Enemy of Mine pl-3

by Brad Taylor

  “All right. I’m going to get Samir. We’ll go to the hotel and see what we can find out. I’ll send Decoy and Brett up to Samir’s house. They can hole up with the Hezbollah guys until we get back.”

  “What then?”

  “We get out of here. One way or another.”

  44

  The hotel was a small, boutique affair with less than fifteen rooms that catered to frugal travelers. It was clean, with a utilitarian lobby that was only thirty feet across. The receptionist was almost fawning at first, probably because they’d lost a ton of tourism dollars due to the upheavals in the Arab world and thought we were looking for a place to stay. As soon as we began asking questions about Lucas, using his Canadian identity, her demeanor shifted. She gave us the usual stonewall about not being able to discuss guests for privacy reasons, but she looked fearful, glancing at a door to her rear as if she hoped someone would bail her out of the conversation. He’s been here, and something happened.

  I was about to request to talk to a manager when Samir touched my arm. I thanked the woman and backed off. Samir motioned toward the exit, and we followed him. He approached a young man of about nineteen or twenty, filling up a mop bucket. The boy smiled and shook Samir’s hand. They held a conversation for about three minutes in Arabic. When it was done, Samir pulled us aside.

  “He’s a cousin of my wife. Your Infidel was here. He checked out yesterday morning, early. He also raped a woman in his room. A university student and the daughter of a very influential businessman. The maid found her tied to the bed when she came to clean. The family has ordered the entire episode to be kept secret, to save the daughter’s honor. That’s why the receptionist was acting the way she was.”

  “Does he know who she is?”

  “Yes, he goes to the university with her, that’s how he knows her. He saw her leaving the hotel that morning, crying.”

  “Where can we find her?”

  “Pike, I don’t think this is something we want to dig around in. It could cause trouble. The family is a powerful Sunni one.”

  “Just ask him.”

  He stepped over and exchanged some words, then came back.

  “He gave me a cafe she frequents during the day. He said she’ll have classes starting in about an hour and might be there because the family has ordered her to act naturally, like nothing has happened. They don’t want any questions that could lead to her dishonor. Her name is Fatima Ruzami.”

  “Okay, get us to the cafe and have him point her out. Only Jennifer and I will go in. She’ll clam up if she has to talk in front of a Lebanese, but maybe not to some Westerners. Especially another woman.”

  The cafe was only a few minutes away, which was good, because we were now driving around like a circus car stuffed with clowns. Knuckles dropped us outside, and I had the cousin lead the way. The cafe had several tables lining the sidewalk left and right of the entrance, most empty. Before we reached the door, he pointed to a woman sitting alone at the farthest table outside, a small espresso in front of her.

  “That’s her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks for the help. You need a ride back to the hotel?”

  “No thank you. I’ll walk.”

  I waited until he disappeared, studying the woman. She was clearly attractive, with long, black hair and a trim figure. She was wearing stylish Western clothing and dark sunglasses. She remained still, not touching her espresso or looking around.

  Jennifer said, “Let me start the conversation.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Let’s go.”

  She didn’t react to us until we’d actually sat down, me across the table and Jennifer next to her.

  Jennifer gave her a warm smile and said, “Hello, Fatima. Don’t be alarmed. We’re friends.”

  Fatima started at her name and made a move to stand. Jennifer put a hand on her arm and said, “Please, Fatima, we know what happened to you. We aren’t here to cause you trouble. We’re here to catch the man who did it. Outside of Lebanon. Nobody will know we talked.”

  She sat back down, but said nothing.

  “This is Pike, and I’m Jennifer.”

  She looked at me, then at Jennifer, but remained mute. I would have liked to read her eyes, but was prevented by her large sunglasses.

  Jennifer continued, placing her hand over Fatima’s on the table. “I know a little about what you’re going through. I had a husband who beat me. I was able to get some payback and want to do the same for you.”

