by Tom Clancy
“Good point,” Chavez said. “Business is business, and you let a sleeping dog alone, until you get bit. I wonder when they’ll have that happen to them.”
“Depends on the bad guys, but making enemies gratuitously is not good for business. Remember, a terrorist is a businessman whose business is killing people. Maybe they’re ideologically driven, but business is still business.”
“How many have you bagged?” Dominic asked Clark.
“A few, all in Europe. They’re not well trained. Alert, and they can be sly like a fox, but that isn’t the same as training. So you just exercise caution and take them down. Helps to shoot them in the back. Hard for them to return fire that way.”
Dominic frowned. “Huh.”
“Ain’t supposed to be fair. This isn’t the Olympics.”
“I suppose.”
“But it goes against your grain, doesn’t it?”
Dominic gave this a moment’s thought, then shrugged. “I don’t know about grain—just a different mind-set.”
Clark smiled grimly. “Welcome to the other side of the looking glass.” He checked his watch. The flight would be descending now.
It struck Hadi that the ground under an airplane always looked the same—but different. Distant but inviting as you came back down. Like America, all the roads and cars coming into view. He gauged height by whether or not he could see individual cars and trucks. The “Air Show” setting on his mini-TV said that altitude was 4,910 feet and dropping, ground speed 295, well down from their cruising height and speed over the ocean. They’d land soon. Ten minutes, according to the computer. Time for him to wake up all the way. The stewardess took his coffee cup away. Italian coffee was much like that of his distant youth in its acidity, and truth be told, he much enjoyed Italian food, though they served pork far too much, and though he drank wine, he drew the line well short of pig flesh. He’d get off, waltz through customs and immigration, spot his greeter, and get his ticket on to Chicago from him, who’d drive him also to his connecting flight for United Airlines Flight 1108, and he’d have a cigarette but not much of a chat.
He had to be alert coming through customs and immigration. He had nothing to declare, of course, not even a bottle of Italian wine. Business traveler, he was supposed to be, for whom such a trip was routine. Jewel dealer, that was his cover. He knew enough to have a brief conversation on the subject. Not enough to impress or fool a real Jewish diamond merchant, of course, but he knew how to deflect any conversation, even to fake an accent. Well, he was a business traveler of sorts, and this sort of trip was routine, though this was his first-ever visit to Canada. One more infidel country, with simple and gentle rules for people in transit, and they’d be just as happy to see him on his way, taking no notice of him as long as he didn’t carry a firearm or commit a crime.
The touchdown was a little rough. Perhaps the flight crew was weary as well. What a terrible life they had, Hadi thought. Sitting down all day, not walking around, constantly changing their body clocks to different places and times. But all men had their places in the world, and theirs was well paid, just unpleasant, even for infidels. His job and his cover compelled him to be pleasant to all he met. That included infidels who routinely ate pig. It was hard, but it was required by his place in life. The airliner stopped, and with the other 153 people aboard, he stood, collected his carry-on bag, and stumbled to the door.
You could tell the Canadian officials in their navy-blue visored caps, blank expressions, and scanning eyes. Greeters who didn’t care a whit about those whom they greeted to their infidel country. There were probably mosques within a mile or so, but he would not go near one of those. The local government might permit Muslims to worship Allah in a place of their own, but surely they were all watched, and the entrants photographed. His job was to be invisible.
It’s down,” Clark said, looking at the TV monitor hanging twenty feet away.
“All we know is that he takes a piss standing up,” Dominic reminded them.
Where’s the nearest head? Clark thought. A lot of people made a head call soon after deplaning, after being too nervous to use the one on the airplane. Wouldn’t be a bad idea to camp out on that possibility. Spooks were not robots. Every one had his own peculiarities, and those, once identified, made them vulnerable. It struck him that he’d never been a counterspy. Identifying spooks was something he’d always worked to prevent . . . but maybe that gave him the resources needed to do the job? He’d see. They were after an Arab, probably late thirties to middle forties, male. Height, weight, hair color, and eye color were all unknowns. He was a trained operator. He’d probably act like a trained operator.
