Even if it meant cancelling a date with a nice guy she had met at the Laundromat, Zima was glad she’d been given the opportunity to continue working on the case. The director had briefed her personally and had explained she was the reason they knew so much about Ghazi. The pictures her colleague Xavier Leblanc had taken in Paris had confirmed the identity of the accountant.
Her blue-carpeted room had two twin beds that had been put side by side to form one king-size bed. The two armchairs facing the ten-year-old television were in good repair but had lost their original brightness some time ago. Zima closed the door behind her and locked it with the small dead bolt. She sat in one of the armchairs and turned on her laptop, which would allow a secure connection with Ottawa. Her virtual mailbox had a new message containing the latest updates on her mission. As she read, she realized that her assignment had changed since her departure from Canada. CSIS had been told that Ghazi had knowledge of a threat that might be directed toward Canada. An extraction team was already en route to her location, with an estimated time of arrival of less than twelve hours. In the meantime, she was to secure the accountant in his room and wait for the team, which would proceed with the extraction.
Zima’s heart rate began accelerating. She didn’t know what had happened during the last twenty-four hours to warrant such a drastic change in her mission, but she would carry out the job.
The first thing to do was to find out which room was Ghazi’s. She unzipped the top pocket of her carry-on and grabbed a brand-new copy of a Lisbon travel guide. Placing it in a hotel envelope, which she sealed using a dampened face cloth, she then wrote the accountant’s name on it. She verified that her ankle holster was still properly attached and that her Walther PPK was in working order. Then she went into the bathroom and put her hair up in a net and donned a thin ski mask that she rolled all the way up. She concealed the net and ski mask with a dark-colored baseball cap and then looked at her reflection in the mirror to make sure the mask didn’t show.
“Here we go again,” she said to herself before heading out.
CHAPTER 62
Abdullah Ahmad Ghazi was more nervous than he ever remembered. The last few days had been nerve-racking, and he was starting to regret his affiliation with the Sheik. With his lover Richard Claudel dead, he didn’t know where to turn. He and Claudel had been greedy and stupid—and now that he was alone, he wanted out. For God’s sake, the Sheik had also sent Omar Al-Nashwan to kill Major Jackson Taylor, one of his closest allies! If Taylor and Richard could be killed, so could he. But he couldn’t understand why all this was happening. He had received instructions requesting that he be at a certain place at a certain time; all he had to do was wait until he was contacted. The fact that a man other than the Sheik had contacted him caused him to wonder if the next meeting wouldn’t be his last one on this earth.
A week ago, the Sheik had requested that he transfer money from one account to another. The sum hadn’t been that impressive: a million dollars. What was unusual was the method used to transfer the funds. His instructions had been to visit a Lisbon branch of the Millennium BCP, a privately owned Portuguese bank. The branch manager, who had escorted him to the vault and given him a black duffel bag weighing approximately eleven kilograms, had told him that it contained ten thousand hundred-dollar bills.
His job had been to transport the money to another privately owned bank in Malaga, Spain, that was managed by some British investors. Driving the seven hundred kilometers to Malaga had taken nearly eight hours. After parking his car as close as possible to the main entrance, he had asked to speak with the manager. A tall British man had welcomed him to Malaga and led him to the bank vault, where he closed the heavy door behind them.
“Congratulations on your successful journey,” the manager said while he opened the duffel bag. He counted two hundred one-hundred-dollar bills and placed them in a blue backpack. “Here’s your fee for a job well done. You’re now free to go.”
Ghazi hadn’t wasted any time on his way back to Lisbon. Out of the twenty thousand dollars, he deposited nineteen in his checking account and kept the remaining thousand dollars in cash. He splurged on a nice dinner in one of the best restaurants in town and bought two bottles of expensive Dom Perignon. He gave the last hundred-dollar bill to the lady who owned the brothel he had gone to for dessert.
He had never seen the man who had carefully placed the message in his hand and presumed he wouldn’t see him again. The Sheik’s organization was well compartmentalized, and that was what was making him so anxious. He disliked dealing with people he didn’t know.
The message had been straightforward. He was to repeat the same operation he’d done a week ago. This time, however, he would have to transfer two duffel bags instead of one. He briefly wondered if he should ask for an increase of his fee but quickly dismissed the idea. He was not suicidal.
The telephone made him jump. Who could that be? Nobody knew he was there.
“Yes?” he answered.
“Mr. Ghazi?”
“Speaking.”
“This is the concierge calling. There is a package for you at the front desk.”
“From whom?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“I see. Could you please bring it to my room?”
“Right away, sir.”
Ghazi hung up the phone, wondering if the package contained more precise instructions. He would know soon enough. In the meantime, he turned on the television and poured himself a glass of water from the faucet. The taste was dreadful, and he spat the water back into the sink. Shaking his head in disgust, he walked to his minibar, where he grabbed a bottle of purified water. A small sign attached to the neck of the bottle notified him that he would be charged five euros for its consumption. Five euros? He could buy the same bottle at the market across the street for less than one euro.
