What if the nukes were in Mexico? Three thousand illegal aliens crossed the border into the US daily. It’s only a matter of money and time before some of these illegals would be from Al Qaeda. Only a small two percent of those caught were non-Mexicans, or SIAs, Special Interest Aliens from Arab countries. Not long ago, Jill had been asked to assist the CIA in an interrogation of a woman who was a terrorist courier. She had traveled back and forth illegally across the border to and from an Al Qaeda cell located just outside of Los Angeles. It’s too easy, she thought, too easy.
Jill needed to have a clear mind. She was not going to miss another stupid thing, as she reprimanded herself again about the LSAs. She looked down at her hand after it brushed the leather pouch, almost as if it were calling her. She untied the string and opened the pouch. Inside were eight tablets made of clay, each one branded with its own number. Jill’s mind began to numb … until she heard a familiar sound.
“You’ve got mail!”
Pushing back to the present, Jill read Karine’s e-mail that reported that the files were ready for downloading and then at the bottom of the e-mail Karine had written:
Eric has a potential lead on who might have been tailing you. He said that there was reports of a black Cadillac Escalade stolen from the airport in Tucson. He thought it might have something to do with the move so he contacted homeland security. They’re running the flight lists now. It’ll take a while with the volume of flights. Will keep you posted chickee!
K.
Jill logged into the VPN and began downloading the documents. Karine had also included satellite images of the Turkmenistan border and a map from Kabul, the Afghanistan capital, to the small town of Kushka. There was a rather large report on Russian rebels attached that was too large to review right now. The last words Jill read were in a report from the Washington Times saying that diagrams of US nuclear power plants had been found in an abandoned Al Qaeda camp just outside of Kushka. Saving the documents, Jill sat back. She sighed. It was several silent minutes later. Numb minutes when it happened. The epiphany was Leila. Leila Sorel.
“Leila, why didn’t I think of you before?” Jill spoke to herself, excited. “Maybe she has heard from David?”
Leila was a colleague of David’s and was one of the first colleagues David had introduced to Jill. Jill felt guilty for her jealousy when she initially met her. Leila was tall, black, and verged on stunning. She was a freelance photojournalist for Time. She was physically strong. Jill noted the striations in her arms when she reached out and shook her hand in greeting. Although they had not been on many assignments together, David and Leila would often converse on the phone or at Jill’s home about article concepts and tricks of the trade. Work stuff. The Pulitzer. Like David, Leila seemed fearless taking on assignments in war-torn countries with only her camera to guide her. She was a feisty, strong, opinionated woman and she and David would often end conversations in a debate. Some might call her a bit of a hothead. To Jill, she was a friend. Leila’s passion was Afghanistan. Some of her best shots were from that country. One in particular Jill admired was one of a little girl with a bucket of water she was carrying back to her shanty. The girl must have been only about five years old and was hunched over a sleeping dog in the middle of the trail, fast asleep. Leila had won an award for it.
Looking at the time and hoping she would find Leila reachable on her satellite mobile, Jill snatched the phone and pushed hard on the numbers.
“Sorel,” the strong voice answered.
“Leila, it’s Jill. How are you? Where are you? I’m in Doha.”
“Well, girlfriend, you get 'round now,” she teased.
“Where are you, Leila? Have you heard from David?”
“What do you mean, Jill? What are you talking about? Why are you in Doha?”
Jill explained the recent events to Leila, who immediately became concerned when Jill mentioned she needed to go to Afghanistan.
“I don’t think you should go, Jill. I know you are trained in ops and know your stuff, but this is for experienced field agents. Have you spoken to Jeff? Can the company help you?”
Jill realized that she had not heard from anyone at David’s work for two days. “I haven’t been in touch with Jeff since he called me. Frankly, I haven’t been in touch with anyone. I suppose I—”
“Jill, what is your mobile?”
Jill gave Leila the details.
“I’ll get back in touch with you after I call the office. I'm in London at the airport, but morning is about to break in the States. Jill, please stay put until you hear back from me.” Without waiting for a response, Leila hung up.
