by Marcus Wynne
In the street below, Isabelle stood and watched till the lights went out, then turned away and made her way home.
AMSTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS,
HANS’S SURVEILLANCE POST
Dale stalked back and forth in the crowded operations room. The equipment operators gave him plenty of room, and Hans and Charley, both seated in folding chairs, exchanged worried looks.
“How did they lose him?” Dale demanded of Hans.
“We only had three people on him,” Hans said defensively. “You should know how easy it is to lose track of someone in a crowd. He was running good CSR through the district. It was too much for the three of them. They lost sight of him and tried to reacquire, but couldn’t find him.”
“It happens with the best of crews, Dale,” Charley said.
“What about bin Faisal?” Dale said.
“He’s at his hotel and preparing to check out. He’s got a flight back to Damascus midday,” Hans said.
“Do we have that covered?” Dale said.
“Yes,” Hans said. “We’ve got a crew ready to go, and we’re setting up a reception team in Damascus.”
“If it’s any consolation, Dale,” Charley said, “it’s bin Faisal we want . . . the kid was just a cutout, a courier. We’ve got him in the system now. Bin Faisal is the mover and shaker and we’ve got him going home now. Don’t worry about it.”
“The ‘kid’ was high up enough to be privy to details of a sensitive operation,” Dale countered.
“There’s nothing more to be done,” Charley said. “He’s in the system now and that’s it.”
“Bin Faisal is in the lobby of his hotel,” one of the equipment operators said. “He’s going to the travel-agency counter.”
“What’s he doing?” Dale said.
“Give us a minute,” Hans said irritably. “You want miracles and instant results.”
Dale held one hand up, palm out. “I know you’re doing the best you can, Hans. It’s just . . . you know how important this is.”
They all listened to the terse comments on the radio as the surveillance crew staked out in bin Faisal’s hotel moved in.
“He’s changing his ticket,” the radio squawked. “He’s changed his departure from today for Damascus to tomorrow for Athens. First-class ticket, oh-nine-hundred departure, KLM airlines.”
“Athens?” Charley said. “I’ve got good connects in Athens.”
“Why would he be going to Athens instead of heading home?” Dale said.
Hans shrugged. “Athens is a hotbed for Al-Bashir. They use it as a transit point and for staging operatives during long operations. They have many safe houses there, and they have a working alliance with the November Seventeenth organization.”
“November Seventeenth?” Dale said. “They’re bad news.”
“For Americans, yes,” Hans said.
The November Seventeenth terrorist organization was one of the most bloody-handed and efficient terrorist groups operating. They had assassinated the DEA attaché at the US embassy as well as the CIA station chief. They were believed to be a small and tightly disciplined organization focused on anti-American interests in Greece. They were known for their signature assassination technique, a walk-up shooting with a .45 automatic pistol. Recently, with the help of Al-Bashir, they had ventured into car bombings, being scrupulous about striking only American targets like the embassy, and an American Express office. They were careful not to injure Greeks, only American businessmen and government officials.
“He could be meeting with them,” Dale said. “What did you do there?”
Charley said, “I worked there with Special Activities, we ran a special operating group against November Seventeenth.”
“Did you get anywhere?”
“Nope. There’s no penetrating November Seventeenth. Tighter than turtle pussy, and that’s waterproof. They’re small and tight and—everybody believes—highly connected politically.”
“We’ll need to talk to Callan, see about getting some help on that end,” Dale said.
“I’ve got it covered,” Hans said. “We’ve worked many times in Athens. I can send a team today, to prepare for bin Faisal. Are you going to want to go, too?”
“Yes,” Dale said, looking at Charley, who nodded his assent. “We’ll be there, too.”
