The man he had observed was moving in a position to cover his female partner, who had surprisingly incapacitated Alavi. Al-Nashwan instantly leveled his .22 caliber pistol and fired a round at his target’s skull.
―
Keeping his firearm pointed in the general direction of the threat, Mike was about to position himself to properly cover her when he saw movement in his peripheral vision. Sensing danger, he turned to face the new threat just as the subsonic round that Omar Al-Nashwan fired from his suppressed pistol flew past the exact same place his head had been a quarter of a second earlier. Mike returned fire five times, but the man who’d shot at him was fast and had already sought cover behind the stone wall of the building. Dropping to his knees, he pivoted toward Alavi, who was now on his feet armed with a pistol. Zima, meanwhile, was running away toward Rue des Douaniers. Mike pulled the trigger instinctively before rolling to his right. His round hit Alavi’s firearm, knocking it out of his hands.
Two bullets passing mere inches from his head forced Mike to reengage the other terrorist even though he could see from the corner of his eye that Alavi was escaping. Mike fired six times to cover his retreat, then sprinted out of the danger zone. He heard the whizzing sound of another round passing inches from his ear, followed a nanosecond later by a metallic chime as the bullet impacted one of the cars parked in the street. Reaching safety on Rue des Douaniers, he peeked right and saw Alavi already more than fifty meters away, running for his life. For a second, he was tempted to go after him but changed his mind and headed after Zima instead.
―
Seconds after turning the corner, Zima glanced behind her but didn’t see anyone pursuing her. Though she felt guilty about leaving Mike by himself against two armed men, she kept running anyhow. What could she do? She was unarmed.
Damn it! It wasn’t like her to run away. She stopped and was about to hurry back into the firefight when she saw Mike sprinting in her direction.
―
On Rue Mozart, Alavi had run a loop around the block. His nose was still bleeding profusely, and Al-Nashwan could see that his ego had been damaged as well. A woman had dropped him, and he wanted revenge.
“Let me go after her,” Alavi said in Arabic, picking up his damaged MAS G1.
“Look at you, Mohammad,” said Al-Nashwan. “Would it be wise?”
Alavi grunted in response. He knew Al-Nashwan was right.
“But she saw your face,” Alavi insisted.
“Yes, she did, but she doesn’t know who I am. My face isn’t in any of their databases. Follow me. We’re leaving.”
Alavi, holding a tissue to his nose, followed Al-Nashwan to his car and sat himself in the passenger seat. Moments later they were on their way to Spain.
―
“Follow me, Zima,” Mike said, running past her. “We have a pickup point two hundred meters north of here.”
Without turning to look, Mike could hear Zima’s footsteps behind him.
“Support Six, Support Six, are you in position?” Mike asked.
“Support Six is in position and ready to receive,” he heard back.
Mike saw the Mercedes van a few seconds later and continued to sprint toward it. The side door opened when he was less than five meters away. He jumped in, followed closely by Zima. As soon as they were inside, the door closed, and the Mercedes accelerated away.
“Hello, Zima,” Mike said, out of breath.
“What the fuck?” Zima replied, panting as well.
A Support Six member put his finger to his lips, silencing them. The next twenty minutes were spent in silence as Support Six listened for any alerts that might have been given about Mike or Zima. Once convinced they were in the clear, at least for the moment, the same man who had asked them to be quiet walked toward them. “Where to, boss?” he asked, handing each of them a water bottle.
“Barcelona,” replied Mike between two gulps of water. “She needs to get out of here as soon as possible.”
The man looked at his watch. “Barcelona is about one hundred and seventy kilometers away. We should be there within three hours.”
When the man had retreated behind his laptop, Mike looked at Zima.
“It’s a long story,” he said.
“We have three hours,” Zima pointed out reasonably.
“It’s complicated, and to be blunt, I’m not sure I’m allowed to tell you anything. You being here is already a huge break in protocol.”
Zima smiled at him and touched his cheek with her hand. “I’m glad to see you, Mike. The surgeons did a great job, but I would recognize you anywhere. I thought you were dead,” she said. “And, for what it’s worth, I’m happy you got involved. You saved my life back there.”
Mike cracked a smile as well. “Me too, Zima. It’s nice to see you. I’m sorry if I sound like a cold-hearted son of a bitch. The people I work for are very secretive.”
Zima nodded. “Is Lisa alive?”
Mike thought about his answer and what exactly he could reveal. But Zima insisted. “Is my friend alive, Mike?”
He didn’t have the courage to lie to her. And for what, really? She was one of the good guys too. “Yes, she is,” Mike answered. “And I know she’d love to see you.”
Zima was clearly relieved, and Mike could see she was fighting back tears. Then suddenly she jumped on him and hugged him. “How is she? I read that newspaper article, you know?”
“She’s okay, I guess,” Mike replied. This ain’t the time to get into specifics, he decided.
“Give her my best, will you?”
“Of course,” said Mike.
Mike pondered his next words carefully. He didn’t want to look like he was being aggressive, but he needed to make his point. “Listen to me carefully, Zima,” he said, grabbing both of her hands. “You can’t tell anyone you saw me. Not a word about me or my team.”
