The Thin Black Line

by Simon Gervais

  “Cover me, sir. I’ll try to hotwire the car,” Justin said before using the butt of his MP5 to break the window.

  Powell kept his pistol toward the SUV, hoping to hear the old Toyota’s engine start. Instead, he heard gurgling sounds that sent shivers down his spine. Powell turned toward the noise only to see his bodyguard on his knees clutching his neck with his two hands. Behind him, holding a silenced AK-47, stood an Arabic-looking man with blue eyes.

  “Drop your pistol, Ambassador,” the man said.

  Ray looked at his pistol, then at the MP5 lying next to his dying bodyguard.

  “Don’t even think about it, Ambassador. You’ll be dead long before you can squeeze that trigger.”

  Powell swallowed hard. He’d been played.

  Suddenly, he understood why the Sheik was in Algiers.

  He’s here because of me! He must have learned about my meeting, somehow.

  The Sheik had been a step in front of him the whole time. He had lured him into a corner. Powell was aware he was to be taken alive. They would have killed him already if murdering him had been their objective. But Powell had seen too many diplomats get their heads cut off. He wouldn’t be taken alive. He’d go down his way. Fighting.

  As Powell brought his pistol up toward the man, his mind flashed back to the softness of his wife’s skin and the fishing trip in Maine he’d always wanted to take with his son. But this is as far as his thoughts went, for the man with the blue eyes had been right; there was no time to pull the trigger before something sharp cut through his flesh with tremendous force. Then blackness enveloped him.

  PART 1

  CHAPTER 1

  Macdonald-Cartier International Airport

  Ottawa, Ontario

  Asad Wafid entered the airport and cursed the brisk spring air. Rubbing his hands together in an attempt to warm them up, he hurried to the Air Canada reservation counter, where a return ticket for his flight to Washington, DC, was waiting for him. It didn’t matter that he’d lived here for five long years; he couldn’t get used to the cold. The winter months, which never seemed to end, were once again on their way to swallow the first few weeks of spring. But the terrible weather was just a small impediment compared to actually living among the inconsiderate women who didn’t mind exposing their flesh in public. Even worst were their fathers and husbands; they were the ones unable to control them. That behavior would have never been allowed in his household back in Pakistan.

  I would have taught them proper respect.

  Obedience.

  Total obedience.

  Wafid wondered for a moment if he would have accepted the mission knowing what he knew now about the infidels populating this Godforsaken country.

  Yes, I would. The Sheik chose me.

  To be selected by the Sheik had been a surprise. Or was it? Deep down, Wafid had always known he was unique. His years with Pakistan’s Inter-Service Intelligence had been worthwhile, after all. The two weeks he’d spent in jail for beating to death a subordinate who had refused to comply with a direct order had certainly helped him to get noticed by the Sheik. He must have seen something special in me, or else he never would have brokered the deal for my release.

  “May I help you, sir?” the lady at the counter asked, breaking his reverie.

  “Yes, of course. I’m here to pick up my ticket to Washington, DC. My name is Ziad Saab.”

  “Can I see your passport?”

  Wafid handed it to her. A forged one.

  Getting into Canada had been easy for Wafid and his crew. People from Iran, Libya, Pakistan, and even Afghanistan could claim refugee status and get new identities on the black market within weeks. If they never showed up at their immigration hearings, their names would simply be placed alongside those of the thousands of other illegal immigrants that entered Canada each year, never to be seen or heard from again. In this way, Wafid’s entire network had been operating under the radar for years. And God willing, today would be the day they would finally collect the benefits of their hard work.

  “Any luggage to check in, Mr. Saab?”

  “No, thank you. I only have my carry-on,” Wafid said pointing to the black suitcase next to him.

  “You’re all set then,” the counter lady said, handing Wafid his ticket. “Enjoy your flight.”

  Wafid smiled, forcing himself to be pleasant before walking away. Does she really think sporting a scarf around her neck makes her attractive?

  A subtle bing emanating from his phone indicated he had a message waiting.

  Wafid looked at his screen and read the communication: We’re in. No problem.

  Good, he thought. We’re only missing two.

  Wafid looked at his watch, and for the thousandth time that morning, his mind wandered to his brothers in faith: Muhammad Hassan and Masri Fadl. Where were they? He had worked for months to ensure that nothing would go wrong on this day, but his plan would fall apart without those two peons.

  If they didn’t arrive soon, he would kill them himself before they had a chance to be sent to paradise as heroes. He picked up his phone and dialed Fadl’s number.

  ―

  Muhammad Hassan and Masri Fadl arrived at the airport thirty minutes late. Nervous and shaking, Hassan had taken a wrong turn en route and had gotten stuck in traffic trying to find his way back to the airport. They parked their car in the long-term parking lot and hurried inside the terminal.

  As they passed through the automatic doors, Fadl’s cell phone started to vibrate. He answered it, and, after listening for a minute, he hung up without saying a word.

  “That was Wafid. We must go through the last security checkpoint on the right and ask for a private search, Hassan. Believers are manning that security lane. That’s where our brothers went through, and they were able to pass all their equipment without any problems.”

