Ops Files II--Terror Alert

by Russell Blake

  Maya shrugged. “Sounds straightforward.”

  “It should be. All you’ll need to do is break into an apartment in a security building, plant the listening device, and escape undetected. Oh, and we’re not sure whether the interior of the building’s guarded,” Gil said.

  “That’s all?” Maya asked. “When do you want to do it?”

  “Tomorrow before dawn. The second-in-command is an early riser, and he leaves the building every morning at five thirty. Probably best to get in and out before everyone else is up and around. It’s a big complex,” Uri explained.

  They discussed the logistics for twenty minutes and agreed that Gil would run exterior surveillance while Maya penetrated the apartment and bugged the phone. When they were finished, Maya and Gil drove back to her hotel, and he dropped her off a half block away. “We’ll pick you up tomorrow at five,” he said. “I’ll bring a burka and hijab for you.”

  “Perfect. Don’t forget a weapon, too.”

  “Suppressed SIG Sauer P226 9mm work for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But the whole idea is that you won’t have to use it.”

  “That’s always the idea, isn’t it?”

  Gil scrutinized her for a moment and then turned to leave. “Sleep well, Maya. Big day tomorrow.”

  She eyed her watch. “See you in seven hours.”

  The following morning, the street in front of the hotel had a skin of condensation gelling on it, stinking of human waste and stewing garbage, when Maya made her way to the waiting car. Gil and Uri nodded to her as she climbed into the backseat and began donning her camouflage outfit before the car pulled away from what passed as a curb. Gil handed her a pistol in a belt holster, a sound suppressor, and a spare magazine. She inspected it quickly, chambered a round, checked the safety, and strapped it on beneath the black robe.

  “Could you turn the air-conditioning up? It’s roasting back here with this burka,” she asked.

  Uri coughed. “It is up. This is as cool as the damned thing gets.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Welcome to Bangladesh,” Gil said.

  The apartment complex was in a working-class neighborhood. Half the windows lacked glass, grime and graffiti covered every surface, and stray dogs competed with beggars and the homeless for scraps of nourishment from overflowing piles of refuse. Maya, who was accustomed to poverty and despair from her time in the West Bank, was still shocked by the sheer ugliness of the surroundings. Gil and Uri seemed inured to the squalor and didn’t comment.

  “There he goes,” Gil said, ten minutes after they arrived and parked a half block away. A slight man in white pedaled off on a bicycle, one of several already on the road in the predawn gloom.

  “We’ll wait for a little bit to ensure he doesn’t return, and then it’s showtime,” Uri said, lighting a cigarette, his window half down.

  More figures streamed from the doorways as time went by, and after an agonizing wait in the stifling interior, Gil and Maya got out and walked separately toward the building. Gil leaned against a wall, phone in hand, as Maya, now covered head to toe in black, shouldered through the front gates of the complex and made her way to the main entrance.

  The sleepy-looking security guard looked up from the portable black-and-white television on his desk but went back to the program after seeing the new arrival was a woman. As they’d hoped, the culture’s marginalization of females worked to her advantage – she was almost invisible, just a woman, nothing to pay attention to.

  They knew their target was on the third floor, and Maya climbed the stairs holding her breath, the stench of stale urine overpowering in the enclosed space. When she exited into the corridor there was nobody else in the space, which was lit by a single fluorescent lamp, the other sockets lining the ceiling empty, the bulbs stolen or broken.

  The lock proved to be childishly simple to jimmy, and twenty seconds after massaging the tumblers with the picks Gil had provided, she twisted the flat tool and the door opened. She listened for several seconds and, hearing nothing, pushed into the small apartment and softly closed the metal door behind her.

  The telephone was a primitive pushbutton handset from the seventies. She unscrewed the base and eyed the wiring, and then attached the bug as she’d been taught before closing it back up and setting the phone in the exact spot she’d found it. After a short inspection of the two-room abode, during which she took care not to disturb anything, she moved to the door and was about to open it when she heard voices outside and the scrape of feet on concrete. She glanced at the cell Gil was to call if their target returned, but it was dark.

