by Marcus Wynne
Charley nodded. “Do we need to think about the approach?”
“We go with the plan. We brace them directly on a staged walk-up right outside their home, or in the immediate neighborhood. We make it clear who we are and who we’re working for and we tell them in no uncertain terms that they’ve been played against us. Then we see which way it goes. I’m betting that they won’t have a problem giving up their paymaster once they get the full story.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Charley said.
“Pretty soon,” Dale said. “Shall we do a walk-through?”
“You think they’d remember us from Minneapolis?”
“Doubtful. They only got a glimpse of the two of us, and we were all shooting.”
“Then let’s go.”
DAMASCUS, SYRIA
Ahmad bin Faisal turned away from the computer atop his desk, and stood. He walked slowly around the room and considered Youssef’s request for a face-to-face meeting in Amsterdam. Such a meeting would serve two good purposes: he could verify Youssef’s preparation and hand over the vials of the genetically engineered smallpox; and he could meet with the Twins and see to the conclusion of their contract. Youssef’s thinly disguised plea for help in dealing with the Twins didn’t disturb him. The younger Arab was only a mouthpiece and could not be expected to make such adjustments on his own. In truth, the Twins’ argument that the contract was no longer feasible was a good one; the Al-Bashir network, despite its resources, had not been able to discover the whereabouts of either Rhaman Uday or his wife since the attempt at the Torture Center. All the support cells had discovered was that the targets were gone, and that the wife had gone before the husband. The husband had disappeared in such a fashion to lead the operational planners in Al-Bashir to believe that the US government had taken him up.
That would be problematic. But there was nothing to be done about it. While Uday might divulge some details of the operation to the US authorities, bin Faisal and his peers believed that the Iraqi’s fragile mental condition would mask the precious information long enough for them to launch the operation against the US.
They were counting on that.
As they counted on the One.
Bin Faisal pursed his lips and thought about the fragility of the one operator the project hinged on. An older, more seasoned operative might have been a better choice, but Youssef’s excellent, near-native English, his experience abroad, and the exposure to various lifestyles through his wealthy upbringing gave him a profile that a seasoned mujaheddin would have a hard time matching. And Youssef had displayed an exceptional operational mind while in training in the Sudanese camps. He had done a credible job on his shakedown runs in Amsterdam. Even his failed attempt to get the Twins to take up the contract was handled well.
So his fragility, while a factor, was outweighed by his operational strengths.
Bin Faisal picked up his telephone and spoke to his private secretary and had him book a flight to Amsterdam.
It was time to see Youssef for the last time.
AMSTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS
Isabelle and Marie sat out on the deck of their houseboat and lazed in the afternoon sun. Ilse was inside, taking her midday nap.
“He’s just a lonely boy,” Isabelle said. “He doesn’t seem suited for this world of work.”
“So when does his handler come in?” Marie said.
“Soon. I’ll keep checking our e-mail.”
Isabelle kicked her feet up on a rope line and leaned back in her folding patio chair. She sipped contemplatively from her coffee cup, then looked over at her lover.
“If they force the issue, I’m thinking of killing them both,” she said.
Marie looked at her with surprise. “Why would you do that? It serves no purpose.”
“It would send a message about trying to force us.”
“Better to just let them go away. They can bring no leverage to bear on us; we’ve already refused second payment.”
“I won’t allow us to be pressured.”
“Isabelle, Isabelle,” Marie said soothingly. She reached out and took the taller woman’s hand in hers. She smoothed the hand and eased the fingers of Isabelle’s fist open. “We’re not being pressured. You’ve seen to that. There’s nothing to endanger us here. We’ll meet with the boy and his handler and we’ll see to them. All it requires us to do is to say no.”
“I am suspicious,” Isabelle said. “There’s more to this than meets the eye. They are not telling us everything we need to know, and I don’t mean just the target information. Whoever was guarding the item was very professional. It feels of government and that wasn’t the deal.”
“It wasn’t the deal,” Marie conceded. “But we walked away with only bruises and we banked that money.”
“I would like to send them the heads of the boy and his controller in a sack.”
Marie laughed. “You are so bloodthirsty! Come,” she said, standing and taking Isabelle by the hand. “Let’s go in the bedroom for a while.”
In a café just off the Dam, Youssef bin Hassan closed his laptop, put it back into his courier bag, and slung it over his shoulder. He finished the last of his coffee, then threw a few loose coins down on the table-top and got up. He joined the steady flow of foot traffic and let it carry him toward the Central Train Station. The latest e-mail from his controller informed him that Ahmad bin Faisal would be joining him in Amsterdam in two days.
That gave him time to refine his practice.
He strolled along, the atomizer palmed in one hand, the other hand in his pocket. Every so often, as he brushed against someone, he sprayed water on their pants leg, their pocket, sometimes their hands. It was best to get it on the hand, which so often made a trip to the face and the open mucus membranes there. It was too intrusive to spray directly in someone’s face. You could spray behind their head, or on their neck, but sometimes a person would feel the mist and turn to look for the source.
