Gil, for his part, assumed the junkie was lying, as was the custom of addicts the world over.
The relationship had worked well so far.
Gil paid the bill and both men rose. “I have a list at my place,” Farhad said. “Do you have the money with you?”
“Of course not. That’s too much to walk around with. But we can go to my bank together and do a transfer or make a withdrawal once you show me the list.”
Farhad sighed. “Fine. You want to come with me, or meet somewhere?”
Gil thought about it and decided he didn’t want to let the fish out of his sight now that the hook was set. “I’ll go with you, and then we can head to the bank.”
They walked together toward the slum Gil knew Farhad lived near – one of the most dangerous areas of the city. The streets narrowed and then became unpaved, with rivers of noxious fluid coursing along the edges. The odor was overpowering, to the point where Gil’s eyes were tearing, and he was regretting his decision when Farhad turned into an alley.
Gil followed him into the cramped passage. Rats scuttled ahead of the two men, and he wondered about the number of communicable diseases he was exposing himself to. The thought was barely formed when he sensed movement behind him, and he was turning when a blow to his head knocked him off his feet. His knees buckled and he collapsed, his face landing in the slag oozing along the alley, and then everything faded and went black.
~ ~ ~
Gil felt movement, and as his consciousness returned, he tried to remember what had happened. Memory returned in a burst and he cracked his eyes open. He was in a cart of some sort, being towed by a bicycle. He tried to move, but his wrists were cuffed.
An old man’s wizened face peered at him from the shadows of a shanty, his skin the color of boot leather, his clothes barely more than rags, and then Gil was past the specter, continuing into the bowels of the city. Two children trotted along beside him, laughing, and it took him a moment to realize that the toy they were waving at him was a dead rat covered in excrement. He gagged and almost choked, and then they were gone, the vision like the surreal remnants of a nightmare.
His strength gradually returned, and he struggled against the sharp metal cuffs, wincing as the edges bit further into his flesh. The cart bounced and swayed. From a tinny speaker somewhere to his left came the wail of music, and he turned his head, but a spike of pain lanced through his skull and everything spun. He closed his eyes again and awareness slipped away, replaced by the numbness of oblivion.
Chapter 12
Manchester, England
A line of men shuffled forward, huddled against the constant gray drizzle of the industrial city, the wall and overhang towering above them providing slim shelter from the rain. All appeared bored, accustomed to long queues, beaten by the reality of constant unemployment and sustenance existence in a nation that boasted of revitalized prosperity and newfound opportunity.
Not so in Manchester, where crime was high and any new jobs were in the illegal drug trade – heroin was a big favorite with the working class, cheaper now than ever before due to overproduction in Afghanistan under American rule.
A stocky man with a face that had taken more than a few punches called from the doorway. “Next.”
The line advanced as another hopeful entered the dreary employment office of the Sportcity complex of soccer stadiums, rugby fields, and smaller sporting venues. A woman with hooded eyes shoved a form across her desk at him without looking away from her computer screen. “Fill that out, luv,” she said, her voice seasoned by cigarettes and Scotch.
The man completed the form using the supplied pen and then sat quietly awaiting instruction. The woman sighed and tore herself from the computer, quickly scanned the paperwork, and then slid it back to the man. “Number two.”
He rose, walked to the indicated door, and knocked.
“Come in,” a male voice barked from behind the wooden slab. He twisted the knob and pulled it open. An obese bald man glanced up at him from a desk overflowing with paperwork, his porcine face sweating in spite of the chill, and gestured at a chair. “All right, then. Come on, we don’t have all day.”
The applicant approached and handed the man the form as he sat, which the clerk read carefully before setting it aside.
“How long have you been in the country?” the clerk asked.
“Almost a year.”
“Says you were working in London?”
“That’s right. In the kitchen of a posh restaurant near Piccadilly.”
“What are you doing here?”
“My girlfriend moved home to take care of her parents. I moved with her.”
“Bit tougher to find anything steady here, isn’t it?”
The applicant nodded sheepishly. “I’m willing to work hard, and I know my way around the back of the house. Something will come up.”
“You’re overqualified for the openings I have.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes. I’m not picky.”
“Even wash dishes?”
“If that’s all you’ve got. I’m in a bit of a bind. Could use whatever you can give me.”
The fat man studied the applicant’s face and nodded. “Won’t be a lot of fun, I dare say. Long hours and low pay.”
The applicant shrugged. “I’m used to it.”
“Very well. Report to work this evening at the stadium VIP area grill. I’ll add your name to the roster. Crew shift supervisor’s named Cliff. Tough bloke, so I’d stay out of his way.” The clerk looked away, his attention flagging. “You can find your way to the registration area inside the stadium.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate the chance.”
“Let’s see if you still feel that way after the shift.”
The applicant stood and moved to the door. “What time do I start?”
“Six. Game time’s at eight. Figure you’ll go till after midnight. But register now, so they have your information on file and can give you a badge.”
“Okay.”