  Which did nothing to reassure her when a key rattled in the lock.

  Chapter 8

  Two men entered the apartment. One flipped on the lights while the other approached a small desk and rooted around in one of the drawers. He straightened with a manila folder in his hand and spoke to his companion, who was looking in the refrigerator. The second man walked to where the first stood and took the file from him, and then waited by the front door as the first used the tiny bathroom.

  After a few minutes the pair left, and Maya began breathing again, pressed into a corner of the small terrace, her heart racing, SIG Sauer clutched in her hand. She waited until she was sure that the visitors were gone and returned to the entryway, ears straining for any hint of movement in the corridor.

  Satisfied she was alone, she slipped the pistol back under her robe and cracked the door. The hall was empty. Maya slipped out quietly and hurried down the steps, wary of the footsteps sounding from two floors above – perhaps innocuous, but possibly a threat.

  In the shabby lobby, the guard didn’t even look up at her as she moved past him. On the street the sky was glowing with the first salmon streaks of dawn, and she made her way unhurriedly back to the car as Gil trailed her at a distance.

  “How did it go?” Uri asked when she was in the vehicle.

  “Good. Except for the two men who interrupted me.”

  Gil craned his neck to stare at her. “Is that a joke?”

  “Do I sound like I’m kidding?”

  “What did you do?” Uri asked.

  She told them about her brush with the intruders, and the older man relaxed back into the seat. “Well, that was lucky. But the bug’s in place and you weren’t spotted?”

  “Correct.”

  “Then all’s well,” Gil said.

  “Right. Except that you didn’t phone me, and the whole operation could have been blown.”

  “They must live in the complex. Nobody went in while you were there. Only people coming out.”

  “Well, there’s a data point to remember if you ever go back in. Seems like your man’s place is used for more than nap time.”

  “Which makes the wiretap even more critical,” Uri said. “Let’s get back to your hotel. I’ll drop you off, and then we can rendezvous later and trade off shifts watching the mullah.”

  “What about the tap?”

  “It’ll activate automatically and transmit any calls to a hard disk at my office. Latest thing.”

  The ride back took three times longer, the roads now jammed with rickshaws, motorcycles, tuk-tuks, and cars swarming without rhyme or reason or any obvious rules of the road. When they arrived at the hotel, Uri turned and nodded to her. “We can pair up later today. Gil here has a meeting – someone we believe is on the inside and can give us information on what the imam is up to.”

  “An informant?” Maya asked.

  “I hope,” Gil confirmed.

  “Does he know who you’re with?”

  “Of course not. He probably suspects CIA, but I’ll let him think whatever he wants. It’s the money that’s got him interested. Funny how all the religious fervor fades once you wave cash in front of these guys,” Gil said.

  “Well, good luck,” Maya said, and then addressed Uri. “What time do you want to pick me up?”

  “Gi
ve me a couple of hours to get the day in order. Say…eight thirty?”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The cell phone on Ajmal Kahn’s nightstand trilled, filling the bedroom with its strident blare. Kahn rolled over on the bed and reached for the lamp, switched it on, and then raised the phone to his ear.

  “Hello?” he said, his voice thick with sleep.

  “I have good news,” Abreeq’s distinctive voice said.

  Kahn was instantly wide awake. “Yes?”

  “We should have the package wrapped within a week.”

  “Ready for delivery?”

  “Of course. As agreed.”

  “That is good. I will get you the material you requested. Where are you?”

  “In England.”

  “I will have a courier meet you wherever you like.” The information was far too important to entrust to the Internet or a shipping company, and Kahn was taking no chances with it.

  “Excellent. There is a place that is perfect for a meeting. Crowded. A tourist spot.” Abreeq told him where he had in mind, and they agreed on a day and time. “You have the final payment ready to send?”

