Shehri to come to us.”
“Sure. Shall we call or send a formal invitation?” Dominguez’s mocking tone grated on Tony’s nerves.
“He’s already got his invitation—from Azam Khalid.” He paused. “Think about it, they use cutouts rather than talking directly. They’ll get a text or call with the time to be at the airport. We have a jet.”
“I’m liking it. Go on,” Lundgren encouraged.
“We do the telemarketer trick of spoofing a phone number, one they recognize, and we text to bump up the time to meet Khalid’s jet.”
“It’s not even kidnapping if he gets on of his own free will,” Mack reasoned.
“Let’s work out details. As long as we get a time, we’ve got a plan,” Lundgren said.
“Change the time for the flight to two seventeen,” Rozanski said. “It’s more believable. Like a real flight time rather than saying two-thirty.”
“Good catch,” Lundgren agreed.
Porter sent the text with the new time for al-Shehri to meet “Khalid’s” jet, then waited for a response. If the terrorists used a different phone instead of replied to th
e spoofed number, their plan was dead in the water.
Lundgren listened to the conversation being broadcast via the cloned phone and broke into a smile. “Pack it up. Game on.”
“They bought it! Hot damn.” Rozanski gave Tony a fist bump.
“I’ll monitor things here until they’re all away,” Smith said. “Well done. Good luck.” He stuck out his hand to shake the chief’s hand.
“We owe you big.”
“You know how it goes. A lot of leg work and waiting, and sometimes you strike gold.”
“When you make it back to the States, get in touch. We’ll take you out for a day or two of fun,” Lundgren promised.
“I’ll do that. And I want a picture of Samir al-Shehri in cuffs.”
“It’ll be my pleasure,” Tony said.
“We need to get everything loaded on the plane before they show.” Lundgren gave a let’s-go whirl of his hand.
Before entering the private airport, the team ditched their robes and headwear. Inside the otherwise-empty lobby, the two Army pilots looked every bit their part. Their white button-downs had navy epaulets with gold bars, and blue ties matched their dress pants. Gold aviator-style sunglasses dangled from the pockets on their chests.
Tony reviewed the plan with them while the rest of the team loaded their gear into the plane.
“Weapons and cuffs are stashed on board,” Dominguez updated him when the team trooped back in.
Shuler pulled on his suit jacket and began strutting around to get into character. Tony and Dominguez put on shoulder holsters, tucking in their handguns before donning coats.
“According to the time Smith said they left, we’ve got about ten minutes.” Lundgren sent Rozanski and Grant out, so they didn’t blow this if Rashid recognized them from outside the restaurant. “Hopefully, Rashid won’t be the one who boards with al-Shehri since he should have the trackers, but don’t tip your hand. We can try following without them.”
If all went as planned, they’d get al-Shehri tonight, and maybe find his base of operations, if his guards went there. It was worth a shot.