The Polaris Protocol

by Brad Taylor

  He sent an instant message confirming receipt and left the hotel room, feeling strange conducting a meeting on behalf of the Americans he despised. Strange for being used to turn on members of Hezbollah, whom he also hated, in order to prevent the transfer of nuclear secrets paid for by al-Qaeda, with whom he had no quarrel.

  Strange indeed.

  * * *

  As instructed, he had the taxi drop him off in front of a Sanborns department store next to the independence monument on Paseo de la Reforma Avenue. Before continuing to his destination, he accessed an ATM located outside. He withdrew the maximum daily amount his credit card allowed, then began walking north, looking for the second intersection from the Sanborns. He passed the first—an alley more than an intersection—and glanced down the street, seeing a sign that caused him to stop in his tracks: VISA APPLICATIONS DONE WHILE YOU WAIT.

  He debated, ultimately deciding he couldn’t pass up this gift thrown in his path. He rushed down the little street and entered the small kiosk, knowing it was a risk. Knowing Mr. Black would more than likely question what he had done, but he could feign being lost. After all, his destination was one more street up, and he’d never been in this city.

  Five minutes later, he returned to the main thoroughfare, now armed with two passport photos of himself. He reached the second intersection and took a right on a street called Rio Lerma. After a hundred meters, he began looking for the restaurant, fairly sure it would be easy to spot. There couldn’t be that many Lebanese food vendors mixed in with all the taco stands.

  He smelled it before he saw the sign, a refreshing blend of spices reminding him of home. He reached the entrance and read a cheesy sign in English proclaiming something about Aladdin’s carpet. Here he knew he had to be very careful not to let slip in any way that he was from Tripoli, no matter how much he would have liked to reminisce about home.

  He parted the beads hanging from the door and went to the order counter, saying hello in Arabic. The man behind it beamed, asking where he was from. He stated Pakistan, then, before the man could engage him in conversation, he gave the phrase from the instructions.

  The man’s smile vanished, and he told the Ghost to wait. He disappeared in the back, and when he returned, he carried a cell phone.

  “Hit redial.”

  The Ghost said, “Who am I calling?”

  “The people you are to meet. I don’t know anything else. I just run a restaurant. Please. Leave before you call. Please.”

  The Ghost did as he asked, dialing the phone from the sidewalk. A man answered and he repeated the phrase from the instructions.

  The man wasted no time with pleasantries or questions. “Go to the Sanborns you passed on your way to the restaurant. Enter, move to the café in the back, and get a table. Place a newspaper on the table open to the front page and take a seat facing the door. Ensure the table is away from anyone else. When approached, give the security phrase.”

  Before the Ghost could respond, the man hung up. The arrogance aggravated him. Pretentious kafirs. It reminded him of why he hated them. Convinced they were superior to any other group, they always acted like everyone else should bow before their almighty presence.

  He was tempted to ignore the instructions just to set the tone but knew that would be asking for compromise. He was the one hiding something, not them, and making them suspicious or angry wasn’t the way to escape the grasp of Mr. Pink.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was sitting as asked, wondering if buying a cup of coffee would set them off. The restaurant, set in the back of the department store down a small flight of stairs, was practically empty due to the time of day, with a few patrons drinking coffee or eating dessert, but not many. He’d scanned all of them upon entering, a casual once-over to determine if they were surveillance or security, but was convinced they were not.

  He heard the front door chime and saw two men coming into the restaurant. They were dressed in western clothes but were not Hispanic. At least not to the eyes of a man who’d spent most of his life in Lebanon.

  He didn’t stand, waiting on them to commit to his table. When they did, he uttered the phrase from the instructions in Arabic. The first nodded and sat down on his right. The other moved to his left.

  “I am Farooq. This is Hashim. Thank you for traveling here to us. What shall we call you?”

  For a split second he almost spit out Ash’abah—the Ghost—wanting to shove a little of their condescension back down their throats, as the nickname had been given because of his skill in Lebanon and even the mighty Hezbollah feared what he could do. But that would have been suicide, so he said, “Gamal Hussein,” just like his passport called for.

  Farooq nodded, satisfied, and said, “Did you have any trouble coming through the United States?”

  The Ghost thought, Well, yes. Gamal had an extreme case of travel sickness that caused him to be shoved into a giant garbage bin. He said, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. There was a tick on their no-fly list. I had to go through extra questioning before being let on the plane. Someone with my name from somewhere else is on their list. I do not want to use this passport to get home. Can you help with that?”

  Taken aback, Farooq said, “Can’t your people do it? We aren’t here to facilitate your travel.”

  “My people aren’t here, in Mexico. You are, and you require my money. All I’m asking is that you help me return.” The Ghost slid across the two passport photos he’d taken earlier. “I don’t wish to sound demanding, but the price for me to help is a new passport. I don’t trust the one I was given anymore.”

  Farooq stared at the photos for a moment, then passed them to the other man, Hashim. “Okay. But it will be a Lebanese passport. Is that an issue?”

