by Brad Taylor
The signals he was sending were beyond strange, but nobody questioned him, Tirana still operating in the Cold War of the 1980s. He counted out a stack of Euros and took his ticket, then traversed the small airport to the baggage claim area.
He approached the lost luggage counter, surreptitiously looking at the two customs officers lounging next to a small tourist kiosk. They ignored him.
He had no name or other contact info. All he had was the ticket, and he was sure he was walking into a trap. Could Israel co-opt the Albanian government? Get them to stage a sting operation? He was so paranoid at this point, he would believe anything. But he also had no choice. He put one hand in his jacket, caressing the grip of his pistol, and presented the ticket with the other. A hatchet-faced man behind the counter took it, read the numbers, and disappeared in the back. He was gone for five minutes, time Omar spent wiping the sweat from his neck and stealing glances at the uniformed police.
The curtain parted, and another man appeared. Omar closed his palm around the butt, putting his finger on the trigger, then saw the man also glance at the police officers, a good sign. He said, “You have luggage that needs to go somewhere else?”
Omar said, “Yes. Rome.” He showed his boarding pass. The man read it, looked at Omar, and said, “You have identification?”
“Not that you need to see.”
The man squinted, debating, then nodded. He said, “Okay. You pick it up in Rome. You call Alex when you get to Rome and retrieve the bags. He’d better pay this time.”
Omar said, “Of course. Alex is good for it.”
The man went to a computer and printed out three luggage tags. He slid across the tracking bar codes and Omar glanced back at the police again, seeing them engrossed in conversation. He pulled out the pistol, slid it between the pages of a newspaper, and said, “Pack this in as well.”
The man saw the pistol and showed alarm. Omar realized he had no idea what was in the luggage, probably thinking it was simply contraband. He withdrew a wad of Euros and counted out three one-hundred notes. He laid them on the table and the man quickly hid the newspaper. His eyes slid to the uniformed police and he said, “Okay, okay, but leave now.”
Omar did, walking back through the luggage area to the departure lounge. He got in line with everyone else waiting to pass through security, surprised at how easy his escape had been. His confidence grew. Maybe all the Israelis wanted was their bitch back.
Maybe nobody is tracking me after all.
72
Alexander Palmer said, “So you’re confident it was Omar al-Khatami?”
“Yes. Pike said he had positive identification. With that and the information we’re getting from Rashid, we’ve changed our assessment of the Lost Boys. Rashid hinted at a separate cell passing explosives, but under further interrogation, he’s admitted that the cell was Omar himself. We now believe the Lost Boys are real, and are actively targeting Western interests.”
“Yeah, well, we might have lost our only lead in Venice. Pike played a little fast and loose with the Prairie Fire alert on this one. The Israelis don’t get the same protection as Taskforce members, regardless of what they were doing. I know it sucks, but we have a greater duty. We may have blown our only shot at the Lost Boys. If they aren’t there . . . If they’ve left . . .”
His words drifted off, but his meaning was crystal clear. Kurt said, “Sir, you know where I stand on such things. If the man on the ground calls Prairie Fire, there’s no way on earth I will ever second-guess it. You can blame me for any repercussions, but if I had to do it over again, I’d do the same damn thing.”
The secretary of defense defused the charged atmosphere, asking, “Did the hit on Omar disrupt anything? Did they find explosives?”
“None on-site. If he had them, he’d already sent them on their way.”
“Any granularity as to the Lost Boys’ target?”
“No. Rashid’s talking, but we assess he doesn’t know the target. From what we’ve learned, he was in Tirana to kill Omar. He’s Jabhat al-Nusra, and he has no love for the Islamic State.”
“Then why was al-Nusra transferring explosives? Why were they passing technology developed by the Khorasan group?”
“We don’t know, but our assessment is that it’s personal with Rashid. We think he was operating on his own, or it might have been a double cross with al-Nusra. Maybe he was attempting to co-opt the Lost Boys. Remember, the Khorasan group is his baby. He probably wasn’t too thrilled to be giving away everything that he’d worked for, and the foot soldiers go back and forth between groups all the time.”
President Warren said, “Are we sure he doesn’t know the target, or is there a chance he’s holding out?”
Kurt took a moment to form his words, then said, “There’s always a chance he’s holding out, especially if the attack is imminent. The time frame would represent a goal for him, but we don’t assess that’s what he’s doing. He’s been under . . . umm . . . significant pressure, and he’s talking.”
Easton Beau Clute said, “What exactly does that mean?” Fairly new to the Oversight Council, but an old hand with intelligence oversight—both the good and the bad—he looked at President Warren and said, “What are the rules of engagement for interrogation by Taskforce personnel? Why isn’t he in CIA hands?”
Meaning, why isn’t he in an organization that has to report to congress?
The D/CIA, Kerry Bostwick, said, “We’re out of the detainee business, period. No way do I want to get involved in that snake pit again.”
Secretary Billings said, “So who’s in charge of this interrogation effort? Some underqualified pipe-swinger like the CIA used after 9/11? Are we talking torture here?”