In the train station, he studied the flow of foot traffic. He went to one of the stairways that led down, and then up to the train tracks. With the atomizer in hand, he let a stream of water go all the way on the central banister, the one most people touched. Then he paused beside one of the ventilation ducts with its massive fans. He reached into his courier bag and took out a small metal box, one inch by three inches, with a magnetic back. He looked around, then put his hand quickly into the hood of the ventilation duct, just short of the fan, and placed the small box. He pressed the switch on the side, and the box was fixed in place. Youssef stood back and studied the ventilation duct. The tiny box just inside the hood was invisible unless you were up close and looking directly into it. He made a note of the time, and then slowly walked through the station to the bicycle rental stand, where he rented a bicycle for a few hours and took a leisurely bike ride round the city. Though he didn’t know it, he passed the Twins’ houseboat once, admiring the neatly kept boathouse painted in bright blues and yellows.
After his bike ride and a stop at an Internet café to check his e-mail once more, he returned his bicycle to the rental stand and went back to the ventilation duct. No one paid any attention as he slipped his hand in and plucked free the small box, now covered with grime and dust from the steady intake of air that had passed through it for three hours. He put the box in his pocket and went into a public restroom, then into a toilet stall. He took out the small box, and using a ballpoint pen, popped open the top and examined the tiny vial inside and the atomizer equipment that crammed the innards of the box. The vial of water was empty, having been vaporized into a fine mist that had been sucked into the ventilation system and dispersed over the train station by the ventilation duct and fan system.
Perfect.
The equipment he had been given all worked well under field conditions. He wiped the outside of the dispersal box down and replaced it in his courier bag. He’d clean it and the atomizer later on, back at his tiny single room at the youth hostel.
Y
oussef went back outside. It was a beautiful day in Amsterdam. The sun was shining and the air was warm. He felt comfortable in his blue jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, with the afternoon breeze plucking at his sleeves. He thought about the woman from the Twins, the one he’d had lunch with. She was attracted to him, he thought, or perhaps she felt sorry for him in his obvious loneliness. Perhaps she wanted him, or perhaps not. Western women confused him; in truth, all women confused him. He had little experience to base his observations and feelings on, after all. His college days had been spent in a horny haze when it came to women and he’d had little success with them. And in the camps, there were no women.
So he didn’t know how to take the woman’s measure. Perhaps when they met again he would know better. He stopped near the Anne Frank house and looked at the line to get in. He had never taken the tour. He studied the crowds and thought about practicing again, but decided he’d had enough.
He himself had only seen pictures of what the disease could do, but it was something he wouldn’t experience; he’d been inoculated against the disease he bore. And the operational plan was spartan in its simplicity. Simple was good when it came to plans. Once he had made sure the dissipation mechanisms worked, and he had refined his own technique when it came to dispersing the virus, he’d be provided with the real virus to load into his equipment. Then he would make his own arrangements to enter America. He had already decided to go via Canada to take advantage of the soft routes into the US. Once there, he’d begin his operation.
It would be two weeks or so, give or take a few days, before the blooming began, the brilliant red of the rash and pustules that began at the extremities and covered the entire body. By then, with the engineered smallpox, the person would have been contagious with the symptoms of a cold for approximately seven days. Seven days to incubate, seven days of mild symptoms with maximum contagiousness, and then the blooming of the pox, and then three to seven days before death or the painfully slow recovery.
As a tourist, he had quite an itinerary: Washington, DC. New York City. Miami. Philadelphia. Boston. Chicago. St. Louis. Atlanta, Georgia. San Francisco. Los Angeles. Las Vegas.
He would travel between cities on a variety of transportation: bus lines, airlines, rental cars. He had plenty of time to cover all his targets, though it was a lot of ground for one man to cover.
The One.
AMSTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS
The surveillance operation mounted by Hans’s people had complete coverage of the Twins’ houseboat twenty-four hours a day. They’d had great luck, one of the many variables in covert operations, and were able to rent a weekly apartment directly overlooking the houseboat. Miniature cameras with expensive long lenses went into position overlooking the boat. A parabolic microphone went into place to pick up conversations on the street. They stayed away from trying to insert cameras or microphones into the houseboat; Hans believed in erring on the side of caution when dealing with professionals of the Twins’ caliber.
The streetwalkers, the surveillance operators who worked the pavement following the Twins, exercised extreme caution. Though it was expensive and difficult to do, they rotated operators so that the same faces didn’t show up repeatedly on the street. The streetwalkers kept their distance from the surveillance-conscious assassins—Hans had made sure that each operator knew the Twins bloody past. Fortunately for the watchers, the Twins were homebodies. When they went out, they didn’t go far, doing their grocery shopping and their activities with their child in the immediate neighborhood.
Inside the apartment, Hans, Charley, and Dale sat behind the operator monitoring the camera that was trained on the houseboat.
“My people, they like these two,” Hans said. “They dote on their child and they are good to their neighbors. Nothing to make you think anything other than what you see. They are very good at living their cover.”
