“Jack!” Chavez’s voice. Ding appeared, running through the gate. Without breaking stride, he kicked the knife away from Sinaga’s hand. He wasn’t moving. His head was cocked strangely to one side. His eyes blinked several times, but they were fixed, staring. His right arm was jerking, rapping softly on the ground.
“Christ…” Jack whispered. “Christ almighty.”
Clark ran through the gate, stopped short, then knelt down beside Sinaga. “His neck’s broken. He’s gone. Jack, you okay?”
Jack couldn’t take his eyes off Sinaga. As he watched, the man’s arm stopped twitching.
Clark said, “Jack, wake up. You okay?”
Jack nodded.
“Ding, get him inside. Quick.”
Once inside the trailer, Ding sat Jack on the couch, then walked down the hall to the bedroom and helped Clark manhandle Sinaga’s body back through the window. They met back in the front room. From the bathroom, the cocker was barking.
“Nothing moving outside,” Clark reported, shutting the front door. “Ding, check the fridge, see if a little food’ll quiet down Fido.”
“Got it.”
Clark stepped over to Jack. “You’re bleeding.”
“Huh?”
Clark pointed at Jack’s right shoulder. The material of his shirt was dark with blood. “Take off your shirt.” Jack did so, revealing a two-inch gash on his collarbone at the base of his throat. Blood trickled down his chest.
“Huh,” Jack mumbled. “Didn’t know. Felt something hit my shoulder, but I didn’t realize.”
“An inch or two higher and you’d be done, Jack. Put your thumb on it. Hey, Ding, see if Sinaga’s got some superglue.”
From the kitchen came sounds of drawers opening and closing, then Chavez walked out and tossed a tube to Clark, who handed it to Jack. “Put a line of that in the cut.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. Better than stitches. Do it.”
Jack tried, but his hands were shaking. He looked at them. “Sorry.”
“Just adrenaline, mano,” Chavez said, taking the tube. “Don’t sweat it.”
“He’s really dead?” Jack asked Clark.
Clark nodded.
“Shit. We needed him alive.”
“His choice, Jack, not yours. You can feel bad about it if you want. That’s natural. But don’t forget: He was trying to open your throat.”
“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know.”
Chavez said, “Don’t overthink it. You’re alive; he’s dead. Would you rather have it the other way around?”
“Hell, no.”
“Then chalk it up as a win and move on.” Chavez capped the superglue tube, stood up.
“Just like that? Move on?”
“Might take a little time to process it,” Clark replied. “But if you can’t, you need to stick to your desk.”
“Jesus, John.”
“If you carry this dirtbag around in your head, it’s going to get you or somebody else killed. I guarantee it. This job isn’t for everyone, Jack. There’s no shame in that. Better you figure that out now than later.”
Jack exhaled, rubbed his forehead. “Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, I’ll think about it.” Clark smiled at this. “What?” Jack asked.
“That was the right answer. You just killed a man. I’d be worried if you didn’t have a little soul-searching to do.”
From the kitchen, Ding called, “Got something, John.”
Three days after it left on a charter flight from Dubai, the device touched down at Vancouver International Airport in British Columbia. Having landed the day before, Musa was waiting for the flight. His business card and letter cleared him into the customs warehouse, where he met the inspector.
“Silvio Manfredi,” Musa introduced himself, handing over his documentation.
“Thanks. Phil Nolan. Your package is over here.”
They walked to a nearby pallet on which the plastic crate sat.
Neither the card nor the letterhead had been difficult to create using Photoshop and a high-end desktop publishing program. Of course, the inspector would care little about a letter from the University of Calgary’s veterinary medicine department chair, but the psychological effect couldn’t be ignored. The inspector was dealing with a fellow citizen and a renowned Canadian university.
What Musa’s fourteen months of study had taught him was that customs inspectors the world over were overworked and underpaid, and lived by checklists and forms. For this particular type of shipment-radioactive materials-the inspector would be concerned with three forms of documentation: an invoice and bill of lading for the device; the stamps and seals from the International Air Transport Association (IATA) agent in Dubai, stating the origin of the shipment; and the myriad paperwork demanded by the Canadian Nuclear Safety Commission, Transport Canada, the Nuclear Substances and Radiation Devices license, the Canadian Nuclear Substances Act, and the Transportation of Dangerous Goods Act. While none of these documents had proven difficult to reproduce, the intelligence groundwork Musa and his men had conducted had alone taken eight months.
“So what is it?” the customs inspector asked.
“It’s called a PXP-40HF portable equine imager.”
“Come again?”
Musa chuckled. “I know. Quite a mouthful. It’s a portable X-ray machine for horses. A friend of the university president lives in Dubai. Has this prized Arabian stallion worth more than either of us will make in a lifetime. Horse got sick, friend complains to president, the university puts the machine on loan.”
The inspector shook his head. “Must be nice. Did the horse make it?”
“Yes. Get this: It was just colic. Spent a week over there babysitting an X-ray machine because the guy’s vet didn’t recognize a simple case of indigestion.”