Kurt said, “Ultimately, it’s you people in this room, and no, we aren’t torturing him. The interrogators are the best in the business, and are working within the protocols outlined in our charter. Long and short of it, we aren’t using the enhanced interrogation techniques that you are familiar with.”
President Warren said, “Let’s stick to the business at hand. What has Rashid disclosed?”
“He’s detailed the explosives that were passed, and it’s pretty standard stuff with the exception of the detonation procedures. They’re all nonmetallic, chemically activated, and very hard—if not impossible—to detect through normal means. An explosives detection capability would find the Semtex of the charge, but traditional scanners and metal detectors will not find that or the detonation method.”
“So he can fly it into the United States? Without fear of being caught?”
“Well, TSA randomly checks for explosives residue, so there is some chance of compromise, but it’s minimal considering the number of pieces of luggage that enter the United States. Especially if they launch the attack from a smaller airport overseas and get the bags into the system, which is why we think they’re in Italy.”
Billings said, “Why Venice? That seems so odd to me.”
“We have no idea, honestly. There is nothing in that city that would be of benefit to the Islamic State or Jabhat al-Nusra, and they’ve put in a lot of effort into this attack. All we own at this point are the Florida law enforcement rap sheets for the Lost Boys, and their travel history. It ends in Venice.”
President Warren said, “What about Omar?”
“He got away. We have no idea what name he was traveling under, and Pike had his hands full exfiltrating without compromise. The hotel room targeted was tied to a Georgian organized crime syndicate, which ended up being a good thing. The police are assuming criminal retaliation—drug deal gone bad, that sort of thing. All we have is the anchor in Venice.”
“And?”
“And Pike’s headed that way as we speak.”
Alexander Palmer said, “Let’s hope it’s not too little, too late.”
73
I leaned in closer to the plaque, intrigued by the write-up. I said, “Jennifer, come here. Take a look at this: Venice had an Oversight Council.”
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br /> She turned from the ornate wooden throne she’d been studying and walked over to see what I was reading, our inspection of the premises just about over.
We’d come to the famed Doge’s Palace in Venice to investigate why the Lost Boy named Jacob Driscoll had toured it, but so far had come up with nothing. The museum offered little beyond showcasing the old rulers of Venice—known as the doges—and appeared to hold nothing that would inspire an Islamic State attack.
Jennifer saw the plaque and smiled, saying, “Wait, you actually like the history here? You’re not bored out of your mind wandering around this dusty palace?”
I said, “Not with stuff like this. They had a body called the Council of Ten. It was formed after an attack on one of the doges, and was in charge of state security. It was supposed to be temporary, and it operated in secret. Sound familiar?”
Jennifer said, “Let’s hope not. The Council of Ten ended up pretty much ruling the Republic of Venice, sticking their fingers into everything from diplomacy to taxes.”
I should have known she would have more historical knowledge than the museum plaque. She possessed an encyclopedic mind for ancient stuff, constantly reading dull archeological magazines that made National Geographic look as exciting as Playboy. And I don’t mean that because of the half-naked pictures. The National Geographic ones, that is.
I said, “Yeah, well, it looks like it started the same way our own Oversight Council did. Protection of the state from an external threat, and operating in secret. Something to think about.”
She said, “So you finally admit history has something to teach us about the future.”
In mock surprise I said, “Of course I do. I love it when we go look at fossilized poop and pottery shards.”
She gave me her disapproving-teacher glare and I said, “Let’s head back to the hotel. See if the guys found anything from the surveillance cameras. We’re getting nothing from this place in person, and I’d really like to know if Jacob’s history here has anything to do with the future he’s planning.”
We’d hit the ground late last night and gone straight into action, trying to make up for the lost time we’d spent rescuing Shoshana. I didn’t regret that decision at all, but it was a Solomon’s choice, and Kurt had made it clear that the Oversight Council felt it was a mistake, especially if saving her had taken away our ability to stop an Islamic State attack.
Initially I didn’t really worry about what they thought, because choices always had to be made in this line of work, and I had been convinced that the Lost Boys could wait. After our investigations last night, my confidence was starting to evaporate.
The Lost Boys were using their true passports, and the Taskforce had given us a hotel they were using, which had made necking down the room they were in child’s play. Retro had repeated the actions he’d taken in Tirana, penetrating the hotel servers of a Best Western, and had identified a lone room. Aaron and Shoshana had done the breaking in.
Using them may have seemed counterintuitive, but a B&E wasn’t risk-free, and I wanted a throwaway team in case they were burned and no longer useful for surveillance. They were exploiting Venice as nothing more than a clean break from Tirana, and would be gone tomorrow. I decided to keep my team fresh, with a heat state at zero.
Having them here at all had been a little bit of a fight. I’d had a debate with Kurt on their exfiltration, wanting them to fly with me instead of taking commercial transport, and, after much back-and-forth, he’d finally agreed. They needed to vacate Tirana as quickly as we did, and I didn’t want them getting stopped by Albanian gestapo trying to board some broken-down aircraft in Tirana. The only other option had been going out with Showboat and the support crew, which—given they were transporting Rashid to Taskforce detainee operations—wasn’t really an option. Kurt had said they could fly with me to Venice, but were to break free from there. He hadn’t given me a time, so I figured using them for a final op was okay.