Torn between sleep and a desire to keep researching, Jill decided to take a break. She looked over at the opened pouch and thought about attempting to RV in search of David. The thought of seeing that sketch again made her cringe. If she knew in her heart that David was in trouble … she’d do it, she’d have to push through the fear, push past herself, and take the plunge. She hesitated again, contemplating, then she went over to the bed, laid down, and closed her eyes. David.
Understanding what must have drawn David to Afghanistan, her stomach settled in slight relief. She knew what drove David—the story, adventure, and justice. This was enough for him to be out of communication with her, she knew that now. But she wondered what she should do next. Was searching for him and thinking about going to Afghanistan an overreaction? She decided she would at least wait to hear back from Karine regarding Zayed. She’d get up after a few hours of sleep and call Karine.
Yup, that one’s a no-brainer. Perhaps I will just stay in Doha. Her intuition grumbled. Jill’s brain went from dancing a jig to a slow waltz. Fog blanketed her thoughts as she began to drift into much-needed deep sleep. Bliss.
Chapter Eight
22:12 Zulu Time—DOHA, QATAR
She couldn’t breathe, her body told her mind, as she was startled awake. Jill tried to fight the strong hand that gripped over her mouth.
“Quiet!” he whispered. It was Zayed. “Someone is coming down the hall. You're in danger.” Jill’s arms pushed hard against his chest and he lifted his weight, releasing her.
“What are you doing? Get the hell off of me,” she hissed.
“We don’t have time,” he said, and without hesitation he handed Jill a gun. In the dark, Jill released the magazine from the Glock, squinted to see the rounds, then jammed it back in. She pulled then released the slide chambering a round. Zayed was dressed in dark black army fatigues similar to the ones Jill had fallen asleep in. Darkness surrounded them in the small room. Instinctively, they both moved to the door, their bodies tense, backed against the wall.
With the tinkle of the lock being picked, the door handle quivered ever so slightly. A man emerged from the light in the hallway. Before Jill could move her brain from thought to recognition, Zayed smacked him over the back of the head with the butt of his gun. The man fell hard.
“Grab your things,” Zayed commanded as he looked at the fallen man. “There will be more coming; we have to get out of here now.”
Jill looked at the time: 1:22 a.m. She grabbed her computer, the small leather pouch, and anything else her eyes revealed in the pitch black. She threw them into her carry-on and they fled silently down the dark fire exit stairs and out of the hotel.
Outside, the cool air was a break from the daytime desert heat, but Jill still wore her clothes from the night before and for that she was thankful. Their boots smacked the side street as they ran into the dark. Jill followed Zayed to a large white Land Cruiser.
“Quick, get in!” Before Jill could slam the door shut, Zayed accelerated. He drove frantically through the stream of parked cars. Their bodies lifted as they hit the large speed bumps at high speed. Out onto the dark street, cars blurred as they passed them. Several turns later, when Zayed slowed, Jill was able to unclench the handle above the door.
With no apology, Zayed began to speak. “I know this man. I recognized him
when he
walked across the parking lot at the hotel.”
“But how did you get into—”
Before Jill could finish asking how he managed to break into her room undetected, Zayed pulled out a key to her room. Feeling slightly violated, she asked who the man was. “You were watching the hotel? Why?”
“You cannot go back to that hotel. You must stay underground. You are in danger.”
“Who the hell was that guy, Zayed? Tell me! And why do you think I am in danger?”
“He is a rebel from the Chechen Mafia. They are running the Al Qaeda cell here in Doha. Guess I am not the only one who is paying for information about you. The question is: What is their interest in you?”
“What were you doing at my hotel? Who are you, Zayed, and where the hell are we going?”
“I have told you already, I am here to help David. Quiet now, just for a few minutes, I’m thinking.”
“Screw you.” Jill felt the gun inside her pants pocket. She looked at Zayed and when he didn’t return her glare, she stared out the window. They were on a highway now, water on her left and desert on her right—it appeared that they were leaving the city.