He could see Zima thinking about it. In a certain way, he trusted her. Whatever she was going to reply, he knew she would do it.
“Sure. I’ll keep my mouth shut,” she said, looking around. “Anyway, it looks like we’re on the same team.”
“You want to share notes, then?”
Zima hesitated, but Mike added, “I’ll start.”
“Fine. I’m listening.”
Without compromising IMSI, Mike explained in as many details as he could what led to his confrontation with Mohammad Alavi. When he was done, Zima was shaking her head.
“That’s unreal,” she said. “I think you’ll like what I’ve got.” Zima started with the reasons behind her covert assignment. Mike listened carefully and took notes on a pad he had borrowed from one of the Support Six personnel. When Zima mentioned the break-in inside General Claudel’s residence, Mike asked if she had the drives with her.
“Yeah. I left most of my stuff and the hotel room back in Cerbère, but I’ve got the drives right here in my pocket,” she said, tapping her leg.
“You know my next question, right?”
She retrieved the drives and handed them to Mike.
“I want them back.”
“Of course,” replied Mike. “Thanks for doing that, Zima. We’ll copy them and hand them back to you before we reach Barcelona.”
“You know the RCMP and CSIS will be investigating this thing, right?” asked Zima.
Mike nodded.
“I’m not sure they’ll keep me in the loop, though, you know what I mean?” she continued.
“Not to worry, Zima,” said Mike, understanding too well what she was asking in return. He gave her his notepad and the pen. “Why don’t you tell me how to contact you? I’ll make sure to share what we find with you.”
Zima wrote down her private e-mail address. “Send me a message at this address. Once we make contact, we’ll set up a secure way of communicating.”
“Who knows, maybe one of
these drives will tell us why the minister was killed,” said Mike.
“I have two different theories,” ventured Zima. “Care to hear them?”
“Go ahead,” replied Mike, finishing the last of his water.
“Based on what we’ve discussed earlier, I believe the minister might have been killed to protect the identity of General Claudel.”
“The guy’s dead, Zima,” said Mike. “Why would they try to safeguard his identity?”
“Think about it, Mike,” pressed Zima. “Claudel wasn’t supposed to die. If Alavi and the rest of his cell were successful at detonating their bomb, the general wouldn’t have been exposed and could have remained a powerful conduit for the Sheik’s network.”
Mike thought about what Zima had said for a moment. “Having the number two man of the gendarmerie on your side is a powerful tool for a terror organization,” he agreed. “I understand why the Sheik would go to great lengths to protect his asset. Then again, do you really believe Claudel suspected the minister of having doubts about his integrity? Seems far-fetched to me.”
“I agree it’s a long shot, but it’s a possibility.”
“What’s your second scenario?” asked Mike.
“The minister was killed because of the project he was working on.”
Mike shrugged. “I’m not privy to what he was working on, Zima.”
“Sorry. He was working on an oil pipeline project with the White House. It was supposed to be kept under wraps, but journalists with close ties to a radical environment group found out about it. They published an article, and all of a sudden, everybody knew about it. The president admitted the United States was looking to reduce its dependency on foreign oil, especially from unstable Middle Eastern countries.”
Mike had read at length on this subject. The Persian Gulf represented about twenty-one percent of the Unites States’ total oil imports. While the percentage was a lot less than what most Americans believed, it was still dangerous to send large sums of money to countries neither democratic nor allied with the United States.
“That makes sense,” said Mike.
“With the Canadian energy minister dead, everything will be at a standstill for the foreseeable future,” Zima concluded. “He was the link between the current White House’s administration, the Canadian Parliament, and private interest groups. Without his influence, the pipeline project won’t pass.”
“Interesting theory,” said Mike.
“Sir, for your information, we’ll be in Barcelona in two hours,” said a man in the front passenger seat.
Consulting his watch, Mike said, “Excellent, we’re making great time.”
“You’ll drop me in Barcelona?” asked Zima.
“I’ll be flying home later today,” replied Mike. “You should do the same.”
“I have to. I’ll deliver the flash drives to the analysts.” She gave him a wink. “With some luck, we’ll find something.”
CHAPTER 37
L’Estartit, Spain
The trip south to L’Estartit took them slightly more than one and a half hours. They didn’t talk much. Alavi didn’t know if he should be nervous about the prolonged silence or not. Al-Nashwan was deep in thought, and he knew better than to disturb him.
In his head, he kept replaying the events of the last few hours. He couldn’t pinpoint where he’d gone wrong. He had come very close to being knocked out by a woman and, truth be told, he had been beaten fair and square. His nose would take a while to heal and would probably be permanently crooked. What he didn’t understand was how he had been spotted in the first place.
“It was luck,” said Omar Al-Nashwan quietly.
Alavi emerged from his reverie. “What?”
“I presume you’re thinking about how you were sighted.”
“I was.”
“You’re a great fighter, Mohammad. Throughout the last decade, you’ve proven yourself many times over—not only in combat, but also in the desert as you trained our young recruits. Don’t forget, the Sheik handpicked you personally for that task.”