They’d done the B&E, first using a RadarScope—a motion detector that could see through walls—to determine the room was empty, then an ingenious device made of coiled wire and a metal rod that slipped under the door and manipulated the door handle from the inside. Since hotel room doors were designed to prevent someone from locking themselves in, they always opened when pulled from the inside, regardless of the locks in place. We could have hacked the key-card, but such access left a digital trail in the database at reception, something we wanted to avoid.
They’d spent less than five minutes in the room and had found three interesting things, the first two telling me my decision in Tirana may have caused mission failure on finding the Lost Boys in time.
One, the room had no luggage. It still had a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door handle, and a sleeping pallet on the floor, along with a mussed bed and dirty towels, but no clothes, toothbrushes, or anything else.
Two, the minibar had been cleaned out, empty of all liquor and candy bars. It was something a juvenile would do if he were vacating early.
The Lost Boys still had another two days on their reservation, and the credit card used was valid, so put together, it told me they had moved somewhere else. The fact that their passport trail ended here, along with the two extra days on the hotel reservation, caused a disconcerting feeling, reminding me of a last covered and concealed location before an assault: a last clean staging area before going underground, and quite possibly the final spot before an attack. I prayed that wasn’t the case.
The third thing they found was a ticket stub for the Doge’s Palace museum with Jacob Driscoll’s name on the tag. It was a really weak link, and may have been nothing more than a way for Jacob to waste some time, but it was all we had. I’d directed Retro to get with the Taskforce and hack into the surveillance cameras while Jennifer and I went to check it out in person. That had proven of little value, other than the history lesson of the Council of Ten.
Exiting into Piazza San Marco, Jennifer could sense a little desperation leaking out. Worry that my decision on Shoshana may end up costing much more than saving a single life.
She took my arm and said, “Hey, you made the right call. No matter what happens. We can’t always be the ones on the X. We do what we can, and in this case, we did right.”
I said, “Tell that to whoever feels the wrath of the Lost Boys. I’ll be willing to bet they’d disagree.”
“Shoshana wouldn’t.”
I turned to her and said, “You sure? Because I’m afraid to ask that question.”
She said nothing, knowing, like I did, that while Shoshana was certainly happy to be alive, she would never want to be the reason for a terrorist strike succeeding.
I’d made my decision, and could do nothing to alter the past. All I could do was my best to prevent a specific future. The one the Lost Boys had planned.
74
We wound our way through the alleys, reaching the small bed-and-breakfast we’d rented for our op center, situated right on a canal full of gondolas. Like that was anything fancy. Having a canal location in Venice was about as special as a Motel 6 next to a McDonald’s in the States.
We’d rented rooms in several different hotels to disperse our footprint, and we’d decided on this one for a TOC due to its central location. That and the fact that it had a room that was bigger than a pizza box.
I entered and found Retro banging away on a keyboard, Knuckles behind him on a phone saying, “We need a name. Can’t you guys figure that out?”
Aaron and Shoshana were off to a side, sitting patiently. Brett was nowhere to be found.
I closed the door and waited for Knuckles to hang up the phone. He did, looking at me with a question. I said, “Nothing. Not sure what I expected to find, but it’s just a damn museum. No signs saying ‘Secret Islamic State Mission’ or anything like that.”
He nodded and said, “Well, we’ve got something. It’s a thread, but we can’t find the end to pull it.”
“What?”
Retro leaned back
and said, “Take a look. Taskforce ran all the surveillance footage on the date stamp of the ticket through a facial recognition suite. They found the Lost Boy called Jacob.”
Jennifer and I leaned over, seeing his laptop screen split into four sections, a different camera view in each. In one, the subject was turned, facing the camera head-on. It was grainy, but I could make out Jacob from his mug shot. Even with the pixilated image, he gave off an evil vibe. He just looked bad, reminding me of a pus-filled wound.
I said, “And? You’ve got his entire visit?”
“Yeah.”
“So where’s the secret dead drop? What was he doing there?”
“Nothing at the museum. That wasn’t his focus. He was following someone.”
“Who?”
Retro manipulated the screen, flipping through a dozen camera feeds until he found the recording he wanted. He hit play and a man and woman walked across the marble floor, arm in arm, jerking in grainy black and white. “These two. No idea why, but he sticks with them the entire time. At first we thought it might just be a coincidence—you know, one tourist following the path of another—but he took pictures. He used his camera probably fifteen times, and not once did he take a picture of something artsy-fartsy or old in a room. Every time, he took it of those two.”
I leaned in closer to the screen, as if that would help me ascertain what was going on. Jennifer said, “Who are they?”
Knuckles said, “Don’t know. We got nothing on the man. He’s a dead end. He bought his ticket from the booth out front and showed no ID. The girl we have a slim lead on. She presented a ticket purchased from a package tourism site in a hotel, printed out from a computer. We have the hotel, but no names. Assuming one or both are staying there, we’re working to neck it down now. Brett’s at the hotel.”