One Rough Man

by Brad Taylor

  On the other hand, if Kurt did launch a team, he would quite possibly bring down the president of the United States of America and irreparably harm the future defense of the nation, whether the threat was real or not. Once he pulled that trigger, there would be no going back.

  Kurt knew that hunting a human being was hard enough, especially one who knows he’s the prey. Accomplishing the mission in another sovereign country, without leaving any fingerprints—the way the Taskforce operated—was exponentially harder.

  Before starting up the Taskforce, Kurt had studied any and all operations that had a hint of being the same as what he would be called upon to conduct. He had learned—through others’ mistakes—that just getting the guy wouldn’t qualify as a success. The most glaring example post 9/11 that Kurt had seen was a rendition operation of a radical Egyptian cleric called Osama Moustafa Hassan—or Abu Omar—from Milan, Italy, by the CIA in 2003.

  The operation itself was conducted successfully, with Abu Omar captured and flown to parts unknown, but the ensuing police investigation uncovered the entire plot, to include the specific names of CIA operatives involved. Using cell phone records, car rental receipts, hotel guest logs, and other old-fashioned police work, the Italians dissected the entire operation from start to finish. His abduction was ruled an illegal kidnapping, with most of the CIA operatives named in an arrest warrant. Since Italy is a member of the European Union, the warrants were valid in every other EU member nation. The end state was an enormous embarrassment for the CIA, with scores of operatives no longer able to set foot on the European continent.

  The point was driven home to Kurt that the actual capture or killing was the easy part. He decided that the Taskforce would never attempt an operation without the requisite groundwork laid first, which took time. If a target presented itself before they could conduct the operation without compromise, it was passed up to wait for a better day.

  Now the Taskforce had no time to prepare, no infrastructure in place. Kurt had no doubt that they could successfully snatch or kill the terrorist currently in Bosnia, but knew that it would take little police work to unravel that Americans had been involved. Once word reached back that a capture/kill operation had occurred involving American forces, the press and the U.S. government itself would unwittingly help the Bosnians in their investigation, with the Taskforce exposed as a paramilitary organization operating outside the bounds of U.S. law. The president would have no choice but to step forward and accept responsibility.

  He would have liked someone to talk to, someone to bounce ideas off of, but he had purposely kept his support of Pike a secret from his own men, including George Wolffe. If it blew up, at least they would be protected as unwitting. The only one he trusted above him was the one man who would bear the brunt of the decision—the president—and he was currently on a European goodwill tour. Contacting him meant going through the White House communications room. Using that, with everything recorded and God knows who else listening, would be the same as announcing Prometheus in the newspaper.

  He thought about the Oversight Council and decided against discussing the problem with them. He had never called an emergency session, and after his last meeting with Standish, he didn’t trust his ability to control the direction of the conversation without presidential support.

  The irony wasn’t lost on him that he was contemplating becoming what he feared the most—a single man making Prometheus decisions. My fear of Standish has made me Standish. He was at the top of the slippery slope, looking down. What will the reason be next time? It was his decision, and he was running out of time to make it.

  85

  Bakr awoke and rolled over to ensure the weapon was still in place underneath his bed. Seeing the Tupperware container, he smiled. He wouldn’t need to worry about losing the weapon much longer. Today was the day that Sayyidd was to finalize both their method of entry into Israel and the means by which they would implicate the Persian infidels. He quickly dressed, anxious to see what Sayyidd had sent. He knew it would be another thirty minutes before the café opened, but he didn’t have the patience to sit around in his hotel room. He decided to get a bite to eat at a coffee shop across the street from the café. He felt like breaking into a run after leaving the hotel, but forced himself to walk at a natural pace.

  The service at the coffee shop was rapid, since there were only two other customers: a woman who was clearly closer to paradise than the usual Bosniak unbeliever, as she had her head covered in a scarf, and, on the other side of the room, a small man who looked like he spent most of his nights on the street, with a frayed black leather jacket and dirt-encrusted shirt, his gnarled hands holding the steaming cup of coffee as if he had purchased it more for the heat it provided than the coffee itself.

