The Polaris Protocol pl-5

by Brad Taylor

  All of that, however, was superseded by one thought: escape. His biggest issues were first getting out of prison, and second getting out of America. And this man was offering to do both for him.

  As he was spinning these thoughts in his head Pink spoke again.

  “I’m sure you’ve already considered the greatest benefit. You help me and you might get the chance to escape. There’s no way you can get out of this prison, and even if you could, you’ll last about thirty minutes on the street in America. I’m going to take you to a foreign country and give you a passport to get there.”

  The Ghost felt his face flush and saw Pink smile. Before he could recover, Pink said, “Of course, it’ll be my job to prevent that, but hey, a man can hope.”

  Despite himself, the Ghost smiled back. He’s inside your head right now. Nobody had done that in his entire existence. His slight build and unremarkable features had allowed him to earn the nickname the Ghost. Had caused him to be underestimated by every one of his enemies. His intelligence had allowed him to kill all of them. All but one.

  The man across the table.

  Yes, he’s someone to watch against.

  But the challenge intrigued him. Worst case, he could thwart the murdering thugs of Hezbollah, something he would relish. Best case, he escaped. Then he thought of the man he was to replace.

  “What of the person coming from Pakistan? If I’m to pretend I’m him, where will he be?”

  Pink said, “I won’t lie to you. He’s going to be kept from the meeting. That has nothing to do with you. You come or don’t, he’s gone either way.”

  The Ghost appreciated the honesty once again. “How will I pretend I’m him? They’ll know I’m not.”

  “They have no idea who he is. They’ve never met him. You’ve played this game enough to pull it off. Last time we met, you were acting like a citizen of Saudi Arabia. Surely you can act like a Palestinian with a different name.”

  “I know nothing of al-Qaeda.”

  “Neither do they. You know enough about underground organizations to fake it. Look, I’m not saying it’s risk free. The only thing risk free is staying here in your cell. You want to do that for the rest of your life?”

  The Ghost said, “If I agree, what’s the next step?”

  Pike pulled two devices out of a bag, each a small black box the size of garage-door opener affixed to a metal band.

  “These are GPS trackers. They’ll get fastened to your ankles underneath your pants. You’ll notice there are two of them, and that’s for a reason. The trackers will have a geographic boundary that I’ll program once we’re in the country. Each one also has a small explosive charge. If you exceed the boundary I’ve set, it’ll sever both of your feet at the ankles.”

  The Ghost simply stared and Pike continued. “I told you it would be my job to prevent escape.”

  52

  Walking down the promenade of Motolinía Street, the sicario kept his pace the same as that of the shoppers around him, occasionally stopping to gaze into a window or buy a trinket. Wearing a hat and wig, he no longer looked like an apparition from hell, but instead blended in nicely with the multitude of tourists and locals out to enjoy the sunshine. His purpose was different, however. Having suspected a car following behind him less than thirty minutes ago, he was trying to determine if he was under surveillance. If he was being targeted by Los Zetas. Or perhaps the phantom gringo hit team from Tepito.

  Originally, he’d planned on driving straight to the meeting place, leaving Booth taped and gagged in the trunk, but had opted to stop short and take the walk to the final destination. Having captured many men, he knew the tactics well and understood he was safer on foot, moving in a crowd.

  It wasn’t the best of circumstances, as it left Booth to his own devices in the trunk while he was gone, but he was fairly confident he’d instilled enough fear into the man that he wouldn’t attempt to do anything rash. He’d told Booth what would happen should he attempt to escape. He’d kill him, plain and simple. Maybe slow, maybe fast. That all depended on the circumstances at the time. Either way, he’d take the life out of the man for disobeying, no matter where on earth he chose to run.

  It wouldn’t be for vengeance or because of any emotion. It was just what he did. The only thing he did. He had no other skills, but the one he possessed was valuable, he knew. He watched soccer on TV and thought to himself that in his own way, he was just as good as the best players on the field. They kicked a ball, which was seemingly easy, but only one in a thousand could do what the men on the field could do.

  It was the same with him. The sicario had seen the masterpieces hanging in the museums, painted by men who had a talent that defied description, and thought to himself that he was like them, only in a different type of art.

  And he wasn’t wrong.

  Walking up the promenade, he knew this skill meant little here. He was entering a world of strategy and negotiation where violence was of no use. The big question was whether the men Carlos had contacted really had money and the desire to purchase Booth’s protocol. Something he would find out in the next few minutes.

  It had turned out to be relatively easy to locate the men. Leaving Booth chained in the bathroom, the sicario had returned to the airport and cornered a man who worked at the rental car counter he had seen the foreigners use. Knowing they had to have shown a passport and international driver’s license, he’d bullied the rental clerk into divulging that information. From there, he’d contacted an informant for Los Zetas who worked in the immigration department at the airport. Someone who’d provided information in the past for cash.

  The contact was a risk, because the man could just as easily tell others in Los Zetas that he’d shown his face, along with the information he’d sought, but he didn’t see any other way around it, and the danger was slim. The immigration agent had no idea of the ongoing status of Los Zetas, so his appearance would get back to them only as a coincidence.

