by Brad Taylor
This is like the damn Amazing Race.
I texted Retro, asking what the CS was doing.
RETRO: Sitting still. Probably waiting on me to make a move.
PIKE: Stay on. Drag him with you. Get off couple stops later.
RETRO: K. What about download?
PIKE: I’ll just start again. What car?
RETRO: 2nd from front.
I felt the breeze of the approaching train, the wind growing with a howl as the air was pushed out of the tunnel and into the station. I positioned myself at the far end of the platform, looking to anybody watching like I wanted to board.
The cars squealed to a halt, then disgorged their passengers in a flurry. Since Mustek was a transfer station for both the A and B lines, there were a lot more people getting off, allowing me to integrate into the flow with little effort. I took one last look at the photo of the target, this time to get a fix on what he was wearing, then headed to the escalator with everyone else.
Halfway up, I saw a brown jacket topped by a black head of hair. I didn’t bother trying to close the gap because I absolutely didn’t want to spike anyone else helping him.
Getting to the top of the Disneyland-length escalator, I had two choices—either go outside or transfer to the B metro line. I chose outside, knowing if I missed him I could redirect Buckshot to the next stop on the other line and hopefully pick him up again. Worst case, we still had the anchor of the hotel.
The Mustek stop exited right out onto Wenceslas Square, a walking promenade that a couple of decades ago had filled to capacity with angry mobs marking the end of communism in the Czech Republic without a shot being fired, but nowadays was the heart of shopping in Prague, full of cafés and department stores. It was a beautiful day, the air crisp enough to make me appreciate the warmth of the sun on my face. The square was teeming with shoppers and tourists, causing a sliver of alarm.
Too many people. I’ll never know if he took the other metro line. I considered going back down to the train, but decided to check out the area first. I pulled the trigger on Buckshot, getting him in position at the Staromestska stop near the Charles Bridge, then did the same with Decoy on the other end.
The only good thing was that the same crowds that made it hard for me to track Jug-ears made it very, very hard to do surveillance detection work. No way could they be sure someone wasn’t just a dumb-ass tourist bouncing around.
Which means they’d have given him directions out of this place.
I rapidly looked around and saw multiple little alleys leading away from the promenade. I took the first one I could see and began winding my way through the maze that was Old Town Prague, with single-lane roads, cut-throughs, and cobblestone alleys the norm. I was sure I’d missed him, when I saw him lazily strolling down a side street that had to be as old as the tombs we’d seen last week.
I braked a little bit and matched his stride, causally noting anyone who might be watching his back trail. We walked by several outdoor cafés, all with people in them, so it was impossible to tell, but I was sure someone was checking me out to see if I was tracking the target. There was no other reason for him to be channeling and stairstepping like he was. It was all designed to flush out surveillance, and all I could do was continue to follow, maintaining my demeanor and ignoring the target as much as possible.
I saw nothing unusual. The people were all laughing and talking, enjoying the sunshine. I had the same surreal feeling I always got on operations such as this.
I’m out here tracking a killer, and everyone else is drinking beer.
It seemed like there was a pub every fifteen feet, all with outdoor patios. There was no way I could ascertain if anyone was working with him, although if they were, they were probably drunk.
I got within thirty feet of the target and interrogated his phone. I achieved a lock with his Bluetooth, starting the application download again. He continued his little stroll, eventually breaking out into the tourist Mecca of the Old Town Square, with the Astronomical Clock and Old Town Hall, along with dozens of locals begging for attention at various attractions. He went through it to another small alley, heading toward a booth that advertised bus tours.
I let him get inside the alley but didn’t follow when he stopped at the booth. No sense in pushing my luck, since there wasn’t anything else in the alley and I’d stick out like a hippie at a corporate retreat. I stopped short at the square, next to a local beggar on his elbows and knees, prostrating himself in stoic silence, his grimy hands outstretched.
I dropped some coins into his cup and watched the target. He was talking to the man in the booth more than was necessary for a bus tour. Eventually, the man handed him a map of some kind. I checked my phone and saw the download was just about done. Out of the corner of my eye, I sensed rapid, hostile movement. The beggar.
I whirled, raising my arm against my head and ducking, but not quick enough to evade the strike of the beggar’s coffee cup shattering against my skull.
I reeled back, out of his range, clearing my head before he got a chance to hit me again. He closed the gap, seemingly for the kill, but I was ready now. And the drunk’s going to regret picking this fight.
As soon as he came within range, I batted his hands away and stunned him with four rapid jabs to his face as if I were working a heavy bag—left, right, left, right—popping his head back and forth like a paddleball on a rubber band. I followed up with a side kick to his upper thigh, using all of my weight behind it. He bounced off the wall he’d been kneeling against, the pain radiating through his face. He looked over my shoulder at something. Bum Reinforcements on the way.
I rotated until my back was to the wall, seeing nobody else coming to help.
He pantomimed a fake, like a high school kid, alternating his hands back and forth as if I would fall for something that stupid, then looked down the alley again. Inexplicably, he took off running.
What the hell?