  Hassan nodded stiffly. He was still shaking and didn’t trust his own voice.

  “Now, we do as we planned, and we go our separate ways,” continued Fadl. “We’ll see each other in paradise, my brother. Allah Akbar!”

  “Allah is with us today, my brother,” Hassan finally managed. “May all blessings be upon him and his Prophet.” He nodded once in farewell to his longtime friend, then headed left while Fadl went right. He began to go over the plan one final time in his head.

  Over four months of preparation had been needed to make sure that this day would work perfectly. Setting it up had actually been quite simple once the proper airport security officials had been bribed. Wafid had already accomplished the hardest of the tasks—facilitating their entry into the secure side of the airport. In fact, Wafid had recruited the employees that were now manning the security lane that Hassan was waiting to enter. Of course, the low-paid security agents had absolutely no idea that the money they received was coming from the Sheik’s terror network; they thought they were closing their eyes to no more than illegal drugs.

  Now all Hassan and Fadl had to do was take possession of the aircraft with the help of Wafid and his crew. By the time the bribed security guards at Ottawa International Airport learned that they’d let six terrorists armed with automatic weapons and grenades go through their checkpoint, it would be much too late.

  CHAPTER 2

  Macdonald-Cartier International Airport

  To: Inspector Robert McFiella OIC/RCMP APOFU

  From: Inspector Myles Gregory OIC INSET Ottawa

  Robert,

  We just got a report from Ben Cohen of Air Canada Security that four Middle Eastern passengers purchased last-minute tickets for Air Canada Flight 7662 Ottawa–Washington, DC. They were booked separately but by the same travel agency. Their names were run through our databases, but nothing came up.

  Knowing that you have two air marshals onboard this flight, we checked the rest of the passenger list for anything suspicious and found that two Saudi
nationals are also on the flight, and they only have one-way tickets. Both are in Canada under student visas that will expire in two days. Their names are Muhammad Hassan and Masri Fadl. Technically, they’re still in Canada legally, but I contacted our INSET team in Toronto to follow them on arrival for the next forty-eight hours to see if they will depart Canada or not.

  To help your officers identify them, I’ve attached the passport pictures of Hassan and Fadl, as well as their seat assignments for Flight 7662.

  Myles

  The note was short but to the point. The threat level for their flight to Washington, DC, had been upgraded to “High.” As a member of the federal air marshal program of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Sergeant Mike Powell was used to this kind of message.

  More often than not, the passengers mentioned in these notes had triggered an early warning detector embedded within the airline reservation software. Whether they had paid for their tickets with cash, had purchased one-way fares, or had done a multitude of other things the computers were looking for, it didn’t matter to Mike. He would treat this piece of information seriously. He always did.

  As he stood in the main terminal of Ottawa International Airport, his eyes were in constant motion. The long hallways were packed with passengers, as everybody was either going back home or visiting family for the Easter weekend. On his left he’d noticed an army captain with a black backpack sipping a cup of chain-restaurant coffee. To his right, a nice family with three young children was eating their breakfast burritos while chatting about their upcoming trip. The excited laughs of the children brought a rare smile to Mike’s lips as he remembered his daughter, Melissa, doing the same thing three weeks ago prior to their flight to Mexico.

  Before putting his secured Blackberry away, Mike read the message once again.

  After affixing the pictures of Hassan and Fadl in his mind, Mike replaced his phone in his pocket.

  While most of messages were somewhat similar to this one, this particular communication was the first with such a textbook scenario. Mike didn’t like the idea of an attack in his own backward but couldn’t help enjoying the adrenaline rush such thoughts provided.

  It would be a lie to pretend he didn’t wish to kill a terrorist or two. Since his father’s kidnapping exactly two years ago today, he’d craved revenge. Not only for himself, but also for all the pain the loss had caused his mother. It was one thing to lose a loved one in battle; it was another to have someone you love taken away from you and knowing this person was being tortured.

  A wave of nausea passed through Mike as he remembered the terrible day he learned his father was still alive.

  His mother, usually so composed, had called him early in the morning, yelling for him to come over. When he’d opened the front door of her luxurious downtown condo, his mother had been holding a knife to her throat.

  “Mom?”

  “I can’t take it anymore, Mike,” his mother had said. The hand holding the butcher knife was shaking. Her whole body was shaking.

  “What’s going on, Mom?” he said a lump in his throat.

  “Why don’t they fucking kill him? Why don’t they kill him, for God’s sake!” his mother screamed before collapsing on the hardwood floor. Mike ran to her and picked her up off the floor. Tears were flowing down her cheeks. “I can’t sleep anymore, Michael,” she murmured in his ear. “The only thing I dream of are the pictures.”

  “What pictures, Mom?”

  “Your father’s.”

  The first picture, or proof of life, had come two weeks after his father’s abduction. Then another followed suit every second Friday. The Sheik had sent them directly to the home of Mike’s mother in Ottawa. A note attached to each picture commanded that it was only for her, not to be shared with anyone else unless she wanted her husband to suffer an atrocious death.