“Well, at least you got some sun. Okay…” the inspector said, flipping through the paperwork. “I need radioisotope code, activity level, dose rate, contamination limits…”
“Page four. And page nine. Pretty low across the board.”
“Yeah, okay, I see it. So how dangerous is this thing?”
“Pretty harmless unless you manage to take a couple hundred X-rays of your balls. Then you’d have problems.”
The inspector laughed at this. “Not exactly a WMD, is it?”
Musa shrugged. “Rules are rules. Better to be a little overcautious than the opposite, I suppose.”
“Yeah. Hey, how come they didn’t fly you straight into Calgary?”
“Couldn’t get a flight in there until Wednesday. Thought it’d be easier to come in here and rent a car. With luck, I’ll be home before nightfall.”
The inspector signed where he needed to sign and affixed adhesive seals on the crate. He had Musa countersign in the appropriate places, gave the paperwork once last glance, then handed it back. “You’re good to go.”
“My rental car is in the parking lot…”
“Just pull up to the gate. I’ll tell them to wave you through.”
Musa shook his hand. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing. Travel safe.”
67
AFTER STAUNCHING the blood pulsing from Bari’s severed fingers, they sat him in a chair in the living room and duct-taped his feet to the legs. The leader of the group they duct-taped to the trestle table. Both men were still unconscious. Finally, they policed up the bodies and piled them into the bathtub, atop Bari’s second bodyguard.
“I’m going to take a walk around the block,” Dominic said. “See if the natives are restless. Don’t think we attracted any attention, but…”
“Sounds good.”
“Be back in five.”
Brian sat in the living room, studying their captives and doing a mental postmortem of their takedown. Pretty damned good job, he thought. Dominic had always been good with a gun, and a pro at Hogan’s Alley, but this had been the first time they’d really gotten into the shit together. Sure, there’d been t
hat mall thing, but that wasn’t quite the same, was it? Here they’d taken on genuine URC bad boys on their home turf. Not really accustomed to taking prisoners, though; he’d have to change mental gears on that point. The butt of the Browning had laid both mutts out, sure enough, but not very efficiently. Maybe a lead-and-leather sap might do the trick. Have to look into that.
He heard the courtyard gate open. He got up, walked to the door, peeked around the corner. “Just me, bro,” Dominic said, walking inside.
“How’s it looking?”
“Quiet. The place really dies down after dark. Another couple hours and it’ll probably be a ghost town.”
“Which brings up a good point.”
“These two?” Dominic replied, nodding at Bari and the other one.
“Yeah. If they’ve got info, we can either try to wring them out here or try to get them out.”
“Well, one thing’s for sure, we’re not getting them out of Libya on our own. Maybe a run for Tunisia.”
“How far?”
“Hundred miles west, give or take. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s have a chat with Bari and see where it takes us.”
With a cold glass of water poured over his head and a few light slaps to the face, they were able to rouse Bari. He blinked several times, then looked around the room, then at Brian and Dominic.
He barked a few words in Arabic, then said in heavily accented English, “Who are you?”
“The cavalry,” Brian said.
Bari squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. “My hand.”
“Just two fingers,” Dominic said. “We stopped the bleeding. Here.” He handed Bari half a dozen aspirin from a bottle they’d found in the bathroom. Bari shoved the tablets into his mouth, then accepted a glass of water from Brian.
“Thank you. Who are you?”
“But by the looks of it, we’re the only friends you’ve got left in the Medina,” Dominic said. “Who were they?”
“They’re all dead?”
“Except for the fella with the paring knife,” Brian replied. “Who were they?”
“I can’t…”
“Our guess is URC. Somebody pushed the button on you, Mr. Bari.”
“What does that mean?”
“Somebody ordered you murdered. What were they asking you about?”
Bari didn’t reply.
“Look, without help, they’re going to get you. You might be able to hide for a while, but they’ll find you. Probably your family in Benghazi, too.”
Bari’s head jerked up. “You know about them?”
Dominic nodded. “And if we do…”
“You’re Americans, aren’t you?”
“Does it matter?”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”
Brian said, “Help us and we’ll help you-try to get you out of the country.”
“How?”
“Let us worry about that. Who were they?”
“URC.”
“The same ones who did Dirar al-Kariim?”
“Who?”
“Web video. Guy with no head and no feet…”
“Oh. Yes. That’s them.”
Dominic asked, “What’s his name, the one with the knife?”
“I know him as Fakhoury.”
“What’s he do?”
“What you saw here. Murder. Punishment. Very low-level type of person. He bragged about al-Kariim. Talked about it.”
“Why was he after you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit,” Brian said. “You and your bodyguards were in a hurry. You knew Fakhoury was on his way. How?”
“Word on the street was that I was talking to the police. It wasn’t true. I don’t know who said it, but with these people… security is everything. Killing me was a precaution.”
“What’d they want from you? You’re their Web nerd, right?”
“Yes. Fakhoury wanted to know if I’d kept any data.”
“Such as?”
“Domain names. Passwords. Graphics…”
“Like banner images?”
“Yes. Yes, he asked about those.”
Dominic looked at Brian and muttered, “Stego.”
“Yep.”
“What are you talking about?” Bari asked.
