Enemy of Mine: A Pike Logan Thriller

by Brad Taylor

  Knuckles broke protocol and sprinted to the entrance of the courtyard, slowing down to a walking pace when he came within view of the mosque. He saw the burqa take a bag from the mistress as they both walked up the steps and entered the mosque. The gait of the covered woman triggered a memory in Knuckles’ mind, gleaned from countless hours of surveillance.

  Crusty.

  If it was Crusty, his plan was pretty ingenious, since there was no way a western male would be able to penetrate a female-only mosque. Crusty didn’t have to run any countersurveillance on his mistress, as they’d be able to lose whoever was on them just by entering. Except we have some tricks as well.

  He called Blaine, sending him the geo-tagged picture of their location. “Get Birdseye up. Crusty’s got some plan of escape out of that mosque, and I’m betting it’s the roof.”

  Blaine said, “He’s already airborne, doing a ‘pipeline survey’ north to south. He’ll be on team net, ETA thirty seconds.”

  Knuckles smiled at Blaine bending his own rules, and poked him in the eye. “What happened to one shot with the bird?”

  “He’s circling north of the city. You’ll still only get one pass. Don’t push it.”

  “Roger that.” Knuckles switched back to the team net. “Johnny, do some research on the buildings adjacent to the mosque. If he were going to jump, which one would he go to?”

  Birdseye came on. “Knuckles, on station. You get about five minutes on target before I deviate from my flight plan. After that, it’s a thirty-minute turnaround from the oil fields.”

  “Roger. You got eyes on the roof?”

  “Clean shot. Can see it clearly through optics.”

  “Retro, you getting the feed?” He knew that Retro had stopped what he was doing as soon as he heard the Birdseye call, locating a concealed position that would allow him to set up his downlink and handheld video screen.

  “Roger. Nothing moving right now.”

  Johnny said, “Looks like the buildings left and right are apartments. The one to the rear is a small hotel. It also has an alley that leads to the Medina wall.”

  That’s it. He gave instructions to Johnny, setting his team up in a box around the hotel. He left Retro in place and called Decoy to meet him in the alley as the assault element. Before Decoy arrived, Retro said, “Got movement on the roof. Burqa woman and the mistress just exited.”

  “Decoy, what’s your status?” Knuckles said, “If that’s Crusty, we’ll know shortly. He can’t jump from roof to roof wearing that sack.”

  “Two minutes. Brett and I’ll be there in two minutes.”

  Retro said, “Mistress went to the left/east wall and looked across to the adjacent building.”

  East? That’s not the hotel.

  “Say again? Which wall?”

  “She’s running. She’s across. East building. I say again, east building.”

  Shit.

  “Burqa’s off. It’s Crusty. He’s throwing the luggage across.”

  “Roger all. Johnny, box the east building now. We’re on the way.”

  Knuckles took off, running into Decoy and his other teammate when he rounded the corner. They said nothing, just falling into step behind him.

  Johnny came on. “We’re set. Only way in and out is the north and south.”

  “Which one will he use? Where should we stage?”

  “North. Stage north in the alley. South fronts some shops. He’ll probably want to stay out of sight this close to the mosque.”

  Yeah. Why would he come out so close? Risky.

  Retro came on. “They’re still going. They didn’t enter the building. They’re going to the next building to the east. I say again, the mistress just jumped to the next building to the east. Crusty’s throwing luggage.”

  Jesus Christ! Johnny came on before he issued a command. “Moving. This building makes more sense. Exits north, south, and east. East exit is just a walkway, but it leads to the Medina wall. It’s hemmed in on both sides by buildings.”

  “Roger.” Knuckles knew they were falling behind Crusty because they had to run about twice as far around the buildings as he did straight across them. If Crusty sprinted down the stairs and out the door, they might miss him. It was going to be close.

  “Knuckles, this is Birdseye. We’re out of space. I’ve got to continue on.”