Hans dispatched a special operating group to Athens. They would prepare a reception for bin Faisal at the airport: a few operators in the crowd outside customs waiting to spot him when he came out, and another team with vehicles waiting outside. The Amsterdam surveillance team on bin Faisal worked like smooth clockwork following him: they watched an expensive prostitute visit his hotel room and determined that he enjoyed oral sex, and that he had surprising stamina for a man of his age. The prostitute left at a little before ten that evening, and he ordered in room service, a small steak and a large salad and a bottle of chilled mineral water. Then he packed and went to bed.
In the morning he had a leisurely breakfast at the hotel restaurant downstairs, then took his garment bag and carry-on bag to the front, and took a taxi to Schiopol airport. Bin Faisal was relaxed, and practicing only minimal countersurveillance; he took a cab directly from the stand in front of the hotel after a slow check of the lobby. Hans and his people stood off, leaving only one man in the lobby. The rest of the team covered all exits from the hotel with a vehicle crew standing off ready to follow the target vehicle. There were already operators out at the airport, ready to receive the surveillance subject when he showed up.
Charley and Dale sat in the backseat of a taxi parked on the street in front of the hotel. The driver was one of Hans’s people.
“I’m glad Hans will be with us in Athens,” Charley said. “This guy is golden.”
“He knows his job,” Dale said. “I wish he hadn’t lost the other guy, though.”
“They’re still looking for him,” Charley said. “And we got his image in the system, that’s what counts.”
“I’d feel better if we had him buttoned up someplace.”
“He’s probably already out of here and headed back home, wherever that might be.”
“That’s one of the questions we didn’t get answered.”
“Leave it alone, Dale. There’s nothing to be done about it now that Hans and his people aren’t already doing.”
The driver looked at the two of them in the rearview mirror, then looked back at the front of the hotel.
“The subject is moving,” he said. “He’s in a cab and pulling out.”
Their car followed at a safe distance the cab carrying bin Faisal. Two other surveillance vehicles rotated the eye between them, while another car paced ahead of the cab on the direct route to the airport. At the airport, bin Faisal got out, and the vehicle teams pulled off, one of them dropping an extra man to shadow bin Faisal into the airport and into the box prepared by the waiting operating group, who were positioned along the main entrance to the airport terminal building. They shadowed bin Faisal to the KLM counter, where he checked in, leaving his bags, and then went to the first-class lounge to wait for his flight.
Dale and Charley checked in. Both were traveling business—class, leaving Hans’s people to insert one of their operators into first-class to be a close eye on bin Faisal.
“You want to go into the lounge?” Dale said.
“Not a good idea,” Charley said. “Americans stick out, and he might remember you. This is a stalk, not a pounce.”
“I want to see this guy’s face,” Dale said.
“Hey, your call,” Charley said, irritated. “I don’t think you should be exposed to him yet . . . we’ve got a good stretch of time ahead of us, and you can look at him on the plane. Don’t give him a reason to remember you.”
“I’ll meet you at the gate,” Dale said. “I’m going in to have a firsthand look at Mr. bin Faisal.”
“Whatever,” Charley said. He turned away, angry, and stalked off, leaving Dale watching him go. Dale went to the first-class l
ounge and showed his ticket to the woman at the front counter.
“Go right in, sir,” she said courteously. “The departure times are listed on the monitor, and if you like, I’ll call you for your flight.”
“That’s all right,” Dale said. “The monitor’s fine for me.”
He went into the lounge. He looked the part of a business traveler. He was dressed in khaki trousers, a blue oxford shirt with no tie under a blue blazer matched with cordovan loafers. No one looked up when he came in. Bin Faisal was seated in a corner armchair in the lounge, reading the International Herald Tribune. Dale took a Newsweek magazine from the stand that held reading materials and took a chair where he could see bin Faisal in his peripheral vision. The Saudi was engrossed in his paper, and sipped from a steaming cup of tea on the end table beside him. Dale flipped through the news magazine without really reading, then went and got himself a sparkling water from the sideboard where the refreshments were laid. He went back to his seat and began to read the cover story, a lengthy piece about the new face of terrorism.