He was still considering his beverage options when a sharp knock sounded. When he opened his hotel room door, he found the concierge carrying a fat envelope in his white-gloved hands.
“Did you know that the bottle of water in my room cost five euros?” Ghazi asked the concierge.
“Pardon me, sir?”
“Never mind. Thank you,” said Ghazi, taking the package and shutting the door curtly.
Ghazi sat down at the small round table next to his bed and opened the envelope. He was surprised to find a guidebook and nothing else. He opened the book’s cover, but there was nothing written inside. He shook the book while shuffling through the pages, hoping that something would fall out but quickly came to the conclusion that the guidebook was really what it seemed: a guidebook, and nothing more.
Weird.
He wasn’t surprised when he heard another knock. Perhaps the concierge had forgotten to attach an explanatory note card that went along with the package?
He opened the door huffily, expecting to see the sorry face of a bellhop. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with someone wearing a ski mask and a baseball cap.
CHAPTER 63
Zima Bernbaum’s plan had worked perfectly. She had dropped the package at the front desk without anyone noticing her and had seated herself on a comfortable sofa in the lobby. She had waited patiently for the concierge to contact Ghazi and then headed toward the elevators, knowing that the concierge would be right behind her. She had pressed the up button and within moments was stepping into an elevator. The concierge had quickened his pace through the foyer to make it inside the same elevator before the doors closed.
He pressed the button for the eighth floor and asked her where she was going. “Eight as well,” she replied with a smile. When the doors opened on the eighth floor, the concierge rushed out into the hall as Zima pretended to search her purse for something. She followed at a distance as the concierge knocked on Ghazi’s door. Having completed his delivery, the concierge was just turning to leave as Zima passed him in the hall. Room e
ight-one-six, she noted to herself as she passed by.
Zima walked to the end of the long hall, then casually turned back toward the accountant’s room while keeping an eye out for any witnesses. If she saw anyone in the hallway, she would continue to the elevator and try again later. Luckily, no one came along. She stopped a few feet from Ghazi’s door and put on a pair of tight black leather gloves. She rolled down her ski mask and knocked.
Ghazi opened the door, then opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. He was holding the guidebook Zima had placed in the envelope.
“Mr. Ghazi, how are you?” asked the CSIS agent.
Ghazi sputtered at her without replying. Then, without any notice, she kicked him hard between his legs. Ghazi went down like a bag of potatoes. She stepped inside the room, closed the door behind herself, and pulled her Walther PPK from her ankle holster. She searched the small room, and once she was sure that nobody else was present, she turned to Ghazi. He’d been winded by the force of Zima’s blow and couldn’t speak. He looked at her, his eyes pleading.
“Get on your belly, and turn your head to the left,” ordered Zima.
The accountant didn’t follow orders fast enough for Zima’s liking. In an instant she rolled him onto his stomach and pulled his two arms behind his back. Before he had time to process what was happening, she secured his hands and feet with a pair of double-flex cuffs.
“That’s one strike,” said Zima. “Once you reach three strikes, you die.”
Ghazi swallowed hard. She could tell he was afraid. Men were easy to read when you knew what to look for; the Adam’s apple was often a dead giveaway.
“Get up.”
Ghazi slowly got up using only his legs.
“Go sit on the chair.”
Because his feet were tied together with a flex cuff, the accountant made small hops toward the chair. As Zima watched his slow progress, she couldn’t help but feel that something wasn’t right. She knew she wasn’t in imminent danger, but something was bothering her.
She couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but she had the feeling that someone was watching her.
―
Lisa and Mike Walton, and Jasmine Carson were shocked. Via the hidden video camera Mike had planted, they watched an unknown woman gain entry into Ghazi’s room and nearly knock him out with a powerful kick to the crotch. She then professionally cleared the room with what seemed to be a small pistol.
“A Walther PPK,” offered Carson.
She cuffed Ghazi’s hands and feet with the help of two flex cuffs, then tied him to a chair with a generous amount of duct tape.
“Who is he?” asked Lisa.
“I think it’s a she,” replied Carson. “The voice certainly didn’t sound like any man I know.”
“The only thing we can be sure of is that she isn’t with us,” Mike replied, snapping his mobile phone shut. “I just spoke with Anna Caprini. We’re the only three operatives in the region.”
“What are our orders?” Lisa asked.
“Nothing has changed. We’re still a go, but we’re speeding the timetable up.”
“What about her?” Lisa wondered out loud.
“We’ll try to find out who she is, but our primary objective remains Ghazi,” Mike replied. “Take him down, then get him to Montijo Air Base, where we can securely question him—and then get the hell out of here if we need to.”
“What is she doing?” Lisa asked, looking at the video feed.
“Maybe she’s looking for us,” Mike said.
―
Once Zima was finished tying Ghazi to the chair, she carefully rechecked his room. On the bathroom counter, near the sink, she discovered a piece of paper folded in eight. She opened it and read the message:
Same routine. You will have two bags to carry. Fee will be the same, paid on delivery. Be at your destination within the next seventy-two hours.