Well, he was being met. They knew that much. Somebody to hand him a ticket for a connecting flight. Probably not as well trained. Probably a stringer. Maybe somebody hoping to earn a promotion in whatever organization he belonged to. Maybe as smart but not as experienced or as well trained. Somebody who knew his inbound asset by sight? Maybe, maybe not. Probably a driver. He’d be looking to make the pickup. Scanning the faces for recognition. Holding a sign? Yeah, maybe THE EMIR SENT ME, Clark thought with a snort. He’d seen some dumb ones in his time, but never that dumb. Might as well eat a gun outside the terminal with TV cameras watching. These guys might not be pros the way he thought of the term, but neither would they be stupid. Somebody had trained them or instructed their organization on how to teach them fieldcraft. It wasn’t that hard. The nuances came with experience, but the basics were things a half-smart guy could figure out on his own. The four of them were standing in line. That wasn’t smart. He shuffled over to Dominic.
“Break into pairs, opposite sides of the railings. Dominic, you and Brian. Jack, you’re with Ding and me.”
Dominic and Brian moved down the escalator and away, curling back to a place opposite Clark and Chavez. John tapped his nose, and the twins repeated the signal.
“What are you thinking, Domingo?” John asked.
“Who, them? Good instincts, a little rough around the edges, but that’s natural. If trouble develops, I think they’ll handle it okay.”
“Fair enough for a ninja,” Clark responded.
“We own the night, baby.” That had been quite a while ago, but it was part of Domingo’s core identity. He was a hard one to spot. Short as he was, people often overlooked him. His eyes could give him away, but only if you took the time to scan his face, and he really wasn’t big enough for any tough guy to worry about, until you were on your back, wondering how the hell you got there. Times had changed since his SEAL days. Third SOG had had a few John Wayne types, but the new ones looked more like marathon runners, short and skinny. They tended to live longer, being harder to hit. But their eyes were different, and that’s where the danger was. If you were smart enough to notice.
“Little nervous,” Jack admitted.
“Nice and casual,” Clark replied. “Don’t try too hard. And never look directly into the subject’s eyes, except maybe to check out the way he was looking around, but only briefly and carefully.”
Who are you, Hadi? Clark thought. Why are you here? Where are you going? Whom do you want to meet? None of which was he likely to ask or have answers for. But the mind did its own thing all the time, the more so for a fairly intelligent and active mind.
49
HADI COULD have been the first in line, but he manufactured a false delay to avoid that possibility. He didn’t have to pretend to be tired. Counting the feeder flight from Marseille and the layover at Milan, he’d been in the air for fifteen hours, and the reduced partial-pressure of oxygen had taken its toll on his body. One more reason to wonder about the flight crew and their miserable jobs.
“Hello, Mr. Klein,” the immigration clerk said with what appeared to be a smile.
“Good day,” Hadi replied, reminding himself again of his false identity. Fortunately, no one had tried to speak with him on the flight, except the flight attendant, who kept his wineglass fully attended. And the food had been tol
erable, a pleasant surprise.
“The purpose of your visit?” the clerk asked, studying Hadi’s face.
“Business.” It was even true.
“Duration?”
“Not sure yet, but probably four or five days. Is that important?”
“Only to you, sir.” The clerk scanned the passport, ran the cover through the barcode reader, wondering if the red light would go on—but they almost never did, and it didn’t this time. “Nothing to declare?”
“Nothing at all,” Hadi replied.
“Welcome to Canada. The exit is that way,” the clerk said, pointing.
“Thank you.” Hadi took his passport back and walked to the multiple doors. Western countries were so self-destructively welcoming to their enemies, he noted yet again. He supposed they just wanted the money to be had from tourists. They couldn’t really have such hospitality in their infidel hearts, could they?
Heads up,” John said. The first two people through the doors were women, and Hadi wasn’t one of those . . . unless the intel was really bad, Clark thought. He’d had that happen to him more than once.
Okay, what are we looking for? Male, thirty-five to forty-five, average height, maybe a little less by American standards. Dark eyes, not looking around very much, feigned relaxation, but still looking around. Curiosity, but controlled curiosity. He’d be a little tired from the journey. Flying usually tired people out. A little wrung-out from the drinks he’d probably had . . . but he would have slept some, too.