Abreeq retraced his steps through the offices, where another hopeful was completing a form, and pushed his way out the door, back into the drizzle. A young man with a shaved head and a tattoo snaking down his neck leaned into his companion in line and muttered to him, just loud enough for Abreeq to hear. “Bloody wogs. Like vermin, they are, taking our jobs.”
Abreeq kept moving, his face expressionless and his eyes averted.
He’d only been in England for three days, and he already hated it. The weather was terrible, the food worse, and the people more arrogant than the French, if that were imaginable. As an Arab, he was exposed to the anger of an entire population at a crumbling economy being blamed on immigration rather than massive taxes, reckless spending, and a list of entitlements longer than the train that had carried him from London. The simmering rage was especially obvious in the eyes of the young, whose futures had been mortgaged and who had little to look forward to beyond wage slavery.
Easy to blame me, he thought, instead of your masters, owned by the bankers who sold you down the river long ago.
He pulled his knit seaman’s cap down over his brow and allowed himself a small smile as he turned a corner and followed the signs to the registration area. The first part of his operation had gone smoothly. He was in.
Now he just had to grin and bear the humiliation of working a menial job for a few days. He’d endured worse.
Far worse.
Cleaning dishes for privileged merchants in the VIP area of the stadium was nothing compared to the refugee camps, being imprisoned, raped repeatedly in his youth by his fellow prisoners as well as the guards. He closed his eyes for a moment and could feel the billy club in his mouth, wedged between his teeth to mute his screams.
“Are you all right, mate?”
The voice jarred him back to the present, and he found himself facing a middle-aged security guard with salt-and-pepper hair clipped tight against his skull and
his face going to fat.
“Oh, um, yes. I was just looking for registration?”
“To the right,” the guard said, pointing with his baton.
“Thank you.”
“Go on, then. Move along. No unauthorized personnel in here.”
“Of course, sir.”
Abreeq marched to where the guard had gestured, where yet another line had formed, this one more hopeful than the one outside. He took up position at the end of the queue and settled in for another wait, the indignity expected, the ability to make simple tasks take all day part of the power the petty wielded over their charges. He stared at the wall and for a split second envisioned the guard’s face melting off the bone, seared to a rotting mess, his mute vocal chords attempting to scream in unspeakable agony as he collapsed, and then willed the vision away.
It wouldn’t do to be careless. And counting his unhatched chickens was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
He had work to do.
Important work. His revenge would come soon enough, and then there would be no need for imagination. Reality would exceed his wildest hopes if he did his job right.
Which Abreeq would.
He always did.
Chapter 13
Dhaka, Bangladesh
By the time Uri and Maya made it back to Dhaka, it was obvious that something had gone badly wrong with Gil’s recruitment attempt. He hadn’t returned any of Uri’s calls, which was against protocol and signaled an emergency.
“When I get back to the office, I’ll call in my tech guy. He’s a wiz. We’ll figure out where Gil is in no time.”
“How?”
“He has a tracking chip in his shoe. Standard procedure on one of these assignments.”
“Ah. They didn’t tell me about that in training.”
“It’s new. Just deployed in the last few months, after an incident in Egypt.”
“I didn’t hear about any incident.”
“We generally don’t broadcast our failures,” Uri said in a tone that didn’t invite further discussion.
“What do we know about the target he was trying to recruit?”
“A flunky. Part of the imam’s entourage, but low level. I didn’t think there would be any harm in letting him work this part of it alone.”
“All due respect, but…based on our motorcycle rider shooting at us, and now this, I’d suggest you contact HQ and let them know we have a situation in play.”
“Way ahead of you. I’ll get on a secure line as soon as I can. But my experience has been that by the point the machine grinds out an answer, too much time will have gone by to do much besides retribution.” Uri honked his horn in frustration at the gridlock in front of him as vendors walked from car to car hawking drinks, snacks, cigarettes, and toys. He shook his head at one waving a grimy package of candy at him and honked again. “It’s one of the downsides of the system.”
“You’re saying we won’t be able to help him?”
“No, I’m saying that we can’t expect any timely help, and that we may be told to stand down until a committee of analysts can evaluate possible scenarios. Meanwhile Gil’s skin could be getting peeled off in a shack somewhere.”
Maya’s expression hardened. “We can’t let that happen.”
Uri looked at the dash clock. “His meeting was two and a half hours ago. That can be an eternity when things go sideways.”
“I know.”
Uri eyed her and honked again. “I suppose you do.”
Uri called his watcher for an update on Kahn, but there was nothing of significance to report, no unusual activity. Uri again warned the watcher to be especially careful given the circumstances and to avoid doing anything that would place himself at risk. When he hung up, he looked glum. “The local help lacks the skills to go up against trained operatives – they think they’re better than they are. It didn’t matter until now, because the terrorists were even more inept. You saw how easy it was to tail the motorcycle rider – although he certainly surprised us in the end.” Uri lit a cigarette, and Maya rolled her window halfway down. “Pretty lousy day so far.”
“I’d say so.”