Mohammad Alavi nodded. He wasn’t sure where this discussion would lead, so he wanted to tread carefully.
“However,” continued Al-Nashwan.
Here it comes, thought Alavi. An acrid taste entered his mouth.
“You were crushed by that woman,” Al-Nashwan went on. “She recognized you, followed you, and put you down. She was an operative of some sort, but she wasn’t from France—of that I’m sure. If she had been, more than one agent would have covered her.”
Alavi looked over at Al-Nashwan questioningly.
“Let’s be honest here, Mohammad. If not for me, you would either be dead or captured.”
“I would have martyred myself before—” began Alavi, but Al-Nashwan gave him a disgusted look.
“Don’t interrupt me again, Mohammad,” Al-Nashwan said with a voice so calm that it sent chills down Alavi’s spine. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking that whatever organization was behind that grab operation isn’t thorough. By now you would probably be in a safe house somewhere in Spain awaiting an extraction team that would smuggle you out of Europe.”
Mohammad Alavi didn’t reply. Al-Nashwan was right. Western intelligence agencies might not have Al-Nashwan’s bio and photos on file, but they did have his.
Looking out the Peugeot’s window, Alavi saw that they were entering the small town of L’Estartit. Wedged between the Montgri Massif and the Mediterranean Sea, the town had been flooded since the mid-1960s with a large influx of European visitors during the summer months. Its uncontrolled growth of hotels and restaurants had caused the town to lose the very charm that had made visitors come in the first place.
Slowly the car threaded its way through the streets and entered the well-protected port. A lot of people were strolling along the docks and picnicking on the promenade that ran parallel to a large beach just west of a marina.
Al-Nashwan parked the Peugeot and used his cell phone to make a call. “We’ve arrived,” he said. “Before you join us, please take care of the car. I’ll leave the key on the passenger-side front tire.”
He closed his cell phone and looked at Alavi. “Follow me, Mohammad. We’re going for a boat ride.”
Alavi exited the car without much enthusiasm. He was still worried about what would happen to him. He followed Al-Nashwan down one of the finger docks. He noted that the docks were in good repair and that many different types of boats were moored in the marina. Some were small express cruisers operated by rental companies, while others were small- and medium-size sailboats and fishing vessels that probably belonged to L’Estartit residents. Several of the big fishing trawlers were most likely used by the professional fishermen who sold their catches to local and regional restaurants.
Alavi was surprised when they stopped at a small inflatable dinghy powered by a thirty-horsepower outboard engine. Al-Nashwan climbed down a small ladder and settled himself within the rubber craft. He yanked on the pull cord to start the engine. It caught on the first try. Al-Nashwan motioned for Alavi to get into the boat while he untied the lines.
The inflatable dinghy was equipped with a central helm and a small captain’s seat but had no other places to sit. Alavi sat on the hard plywood bottom, more anxious than ever. If he were to get shot in the middle of the Mediterranean, so be it. He wouldn’t resist. But he couldn’t help but wonder why Al-Nashwan was going to so much trouble if that was his intention.
Al-Nashwan expertly maneuvered the boat out of its small slip and exited the marina. As soon as they were out of the no-wake zone, he pushed the throttle forward, and the inflatable vessel rapidly gained speed.
The wind was blowing from the north, and the waves were about two feet high, which wasn’t dangerous for most boats. But in the dark and with nowhere to hold onto, Alavi was sure he was about to die. He could feel the
boat’s rough vibrations through his injured nose.
He glanced in Al-Nashwan’s direction and saw for the first time that the other man had a pair of night-vision goggles on. He suddenly felt the boat change course while it gradually reduced its speed. He looked around in the darkness but couldn’t see anything.
This is it, he thought, surprisingly calm. I’ll be shot in the head and fed to the fish.
Al-Nashwan reached for something under the center console. Alavi’s worst fears were confirmed when the moonlight reflected off the barrel of a black pistol pointed directly at him.
“Close your eyes, Mohammad,” ordered Omar Al-Nashwan.
“No,” answered Alavi bravely. “I prefer to keep them open. I don’t want to enter paradise with my eyes closed.”
He heard Al-Nashwan chuckle. “As you wish, Mohammad. As you wish.”
Alavi was blinded by two quick flashes of light coming from the pistol’s muzzle but was surprised that his body didn’t register any pain. He felt himself fall from his seated position and land on his back anyhow.
Lying on his back facing the stars, Alavi sensed that the small boat was again moving. After a few seconds, Al-Nashwan’s voice penetrated the darkness: “What are you doing, Mohammad? Get up and grab the line that Raphael will throw at us.”
Confused, Alavi opened his eyes. They were moving toward a large boat that was illuminated only by the moon and what seemed to be blue underwater lights.
Al-Nashwan hadn’t tried to kill him—he had simply used a flashlight to signal their arrival. Alavi shook his head and allowed himself to smile.
As they came within range, Raphael, one of the Sheik’s assistants, was standing on the large cruiser’s swim platform and threw a line at them. Alavi caught the rope and, following the instructions that the man yelled to him, attached it to their inflatable. Al-Nashwan cut the engine, and the only noise they heard was the water lapping at the hull of the big yacht.
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