  Bakr fidgeted until he saw the owner flip the Cyrillic sign in the window of the café, signaling the start of business for the day. He threw some money on the table and rapidly crossed the street.

  Two minutes later, Bakr leaned back in his chair, disappointed by the fact that Sayyidd hadn’t e-mailed him back. There was nothing to be done about it. He would just have to wait until tomorrow for the news.

  He left the Internet café, walking toward his hotel at half the speed he had used to get there. Caught in his own thoughts, he failed to notice the Muslim woman from the coffee shop match his pace on the opposite side of the street.

  JENNIFER LET THE TERRORIST get a hundred yards away before picking up surveillance behind him. Learning all the time, she now stayed on the other side of the street, knowing it gave her a better ability to keep him in sight without his suspecting he was being followed.

  Pike had been wrong on the number of Internet cafés. There were, in fact, seven within the radius of the e-mail trace. They had driven by each one and had discarded several, one because it was located next to a police station, a few that catered solely to tourists, and those that had their interiors monitored by cameras.

  The process of elimination left two cafés, although Jennifer knew they were wishing away alternatives that might, in fact, be used. Luckily, both she and Pike knew what this terrorist looked like, allowing them to split up. The window-jumper wasn’t the man that Jennifer had seen in the passport in Guatemala, which meant that she would recognize the remaining terrorist.

  One location could be watched from a coffee shop situated across from the café. The other had no convenient location from which to view the entrance other than from a parked car on the same street. Not wanting to repeat what had happened in Oslo, with the terrorist recognizing him, Pike had given Jennifer the coffee shop location, buying her a quick disguise of a multicolored head scarf, a set of large, cheap sunglasses, and an ankle length peasant’s dress of the type that was ubiquitous in downtown Tuzla. She had dyed her hair black to complete the transformation, and now looked like one of a hundred Bosnian women roaming the city center.

  Jennifer had been sitting in the coffee shop for only a few minutes, barely enough time to think through her surveillance plan, when a man resembling the passport photo came in. She wasn’t sure, since the guy in the passport had a beard, and this man didn’t. When he left the coffee shop and entered the Internet café, all doubt fled her mind. That’s him. She called Pike and told him. Before Pike could find her, she saw the terrorist leave. Showtime. You can do this. Not that hard. Jennifer started window-shopping across the street, keeping pace within a football field of him, all the while running through her mind what she was going to do next.

  Her mission was simple: Figure out where he was staying, right down to the hotel room. And I need to be right behind him to do that. She started to close the distance before she realized her dilemma. What if he walks for the next four miles? I can’t stay right behind him. He’ll wonder what the hell I’m doing. The longer she walked, the more she wanted to close the gap. Fuck. This sounded easy on the airplane. He’s going to turn into a hotel and I’m going to lose him.

  After three blocks, seeing the sidewalks beg
inning to swell with noontime shoppers that would give her some cover, she decided she’d pushed her luck for long enough. She crossed over, her fear of missing the opportunity now overpowering.

  She picked up a position about thirty meters behind him, keeping him in sight through the crowds, but just barely. She called Pike and gave him an update, referring to the terrorist with the name she had seen in his American passport in Guatemala.

  “Carlos has gone about four blocks from the café. I’m still on him. He appears to have a destination, but he’s not moving with a purpose. Are you nearby?”

  “Yeah, I’m right outside your Internet café. I’ll be within a couple of blocks of you at all times. How’re you holding up?”

  “I’m okay. I’m about to fall asleep on my feet, but I’m okay. Nothing like exhaustion to tamp down stress.”

  “I hear you. I just about ran over a kid five minutes ago. Look—I’m having second thoughts about how far we should push this today. I think you should just pinpoint his hotel. We can find some other way to figure out his room. I think we’re risking too much by you going in.”