  The Ghost couldn’t believe his luck. “No. That will be perfectly fine, as long as it has a visa for the United States. I can’t get through their airports without one.”

  At this, Farooq scowled. The Ghost said, “Given how much money I have brought, I don’t think that’s too much to ask. Especially since you and your leaders will benefit most from what I’m buying.”

  Farooq said, “Yes, the device is very expensive, but it will help you out with your drone attacks more than it will us, which is why we asked for you to pay in the first place.”

  Drone attacks? How will nuclear secrets help al-Qaeda stop drone attacks? And what’s this about a device?

  He’d known all along that Mr. Pink was hiding something but never imagined it could be the very reason for the mission. He decided to proceed cautiously, not knowing what the real Gamal had been told.

  “We’re happy to pay, depending on what it is.”

  “It’s just like I sent in the e-mail. A way to stop the drones from operating.”

  The Ghost relaxed. Whatever e-mail had been sent, it most assuredly hadn’t been directly to Gamal. There would be go-betweens, especially with how hierarchical Hezbollah was. They’d never let a nobody like this talk directly with anyone in Pakistani al-Qaeda.

  He said, “I never got the e-mail. I was just told to bring a sum of money here and evaluate whatever it is that you found. Please, forgive me, but you will have to repeat yourself.”

  Farooq smiled, pleased to explain what he was responsible for locating. “There is a man who has a way to turn off the GPS that the Americans use. Make it so it doesn’t work, which means the attack drones won’t work. He’s willing to sell it to us but wants a large amount of money. A million US dollars.”

  The Ghost ignored the money, focusing on what Farooq had said earlier. “What do you mean, turn off the GPS?”

  “Just like I said. He has some computer program that is tied into the satellites. He can turn individual satellites off, just the ones that affect certain sections of the world, or the entire GPS architecture. Not only that, but he can do it at any time that is set. It’ll turn the Great Satan’s drones and all
of their GPS-guided bombs into junk. Isn’t that worth a million dollars to you?”

  The Ghost heard the words and didn’t think a single instant about drones or bombs. He was thinking about the GPS ankle cuffs on his feet. About escape.

  “Yes. Yes, that is definitely worth a million dollars to me.”

  58

  Booth heard the door to the shoddy hotel open and felt the fear return. The crazy man was back. He jerked his hands out of reflex, feeling a sharp stab of pain from the metal of the handcuffs digging into his raw skin.

  The door to the bathroom swung open, and his captor was there, holding a box in his hands. The sight caused Booth’s imagination to go into overdrive. What did it contain? What horrific device was he going to use?

  How on earth did I end up here?

  Booth said, “Please, please. I’ve done everything you want.”

  “No. Not everything.”

  He opened the box, and Booth shut his eyes, feeling dizzy.

  “Look at me.”

  Booth did, and saw the man was holding a new laptop computer.

  “I need help with this. I don’t have the skill you do.”

  Booth sagged on the floor. “Yes. Of course. Whatever you want.”

  The killer bent down and unlocked his wrists. He turned and left the bathroom without a word. Booth stood up, hesitated a moment, then followed, finding the man plugging in the laptop on the nicked table in front of the television.

  “I have opened a bank account that can be accessed by the Internet. I need you to configure it for the transfer of my money.”

  “I . . . I can’t do anything here, without Wi-Fi.”

  The killer placed a small device next to the computer, saying, “I bought this. It’s supposed to give Internet over the cell network.”

  Booth recognized the device as a MiFi hotspot. He stood, unsure if he was allowed to move.

  The killer said, “Can you not do it?”

  “No, no. That’s easy. I can do it.”

  When he remained still, the killer fixed his hypnotic glare on Booth and said, “Then do it. Now.”

  Booth scuttled to the chair in front of the table and went to work. His captor said not a word, watching. Within fifteen minutes, the computer was configured and online.

  Booth said, “I need the bank information.”

  He was passed a sheet of paper, and he went back to work. A few minutes later, he had the bank account online but now had to ask for specific information from the killer. Information he did not want to know. Things that would make him worthy of extermination. He sat with his hands trembling on the keyboard.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Sir, I need your account information. Your password and account number. And the name you used to open the account.”

  The killer said nothing for a moment, then passed Booth another sheet of paper and a United States passport. Booth was stunned.

  American. This lunatic is from America.

  Booth felt the eyes on his neck as he typed, his hands trembling so hard he was continually having to backspace and correct. He reached a screen for synchronization of a token and was confused.

  He said, “This account has two-factor authentication. Did they give you anything? Any other device?”

  “Yes. They gave me this.” He handed across a digital gadget that looked like a small pager, with a screen in the center. “They were going to explain it to me, but I said you would do it.”

  Booth recognized it as an RSA SecurID key fob. He took it and opened up a new window. He authenticated the fob on the RSA website, then said, “I need a PIN. Four digits.”

  “Why? What is that thing?”

  “It’s just a second authenticator. You type in the password you gave me to get to your account, which will allow you to see any activity that’s been done and other mundane things, but if you want to transfer money, you need a second authentication. This key fob provides it. You type in your PIN and it spits out a number. You type that number into the computer, and it allows the money to be transferred.”