  Fatima sniffled, then removed her sunglasses to wipe away the beginnings of a tear. Her right eye was swollen and purple, the white inside bloodshot. That son of a bitch.

  She said, “My family won’t let me talk. They won’t do anything. My honor is more important than catching this monster.” She spat the word honor with disgust.

  Jennifer reached out and grasped her other hand, squeezing tightly. I could see tears starting to form in her eyes as well, and I knew it wasn’t an act.

  “Help us. Can you tell us anything at all? Did he talk about hotels, where he had been or where he was going? Did you see any receipts, anything like that?”

  “No. There was no time. I went back to his room for a cup of coffee, and he attacked me immediately. He hit me, then he tore my clothes off. I fought him, but…he threw me on the bed. He…he…” She broke down, sobbing with her head in her chest.

  Jennifer said, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  I spoke for the first time. “How did you meet? Was this the only time you had seen him?”

  “Yes. I was at a disco with girlfriends from the university. My phone buzzed, and there was a text. It was from him. My girlfriends had given my number to him, and I thought it was cute for him to introduce himself that way. Imaginative, unlike the usual things I see. He was handsome, so I texted back. We texted back and forth for a while, then he approached. He was charming and friendly. At first. I wish I’d forgotten my phone that night. He would have picked someone else.”

  I was trying to think of another line of questioning when what she said sent a bolt of adrenaline through me.

  “He texted you? That night?”

  His Hezbollah phone had been dead for more than forty-eight hours, which meant it was another phone.

  “Yes.”

  I asked, “Do you still have this text?” And held my breath.

  A sharp laugh escaped. “Yes. I was going to turn it over to the police, when I thought anyone cared about justice.”

  She pulled out her phone and showed me the text. With an international number tied to it.

  Bingo.

  45

  You were just here two days ago. And you’re coming back?”

  Lucas Kane gave his most relaxing smile, knowing that no matter what he did, it would look insincere. He just couldn’t get the smile to reach his eyes, as if he actually gave a shit. Which was fine with him. He could turn the smile into something that scared hardened men if it came to it, and he had nothing to hide at Dubai immigration. Yet.

  “Yes. I was called away to Qatar suddenly for business. A little emergency that turned out to be nothing. Now I’m back.”

  The official studied his passport as if he could glean the secrets of what Lucas had been doing the past forty-eight hours. Lucas inwardly grinned. The man was trying to find something to stop him. Some reason to harass him simply because he didn’t like Lucas’s shark teeth. He would shit his pants if he knew what I’ve been up to. And what I’m going to do.

  Two days ago, he’d flown into Dubai just long enough to bribe the hawaladar, giving him a briefcase embedded with a beacon. It had taken some work, but he’d disassembled a GPS-enabled cell phone to its bare components, concealing it in a false bottom of an old leather hardside. He’d paid the guy handsomely to use the briefcase to deliver the money to the Ghost. After that, he’d only had two hours to spare before his flight to Qatar and had used it to find a secure meeting site for his Hezbollah contact. Secure in the sense it would keep him ali
ve.

  “What business are you in?” asked the official.

  “Pest control. I’m consulting with hotels here and in Qatar.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “The Al Bustan Rotana.”

  The official had him look into the camera-stalk for a picture and stamped his passport, grudgingly giving it back. Man, they’ve got more photos of me than the Enquirer does of Angelina Jolie. Last time I’ll set foot in this country.

  He passed through customs, collected his rental, and took the short drive to the Al Bustan Rotana Hotel just east of the airport. The midday sun was blistering, causing his sunglasses to fog on the brief walk from the parking garage to the lobby.

  Inside, he could see the early preparations beginning for the envoy’s visit. Metal detectors were in place on the front door, but not yet operational, and one bank of elevators was undergoing some sort of inspection. Checking into his suite on the fourth floor, he played stupid when the receptionist directed him to the south bank of elevators, asking why. He acted surprised when told of the arrival of the U.S. delegation, saying, “I hope it won’t cause too big a disruption.”