  Knuckles couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. At a dead sprint, panting into his Bluetooth earpiece, he said, “Negative. Do not leave. I say again, do not leave.”

  “Not my call. Can’t risk the cover and I’ve already deviated wide from my flight plan. I’ll give you optics as long as I can, but it’s going to be a rear view from a distance.”

  Knuckles swore, but knew he was right. If they managed to get Crusty, and someone mentioned strange aircraft orbits that tied it to his disappearance, the ensuing investigation would be catastrophic. They’d already raised their signature by running all over the place like a Laurel and Hardy movie.

  He reached the corner of the third building and held up, pulling out his smartphone. He initiated the moving map and saw Johnny’s team setting up, each man a glowing green icon. “Johnny, I’m coming in now. I’ll be passing your south team shortly.”

  “Roger. I got you.”

  “Knuckles, this is Retro. The camera angle’s off. They’re across the building, but they disappeared behind the roof access. I don’t know if they went in or not.”

  “Can’t you see if they break out? Onto another roof?”

  “Stand by…. Feed’s breaking up. Birdseye’s out of range.”

  Dammit. “Wonderful. Since you’re free, start working exfil procedures. Figure out how we’re going to get out of here with up to two extra. Johnny, your guys see anything?”

  “We can’t see past the parapet, but nobody’s looked down, I’ll tell you that.”

  “We’ll take the east side of this building, in the alley. Move the guys there to the next building. Are they prepared to assault?”

  “Negative. They’re equipped for surveillance only.”

  Spread too thin. “Okay, tell ’em just to trigger. If Crusty keeps going, we’ll fall back into surveillance mode. Try to track ’em to a bed-down site.”

  Knuckles and his men rounded the corner to the small alley, a cobblestone path with barely enough room to walk two-abreast. He slowed his pace, looking left and right for exits or Peeping Toms from adjacent buildings. He saw none. Just litter here and there. He located the doorway from the building thirty feet ahead, noticing that it was actually an alcove that sank inward a few feet. He motioned Decoy to the other side, mimicking working a pistol. He was drawing his own Taser when the recessed door swung open, taking him by surprise.

  A man, exiting in a hurry and looking backward, smashed into him. The man whirled around, and Knuckles smiled.

  “Hello, Crusty.”

  9

  The Ghost followed the Hezbollah tough through a maze of alleys, moving deeper into the neighborhood and farther from his car. Eventually, the man pointed to a shop that was no more than a hallway, hacked off at one end with plywood. Four tables lined the length of the place, one with two men sitting, drinking out of small espresso cups no bigger than shot glasses.

  They had to be aware of his arrival, but paid no attention. Another power play. One more than the Ghost was willing to endure. He strode right to the table and sat down, letting them say the first words.

  Nothing happened for a pregnant second, the two taken aback. Then the older one, with a gray-flecked beard, looked from him to the tough and said, “You wish to disappear?”

  “I wish to dispense with the posturing and get to the business of why I’m here. It has been a long drive from Tripoli and a longer time to find this shop. If you have nothing for me, I’ll leave. If you try to stop me, I’ll still leave, only a little more winded.”

  The bearded man sized him up, saying nothing. Then he smiled. “You don’t look it, but you are who they said you’d be.” He held out
his hand. “I am Abdul Majid. This is Ja’far Hussein. Thank you for coming.”

  The Ghost shook both their hands without giving a name, then waited.

  Majid said, “We believe that the Palestinian cause—your cause—is being hijacked. The Palestinian Authority has agreed to a peace overture from the United States and Israel. A meeting is being set up in Qatar, where money will exchange hands. Money that will kill the Palestinians’ right of return. We have contacts in Hamas who would like this meeting to be stopped.”

  The Ghost bristled. “Hamas? Why on earth would I care about them? At one time they would never have agreed to anything short of Zionist annihilation. Now, they’ve joined in a unity government with the Palestinian Authority. They are like everyone else. Giving in when it suits them.”