Jill scrolled her mind, searching her memory for the briefs she had read about the Chechens. Then, the sting of what she recalled made her mouth drop open slightly. Jill remembered David telling her about one of his colleagues at Time who wrote that Matta had refurbished “broken arrows.” When she went to Sven with this information, he seemed to dismiss it as Matta grandstanding. Jill’s research proved him wrong; Matta had indeed purchased twenty live nukes from the Chechen Mafia. It was confirmed in a US State Department brief and was leaked to the international media. The US media failed to cover the story. Even after pressing Sven further on it, he tried to placate Jill. He told her the CIA were saying that the brief was false. She knew it wasn’t and frankly she didn’t know why Sven would attempt to make such a stupid statement. And if it was true, the Chechen Mafia potentially had more nukes for sale.
Jill’s brain began to tick the boxes. LSA, Afghanistan, and now the Chechens. One hell of a story, David, one hell of a story. Jill decided to tell Zayed what she knew about the Mafia and its connection with Matta. With the adrenaline dissipating as they drove along the gloomy streets, Jill wondered if she could trust Zayed with the new information she had received and her decision not to go to Afghanistan. “Fake ‘till you make it, and never let them see you sweat” was her motto. I'm going to take as much from this guy that I can … for now, anyway
“What do you know about the Chechen Mafia?” Jill asked Zayed.
“They are now a growing movement contributing to the Islamic radicalism. They are a powerful organized crime group—drugs, gun running, and sex slavery. Depending on what David was working on, my guess is that they wanted you as a hostage, or something like that. David must have stumbled upon something good—real good.”
Jill thought she heard a hint of a German accent in his words again, for it was the longest he had spoken to her at one time.
“Have you ever heard of the term LSA?”
Zayed noticeably grimaced. “What is it you think you know, Jill?”
Answering a question with a question really pissed her off. His response made her wonder what he knew about the broken arrows and frankly what he even knew about her. Hadn’t David told him what she did for a living … guess not!
“Well, the Chechens and Matta have one thing in common, you know, that whole terrorism war,” Jill said smugly. “It can’t be a coincidence, Zayed.” She wasn’t going to tell him everything she knew. He didn’t say anything, which gnawed at her intuition.
“With the Chechen Mafia’s involvement, now more than ever, I need to find David. I am going to go to Afghanistan.” She didn’t really have a choice, she had finally decided. Then she said it: —“and I need your help.” She would be better off with someone who spoke Arabic. She only hoped that Karine’s search on Zayed turned out positive.
Without so much as a pause, Zayed said, “You need to get out of Doha unnoticed—and now. They’re a big group, Jill; you cannot go to the airport and Qatar is a peninsula. You cannot drive off of it as it goes into Saudi Arabia. They have their connections there and the border will be watched.” Then, in what seemed to be a bizarre suggestion, he added, “We need to go via boat to a place in the United Arab Emirates. I know of a city that we can get through to unnoticed. Port security is next to nothing … Abu Dhabi. Insha’Allah!” He looked over at Jill and said intently, “God willing.”
“Insha’Allah yourself. I am not going anywhere by boat.”
Jill had heard of Abu Dhabi. The amount of reports she had scoured over the years would be enough to fill her office and more. She had seen pictures of Dubai and its grandstanding architecture, but she had not seen many photos of Abu Dhabi.
They sat in silence while Jill’s intuition began to recede. “Do you know someone with a boat? How long would it take us to get there?” Jill asked. Her left hand held the seatbelt strap for support when they made a fast U-turn.
“It is about an eight-hour trip by sea to Abu Dhabi.”
Thinking of the amount of sleep she would miss made her sigh heavily.
“Grab your abaya and put it on.”
Jill reached over the seat, rummaged through her carry-on, and found the black robe. She unclasped her belt and balanced her body on the console, straining to put on all the pieces. Jill looked over her right shoulder and in her peripherals she noticed Zayed had a full view of her ass, bent over the seat. His face was angled ever so slightly in the direction of her butt. She snatched the black cloth and turned back onto the seat.