  Why’s he changing the plan now? “Would you think this was too risky if you were walking behind him, or is it because you’re afraid of me getting hurt? We only have another twenty-four hours, and I don’t think we’ll get another chance. I’m going to finish this.”

  “Damn it, this isn’t a game. There’s no trophy at the end. If he figures out what’s going on, he’s liable to freak out and launch the device right in the hotel. Yeah, I’m worried about you, but I’d be just as worried about any teammate.”

  She watched Carlos pause outside of a hotel, looking left and right. She saw him glance at his watch like he was trying to decide what to do. She vaguely heard Pike continue.

  “I’m just saying that I’m not sure a plan hashed out on an airplane after four days without sleep is the one we should go with. Let’s figure out where he’s staying and take a long, hard look at our options.”

  She didn’t reply, focused on the terrorist. She saw him turn to the hotel entrance. Holy shit. This is it.

  “Hello? Jennifer, you still there?”

  “He just went into a hotel. I have to go.”

  “No! Jennifer, wait—”

  Jennifer hung up the phone and rushed forward, reaching the door in time to see Carlos moving to a stairwell inside. Focusing on the backpack he was wearing, she gave a half-thought of quitting, Pike’s warning reminding her of the stakes. Stop that. Get it done.

  To her right she saw a wizened old man at the front desk, reading a newspaper and paying her no mind. Crossing quickly to the stairwell, she heard footsteps above her, separated by a single landing. How am I going to figure out his floor if I can’t see him? It dawned on her that she would only need to listen. When she heard his footsteps cease, she would simply exit on the next floor.

  No sooner had she come up with the plan than she realized she was hearing nothing but the echo of her own footsteps. Carlos had exited the stairwell.

  I FLUNG THE PHONEagainst the dash. What the hell is she thinking? What was I thinking coming up with this dumb-ass plan? I didn’t even know where she was. From where I was parked outside the café I could see about forty different ways the terrorist could have gone. Calm down. Think. From what Jennifer said, they were somewhere within a four-block radius. How many hotels could there be inside that? Logically, they were probably west, toward downtown. I threw the car into drive and headed deeper into the city. Please don’t get hurt. Please, please.

  HURRYING TO THE NEXT FLOOR, Jennifer paused outside the stairwell doorway, listening for any sign that someone was just beyond. Hearing nothing, she gathered her courage and opened the door.

  Carlos stood directly in front of her, fumbling with his key and softly cursing the old lock. At the sound of the stairwell door, he turned. Jennifer stumbled back, preparing to flee into the stairwell in a fight or flight response. Get a grip. He doesn’t know who you are. Her eyes locked with the terrorist’s. He smiled, nodding hello before returning to work his key. She smiled back and moved past him, seeing the hallway end about fifty feet away at a men’s room. What am I going to do when I reach that? Shit. I’ve got no reason to be here. Should’ve turned around.

  She kept walking, feeling his eyes on her back, wondering what the hell was taking him so long. Get in your damn room. As she approached the bathroom, her mind began to work in overdrive. What if this is a men-only hotel? Or has floors separated by gender? He’s going to know something’s up. He’s going to kill me. She envisioned him stalking right behind her, knife raised to strike. With a superhuman effort, she kept walking forward, fighting the urge to turn around and look. She reached the end of the hall. Now what? He’s going to see you standing here doing nothing. She turned to the last door and did the only thing she could think of, giving it a soft knock while stealing a glance back the way she had come.

  The hallway was empty. She felt her knees begin to buckle and threw her hand up to the doorjamb for support. Jesus, why don’t I listen to Pike? Leaning against the frame with her eyes closed, taking quick, shallow breaths, she didn’t even notice that the door had opened until she heard someone speak.

