by Brad Taylor
“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 beddown 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
T
he 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 “selfdefense” 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
F
or 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 fiftypound 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.
“How’s a mosque going to help us? We can’t even get in.”
She started walking again. “The Umayyad Mosque is one of the holiest shrines of Islam. It’s a huge tourist attraction. Yeah, we can’t get into the inner workings, but we can get to the courtyard, which is enormous. Big enough to get the signal we need with a plausible reason for being there.”
She looked back at me. “Unlike a simple soccer field.”
The comment was meant to convey she understood the mission and was thinking about how to do it given our operational cover.
We reached the end of the souk and circled around to the tourist gate entrance of the mosque. After buying our tickets, we went through a doorway labeled “putting on special clothes room.” We were given hooded cloaks to wear, me because short-sleeved shirts were frowned upon and Jennifer because, well, she was a woman.
“What’s up with this place?”
“It’s the first great mosque.”
“Great is right. It looks like a crib from MTV with all the marble and gold.”
She was scowling at my verbal history slight when I saw a mausoleum off to the right, a small, white building with a red roof.
She said, “Saladin’s last resting place.”
“Saladin? The Saladin? For real?”
I saw a little grin seep out because I was enjoying the same thing she did. Old dead people and pottery shards.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get to the courtyard and get this Godalmightyimportant message.”
“Hey, let’s look around a little bit. Work the cover some. We’re tourists.”
She smiled for real. “If it’s got something to do with bloodshed, you get interested. Okay, you want me to tell you about Saladin?”
Jennifer was famous in the Taskforce for her history lessons. Not in a bad way, as if she was always spouting off, but in a good way, because she knew more about the history of the world than any knuckle-dragger in the command. In this case, I didn’t need the lesson. Saladin was a Kurd who’d smoked the European crusaders, giving them fits with his military skills. A leader of the first order. I knew all about him, but had no idea he’d been entombed in Syria.
“I’m good on this one. I’ll just go take a peek. Why don’t you take the GPS into the courtyard? I’ll catch up.”
She disappeared through a door, and I entered the mausoleum. There wasn’t much to see inside, and I realized that I was itching to know what the Taskforce wanted. I wished I hadn’t given the GPS to Jennifer, allowing her to see the message first. I glanced around for a few seconds, then took off at a fast walk to find her. I entered into the courtyard, which was as large as Jennifer said it would be. I saw her sitting down, looking at the screen.
“Did you get it?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I did.”
Her demeanor gave me no clue if it was going to be good or bad. “Well?”
She stood up and dusted off her pants. “It’s instructions for a PM.”
Whew. PM stood for personal meet and was spy-talk for a clandestine meeting between a controller and his asset, which in this case would be us. Nothing more than an hour out of our life.
“See. All that crying over nothing. We’ll do the meet and continue on once this visa mess gets sorted out. Kurt probably just wants to pass us instructions to check something out here in Damascus before we head north. More than likely
it was just too much data to send using the GPS.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
She handed me the GPS, the smile from earlier long gone.
“The PM’s in Beirut.”
11
T
wo days later, Jennifer walked into a café in the Hamra section of western Beirut, just down the street from the American University. She saw a hodgepodge of tourists and students, with the right wall lined by twentysomethings smoking water pipes and discussing political opinions, one of the few areas where such discussion wouldn’t end in gunfire.
She crossed the threshold at precisely twelve minutes past one o’clock, as the GPS message had stipulated. She was wearing a shirt that buttoned in the front and was carrying a map in her right hand, per the instructions.
She knew she was being watched, but made no attempt to look around. Instead, she went to the hostess and asked for a menu, getting redirected to the menu on the wall.
While pretending to look at it, she sensed someone gazing over her shoulder.
A man said, “This place is supposed to have the best breakfast in town, but I don’t know about lunch.”
She turned and saw a fiftysomething executive in a business suit, swarthy, maybe Mediterranean, maybe Latino, with a large gut protruding over his belt.
She said, “Lunch is probably just as good.”
The man smiled at the correct response. “Join me, if you want.”
She followed him to the back of the café, beyond the prying ears of the students and tourists, sitting at the last small table in the restaurant.
He immediately began giving her instructions, a mad minute of information on why they were meeting and what they were discussing, should she be asked later. A facade to cover the conversation and protect both of them.
She said nothing, memorizing everything that came out of his mouth. When he stopped, his serious demeanor left, replaced by a cocky smile.
“My name is Louis Britt, and I guess I’m supposed to help you out.”
“Louis Britt? You’re kidding. Not ‘Abdullah Mohammed’?”