There were no mirrors, like in the cramped room the woman had helped her to get dressed in before. Jill, unsure what to do next, fumbled with getting the cotton beanie tied correctly. “You need to tie it at the back under your hair,” Zayed attempted to assist. Her body moved forward slightly as the Land Cruiser slowed down. Jill flipped the robe over herself and told him she needed his help with the black veil. They veered around a narrow street, bounced hard over two more speed bumps, rounded a corner, and stopped directly in the midst of a village on the water. Only the moonlight reflecting off the rippling water brought light to the docks.
He pushed the truck out of gear fast. As Jill jumped down from the SUV, her black robe fell over her fatigues, dusting the ground. Zayed went around the front and stood directly in front of her. Jill could feel the heat of his breath on her forehead as he wrapped the scarf around her head. Without moving he said, “I will need to hide the guns; we cannot travel with them.”
Jill agreed, but it made her uneasy. Her hand tangled under the long gown and she pulled the gun out, and handed it to Zayed. The gun looked small in his over-sized hands.
“Stay close to me and don’t speak,” he said, walking toward the boats. He was taller than her, taller than David. He was muscular in a Rambo sort of way, Jill noticed, admiring him from head to toe in his tight attire. Eye candy. She always appreciated a person, whether male or female, who took care of themselves physically. Reaching into the backseat, she grabbed her carry-on and followed Zayed.
Chapter Nine
22:57 Zulu Time—DOHA QATAR
Narrow wooden boats were lined up end to end along the docks. Butted up against each other, they did not look like a boat you would see in North America. The long wooden structures looked like miniature pirate ships and their decks were decorated with outdated electronic equipment, black engine parts, and clothing hung to dry. Water slapped their sides, making them rock gently.
Jill was looking at a fishing village. All along the concrete street and adjoining wooden docks were hundreds of fishing nets that resembled wired igloos piled on top of one another.
People scurried around the boats, getting ready for nighttime fishing. Not far away, she could hear a loud engine trying to start. It went out with a loud backfire followed by the sounds of the effort being repeated.
All the boats looked t
he same. Each had a long pointy nose and a double-wide, two-pronged fork at the back end. A cabin, presumably housing the cockpit, was the only structure on the deck. They were stained in a dark brown, except for the three whitewashed tips, and were all about 100 feet long; they looked substantial enough for an eight-hour journey, solid on the water.
This can’t be the boat Zayed had mentioned to me?
Noticing Jill had stopped keeping pace, Zayed glanced back at her. She could tell by his look that these boats were what he intended to travel on. She gawked at the run-down condition of the vessels, and his firm look answered her question.
“How are we going to get anywhere in this type of boat?” she said pointedly.
Zayed waved his hand and then closed his fingers upwards. Begrudgingly, Jill kept quiet.
Walking along the breakwater, they moved towards the second-to-last dock. The small Indians working on the ships did not glance their way for fear of retribution. It wasn’t polite to stare at a woman in an abaya and even less polite if you were a laborer imported to work.
The moonlight lit a feeble passageway and they sidestepped the shadows down the unsteady plank onto the dock. Passing one boat after another, Jill was thankful that the boat she’d just passed wasn’t the one taking them to Abu Dhabi.
Zayed didn’t seem to notice or care as he stopped directly in front of the last boat on the end of the rickety, cracked dock. An unsettling feeling flittered in Jill’s stomach when he motioned her to stop. Pussyfooting down the long scanty plank alongside the wooden ship, he yelled something Arabic up to the cockpit. An Indian man dressed in navy blue slacks and a pressed white shirt appeared from a compact door. The window on the door reflected a moonbeam as Zayed began to speak slowly to him. After several minutes of discussion, the Indian pulled out a phone from his breast pocket, dialed, and began speaking in a different language. Hindi or Urdu, Jill didn't know for sure, as he glanced over at her. Flipping the phone shut, waggled his head from side to side and said, “No problem boss.”
Jill Oliver Deception Thrillers Page 8