“So what’s the answer?” Dominic asked. “Did you keep any data? A little insurance, maybe?”
Bari opened his mouth to speak, but Brian cut him off: “You lie to us and we’re going to cut Fakhoury free and leave.”
“Yes, I kept data. It’s on an SD card-secure digital, like for a camera. It’s under a tile behind the toilet.”
Brian was already moving. “Got it.” He was back two minutes later with a thumbnail-sized card.
Dominic asked Bari, “Who gives Fakhoury his marching orders?”
“I’ve only heard rumors.”
“Fine.”
“A man named Almasi.”
“Local?”
“No, he’s got a house outside Zuwarah.”
Dominic looked at Brian. “About sixty miles west of here.”
“How high up is this guy? Could he have okayed al-Kariim’s execution?”
“It’s possible.”
They left Bari alone and walked out into the courtyard. “What’dya think?” Brian asked.
“Bari’s a good catch, but it’d be nice to grab a fish higher up the food chain. If this Almasi has enough juice to green-light one of their own, it might be worth a try.”
Brian checked his watch. “Almost ten now. Figure a half-hour to get back to the car, then two hours to Zuwarah. Hit him by two, then back on the road.”
“So we take Bari, grab Almasi if we can.”
“Which leaves Fakhoury.”
“Dead weight, bro.”
Dominic thought it over and sighed.
Brian said, “He’s a stone-cold murderer, Dom.”
“No shit. Having trouble throwing the switch in my head, you know?”
“You threw it once. The kiddie-raper thing.”
“That was a little different.”
“Not much different. Bad guy that wasn’t going to stop on his own. Same thing here.”
Dominic considered this, then nodded. “I’ll do it.”
“No, bro, this one’s mine. Go get Bari ready to move. I’m going to police up.”
Five minutes later Dominic and Bari were in the courtyard. Brian came out, dropped a canvas shopping tote at Dominic’s feet. “Half a dozen semiautos and ten magazines. Be right back.” Brian went back inside.
“What’s he doing?” Bari asked.
From inside came a dull clap, then a second.
“Fakhoury?” Bari said to Dominic. “You killed him.”
“Would you rather he be alive to come after you?”
“No, but who’s to say you won’t do the same to me when you’re done?”
“I am. Worst case, we’ll let you walk away.”
“And best case.”
“That depends on how helpful you are.”
Brian walked out ten minutes later. He and Dominic walked to the far wall, and Brian boosted Dominic onto the roof. He was back ten seconds later with their backpacks. The three of them moved to the courtyard door.
Brian turned to Bari. “Just so we’re clear: You run, or draw attention to us, we’ll put a bullet in your head.”
“Why would I do such a thing?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. You put us in a jackpot, you’ll be the first one to die.”
“I understand.”
Forty minutes later they emerged from the Medina on Sidi Omran and walked two blocks east toward the Corinthia, where they’d parked the Opel. Five minutes after that, they were on Umar al Mukhtar and heading west toward the outskirts of the city. Overhead the sky was clear, showing a quarter-moon and a diamond field of stars.
They drove in silence, with Bari lying flat on the backseat until they were past Sabratah, forty miles up the coast from Tripoli. “You can sit up,
” Dominic told him from the passenger seat. “How’s the hand?”
“Very painful. What did you do with my fingers?”
“Flushed them down the toilet,” Brian replied.
This was the easiest of his tasks inside Bari’s home. In turn, he had checked Fakhoury and his men for tattoos and identification. He found none of the former but plenty of the latter; these he put in the tote bag. Next he fired three rounds into the back of each man’s head. The hollow-points did their job, turning each face into so much unrecognizable hamburger. The police would probably be able to eventually identify them, but by the time the URC realized it had lost one of its own, he, Dominic, and Bari would be out of the country.
“You flushed my fingers down the toilet?” Bari repeated. “Why?”
Dominic answered this one. “So there’s no trace of you. The more unknowns they have, the better. Where’s Almasi’s house?”
“East of the city. I’ll recognize the turnoff. It’s across from an old refinery.” Twenty minutes later, Bari said, “Slow down. This next road on the left.”
Brian slowed down and turned onto the dirt tract. Almost immediately the grade increased; ahead, the road wound its way in a series of low, scrub-covered hills. After five minutes the road turned sharply right. Bari, looking out the driver’s-side window, tapped the glass. “There. That house with the lights on. That’s Almasi’s.”
A quarter-mile away down an eroded slope, Brian and Dominic could make out the two-story adobe structure surrounded by a shoulder-high mud-brick wall. Fifty yards away to the west was a cluster of four adobe huts. Directly behind the house sat a barn.
“Old farm?” Dominic asked.
“Yes. Goats. Almasi bought it as a retreat home three years ago.”
Dominic said, “See the antennas on the roof, Bri?”
“Yeah. The guy’s wired for some serious comms.”
They continued on for another half-mile, losing sight of the farmhouse behind a hill, then slowed at a crossroads. On impulse, Brian turned left. The dirt road narrowed for fifty yards before opening into what looked like a gravel quarry.
Dead or Alive Page 52