When they finally arrived at Uri’s building, a tall, thin local was waiting at the service door wearing a bright yellow No Fear T-shirt and a pair of surf shorts. He looked at Maya curiously but didn’t speak as they entered Uri’s lair, and without any prompting moved to Uri’s computer and began tapping in commands.
Uri stood by the side of his desk and stared at the newcomer’s flying fingers. “This is Raj,” he said, not introducing Maya. She nodded, reluctant to volunteer anything more than her being in the room already had. If there were a security leak, their adversaries would soon know that Uri had enlisted a woman, which placed her in jeopardy. She would have preferred to not be seen by anyone, Gil included at this point – there was no doubt in her mind that if he were interrogated, it would only be a matter of time until he told his captors anything they wanted to know. She’d spent too much time learning the exact techniques that would motivate a prisoner to tell all to fool herself about him holding out indefinitely, and right now they were racing the clock.
Raj tapped at the mouse with a grunt, and a map of the city expanded on the screen. A red icon blinked, and he turned the monitor to where Uri could see it. Uri squinted at the screen and nodded. “Thank you, Raj. That’s all I need for now.”
Raj hadn’t spoken a word the entire time and didn’t seem to have any desire to start. He moved from behind the desk, collected his things, and slipped out the door, leaving Uri and Maya to themselves. Maya approached the screen and peered at it.
“Where is he?”
“The address isn’t registering anything, but it’s in a pretty seedy area of town. I think we have to assume that he’s there against his will since he’s not answering his phone.”
“So what do we do?”
Uri jotted down the coordinates and then stood and walked to a gray steel locker. He fished a key from his trouser pocket, unlocked it, and swung the doors open. Inside was a small armory – pistols, rifles, night vision goggles, Kevlar vests, surveillance equipment.
“We need to have a look around so we understand what we’re getting ourselves into. And I need to call this in and see how HQ wants to proceed.”
“Then we’re not going in?”
Uri turned from the locker and moved to a far door. “I have to use the bathroom. If you’re still here when I get back, you’ll have to abide by whatever call HQ makes. If you’re already in play and aren’t answering your phone, I’d have to wait for you to get into contact before I could relay any instructions.”
Her face didn’t change expression. “It was a long drive. Probably hard on the plumbing, the older you get.”
He gave her a neutral stare and opened the door without saying anything.
Maya did a quick inventory of the weapons and selected an H&K MP5 with a sound suppressor and four extra magazines. She eyed the vests and removed one, as well as a wicked-looking folding combat knife, and after a peek at her watch, snagged a pair of night vision goggles and a lock-picking kit and stuffed her finds into a black nylon duffel hanging from the inside of one of the doors.
Thirty seconds later she was on the sidewalk, striding purposefully away from Uri’s building. She walked two blocks and flagged down a tuk-tuk. The driver grinned when she gave him an address she estimated was a few blocks from where Gil’s signal had placed him, and she sat back, her hijab and black niqab covering her face as the small motorcycle engine whined and they rolled into traffic.
The buildings degraded as they made their way south, and by the time the driver pulled to a stop, the surroundings looked like a war zone. Throngs of youths loitered on stoops, smoking and laughing, their voices overly loud, calling attention to themselves. She slipped a handful of bills to the tuk-tuk driver and climbed out of the three-wheeled conveyance, the heat oppressive in the street, no breeze in ev
idence.
Maya eyed a number painted in faded paint over a door and began walking down the street, to outward appearances an anonymous Muslim woman in a seedy neighborhood carrying her laundry home. She stopped at a market and bought some vegetables and a bottle of water, and paid extra for a coarse burlap shopping bag.
Her disguise complete, she continued toward the address where Gil was being held, taking her time, her steps unhurried, the furthest thing from a threat imaginable to the imam’s men.
Chapter 14
Manchester, England
Abreeq handed over his identification and waited as another clerk scribbled down the details. The passport had cost twenty-five thousand dollars, including entry stamps and work permit, all in a fake name – a bargain at twice the price, because without it he would have been dead in the water. It identified him as Moroccan, from Marrakesh, and he expected no hesitation at hiring him for a menial job most wouldn’t take.
The clerk looked over his reading glasses at Abreeq and passed the paperwork back to him.
“Lovely place, Morocco. Went there on holiday, oh, a dozen years ago,” the man said.
“Thank you. I like it. But there’s not much work…”
“Not much better here. Pretty soon I’ll be headed that direction. Have to sell rugs or something to make ends meet, at the rate it’s going.”
Abreeq scooped up his passport, signed where directed, and collected his staff badge, which was valid for one week.
“Best to be early if you want to keep the job, mate,” the clerk said.
“Thanks. I plan on it.”
Abreeq returned to the drizzle outside and looked down at the massive stadium. With a capacity of forty-five thousand for sporting events, it was perfectly suited to his purposes – a terrorist attack that would be the largest in history. In a matter of days the bomb would be ready and in England, just in time for an event that would have the world watching.
Ops Files II--Terror Alert Page 7