  At first, he hadn’t understood why she was crying. Proof of life was a good thing, right? It meant that his father was alive. But when his eyes gripped the cruelty of the pictures, even Mike had to hold on to the table. His father’s features were barely recognizable. His face, unwashed, was so swollen that his left eye couldn’t possibly open. Another picture showed a severed finger, his father’s wedding ring still in place. The only thing that had kept him from loosing his mind was the knowledge that he needed to stay strong for his mother. Later that day, Mike’s mother, Celina, accepted his invitation to move in with him and his family. Mike was still angry with himself for not asking his mother to live with them sooner. Celina’s health was better now, but Mike highly doubted that anything less than the Sheik’s head would make her happy.

  ―

  Seated near Gate 17, in a manner that allowed him to observe most of the passengers who would shortly be boarding his flight, Mike glanced at his partner, Staff Sergeant Paul Robichaud, who was sitting close to the Air Canada ticket desk.

  Robichaud was a twenty-three-year veteran of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and former member of the Emergency Response Unit of the Integrated National Security Enforcement Team, or INSET, the semi-covert unit of the RCMP tasked with acquiring and analyzing intelligence regarding terrorist threats. He was more than just Mike’s partner. He was his mentor.

  As Robichaud had said several times before, he had seen a younger version of himself in Mike the moment they’d met at the high-pressure INSET selection training four years ago. Mike, with Robichaud’s support, had been recommended to the INSET unit after only five years of service with the RCMP. His previous service spent as an infantry officer within the elite Canadian Special Operations Regiment had helped. Plus, the experience he’d earned leading combat operations in Afghanistan had given him an edge that none of the other candidates possessed. On average, less than fifty percent made it through the training, but Mike had excelled in all quadrants and had even broken all the shooting scores—including the ones held by Robichaud.

  As Mike’s gaze rove among the passengers, his Blackberry started to vibrate. After entering his twelve-digit password, he opened his most recent e-mail:

  To Mike and Paul: Please be advised I sent Agent Zima Bernbaum to back you up. She’s our new liaison officer from the Canadian Security Intelligence Service.2 Her instructions are to remain covert and to act as an extra pair of eyes. You’ve never met her, so I’ve attached her photograph.

  Mike gasped when he saw the picture. I know her! His wife, Lisa, had met her in Toronto while taking jujitsu classes. They’d quickly become best friends and salsa dancing buddies. Mike, who’d be working long hours, never had the chance to really know her except for the occasional dinner. He knew his wife had kept in touch with Zima after their move to Ottawa and had even spent a girls-only weekend getaway in Las Vegas a few years back. Mike vaguely remembered his wife telling him Zima had accepted a position as an auditor of cultural content at a museum.

  Great cover for a CSIS agent, thought Mike. I’m wondering what Lisa will say when I tell her Zima’s CSIS.

  Mike stood up and slowly started to walk across the waiting area, scanning the section around Gate 17 to spot any of the six Arabic passengers. He saw no sign of them. He entered the men’s restroom to check if anyone was hiding. Remaining anonymous, he strolled to the sinks and glanced at the stalls behind him in the mirror. He had let his black hair grow a little longer since he had left ERT. His hair was now in a controlled freestyle that required nothing but a little hair gel and a good shake in the morning. At five foot ten inches, Mike was not tall, but he carried his 190-pound frame easily. He was proud to say that at thirty-eight years old, he was in the best shape of his life.

  He smoothed his navy herringbone suit and blue dress shirt from Savile Row. Mike looked the part of the rich executive he was using as a cover for today’s flight. But if anyone were to look closely at him, they would see that amid his tanned skin and slightly crooked nose, his piercing green eyes did not miss anything. His movements were light b
ut precise, and a contagious energy surrounded him.

  Mike spied no sign of movement after thirty seconds. He purposely dropped his Montblanc pen on the tiled floor, and the sound echoed through the space. As he bent to pick it up, he quickly scanned every stall. Nobody. He was in the process of exiting the restroom when his Blackberry vibrated twice.

  “Yes?”

  “Mike, it’s Paul here. Anything suspicious your way?”

  “I just checked the restrooms. They’re not in there.”

  “They still haven’t shown at the gate either.”

  “That’s strange,” said Mike. “Their flight boards in two minutes. What should we do?”

  “I’ll board first and get to my seat to get a good view of every single passenger getting on that plane. You board last. That way we won’t miss them if they are, in fact, on this flight. And why don’t you call Zima? Use her to cover more ground,” instructed Robichaud.

  “Sounds good,” said Mike before ending the call. He refocused on the crowd milling about the gate as he dialed Zima’s number. He wanted to know if she was in the area in case he and Robichaud needed assistance.

  “Yes? This is Zima.” Her voice was soft and gentle.

  “Hey, Zima, it’s Mike Powell.”

  “Hi, Mike. It seems like we’ll be working together on this one.”

  “The museum knows you’re here?” he asked, a big smile on his lips.

  He heard Zima’s laughter across the line. “C’mon, Mike, you know how these gigs work.”

  “Just pulling your leg, Zima. How are you?”

  “Living the dream,” she replied. “How’s Lisa?”

  “She’s doing great. I’ll see her later this afternoon. You should call her. I know she’d love to speak with you,” Mike said before getting back to business. “Are you at the airport yet?”