  For a single American fifty-dollar bill, the agent had given him the inn the three men had provided on their immigration cards. A midlevel hotel in the Zona Rosa.

  He talked to reception at the hotel, and a couple of twenty-dollar bills later, he had the room number of one of the men. He’d slipped an envelope under the door with his cell phone number and had waited.

  The man had eventually called, as the sicario knew he would, and they’d arranged for an initial meeting. The sicario had picked a famous restaurant and bar called La Opera, near the tourist section of the Zócalo. Unlike previous occasions, when he was a valued member of Los Zetas, he didn’t want to meet anywhere near their territory. He’d chosen the Zócalo because of its proximity to the presidential palace and other government buildings — meaning tight security. For once, he feared his own associates more than the officials who hunted them.

  He reached the corner of 5 de Mayo and took a left, leaving the walking promenade behind, fairly certain that nobody was still following him, if anyone had been at all. He passed by the entrance to La Opera and continued to the next block. He stopped, standing next to a vendor selling tacos and studying his back trail. Nothing suspicious appeared. He looped around and entered the restaurant, his eyes taking a moment to become accustomed to the gloom.

  Like the streets outside, the bar was starting to pick up, the late-afternoon crowd hitting happy hour as in bars all over the world. He’d picked this time specifically because the streets would soon be packed with vendors selling everything from “handmade” sombreros to watches and packs of gum. A sea of people that he could escape within, should it become necessary.

  A man in traditional Mexican attire, complete with a sash, approached and asked how he could assist. The sicario said he was meeting someone, and before the host could respond, a swarthy gentleman came forward, speaking in English. “Do you wish to have a margarita?”

  The sicario responded, “No. A glass of water would be fine.”

  The restaurant host looked confused, but the s
warthy man smiled and stuck out his hand. The sicario shook it, pleased that the foreigners had the ability to follow instructions.

  Each now sure the other was whom they were supposed to meet, they moved to the table already obtained by the foreigner. After sitting, the man said, “You may call me Farooq. It means ‘one who distinguishes truth from falsehood.’”

  The sicario smiled and said, “As in ‘one who will not pay for something that doesn’t work’?”

  “Yes. That’s about the sum of it.”

  “You may call me Pelón.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “A man with no hair.”

  Farooq looked confused, as if there was a hidden meaning, and the sicario said, “It’s just a nickname. If you’d prefer something with substance, something that’s closer to my nature, you may call me Muerte.”

  “Which is?”

  The sicario rested his eyes on him, and Farooq instinctively recoiled from their weird glow, as they all did, no matter the nationality. “Death. I am death.”

  Farooq said, “As in you’ll kill me if I don’t pay for services rendered? Really? Trust me when I say your threats mean nothing to me, and it’s not how I like doing business.”

  The sicario said, “I mean no threat. You asked. It’s simply who I am.”

  Farooq said nothing for a moment, and the sicario let the silence stretch, not concerned. Eventually, it was Farooq who broke it. “So now you have this protocol? What happened with Carlos?”

  “I killed him.”

  Farooq searched the sicario’s visage for the bluff but was left wanting. He made a move to stand, saying, “I’m not sure I can continue, under the circumstances.”

  The sicario caught his wrist and said, “Don’t leave. I have what you want. Carlos was but an impediment. You shouldn’t care who profits, only that you get it.”

  Farooq sat back down and said, “We were called here by Carlos, a man my organization has worked with in the past. I don’t know you at all. No offense, Mr. Death.”

  The sicario realized he was losing the sale, losing his chance at a stake for a new life, but he’d never conducted such negotiations. All he’d ever been tasked with was punishment. He had no tact or skill in this world, unlike Carlos.

  He said, “Farooq, I speak plainly, but it is only because of my nature. I have what you want. All I ask in return is what you were going to pay Carlos. That’s it.”

  “We only pay for results. Can you prove it does what Carlos said?”

  “I’m not sure what Carlos told you it does, but I can bring the man who will explain it all. He can show you it works, on the Wi-Fi network of this restaurant.”

  “Can you do this now?”

  “Yes. I’ll have to leave and fetch him, but it won’t take but about fifteen minutes.”

  “Do so.”

  “Before that, I’d like to know what Carlos knew. How much is this worth to you?”

  He saw Farooq’s eyes flick to the left and knew he was about to get cheated. He had no idea what had been discussed for the monetary transfer, and he wished he could take back the ignorance of his question.

  Farooq said, “Carlos wanted a wire transfer of one million dollars. We could not afford that. We discussed a cash transaction of one hundred thousand. He agreed.”

  The sicario knew about the other man coming and had not played that card. He did so now.

  “You said Farooq means one who separates falsehood. Please don’t play me for a fool. I want the wire transfer from the other man. As you agreed with Carlos. Where is he?”

  Farooq slid his eyes to the bar, saying nothing. When he faced the sicario again, he said, “He is coming, but the protocol had better work.”

  “It will. I’ll prove it shortly. When does he arrive?”

  “He’s on an airplane as we speak. Coming here.”