  “Yes. As soon as you give me the word.”

  “Very well. I hope to have confirmation that the final steps have been taken and all is in order within…three days, no more.”

  “You are a miracle worker, surely.”

  “Or the bringer of nightmares.”

  “May Allah be with you, my friend. It is a marvelous thing you do.”

  “I shall call after I have met your man. Have him wear a green shirt and a white cap, so I can easily recognize him.”

  “Green and white. It shall be so.”

  “As always, have him come alone. That way if I spot any surveillance, I’ll know it’s not your people.”

  “Of course. He shall be there at the agreed upon time.”

  The phone went dead and Kahn lay back, his mind a blur of thoughts. Finally, the cause he had set in motion months ago would come to fruition, and all the planning, the fundraising, the risks would converge in a plot so audacious, so damaging to the Western fools who meddled in his people’s affairs that they would have no choice but to take notice.

  Kahn knew that foreigners paid little attention to anything that happened outside of their own countries. Their media distorted the news to fit government agendas, relegating the regular atrocities that were an everyday part of his people’s lives to the back page, or failing to mention them at all.

  But all that would soon change.

  They would have no choice but to notice. And the message would be unmistakable: we will bring the war to you, just as you have to us. Countless children with their legs blown off, maimed by the West’s war machine, slaughtered like so many ants by conquering armies of imperialists bent on a new colonialism, would no longer be sound bites on the network news, positioned between the misbehavior of the latest celebrities and the sports scores. No, Kahn would bring his enemies a reality they couldn’t ignore – and with it, a new future for his cause.

  He would give the legions of the oppressed a powerful voice.

  The voice of death.

  Chapter 9

  When Uri arrived at the hotel he looked harried. The frown lines were carved into his face deeper than they’d been earlier and his manner was agitated.

  “What is it?”

  “Our watcher says Kahn is on the move earlier than usual today. He’s still at the mosque closest to his home, but it will take a long time to get across town.”

  “But you have someone in place.”

  “A local asset, but frankly I distrust anyone who isn’t from home.”

  “Which is why you wanted more resources.”

  “Of course. If I just wanted to throw bodies at the problem, I could hire truckloads of them here. I need skilled agents I can depend on.” Uri eyed her. “You did well this morning with the bug.”

  “It was an easy assignment.”

  “Not for everyone.”

  “I’m not everyone.”

  Uri nodded. “I’m beginning to appreciate that.”

  When they arrived at the mosque, Uri had a brief conversation on his cell phone, alerting the watcher that they were in position. Uri was in the process of telling the man that he could stand down when Kahn emerged from the building with his two bodyguards and another man they’d never seen before. Kahn embraced the man, who then hurried off toward a bank of motorcycles as Kahn made his way to the usual VW van.

  Uri hesitated and caught Maya’s eye. “New player?” she asked, and he scowled as he told the watcher to stay with Kahn.

  He hung up and started the engine as the motorcycle rider pulled away. “Looks like we’re going for a drive. We know Kahn’s routine – mosque for prayer, then back to his house, where he’ll stay until his Zuhr salat around noon, when he usually goes back to the mosque. He performs the Asr and Maghrib at home, and then finishes the day with the Isha at the mosque at night.”

  “And he never varies?”

  “Rarely. Sometimes he’ll go to the mosque for all five salats, because prayer in congregation is thought to have more spiritual benefit than alone. But we’re convinced that’s more to prove his standing as a pious man than anything.” Uri gunned the gas and took off after the motorcycle, nearly toppling a passing rickshaw and drawing a curse from the driver.

  After fifteen minutes, it became obvious that the motorcycle was leaving the city, headed northeast on the Dhaka-Sylhet highway toward Bhairab Bazar. They followed at a prudent distance, but the rider didn’t seem to be looking for a tail, and they had no problem keeping him in sight.