“Are you going to feed this to the Dutchies?” Dale asked.
“I’m sure they’d want it if they knew we were here,” Hans said, with a broad wink.
They all laughed. The equipment operator, a thin man dressed in a black T-shirt and black jeans with heavy boots, and with both ears pierced, grinned and said, “Here they come now.”
He moved a small control toggle and panned the camera to catch Marie and Isabelle coming out of their houseboat, Ilse between them clinging to their hands.
“Such a nice family,” said the equipment operator.
“Where are they going?” Charley asked.
Hans picked up a radio handset and said, “Zero, Zero-Alpha. Package in progress.”
“Roger, package in progress, Zero out.”
Hans said, “We’ve got our people in two static street posts; they’ll pick them up whichever way they go. Do you want to work the street or stay here?”
“We’ll stay here unless you’ve got a vehicle,” Dale said.
“We do, but they don’t go far enough where it’s useful,” Hans said. “They like to walk and they do a lot of it. There’s really no need for a car. They own an old Audi, but they keep it garaged. It only comes out for trips out of town.”
“You can do that in this city,” Charley observed. “I like that about Amsterdam. Never need to drive, you can walk most places . . . it’s civilized.”
“I’m glad you think that way about my home,” Hans said. “Perhaps we’ll get a chance for me to show you Amsterdam.”
“I’d like that,” Charley said.
The radio began to sound off with the transmissions of the streetwalkers working below.
“Zero, One, I have the package visual.”
“One, Zero, you have the eye.”
Charley and Dale watched as the camera tracked the couple and their child, one of the streetwalkers coming up behind them slowly. Ahead of them a man and a woman strolled arm in arm.
“Good coverage,” Dale said. “Your people are good.”
“Thank you,” Hans said. “I think they are the best.”
Without taking his eyes away from the screen, the black-clad equipment operator said, “That’s right.”
“So how do you want to do it?” Hans said.
“I’m thinking during one of their walks,” Dale said. “The only problem is the child.”
“There is that,” Hans said. “They rarely leave the boat together without the child.”
“It would serve to temper the confrontation,” Charley said. “We can talk around it with the child there.”
“I don’t like it,” Dale said.
“The only other option is to approach them when they’re on the boat, and I think that’s too dangerous,” Charley said. “We want to confront them in a public space, give them room to move . . . and give us room to retreat while we’re covered by Hans’s people.”
Dale gnawed at one cheek and stared at the monitor. The telephoto lens caught the couple and their child going into the local grocery.
“Have you seen them going out together without the child, using a sitter or anything like that?” he asked Hans.
“They don’t use sitters,” Hans said. “They do go out individually, to meet with friends, but it is rare. Their days are mostly about their child. The other day Isabelle went out and met with a friend and had lunch with him.”
“Do we know who he is?” Dale asked.
“No,” Hans said. “We have good footage of him, but his face isn’t in our database as a known operator. It seemed innocent. Marie has gone out and had coffee with people in the neighborhood as has Isabelle. They are well liked, and while they keep to themselves, they are still social and civil to their neighbors.”
“There’s a possibility,” Charley said. “We could just go up to the boat while they’re there, and invite them to coffee.”
“That’s not going to work,” Dale said.
“I think you will have to meet them on the street,” Hans said.
Dale drummed his fingers repeatedly on the tabletop that held the monitors and laptop computers.
“What is it, dude?” Charley said.
“I don’t like having a child in the mix,” Dale said.
Charley nodded. “Nobody does. But the Twins aren’t going to get hostile if they have their kid there. They won’t do anything to endanger their child. They’ll listen. There’s a lesson in there for them. A hard one, but it’s one they’re up to. Remember, they’re pros, not just women and mothers with a child. Remember Minneapolis? Keep that in mind.”
“I’ve got it in mind,” Dale said. “I just don’t like having the kid in there. But I don’t see any way around it.”
“So let’s work it out,” Charley said. “Let’s do this thing.”
AMSTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS, SEVERAL DAYS LATER
Warm afternoon sunlight poured through the porthole windows and splashed across the bed where Marie and Isabelle lay tangled together. Comfortable as dozing cats, they stared up at the ceiling fan that ticked slowly, sending a cooling breeze over their sweaty skin.
“It’s fine, isn’t it?” Marie said. “This life we’ve made.”
“Yes,” Isabelle said.
From across the hall came the sound of stirring, and then the loud sound of small feet on the decking outside their door, followed by a tentative tap.
“Mamas, Mamas? Can I come in?” their daughter Ilse called.
“Of course, my sweet,” Isabelle said. “Thank you for knocking.”
The door opened and Ilse came in, barefoot and dressed in a jumper rumpled by her nap. She flew to the bed and wormed her way between the two naked women, nuzzling first one, then the other. Marie and Isabelle stretched out their arms and hugged their child, then snuggled her between the two of them.
“So what shall we do today?” Marie said. “Lay in bed all day and listen to the water? That is Ilse’s favorite thing, I think.”