I did nothing to stop him, more concerned with whether I’d spooked my target in the commotion. When I looked down the alley, he was gone, and it dawned on me how stupid I’d been. I glanced at my phone. At least the download completed, you jackass.
“All elements, this is Pike. Target has active countersurveillance now. I was just given a diversion while he slipped out. The phone’s loaded, but I’m burned. Pick him up, but stay very, very loose.”
I passed the code to unlock the target on our Blue Force application, then waited to see who’d get to him first. Minutes later, my headset sprang to life.
“Pike, Buckshot. He’s headed across the Charles Bridge. I’ve got him on the map and can see him walking away.”
“Use the map to maintain situational awareness. If you lose him visually, let him go until you can reacquire without getting burned. All other elements vector in.”
“He’s stopped and receiving a call…. Okay, now he’s dialing someone else.”
I was sure he was getting the next instructions, but with the application it wouldn’t matter now. Run around all you want, asshole.
Jennifer came on. “Pike, other targets are leaving the hotel.”
Oh boy. Here we go.
“Get a photo and launch it to us.”
“Already done, but they’ve got bags. They’re leaving for good.”
Motherfucker. We were now losing our anchor spot, leaving us with Jug-ears for a thread. A single point of failure that I didn’t like, but I didn’t want to spook the other targets.
“Let them go. Don’t burn yourself. We’ve still got Jug-ears. They’ll link up again.”
Three minutes later, Buckshot came back on.
“He’s getting into one of those open-air tourist cars on the other side of the bridge. He’s being taken somewhere.”
“Fine. Let him go. Regroup back—”
“Pike, the driver just took his phone. He threw it in the street. They’re driving away.”
Our single point of failure just snapped.
“Break-bre
ak, Jennifer, interrogate the other target’s phone. Get on them.”
I knew it was too late but figured it was worth a shot. She came back sounding like it was her fault.
“They’re gone. I’ve lost them.”
I felt like punching the wall next to me. Not only had we lost our targets, and maybe our only chance to recover the EFPs, but now they knew we were tracking them. And they’d thrown away the cell phone, so we couldn’t even use the high-risk technical capability we had to track the Arab. I was hard-pressed to imagine how it could get any worse, and I had nobody to blame but myself. I wished I’d really taken it to the fake bum. Meet his ass again and I’m going to rip him apart.
41
Suffering the indignity of a full-on body search, Kamil offered no resistance, noting the security surrounding the person he was to meet. All were rough-looking men, and none had lowered their weapons, even after he had given them the introduction letter provided by Rafik. Paranoid.
He was deep in the Czech Republic countryside, one hour outside of Prague, the only structure a large stone house rising through the morning haze a quarter of a mile away. Completely on his own. He could feel the sweat build under his arms despite the morning chill. They could bury me out here and no one would ever know. But the man he was to meet was worth the risk. Without him, Rafik’s grand operation would be stillborn.
By all accounts, Draco Ljustku was a ruthless killer, a leader in the Albanian mafia precisely because no other challenger could match his amoral ferocity. But it hadn’t always been that way.
Originally a farm boy living in central Kosovo, he had become a fighter in the Kosovo Liberation Army after his family was slaughtered by Serbian Special Police. Through that quirk of fate, he had learned that he not only had a talent for violence, but also a taste for it.
The KLA itself was inexorably intertwined with crime; it was one of the few ways for the rebellious force to gather income for their fight. Drug running and prostitution were as much a part of their makeup as any nationalistic tendencies against the Serbs. When the conflict finally ended, the organized crime did not.
Draco’s skills on the battlefield had proven to be useful in this arena as well, and he had worked his way up until he was the kingpin of a vast territory that included the city of Prague. But such distinction came with a price, namely the threat of a violent end, so Kamil became as compliant as possible lest one of the thugs around him decided he wasn’t worth the trouble. Everything went fine until he was addressed by a man with a lazy eye.
“Give me your cell phone.”
Kamil reflexively looked behind him, as the man’s eye was focused over his shoulder, and he’d already had his phone taken from him. The man snapped. He grabbed the back of Kamil’s head, holding it in place while he forced the barrel of a pistol into his mouth.
“You think you’re funny, sand nigger? You want to laugh at me?”
Kamil gargled, feeling a tooth chip on the front sight post. Unable to talk, he desperately waved at his original driver, convinced he was about to die.
The leader of the security force intervened. “Enough. I had the driver from Charles Bridge throw it out. He doesn’t have one. Load him up.”
Lazy Eye removed the pistol from his mouth and glowered, a comical look given his bouncing focus, but Kamil dared not break a smile. He followed the leader into the first vehicle, watching the man talk on a radio and probing his tooth with his tongue.
They wound down a gravel road to the stone house, Kamil in the middle with a man on either side. Reaching the circle out front, Kamil saw three men standing on the front stoop. The car stopped and Kamil was treated to a façade of welcome. Exiting the car under his own power, without being pushed or dragged, he was immediately hugged by a bear of a man, then kissed on both checks.
“Welcome to the Czech Republic. I am Draco. I trust your travel was uneventful?”