  Standing in front of her in his underwear, black socks held up by garters on his skinny legs, wearing a stained wife-beater T-shirt, was a man of about sixty. The man looked at her suspiciously and said something in Serbo-Croatian.

  Feeling nauseous, Jennifer said, “Sorry, wrong room.”

  She speed-walked back down the hallway, taking care not to make any noise as she opened the door to the stairwell. Reaching the street outside, she walked as fast as she could without breaking into an overt run, not conscious of the direction she was going or the people she bumped into in her haste to put some distance between herself and the hotel. She made it about ninety feet before the enormity of the close call hit home. She stopped, reaching toward the nearest wall for support. She leaned over and threw up, splashing vomit on her legs and causing people on the sidewalk to immediately avoid her.

  Racked with dry heaves, she sank to her knees. A crowd began to gather around her, with several people asking her questions in Serbo-Croatian. Get out of here. You’re making a scene. You’re going to blow this whole thing. She stood up, brushing off the help and looking for an escape route. She heard a man on the street yelling something, then recognized it was Pike. Thank God.

  She ran to the SUV as Pike opened the passenger door. She leaned back into the seat, shaking and gasping for air as if she had just run a marathon. Pike gunned the engine, pulling away from the hotel.

  “You all right? What the fuck happened?”

  “I’m okay.” She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, repeating the phrase as if to prove it to herself.

  “I’m okay.”

  86

  In his Crystal City office, Lucas pinched the bridge of his nose, wanting more than anything to smash his computer into little pieces. No sooner had his team landed in Norway then the beacon had shown up in Tuzla, Bosnia-Herzegovina.

  Through Standish he had confirmed that Kurt Hale was still in D.C., which led him to surmise that Hale had passed the device to Pike. This was a net positive, provided he could keep a bead on the pager and get his team in position quickly. The first update of its location had been Oslo, causing an immediate launch of the team. Now the damn thing was saying it was in Tuzla. This is turning into a wild goose chase.

  On top of that, someone here in the States was making inquiries about the death of the analyst and the shooting at the Four Courts pub. He hadn’t been able to determine who it was but knew it wasn’t official law enforcement. Someone had made a connection between the two and was closing in on his operation.

  Regardless, he still had a mission to accomplish. He gave the order for the team in Oslo to redirect to Tuzla at their earliest opportunity. He then turned to his Rolodex and compiled a list of names for a backup team. There was no telling where this was going to lead.
He needed the flexibility to launch from inside the European continent while maintaining a reserve. He would fly with the backup team, directly coordinating the mission on the ground. It was becoming impossible to command and control the complex twists of the operation from five thousand miles away, and getting out of the country right now had a certain appeal. Not to mention the chance of getting out of the office and into the hunt.

  I WAITED FOR JENNIFER to finish brushing her teeth before continuing the debriefing. When she returned to the bedroom, she looked a little bit like her normal self, the fear of her close call receding.

  “Are you burned? Did Carlos suspect anything? Do anything when he saw you?”

  “No, not really. I think I’m fine there. I’m pretty sure he thought I was a local. I didn’t say anything, and neither did he, so I didn’t give him any reason to think I was anything but a Bosnian.”

  “Good. I think we drive on with the plan. We wait for him to check his e-mail tomorrow. While he’s in the café, I’ll crack into his room and see if I can spot the device, or come up with anything else that screams WMD. Run me through what you saw for security. What were the door locks like, did you see any cameras, was there a lot of traffic, basically anything you can think of that might interfere with me getting in.”

  Jennifer sat for a moment, collecting her thoughts. When she was ready, she gave me a fairly detailed description of everything she had seen. I expected her to have tunnel vision, focusing on her survival after the contact with Carlos like most civilians would have, but she was able to clearly describe the exact number of doors in the hallway, the type of lock, the direction the doors opened, and even give a fairly good description of the old man she had inadvertently run into, to include what she could see of the layout of his room. I had gotten less information from trained operators in the past.