  “Not all in Hamas agree with the unity government. But you’re right about one thing: They have political concerns and won’t do this themselves. Neither will we, which is why we’ve contacted you. We can put you in touch with some men here who are not Hamas or the Resistance. They have contacts with a financier in al Qaeda who uses a bank here in Lebanon. A bank that we control. This group will give you further instructions, if you are willing.”

  “Willing to do what? You haven’t said.”

  “Kill the American envoy. The Palestinian Authority is almost bankrupt. They cannot continue because of the sanctions the West has placed on them due to their political reconciliation with Hamas and their bid for statehood with the United Nations. They have asked for covert funding, saying the moderate Palestinian elements are in danger of being swept away. The West has agreed, and the envoy is bringing it. Kill him, and the peace falls apart. Hamas gains political control of the Palestinian Authority, and your goal of the return is still within reach.”

  Of course, he thought, Hezbollah—or Hamas—needn’t worry about funding as long as the Shia dogs in Iran keep them in baksheesh. He knew these men cared not a whit about the return of Palestinian refugees to their historic homeland. They only wanted the discord with Israel to continue to give them a reason to maintain their arms. As a “self-defense” force.

  Ja’far spoke for the first time. “One thing: You cannot kill the man here, in Lebanon, no matter what this other group says. The al Qaeda financier has said he preferred it here, but we have told him no. They may push you that way. Do you understand?”

  The Ghost said, “No, I don’t. If that’s the easiest, that’s what I will do.”

  “You don’t need to understand why, but you will not kill the American here. It will produce repercussions that will ultimately affect our goals.”

  “Our” goals? Or your goals?

  “I understand. If I can get the funding and infrastructure to travel somewhere else, I agree. It will require much more in the way of intelligence, though, because I won’t be able to do my own work.”

  “They will provide the funding. We can provide whatever infrastructure you need. We have assets all over the world. We’re also able to penetrate the Palestinian Authority. You will know what they know.”

  “Where do I meet this other group?”

  “The meeting is in four days, in the Ain al-Hilweh camp.” Ja’far smiled. “You won’t have to come back here.” He read out an address, then said, “What shall we call you, should we need to communicate?”

  The Ghost thought for a moment, then said, “Ash’abah.”

  He saw the change in the men’s demeanor and twisted the knife a little more. “It’s what everyone calls me back home.”

  10

  For the thirtieth time, Jennifer said, “I can’t believe this. Are you sure there’s a message?”

  “Yeah, I am. Can you quit asking that? We’ll know soon enough. If you can get me to an open area.”

  I had my GPS out, but it wasn’t picking up a satellite signal due to the enclosure of the buildings left and right. We were in the Old Town of Damascus, doing a little “sightseeing,” after the fiasco of getting through immigration the previous night.

  The trip itself was falling apart, and Jennifer wasn’t pleased. We’d run into trouble as soon as we’d landed. The official from the Ministry of Culture who’d expedited our visas was now persona non grata inside the government of Syria. No telling why, but with Syria in such a mess I was sure he was now getting the rubber-hose treatment. And he’d painted a bull’s-eye on Jennifer and me, since the government thought we were connected with him.

  Our contact at the State Department had been no help. He wasn’t expecting us to travel for another three to five months, and with the U.S. Embassy shuttered in Syria due to the troubles, we had no one local to help. Jennifer had fumed, really pissed that her scientific expedition was slipping away. I tried to calm her down, then simply left her alone to grump in her room. When I got to mine, I’d found our mission had changed.

  This morning we’d gone for breakfast, where I’d finally gotten the courage to tell Jennifer we had to collect a message from the Taskforce. I couldn’t talk about it in the hotel, because after our experiences at immigration and customs, I was sure that place was wired for sound, so I’d just gone to sleep after logging out of my Yahoo account.