Kamil found himself staring into the piggish face of a man a head shorter than himself. His eyes were sunk back into his head, like a couple of turtles withdrawing into a shell. His right cheek had a puckered scar that ran through his upper lip. The repair to the wound had been crude, with the lip slightly uneven, giving him a permanent snarl.
Kamil grasped his outstretched hand and was startled to find the man was missing the last two fingers. He covered up the surprise, determined not to make the same mistake he had with Lazy Eye. Draco still caught it, but only made a little joke.
“Yes, a gift from the Serbian Police. Their way of saying hello. It’s okay, though.” He pointed his index finger at Kamil and mimed shooting a pistol. “I still have the important finger. The one that pulls the trigger.”
He then laughed as if it was the funniest thing he had heard in a long time. Kamil chuckled along with him, wondering how on earth Rafik had become associated with this man.
“Come inside. Let’s talk about your troubles and how I can help. You and I are very much alike, and we Muslims must stick together.”
Kamil fought to prevent his disdain from showing. I have more in common with the Great Satan’s soldiers than I do with you.
Draco continued while they walked, saying, “Someone followed you today, I pray not because you wanted them to.”
Kamil snapped his head around, remembering why he was here. “Followed me? Are you sure?”
Draco smiled at the reaction. “Yes, I’m sure. And they were very good. If I hadn’t sent my men, more than likely you’d be captured now. But no worries. They have nothing to go on.”
“That’s why you had me call my men. Change hotels.”
“Yes. And you’ll need to do that each night if you wish to continue with me.”
Passing through the foyer, Kamil found the house dripping in opulence, a testimony to the empire Draco had built. Winding through a maze of hallways, they eventually entered a large study with an oak desk studded in leather and several comfortably overstuffed chairs. Draco circled behind the desk, saying, “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? Perhaps some pleasure while we do business?”
Like magic, a man appeared bearing a tray with an assortment of alcoholic beverages. Behind him another man led in five girls, teenagers from the look of them, none older than nineteen.
Kamil felt his temper flare but maintained his composure. “No, thank you. I’m sure you understand.”
“Come on. You’re not at home and I’ve seen how the Saudis act once they’re out of the kingdom. Don’t feel like you owe me. It’s my pleasure. If you don’t like what you see here, I can bring more.”
“No. I’d prefer not. Can we please discuss why I came?”
“Suit yourself. You won’t mind if I do, though?”
Without waiting for an answer, he pointed at a brown-haired girl. She shrank into the wall until prodded by the man who’d brought her in. She slowly made her way around the desk, then sank from view. Kamil could hear the rustle of clothing and the soft clink of a belt buckle. He could barely see the top of the girl’s head. The other man, along with the girls, left the room. He began to feel sick to his stomach.
Draco sighed and looked at the ceiling. “You really should try this. They’re still very fresh. Not like that trash you find in the city. If you don’t like what you saw here, I have quite a few more downstairs.”
Kamil found himself unable to speak, the rhythmic motion of the girl’s head disgusting him. Allah the merciful, what have we done? He felt unclean, and wondered if the end result of their operation would be enough to overcome the means they had used. For the first time, he feared for his future in the afterlife.
Draco leaned over and whispered something in the girl’s ear, her head never stopping its hypnotic motion. He then said, “Okay, now how may I help. I’ve been told through my friends in Pakistan that you require explosives. Is this true?”
It took a moment for Kamil to realize he was being addressed. He felt his fists clench. He couldn’t believe the man was talking about operational matters in front of the
girl. Then the implication sank in, sickening him further: She was going to die, her only transgression being that she was forced to service this monster. With superhuman effort, he restrained himself from launching across the desk and killing Draco with his bare hands.
Draco saw the object of his attention and said, “Ah, you’re reconsidering my hospitality?”
“No,” Kamil managed to squeak out. “No, no, no.”
“A pious one, huh? I can respect that. I wish I could have the strength you and your kind possess.” He patted the girl’s head. “But I’m afraid I’d be a hypocrite.”
Hypocrite? You’re an apostate.
Kamil said, “We do need explosives. And a way to get them into America.”
Draco said nothing for a moment, his eyes closed. He allowed the girl to work for a moment longer before stopping her.
“I can get all the explosives you may need, thanks to the Serbian pigs that were stupid enough to try to fight us. Artillery rounds, detonation cord, you name it. Getting it in to the United States is a different matter, though. The KLA used to be loved, but now, thanks to you and your brethren, not so much.”
“We can’t use improvised explosives like those pried out of an artillery round. We need plastique. Composition C-4. Can you get that?”
“No. No way. Maybe eight years ago, when America still had a large presence in Kosovo, but not now. I can get SEMTEX, however. It’s the same thing as C-4, with the same burn rate and initiation methods. Will that work?”
Kamil thought about it. The demolition kit was made for use with C-4, the American plastic explosive, but SEMTEX should work. He didn’t know enough about explosives to be sure, but the man he had brought with him did. He decided to agree to the SEMTEX, then talk to Adnan, the explosives expert, to see if it would work with the EFPs.
“Yes, that will be fine. How will we get it?”
“You’ll have to pick it up in Budapest. How you get it out is up to you.”
“Budapest? Can’t you bring it here? I don’t have a visa for Hungary.”