The Saudi was a handsome man, his face folded and soft at the edges with fine living. He was dressed in an immaculate business suit as though he were going to a business meeting. His cuffs were secured with expensive diamond links, and there was a motif of a repeated monogram on his silk tie. Dale wondered about his background. He knew what the databases had on him: the Saudi was the son of a wealthy family, who had spent much of his adult life without the inconvenience of a job thanks to his family money. That gave him the opportunity to delve into anti-American politics, always an undercurrent in the subtleties of Saudi Arabian government. His financial expertise was garnered from the finest business schools and his deft handling of his family’s wealth had made him an ideal target for the Al-Bashir recruiters.
Dale thought of bin Faisal as one of the sheltered bureaucrats of the terrorist world; they enjoyed fine living while their operators and trigger pullers risked themselves on the operations planned and funded by the men like bin Faisal. As much as he loathed terrorism and terrorists, he sometimes felt grudging respect for the street-level operators; they were at least akin to him as an operator. They worked the same streets, underwent the same stresses. Even though one for one the Americans and their allies were better trained and equipped, the terrorists they faced were highly motivated and within the limits of their resources highly dangerous.
And they probably nursed the same loathing of the bureaucrats who sent them out on their missions as did Dale.
He felt his emotions across his face, and took a deep breath to center himself. Charley had been right; it was too soon to show himself to bin Faisal since the coming operation in Athens might call for him to play a role in close quarters to the Saudi. Dale chided himself for his impatience, and settled in to make himself the gray man, just part of the Arab’s surroundings, as unnoticeable as the chair or the smartly dressed flight attendants. This was the hard part of the urban operator’s job. This wasn’t like the jungle or the mountains or the desert; the environment he had to fade into was often one that took him face to face with his opponent or his opponent’s allies. His camouflage was his demeanor and bearing as well as the clothes he wore and the places he went.
He settled in and waited for his flight to be called.
DOMINANCE RAIN HEADQUARTERS, FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA
“All they need to do is finger him,” Ray Dalton said. “I’ve got a crew standing by in Italy. I can have them in place in hours. Once they’ve got him fixed, my boys can snatch him and we can have a leisurely debrief with Mr. Ahmad bin Faisal.”
Callan grinned at Dalton’s bloodthirsty eagerness. “They’ll be able to do that.”
“But we won’t move too hastily,” Dalton said, sitting back in his chair. “We’ll see who bin Faisal hooks up with . . . I’d love a link to November Seventeenth . . . we owe those bastards a few.”
“And then there’s Sad Holiday,” Callan said.
“Bin Faisal’s the link we’ve been looking for. Al-Bashir provided the money for the hit on Uday.”
Callan nodded, musing.
“We have the main paymaster in our sights,” Dalton said. “There won’t be any Sad Holiday as long as we keep bin Faisal right where we want him, which is out there running around on a very short rope, touching base with his operators and his support structure.”
“Bin Faisal’s a paymaster and finance expert for Al-Bashir; he’s not linked directly to operational planning. He’s not a fighter, he’s a finance man. At least that’s what he was at Dhofar and in Yemen.”
“It looks as though he’s doing more than that. He’s out in the field getting face time with the Twins, who are as operational as they come, he’s meeting with his cutout in Amsterdam, and now he’s running to Athens instead of going home to Syria.”
“There’s more to this than meets the eye,” Callan said with the sigh of an old field hand. “I don’t think the story is going to end with bin Faisal.”
“What do you think?” Ray said.
“I don’t have enough to speculate and neither do you,” Callan said mildly. “Al-Bashir has us in their sights as well, and a biological warfare operation, especially if Iraq provided them with the material, would be within their capability.”
“Al-Bashir isn’t one of the organizations we’ve linked to an active search for biological weapons.”
“That doesn’t mean it hasn’t crossed their minds, Ray. As you well know. I know you’re eager to take this boy, but let’s not let this cloud the paucity of facts we have right now. You still don’t have anything on Sad Holiday, other than the bin Faisal connection. There’re still a lot of holes in the story we need to fill in.”
