Tariq grunted. “A single operative? Interesting.”
“The tracks lead from the desert. But they continue onto the road.”
“How can you tell which direction they go?”
Amel stepped closer to Faiz. “He’s a Bedouin. Tracking’s in their blood from the time they’re children. It’s said they can follow anything in the desert. Anything.”
“I know all this,” Tariq snapped. “I want him to explain how.”
Faiz motioned to Tariq and led him to the rubble. “You can see that is where the motorcycle was parked. And there are two sets of footprints around it, but far more of the smaller ones – boots, it looks like. The tracks leading to the road are deeper – so there was more weight on the bike than when it came from the desert. You are missing a woman. I would conclude whoever ambushed the men rode away with her. It is the only explanation that makes sense.”
“Then they could be anywhere by now,” Tariq said.
Faiz straightened. “This is true.”
Tariq had mobilized half the camp when the men had failed to return from Sebha, and his worst fears were now manifest. Somebody had planned, and then executed, an almost impossible feat in the dead of night. And the woman who knew everything about his plan was still on the loose.
“I can’t lead the hunt for this woman – I need to get to Tripoli by nightfall. But, Amel, take Faiz here and three of your best men, and see if you can pick up their trail along the way, or in Sebha.”
“Why along the way?” Amel asked.
“They came from the desert. They may have had a reason to take that route. We can’t assume that they stayed on the road.”
“It will take time,” Faiz cautioned.
“You have as much as you need. Do your best.” Tariq eyed the old Bedouin and then shifted his attention to Amel. “As soon as you’re in Sebha, notify our people there to be on the lookout for the motorcycle. Offer a bounty for whoever takes them.”
“Alive,” Amel finished.
“Only the woman, and I’m not particular about how alive. Just enough to answer questions would be fine. If they can take the driver, even better – I’m curious who they’re working for, and how much they know. If they sent someone into Libya to help her get out, probably too much. But I don’t want to guess, and I certainly don’t want to alter the plan if I can help it.”
“Very well,” Amel said. “How large a reward?”
“As much as it takes. I want every free hand between here and Tripoli trying to earn it.” Tariq’s face darkened into a mask of fury. “They must not be allowed to escape.”
“I’ll put out the word,” Amel assured him.
“Very well. I’ll be in Tripoli soon enough. Do not fail me. If they turned off the road, find them. If they rode into Sebha, I’ll tell everyone we come into contact with on the trip north about the bounty. That should make it impossible for them to make it out alive.”
Tariq returned to his truck, a bead of sweat tracing its way down his face, his stride powerful and confident. Once in Tripoli, with his plan already in play, he would become the de facto leader of the fragmented country. The chaos he’d unleashed with his gas attack and the predictable draconian response by the infidels was serving his purposes better than he could have hoped. The reports he had received, of the borders being closed and the cell service and internet being disabled, would kneecap the already terminally hobbled capital, and the cowards who were robbing the nation blind as its putative government would be the first to fly their private jets to safety.
Which would leave Tripoli his for the taking. One thing that Qaddafi had understood, like Hussein in Iraq and Assad in Syria, was that in order to govern what amounted to lawless tribes of competing factions, a leader with an iron fist was required. The fools from Europe and America believed that their laughable form of democratic rule could function here, but Tariq knew better. Most only understood force and brutality and would only obey and respect a figure who understood their use. The revolution that had been engineered by the American intelligence services had been moronically obvious as a mercenary assault against Qaddafi’s regime, using paid fighters posing as rebels – exactly as the same players were now doing in Syria in an effort to topple that regime. But in the process, they had unleashed pandemonium while creating a vacuum into which divergent extremist groups had poured, resulting in the current nightmare for the population.
The people of Tripoli would welcome his strong hand and would cheer for a leader who would govern by the Koran rather than some absurd mob rules theory imported from America’s privileged shores. That the Americans and their lapdogs in Europe actually believed their own rhetoric of the superiority of a system that had never once worked in any of the countries in the region had ensured their eventual failure, and with the collapse of the puppets they’d propped up to rule the oil flows, had created the perfect environment for Tariq to assume his place on the throne.
“Bury them in the desert, and let’s move. You have five minutes,” he told his men, and then watched with satisfaction as they scurried to do his bidding, like schoolchildren eager to please their headmaster.
“Yes, it’s time,” he whispered to himself, and with a final glance at the bloating corpses, strode back to his truck, where the driver was sitting with the engine running, the air conditioner a frigid blast as the heat rose to triple digits.
After the convoy pulled away in a cloud of dust and exhaust, Amel leaned into Faiz and spoke softly. “You really think they might have pulled off the road?”
Faiz shrugged, his face a mask. “If they did, we’ll see the signs.”
“It’s a long way to Sebha,” Amel countered.
Faiz glanced at the two gunmen in the bed of Amel’s truck, their beards scraggly, their headdresses wrapped around their faces to block the sun and filter the road dust. “Agreed.”
Two and a half hours later, Faiz returned to the road from a sandy area he’d spotted after noting a disturbance of the gravel at the shoulder, and climbed into the oven-like cab with Amel and the driver.