  She said, “As long as you stay on the south side, you’ll be fine. The delegation has the entire northeast wing of the fourth floor. Please avoid it for security reasons.”

  He hadn’t purposely asked for a room on the same floor, but was pleased it had worked out that way. If the Ghost planned an attack here, it would be better to be closer, although he didn’t see any way that could happen. The hotel would be a fortress in two days.

  Inside his suite, he immediately connected to the Internet on a tablet computer, bringing up the track of his beacon. The Ghost had taken the briefcase earlier this morning, and the track showed him inside the spice souk in Deira old city, right on the banks of the Dubai Creek. The beacon had remained there for six hours. Clearly, he didn’t have the briefcase with him, which was expected. All Lucas wanted was a start point. He had plenty of time to work with. The Ghost surely had a plan and would begin implementing it, but the envoy wasn’t due for three days. Plenty of time to develop a pattern of life and eliminate the threat.

  The souk posed a problem, though. It was a place that would prevent him from conducting surveillance for any length of time. He’d be able to blend in with the usual jerk-off tourists, but couldn’t hang around without drawing attention. He knew from experience that areas like this were transitory in nature, with a constant flow of people. Tourists wouldn’t get a second glance. As long as they moved on. Attempting to maintain surveillance on the stairwell of the beacon location would invite scrutiny that would be remembered by the locals manning the stalls.

  He shut down the tablet and thought about his options. The kill would have to be quiet. Someplace that would allow him to escape Dubai before the body was found. Which, given the enormous number of cameras all over the damn city, meant jerking the Ghost into a van or some other vehicle. It also meant he’d need help, but that was okay. He’d already planned for that and alerted the Hezbollah contacts here. He just didn’t know if they were still on his side.

  He’d had no trouble in Qatar, getting explosives from a Hezbollah cell that was eager to help, but that had been more than twenty-four hours ago. No telling what had come about during that time. He had two hours before the meeting he’d established, but decided to go early to see if he could catch anyone setting up. Better to be prepared.

  He left his rental in the garage and took a cab to the Dubai Mall, a monstrous shopping center that housed everything from high-end jewelry stores to an indoor aquarium.

  In order to ensure his safety, he needed a meeting spot in a crowded location that allowed him to blend in. Some place where the preponderance of people weren’t Arabic. On his reconnaissance two days ago, the Dubai Mall had fit the bill. Frequented by tourists and expats from Europe and Asia, he would have no trouble wandering around without drawing attention.

  Finding the operational setting, he had begun to search for the tactical components he needed. A place that had a single chokepoint, allowing him to identify his contact before the meeting. He had found it in the indoor aquarium.

  Like everything in Dubai, from the towering Burj Khalifa next door to the indoor ski slope a few miles away, the aquarium had its own “best” pedigree, with the largest plate of acrylic viewing-glass in the world. Lucas didn’t give a shit about Dubai’s endless attempts to set another record, but he had liked the entrance of the ticket counter that channeled everyone into the aquarium.

  He took a seat at an ice-cream shop across from the admission counter, ordered a sundae, and waited. Thirty minutes before the meet he saw two Arab men approach the ticket booth. Both were dressed in Western clothing, like everyone else entering the aquarium. They stood out anyway, as most of the patrons were Western tourists or Arabic families with children. They didn’t talk to each other in line, like the other patrons, but instead nervously swiveled their heads left and right, as if they were afraid a pickpocket was on the prowl.

  Strike one.

  The instructions had specifically stated the contact should come alone. The fact that two men were together didn’t necessarily mean that something was amiss, since Lucas had no idea what the contact looked like, but it certainly amped things up a bit.