“We’ll fill them in when we have bin Faisal,” Dalton said. “We’ll take what we need right out of his head.”
AMSTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS, BRITTA’S APARTMENT
“May I stay here for a few days?” Youssef asked Britta, whose face was buried in his chest, her hand lingering and plucking at the smooth, hairless slope of his pectoral muscles.
“Of course,” she said. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
“Only a few days,” he said. “Then I must be on my way.”
“Would you like coffee?” Britta said, rolling away from him.
“Yes.”
“I’ll make some, then.”
Britta got out of bed and walked naked across the room to her tiny kitchenette, where she put water on to boil. Youssef enjoyed watching her heavy hips rolling easily with an unself-consciousness he found highly erotic. She took coffee grounds from the freezer of her small icebox and put them into a Melitta cone and filter, then put the cone onto a small carafe. She carefully poured the boiling water over the grounds and as the brew began to drip into the carafe, the powerful scent of coffee filled the studio apartment. Britta filled two big mugs from the carafe and said, “Tell me again what you like in your coffee?”
“Sugar and milk, please. Lots of both.”
“You have a sweet tooth.”
She took milk from the icebox and poured it into one mug and added two heaping spoonfuls of sugar. She returned to the bed and handed him both mugs to hold while she slid beneath the sheets again, then reclaimed her mug.
“There,” she said with satisfaction. “That’s better.”
Youssef was quiet and drank his coffee in silence. It wasn’t a heavy silence. It was the companionable quiet of two people who had no need to talk. Part of him was amazed at how comfortable he felt with this woman, only the third woman he had ever had sex with. Britta exuded comfort and warmth, and he felt himself opening to her like a flower to the sun. For a moment he considered telling her, unburdening himself about his mission, but that momentary madness passed and he found himself concentrating on staying in this moment, right now.
“This is very good,” he said.
“Yes, it is, all of it, isn’t it?” Britta said. “You, me, the coffee . . . what a wonderful time it i
s.”
“How are you so happy all the time?” Youssef said in wonder. “Are you ever sad, or confused?”
“Of course,” she said. She laughed. “All human beings are sad or confused sometimes. I think the key is not to hang onto it, to learn to let things go.”
“Yes,” Youssef said. “I believe you are right.”
“It’s important to pay attention to what is happening right now, instead of a week from now,” Britta said. “So you can stay here. A week from now you’ll leave, but I won’t think about that. I have you here right now.”
Youssef looked around the apartment. Despite its tiny size, it was full of homey touches: a colorful slipcover on the armchair; framed flowers on the walls; a board-and-brick bookcase overflowing with paperbacks, mostly novels, some in English; pillows stacked to overflowing on the bed, now all knocked in a colorful disarray on the carpeted floor.
“You have no boyfriend?” he asked.
“No one now,” Britta said. She nudged him with her hip, causing her coffee to slop dangerously in the big mug. “Would you like to be my boyfriend? For the next week or until you must go?”
“Yes,” Youssef said, seriously. “I would like that very much.”
Later, Britta went to work at the homeless shelter, and Youssef stayed in the apartment. It was raining, and the sudden gloom in the middle of summer took him by surprise. But it was Amsterdam weather, and soon the gray skies began to part and let the blue of the summer sky back through again. He had placed the armchair directly in front of the window and sat there, bare-chested, and let the sun beat through the window onto his thin frame. He was confused by the turn of events; he had a plan that he needed to stick to, but for some reason he no longer felt as though he had a plan, but that he was part of someone else’s plan. He took out his courier bag and opened it up. Beneath his few items of clothing were the Pelican case and its deadly vials of virus, and a small cloth bag that held the three dispersion devices and the two aerosol canisters. He opened the Pelican case and took out one of the vials, held it between his thumb and forefinger and held it up to the light streaming through the window. It looked so harmless, but it swarmed with enough pathogen to wipe out a city.