  He gave Booth a number and said, “What happens if I don’t have that device?”

  Booth, working the new PIN, said, “All you can do is check your account. Get a balance, see what’s happened with credit cards, that sort of thing. If you want to materially affect the account, you need the key fob.”

  Booth finished and tentatively turned around. “It’s set. Remember, you still need me to transfer the protocol at the meeting.”

  The killer smiled, his yellow teeth conveying little warmth. “Don’t worry, I have no plans to kill you today. Our meeting is tomorrow morning. Perhaps after that.”

  59

  “So the Ghost actually made contact with Hezbollah and returned to you? I have to say, I had my doubts. So did the Oversight Council.”

  The streaming video feed from my laptop was breaking up some, our hotel Wi-Fi becoming overloaded with the encryption required for my company VPN. Kurt looked a little bit like the old Max Headroom guy, his face in one location before jerking to another. Luckily, the audio, while distorted, was coming through fine.

  “Yeah, he came back, but make no mistake, he doesn’t buy the ‘nuclear secrets’ thing. He knows what this is about now, which I figured would happen.”

  We’d set up a secure meeting site for the Ghost in Zona Rosa, wanting a clandestine encounter, but after I’d quizzed him via Yahoo! Messenger, I’d learned that the Hezbollah crew hadn’t asked where he was staying. I’d decided the James Bond stuff was more risky than simply going to his hotel room two floors above mine—both because of Hezbollah and because of him. I had no doubt he would attempt to escape, and the longer I let him wander around, the more ideas he would come up with. Better for him to sit in his hotel room.

  Kurt, thinking just like me, said, “If he knows it’s a GPS threat now, aren’t you worried he’ll want to get the hack himself instead of helping us out? The only leash you have on him is those GPS cuffs.”

  “No. I was actually counting on that to help us. The hack doesn’t turn off the signal. It sends a false one. He’ll be afraid that if the thing is initiated, his cuffs will think they’re now in South America and explode. He knows he only has three minutes to rectify that or start spending his life walking on pegs. He’ll want it shut down as soon as possible. No way will he allow some Hezbollah assholes to run around with it.”

  “The council is not nearly as convinced as you. They’re regretting the decision to let him loose.”

  “Tell them the meeting is tomorrow. Both Hezbollah and the man with the hack will be there. If they hadn’t let the Ghost travel, we would be sitting here with our thumbs up our asses, wondering if we were going to lose our precision weapons in some future war.”

  I saw Kurt grimace and said, “What?”

  “That meeting is critical. We don’t have the time to chase these guys. We’re no longer talking about a potential strike.”

  He filled me in on Operation Gimlet, and I felt the pressure increase. I wasn’t sure tomorrow’s meeting would be the final one because I had no idea what Hezbollah and the man with the hack were thinking. It could simply be an introduction to get everyone comfortable, with a follow-on meeting for exchanging the goods. We still didn’t know how the hack was initiated, and the meeting location they had chosen wasn’t exactly conducive to major computer operations. It looked like all of that was moot, though. I wasn’t going to get the chance to develop the situation. Tomorrow’s meeting would be the last, no matter what they intended. And it would be up to me to engineer that.

  He finished, and I said, “Okay, sir. I got it. Now you can go tell the council that the Ghost decision wasn’t the best one. It was the only one. No way would I have been able to interdict in such a short time span without it. One thing, though: Given what you’ve said and my force str
ucture down here, I’m going to need lethal authority. With only one shot tomorrow, I can’t capture everyone and get the hack. I’m not sure what this meeting is about. If they show with the hack, that’s my focus. Anyone who gets in my way, I’m killing.”

  Kurt said, “It gets worse, I’m afraid.”

  He told me about Anonymous and the exposure of Grolier Recovery Services, which would lead to the exposure of the Taskforce itself. A YouTube video was set to lay open our organization in two days, and apparently this same American traitor had information that would allow us to stop the release, making my operation infinitely harder.

  What an asshole.

  Not only was the traitor selling the capability to cripple the United States, but he was also about to expose its most classified organization. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on him.

  It was too bad I couldn’t use them to kill him outright.

  60

  The Ghost decided to walk to the meeting in order to get a better feel for the terrain. He might need to escape on foot, and he wanted to know how many routes were available. He’d thought Mr. Pink would tell him no, but it turned out he preferred the Ghost on foot as opposed to in a cab. Easier to catch, especially with the tracking devices.

  Paralleling the main thoroughfare of Paseo de la Reforma, he entered a long park, with various monuments and paths threading next to the highway. He considered taking one, just to see where it would go, but decided against it. He knew the meeting location was adjacent to the highway, so there was no way to get lost if he kept it in sight. The path, while it might give him some ideas, could also get him confused and cause him to miss his contact window, something he couldn’t afford to let happen.

  He passed by a monument on his right and did a double take. It was a statue of Heydar Aliyev, the leader of Azerbaijan, a prominently Shiite country in the Caucasus. The plaque, in both English and Spanish, heralded his triumphs.