“The motorcycle is abandoned just over that small dune. Gas tank is empty. Their footprints continue on the far side, but dead-end.”
Amel thought for a moment. “How is that possible?”
“They’re good, but not that good. I believe they walked back to the road.”
“Then they’re up ahead?”
“I didn’t say that. If I were out here in the dead of night with a woman, possibly injured, I wouldn’t want to be found by anyone dangerous enough to brave this road. So I’d get off of it as soon as I was able.”
“Why wouldn’t they have filled the motorcycle before trying to ambush our men?”
“I’m not psychic. I’m just telling you what I found.”
“If they’re on foot, they can’t have gotten far.”
“Depends on what time they started walking. Their tracks won’t be easy to follow, but now that I know what we’re looking for, they’ll never be able to hide.” Faiz looked up at the sun, a fiery distorted ball in a cobalt sky, and nodded.
“It will be a long day, but we’ll find them.”
Amel grunted. “We’d better, or Tariq will have us skinned alive.”
Chapter 27
Tel Aviv, Israel
The flight from Munich to Ben Gurion Airport seemed to hover over the tarmac before the wheels settled on the runway, leaving a trail of white smoke as the front wheel kissed the ground and the plane began to slow with a deafening roar of reverse thrust. The passenger in seat 9A looked out the window until the plane began taxiing to the terminal, and then checked the time on his watch before sitting back and closing his eyes for the short remainder of the trip to the gate.
Yevgeni Saldovich was ex-Spetsnaz and now made a comfortable living as a highly paid assassin, an independent agent who worked for everyone from the Russian Mafia to clandestine groups within the Russian government. At thirty-seven years old he was at his peak earnings age, if s
lightly past his prime physically, although he still put in two hours at the gym every morning to attempt to stave off the effects of time. Utterly ruthless, with cold gray eyes and a moral philosophy that would have chilled a lamprey, he was expensive, entirely sociopathic, and efficient, having never taken an assignment he’d failed to successfully conclude.
The plane stopped, the Jetway docked to the fuselage, and the passengers rose and opened the overhead compartments for their luggage. Yevgeni remained seated until the line in the center aisle began moving, and then removed the laptop bag from beneath the seat in front of him, hooked a hand through the handle of his carry-on bag in the overhead bin, and made his way to the front of the plane, ignoring the hostess’s smile as he passed her.
Immigration and customs was a nonevent. Yevgeni had been to Israel once before three years ago, but on a security assignment for a high-net-worth oligarch rather than in an offensive role – something he did when times were lean. Fortunately for him, the killing business was more robust than ever, and he hadn’t had to stoop to that level since.
Two officials stared holes through him as they scanned his passport, but relaxed when they saw that he’d been there before. They asked him several perfunctory questions, which he answered in a friendly, neutral tone, and then he was through the security checkpoint and walking to the exit. The vetting that had taken place in Munich airport at the El Al counter had been far more thorough, so on this end the clerks were merely verifying that those who got off the plane were the same ones who’d gotten on. In Munich, the passengers’ backgrounds had been checked long before they arrived at the airport, and anyone suspicious had been pulled aside for rigorous questioning before they were allowed to obtain a boarding pass.
He waited in line for a taxi, and once in the back seat and on the way to his hotel, he considered his current assignment. He’d been hired to locate a target, with instructions to terminate with extreme prejudice. No need to make it appear to be an accident, which was the typical way many of his clients preferred his executions of business rivals or cheating spouses or embezzlers. A straightforward wet job, but with specific instructions to follow once he’d reported in with a locate.
Yevgeni didn’t mind the ambiguity present in the termination stage of the exercise. It wasn’t uncommon for a special request to be floated once the client was sure that he had the target in his sights. This was usually the case when it was something personal. The killing of a competitor or an unhelpful bureaucrat who was standing in the way of a project didn’t require the individual touch – it was business. But when the client had been wronged, that was where it got interesting.
He did his best to comply with the requests, and had done his share of filmed dismemberments, blowtorch roastings, decapitations, disembowelments, and acid baths. Once he’d even had a demand that the target be torn limb from limb. Yevgeni had satisfied the client by filming the victim with his legs and arms chained to four different vehicles, which Yevgeni dutifully drove in different directions, one car at a time, until nothing was left but a screaming torso.
He enjoyed his work, or rather the challenge of it. The actual sanctions were mundane. Once you’d watched the light go out of a target’s eyes a few times, life’s end was unremarkable. The way he saw it, billions had come and gone before him, everyone dead in the end, but all surely convinced of their exceptional status on the planet – that they were special and different from all the rest, and the laws of nature would be suspended in their case. He recognized the folly of such thinking. He was a hunter, and a hunter never hesitated or questioned his purpose. Some drove tractors, some performed surgery, some wrote computer code. He located and terminated people. That was the only difference, and if he weren’t doing it, someone else surely would be.
The hotel was mid-level, neither sumptuous nor squalid, in keeping with his cover as a Russian in town for a week on business. After he paid the driver, he checked in, and once in the room, sat at a small table near the foot of the bed and powered on his cell phone.