  53

  The hat was a little big, and the jacket made me feel like a bus driver, but both were needed to get me through security. Jennifer looked a hell of a lot better, in my mind. Like the stewardess everyone fantasizes about having instead of the ninety-year-old tart who gave you a sour look when you asked for another beer.

  Reaching the TSA checkpoint, Jennifer said, “Let me lead. If anyone says anything, let me answer. Whatever you do, don’t try to fake being a pilot.”

  A little miffed, I said, “What’s that mean?”

  “I know you. You think you’re smarter than everyone else, but you’ll get us in trouble trying to talk flying. Just stick with the hotel or the airport. Please.”

  “I can talk flying. It’s just a bunch of buttons and dials. These TSA agents know less than I do.”

  She gave me an exasperated look and said, “Pike, please. Let me do the talking.”

  I smiled, letting her know I was just teasing. She didn’t know a damn thing about flying a plane either, but she knew plenty about airports. Her deadbeat father was an airline pilot, and after he’d left the family, he’d spent his limited time with her dragging her around the world while he worked. Leaving her in hotel rooms as he went out to find some cougar to bed. The memories weren’t nice, but it did give her a healthy appreciation of how airports worked. I was more than comfortable letting her take the lead.

  My Bluetooth chirped, and Knuckles came on. “I’m set outside customs.”

  I said, “According to the fight status, his aircraft is on the ground thirty minutes early. Shouldn’t be long. You got the ABS ready?”

  “Yeah, but I hate using this stuff. I’m going to get it on myself.”

  “You do, and it’ll be a very long flight to Mexico.”

  ABS was our not-so-subtle nickname for the medication we were going to apply to the moneyman coming from Pakistan. A topical solution that was fashioned into a tube of ChapStick, ABS stood for Atomic Blow-Shits. A small amount applied anywhere to the exposed skin would cause incredible diarrhea within a matter of minutes. Knuckles, having purchased a ticket on American flight 833 to Mexico City, like our target, would use it on him when given the chance.

  Unlike other countries’ international airports, those in the United States had no separated transient area for folks just passing through. If you landed in America, even if only transferring to another flight out, you had to go through US customs. Thus, Knuckles could pick up our target as he exited, at a choke point he would have to use.

  It had caused a little consternation in the Oversight Council, because the man from Pakistan was flying under the name Gamal Hussein, which, unbeknownst to him, was on our no-fly list. He’d managed to get a US visa — admittedly for transit only — but that alone caused a spasm in Homeland Security and further investigation, because he shouldn’t have gotten a visa to use a bathroom in the United States. It did work in our favor, though, because we couldn’t have affected his application in time if it had been denied. We could, however, remove him from the no-fly list, which caused some on the council to question what the hell we were doing.

  I’d have questioned it too, given the plan I’d come up with. Kidnapping a foreign national inside a working United States airport, without informing TSA or anyone else that we were operational, was a bit much. Throw in the fact that we were going to inject a known terrorist in his place, letting him fly to Mexico out of our control, and I could see why some were jumping up and down. The no-fly list was the least of our worries.

  We reached the door to the Known Crewmember access in terminal C, and Jennifer presented her badge. The TSA agent checked it, then a second form of identification. He tapped on the computer and let her through. I watched her dragging her roll-aboard and followed suit. It was surprisingly easy; the agent only wanted to make sure I was in the database. Had he checked last night, I wouldn’t have been.

  Started in 2011 in response to pilot demands after 9/11, the Known Crewmember program allowed prescreened participants to bypass security at select airports, one being Dallas. Given that we were bringing in some dangerous kit in our carry-ons, we definite
ly needed to bypass security.

  We’d brainstormed a bunch of different ways to penetrate the airport and had decided on a combination. Posing as TSA agents had been the first choice, but having flown through a myriad of airports, both Jennifer and I had rejected it. TSA agents knew each other and habitually worked the same stations. Any time I had traversed a security point during a shift change, I saw them saying hello or good-bye, or just kidding around. That, coupled with the TSA’s natural suspicion, meant we’d be asking for trouble by trying to impersonate them.

  We definitely needed to get equipment into the sterile area of the airport, though, and putting it through an X-ray machine was a nonstarter. Who could do that but wouldn’t be known to the TSA agents themselves? Who was transient but trusted at the airport? Why, an airline pilot and his loyal flight attendant, that’s who.

  We’d had Knuckles buy a ticket and go through traditional security. His role was to babysit the Ghost on the flight. Outside of giving Hussein the shits, he would have nothing to do with the assault.

  Decoy was in the transfer van outside of terminal A, acting like a baggage handler for American Airlines. Blood, dressed as an airport janitor, would be outside the freight elevator of terminal A, ready to push a large refuse cart with some decidedly different trash inside. With any luck, we’d be getting him inside the sterile area using some equipment in Jennifer’s carry-on bag.

  I smiled at the TSA agent and pulled my little bag through, seeing Jennifer just inside the entrance to the secure area. We were in the middle of the mission, but I couldn’t help but feel distracted by the sight of her in a flight attendant outfit. I swear I didn’t want to, but the scarf, hat, and little wings were something out of a soft-core porno movie.