  The urban skyline transitioned to countryside dotted with industrial buildings and ever-present smokestacks belching clouds of toxins into the air. A train rattled along parallel to the highway for a stretch, and Maya could see the bright colors of festive clothes worn by those hitching a ride on the roof – a common means of travel for the impoverished, although deadly when the surface was slippery in the rain. Young men in red tunics ran on a soccer field near the tracks, impervious to the oppressive heat as they chased a ball like maniacs.

  They passed over the Meghna River, its water so murky and greenish with sludge it looked like pea soup, and Uri muttered a curse. “Where the hell is this guy going?”

  “What’s down the road?”

  “Not much. Small towns. Next big city’s hours away.”

  “Only one way to find out, then.” She shot a quick look at the older man, who had a cigarette clenched between chapped lips. “You sure this is worth it?”

  “They’re up to something. I feel it in my bones.” He took a deep drag on his smoke and spat a piece of tobacco out the window. “We’ve been watching him for some time, and I’ve never seen him hug anyone. You saw him. He was excited. It showed in his every movement.”

  Maya didn’t say anything. She’d just seen an old man shuffle out of a mosque, give a younger one a quick hug, and then make for his vehicle. If that was excitement, watching paint dry would qualify as a celebratory event.

  Uri looked down at his gas gauge. “I’m glad I filled it.”

  She smiled and took a small sip of water from her plastic bottle. “It would definitely put a damper in things if we had to stop for gas while in hot pursuit of a Suzuki.”

  Rice paddies stretched along the road, local men and women bent over in the hot sun, tending to their precious harvest, and Maya silently thanked Providence for the slim relief provided by the air-conditioning. It might not have been much, but compared to the heat outside, the interior of the sedan was an icebox.

  Sixty kilometers further down the degrading road, the motorcycle slowed at a colorfully tiled mosque and pulled into the dirt parking lot, which was half full of vehicles for the noon salat. The rider swung off the bike, stretched, and then mounted the stairs to the entry. Uri parked in the shade of a tree and raised a pair of bino
culars to his eyes.

  “We need to get closer,” he said after a few beats.

  “You’re driving.”

  “But we can’t attract attention.”

  “Right. So what’s the plan?”

  Uri swept the area with the spyglasses and then set them down. “Time for a snack.”

  He pulled toward a roadside shack with a half-dozen plastic tables scattered in front of it, vats of mystery stew simmering over a wood-burning stove. Maya took in the swarms of black flies buzzing around every surface and her eyes narrowed. “You’re kidding.”

  “All in the line of duty.”

  “I’m pretty sure tapeworms don’t care what your affiliation is.”

  Uri handed her the glasses. “We’re a lot closer here. Keep watch. When our man shows, we’ll resume surveillance.”

  They didn’t have long to wait. Uri was trying to choose between three of the offerings when their quarry reappeared, a CD case in his hand. After glancing around, he made his way to the food shack along with a half-dozen other worshippers. Nobody paid any attention to Uri, and Maya had covered her face in the car, so she drew no stares. When Uri had selected his preferred gruel, he returned to the car with a paper bowl and sat behind the wheel.

  “You see that? He’s got a CD. He didn’t before.”

  “Yes. But it looks like music, doesn’t it?”

  Uri nodded. “That’s a popular Bangladeshi singer – you see his stuff everywhere. But why would this guy ride into the middle of nowhere to get one of his disks?”

  “Obviously, because whatever’s on the CD isn’t music.”

  Uri’s mouth twitched into what might have been the start of a smile. “Very good. Which tells me we really need to know what’s on it. If it was important enough to do a hand delivery all the way out here, it’s probably something that will prove Kahn is up to his ears in ugly. Maybe then I can get headquarters to believe me.”

  “How do we get our hands on it without tipping our hands? It’s not like we can hit him over the head. They’d tend to notice that sort of thing, I’d think.”