Zima walked back to the bedroom and saw that Ghazi was trying to free himself. An impossible task. However, he was making a commotion, bouncing his chair on the floor every time he made an effort. That wasn’t good. She gave him a hard stare, and he stopped immediately. She took the syringe out of its box and showed it to her prisoner.
“This will help you relax,” she told him.
Ghazi started to struggle in his chair with renewed fervor.
“Believe me, if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already,” said Zima. “And, if you don’t stop moving, I’ll kill you right now.” After he had calmed down, she poked the needle into his arm. Within seconds, the accountant relaxed considerably.
She placed Ghazi’s message flat on the bed and took a picture of it with her smartphone. She sent it immediately to CSIS headquarters with a code indicating that the mission was going according to plan.
As she continued searching the room, the uneasiness she felt earlier resurged. She checked for a glint that would betray any sign of a camera but spotted none. It was strange, she thought, to have her sixth sense tingling like that.
―
Earlier in the day, Carson had brought a blue suitcase containing all the equipment they would need for the operation. Carson and Lisa each opted for a Sig Sauer P226 Tactical with six magazines of fifteen rounds each. Though the Tactical version of the P226 was five inches longer than the original, it allowed the barrel to accept suppressors. Both IMSI operatives made sure to put a silencer in their pockets, as the pistol wouldn’t fit in their holsters with the suppressors on. Mike chose a subcompact Glock 26 with tritium night sights, then added a Taser gun to his arsenal.
By now they had figured out that the well-trained female who’d captured Ghazi was waiting for backup before moving the accountant somewhere else. Because of the ski mask she was wearing, identification wasn’t possible with the camera angle they had. They didn’t know how long it would be before her reinforcement arrived, so the three IMSI operatives decided to make their move right away. They couldn’t risk waiting for nightfall as their original plan dictated. Mapother had cleared them, and Carson guaranteed that the rest of the Support Five team would be there shortly to wipe their rooms clean and take care of the equipment left behind.
Their hotel was across the street from Ghazi’s, and they reached his room in no time. They took separate routes to the eighth floor, then met in the vicinity of Ghazi’s door. Nobody else was in the hallway.
The plan was for Mike to go in first with the nonlethal Taser. Lisa would follow a second later, as Carson—who didn’t have the same level of training—would monitor the situation outside the room. Once the room was secured, Carson would get the vehicle and wait for the others outside the main entrance.
“She’s looking out the window,” Lisa said, watching the video feed on her smartphone, “and she has a cell phone in her hands. Ghazi is still unconscious and tied to a chair. He’s out of the way. We’re good to go.”
“Remember, we want to keep her alive long enough to question her,” Mike said. “We need all the information about Ghazi’s associates that we can get.” He took one last look around the hallway before nodding to Lisa, who responded with a smile. She mouthed “I love you” before taking up a position in front of the door. Two seconds later, she fired three rounds at the lock. Mike kicked the door open and went in, his Taser extended in front of him.
He saw the woman’s silhouette against the background of the window and pressed the trigger of his Taser just as the silhouette was able to pull a shot from the hip with her own silenced weapon. Mike felt the bullet fly past him and heard Lisa grunt in pain.
No!
The woman was shoved hard against the glass by the impact of the electric shock and collapsed to the floor.
“Jasmine, get in here,” Mike ordered. “Lisa’s hit! Secure the hostiles while I check on her.” Carson, who had already moved into the room when she had heard the suppressed pistol go off, closed the do
or behind her and proceeded to secure Ghazi and the woman. Mike’s heart was beating faster than ever as he approached his wife.
Lisa was on her knees at the foot of the bed, trying to catch her breath. Mike carefully moved her to her back and saw that she had been hit square in the chest by the woman’s round. He opened Lisa’s shirt for a closer inspection.
“She’s been hit, but the vest took it. No penetration. She’ll be fine,” announced Mike fighting to keep his voice under control. Thank God! “Honey, are you okay?”
Lisa was in agony. She moaned quietly. “Lisa, we need to get out of here. Do you understand?” Mike asked.
“Yeah,” she managed to say. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a train.”
“It’s your first time getting shot, baby,” Mike said, helping his wife to sit. He hugged her and kissed her neck. “Let’s go,” he added, getting up.
Mike walked to the woman who had shot at his wife. Carson had tied her up with a plastic cuff. Mike checked her pulse before removing the ski mask and the net that was holding her hair together.
Holy shit! Zima!
“Lisa, it’s Zima. Zima’s here!”
Lisa joined him, her body language betraying how much pain she was in. “I can’t believe this. What is she doing here?” she asked.
“Who’s Zima?” asked Carson.
“She’s a Canadian agent—and a damned good one at that,” Mike said. “She’s a good friend too.”
“What do you want to do?” Carson asked.
“We need to get out of here right now,” Lisa said. She winced.
“You okay, baby?” Mike asked, looking over at her.
“It hurts like hell, but I’m fine.”
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