  One of the men was rail-thin, with a long neck that showcased a large Adam’s apple. The other had a pudgy gut held in by sweatpants, giving the man the appearance of a couch potato. Observing closer, Lucas saw long, powerful arms that belied the first impression, reminding him of a gorilla. Sinister and simian.

  Lucas waited until the meeting was two minutes out, seeing four other possible contacts entering as singletons. It looked like he’d been wrong about the demographics, with more single Arabs entering the aquarium than he’d predicted. There was no way they were all out to get him, and one of them was the contact.

  Only one way to find out.

  46

  Lucas entered the aquarium. Ignoring the displays to his left and right, he wound around to the back, threading through the throngs of people. He saw two of the singletons gazing at fish tanks and discounted them. Reaching the rear, he glanced at his watch, then burned thirty seconds at a souvenir kiosk, pretending to look at trinkets, but really eyeballing a stairwell. Nobody went up except kids.

  Lucas’s final tactical consideration for the meet had been a location that prevented anyone from closing on him while he was conducting it. A secure area that allowed him to observe those around him without announcing he was conducting any business. He’d located it in a rope bridge that traversed throughout the aquarium. Hanging just below the roof and connected to faux trees from a simulated rain forest, it facilitated unobstructed views to the pathways of the aquarium below and canalized anyone approaching by restricting them to the rope bridge itself.

  At ten seconds out, he mounted the stairs, brushing past children bouncing up and down on the bridge. Ahead, at the first anchor tree, the skinny man with the Adam’s apple leaned on the ropes of the bridge, looking down. He held a metro schedule in his right hand.

  Right time, right place, right bona fides. His chubby partner was nowhere to be seen. Lucas approached and said, “This mall is amazing.”

  The man started, then, in a stilted voice that spat out syllables like a metronome, said, “It is the largest in the world.”

  Lucas grinned at his pathetic delivery and held out his hand. After they shook, he said, “I’m the Infidel, and I understand you can help me.”

  The contact nodded nervously, and Lucas returned to watching the mass of people below. In short order, he found the chubby man simply because he wasn’t moving. Another reason Lucas had picked this location. Anyone conducting surveillance would be sifted as the rest of the patrons walked through the aquarium, standing out like a rock against the water of a stream.

  Lucas continued, not looking at the contact. “The mission for you is threefold, but simple. One, I need weapons. Nothing fancy. A
pistol will do. Two, I need you to stake out a place in one of the Deira souks and alert me when a man leaves. Three, I need a van and you to drive it. Can you do this?”

  “Yes. Yes, I can. In fact, I have a van right here at the mall. I would prefer to finish the discussion there.”

  Lucas agreed. He didn’t mind giving specifics of the mission. If the contact was truly going to help, he would have to know who he was hunting. If he wasn’t, he would be dead.

  They walked to the parking-garage exit, near the entrance to the Burj Khalifa observation deck, the chubby man nowhere in sight.

  They reached a dented white cargo van, no windows on the sides and enough dust on the rear to prevent anyone from seeing inside. As they approached, Lucas studied the surroundings. The van sat by itself, rows back from more convenient parking spots closer to the mall entrance. Looking at the walls and ceilings, Lucas realized the spot had been picked because it was outside of any surveillance cameras.

  Strike two.

  Appearing as if he sensed nothing amiss, he entered the passenger seat. The contact circled to the driver’s seat, his eyes wide, a thin film of sweat on his upper lip. He attempted to smile, but failed. He said, “Show me on a map where you wish me to find your target.”

  He reached behind the seat, and Lucas considered killing him outright. He decided to wait. He needed the help and wasn’t absolutely convinced the man intended harm. When the contact faced back around he held an ancient revolver.

  Shit. Strike three.

  Instead of fear, Lucas felt disappointment. His mission had just become much harder to accomplish.

  He said, “I suppose we’re now waiting on your friend.”

  The contact’s face went white, his hand shaking so much the barrel of the revolver twitched. “I know about you. I was told of your skills. Get in the back. Now.”