  The e-mail, ostensibly from the university, complete with a university address, simply inquired about our flight. That would have been fine, except it also asked for a status of camera equipment we didn’t have with us. The word “camera” was a prearranged code letting me know we had a message from the Taskforce. I didn’t want to know how they’d hacked a legitimate university e-mail address.

  Probably twenty laws broken just by opening the message…

  At breakfast, Jennifer’s face had fallen the minute I had mentioned it, which actually hurt a little, but she knew the priority and knew the physical requirements for collecting the message. I left it up to her to find the area.

  The Taskforce had multiple ways to transmit covert messages, depending on the security of the host country. The easiest method was a simple VPN back to our “company,” but some countries—such as Syria—controlled their Internet and prevented VPNs from working. The next easiest way was an encrypted e-mail, but once again, foreign intelligence services usually owned their Internet, and while they couldn’t read the e-mail, they knew it had been sent. Best case, they knew you were doing something secret and would amp up the scrutiny to find out what that was. For a real businessman, that was no issue, since they were doing what they said they’d be doing. For the Taskforce, it could mean mission failure.

  We’d tried carrying our own satellite equipment for a cut-out. Strictly commercial, off-the-shelf stuff like M3 or Thrane to blend in, which would allow us to have an Internet connection that bypassed the host country. That had worked until a team, traveling as cellular technicians, had had the equipment confiscated at customs. They’d been told that the country in question “had robust Internet,” and thus the communications gear wasn’t needed. Between the lines they heard, “We don’t want you talking where we can’t listen.”

  The Taskforce realized they needed a no-fail way to get messages out while operating within denied areas, such as Syria. Some fifty-pound head in the communications section had come up with the solution.

  The first Global Positioning Satellite was launched by the U.S. military in 1978. Since then, a broadening constellation of satellites has been continually launching signals to earth in an ever-increasing refinement of geo-location capability. Now, the little GPS receiver you bought at Walmart would triangulate your position to the meter. All over the globe.

  The genius idea was embedding the message traffic into the GPS signal. A customs official would confiscate just about any other piece of communications gear before a GPS, especially if it worked as advertised when checked.

  Ordinary GPS wouldn’t even realize the signal was there, but our special GPS would receive it, decode it, and display it. Since the U.S. government owned the entire technology, it was nothing to get the necessary tech stuff done to make it happen. The only downside was
the weakness of every GPS signal, which had a hard time working in dense areas. Embed some data within it, and you really needed to have a wide-open area and some time for the GPS to lock on to the satellite and receive the more complicated signal.

  We were currently in the al-Hamidiyah Souk, which was about as good for getting a GPS signal as being in a coal mine. Crowded on all sides by vendors selling goods ranging from kids’ toys to perfume, it had an old tin roof that blocked everything, including sunlight. I was beginning to think Jennifer was purposely making this hard.

  “Are you sure you know where you’re going? Isn’t there a park or soccer field around that doesn’t require us to go this deep into the city?”

  “Keep your pants on. The Umayyad Mosque is right at the end of the souk.”

  “Mosque? Seriously?”

  She stopped and turned around. “You really didn’t do any studying, did you? This has all been some joke. You knew we weren’t going to get up north.”

  Her expression wasn’t angry. It was resigned, like she’d just realized that all her exertions and studying had been nothing but a pale jest at her expense. It hurt again.

  “Jennifer…I had no idea. I really wanted to do this trip. I know I’ve made fun of the research, but that’s because I thought we would do the trip. If I’d known this was going to happen, I wouldn’t have been acting like a jackass.”

  After a moment of silence, she said, “Whatever this message is, it’s not going to be good. I can feel it. You’re going to make me do something bad.”

  Jennifer had already been forced to do things in the name of the United States that the average citizen would consider horrific, and she’d understood the why, but she wanted me to say it wasn’t so this time. Wanted me to make good on my promise of letting her do something purely for the joy of scientific discovery instead of the bloody self-defense of the United States.

  I didn’t know what the incoming message would say, but I knew I couldn’t promise Jennifer anything. Like a coward I changed the subject.