When the indicator showed that he had a signal, he dialed a number in Ukraine, which rang twice before it beeped and then disconnected. He busied himself with his laptop, and several minutes later the phone chirped, indicating that he’d received a text message. He tapped the string of numbers and letters in the message into a password-protected PDF file that had arrived simultaneously in the dead-drop email account he’d set up, and the document opened to reveal a dossier with photographs.
He sat forward and studied the images – young woman, a man, and a child, and then read the content.
The woman was the target. The other two had been included because there was a high degree of correlation between them and the target; they had appeared together numerous times on the feed from which the images had been pulled.
He eyed the map of Tel Aviv that had been included and zoomed in on a pinned area that was the traffic camera that had captured their movements, and which appeared to be a regular stop for the woman, usually accompanied by the man and child. He memorized the location and flipped to the end of the dossier, where there was another photo of the woman, this time in the interior of a wood-paneled room…or a boat salon.
Once done reading the dossier three times, he sat back and stared at the last photograph and rubbed the stubble on his chin with the back of his hand.
“What did you do, sweetheart? You pissed off the wrong people, that’s for sure.”
The times from the traffic cams corresponded to mornings and afternoons. He checked his watch again and saw that he wouldn’t have time to do everything he needed before the morning opportunity, but might be able to make the afternoon sighting.
He signed off from the computer and locked it, and then took the elevator to the lobby and asked about car rentals. The desk clerk gave him several options and offered to call whichever company he preferred to have them pick him up. He declined and exited the building, preferring the anonymity of a taxi.
At the rental office he provided a Latvian passport and driver’s license in a different name, with matching credit card, and after signing the contracts, was behind the wheel of an innocuous econo-box that wouldn’t draw a second glance from even the most suspicious. He saw that he still had an hour before the clock ticked over on the time range of the afternoon sighting from the traffic cam, and he navigated the clogged streets until he was down the block from the intersection.
His plan was to wait for the happy trio to put in an appearance, and then call the number the client had given him to report that he had the target in sight. He would receive instructions on how they wanted her taken down, and then would source the appropriate resources so he could do the deed the following day.
He found a parking place in a less than optimal view spot, and stepped from the car to make his way along the street to where he would be able to observe both sides without seeming obvious. A coffee shop with a display window that fronted onto the street was the perfect choice, and he ordered a cup, taking care to pay for it when the waiter delivered it so he could leave without any delay when he spotted his quarry.
Ten minutes stretched to twenty, and then he spied the man walking along unhurriedly.
But no woman.
Perhaps they met there each day?
Yevgeni pushed back from the table and was out the door in seconds. He walked at a slower pace, seemingly window-shopping while he waited for the woman to appear. When the man turned the corner ahead of him, he accelerated, eyes sweeping both sides of the street in case the woman was making her way along the sidewalk to meet the man.
The Russian rounded the building and found himself on a side street filled with adults who were meeting schoolchildren as classes ended. He continued walking so he wouldn’t attract attention, and extracted his phone from his pocket and pretended to be engrossed in a conversation as he passed in front of the school, within a few meters of where the man was standing.
At the end of the block he stopped as though confuse
d and looked around, squinting at the street sign while sneaking a peek at the school. The man was walking in the opposite direction, holding the hand of a little girl – the same one as in the photo.
He debated following them but rejected the idea. He had yet to procure a weapon, and as good as he was, there was always the slim chance that the man had spotted him. With the target nowhere in evidence, that didn’t seem worth the risk, so he continued across the street and turned right, where he would circle the block and wind up near the car for his trouble.
Back in the vehicle, he mulled over his next step and decided it was time to get his hands on some hardware. He had the name of a contact who could get him anything he wanted, and even though he didn’t know exactly what the client’s special request would be, some things were perennial: a pistol, ammo, and a butterfly knife or switchblade. With those simple tools he was virtually unstoppable and would be prepared when morning came and his next opportunity at the woman presented itself.
Chapter 28
South of Sebha, Libya
Horsetails of purple and cinnamon streaked the horizon as the sun sank behind the rolling dunes. Jet nudged Salma awake and looked around the orchard where they’d taken shelter. The olive trees that an industrious farmer had coaxed from the earth south of the oasis city had provided welcome shade during the brutally hot day, but now, as the gloaming dimmed the light in the sky, they needed to move.
Jet had waited to call Leo until her sat phone battery had drained to below twenty percent, but he hadn’t had anything substantial to say other than that headquarters was working on an extraction and to stand by. When she’d pointed out that they were stuck in one of the most lawless areas of the planet, where warring tribal factions and militia often shot first and asked questions later, he was sympathetic, but had no definitive news.
“I told you that Tunisia and Algeria have sealed their borders,” he’d said. “Well, the news is reporting that an international task force is steaming toward Libya to blockade the coast. So all hell’s broken loose. The government’s nowhere to be seen, and there are reports of wholesale desertions from the army. Can’t say as I blame the poor buggers. I wouldn’t want to be wearing a uniform that made me a target for every bad guy in Tripoli.”
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