They saw a tan camel-hair coat, mid-thigh in length. It looked Italian. Hadi was supposedly based in Italy—in Rome—right? Five-eight or so, medium build, a little on the skinny side. Dark eyes. Dark as hell, almost black, John thought. Looking studiously forward, not to the side, pushing a wheeled dolly with one large bag and one small one. They didn’t look that heavy, and the big one had wheels on it . . . lazy or tired? His hair was as black as the eyes were; nondescript haircut. Clean shaven. No beard, perhaps—probably?—deliberately so. Two more people came out behind him, obviously Canadians, fair-skinned and ginger-haired. One waved to somebody to Clark’s right. Wave off. Back to the camel coat. His eyes were moving left and right, but his head remained still. Good fieldcraft, John thought at once, on noting that. Then they locked on something: Clark’s head turned and saw somebody in a black suit, like a chauffeur but without the cap, holding a white cardboard sign with KLEIN written on it in Magic Marker.
“Bingo,” he whispered to himself. To Chavez: “Link up with the brothers and watch the flanks. I’m taking a walk. Jack, you’re with me.”
They headed down the concourse.
“See something I didn’t?” Jack asked.
“His name isn’t Klein. I’d bet the wad on that.”
No trip to the head, Clark saw. So much for that idea. They followed forty yards back. The subject, they saw, didn’t seem to speak with his pickup man. Too disciplined, or did they know each other?
“Got a camera?” John asked.
“Yeah, digital one. Ready to run. I might have a shot of our friend, but I haven’t checked yet.”
“If he gets into a car, let’s make sure—”
“Yep. Make, model, and tag. How’re we doing?”
I don’t think he’s seen us—damned sure didn’t look at where we were, either side. Either he’s one very cool customer or he’s as pure as the driven snow. Take your pick.”
“Looks kinda Jewish,” Jack said.
“There’s an old joke in Israel. If he looks Jewish, and he’s selling bagels, he’s an Arab. Not always true, but good enough for a joke.”
“Except for the hair, I can see him in a cowboy hat and long black coat, on Forty-seventh Street in New York, handling diamonds. Not a bad disguise. But he’s about as Jewish as I am.”
Past the magazine stands, past the beer bar, past the one-way exit by the metal detectors, out to the main concourse. Not down the escalator to baggage recovery, but he’d already done that, of course. Toward the main door in the glass wall, and out into the cool air of a Canadian autumn. Past the taxi traffic for arrivals, across the street to the parking lots. Whoever the greeter was, he’d parked in the hourly lot, not the daylong-or-later lot. Okay, this was a scheduled pickup, all right. And not one called ahead for from the plane phone. Into the lot, and then Clark had to slow his tailing routine . . . and right to a parked car.
“Camera,” Clark said sharply, hoping that Jack knew how to flash a photo covertly.
Actually, he did it pretty well, with the lens telescoped out to 2- or 3X zoom. It was a new-model black Ford Crown Victoria, of the sort used by a low-end car service. Everything was nominal to profile, Clark thought, as they started to close the gap.
Here’s your ticket from Chicago west,” the driver said, handing the ticket folder back over the bench seat.
Hadi opened the folder and studied the ticket. He was surprised to see the destination. He checked his watch. The timing was almost perfect. It had helped that first-class passengers were quicker to get to immigration.
“How long to the other terminal?”
“Just a couple of minutes,” the driver answered.
“Good.” And Hadi lit a cigarette.
The car pulled out. Clark noted this but kept walking. Until the car was a hundred yards away, then he doubled back to the arrival traffic and hailed a cab.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“I’ll tell you in a minute. Jack: Eyeballs?”
“Got it,” Jack assured him. The Crown Vic had pulled into a line to pay the parking toll. He took two more shots to catch the tag number, which he already had memorized. Just to be sure, he scribbled it down on the notepad he always kept in his coat pocket.
“Okay,” Clark told the driver. “See that black Ford up there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Follow it.”
“Is this a movie?” the driver asked lightheartedly.
“Yeah, and I’m the star.”
“I’ve done that, you know? Real movies. They pay pretty well for driving a car.”
Clark took the hint, fished out his wallet, and handed the driver a pair of twenties. “Fair enough?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll bet he’s going to Terminal Three.”
“Let’s see,” Clark responded. Now he had eyes on the Crown Vic, which did the usual rigmarole common to airports, whose roadways were doubtless designed by the same soulless idiot who did the architecture for the terminals. Clark had been in enough airports to be fairly certain all the architects went to the same school.
The taxi driver was right. The Crown Vic pulled to a stop at the UNITED AIRLINES sign and angled right to the curb. The driver’s door opened, and the driver climbed out and moved to the passenger door.
“Good call—what’s your name?” Clark asked.
“Tony.”
“Thank you, Tony. You have a good one.” Clark and Jack hopped out. In Jack’s hand was the camera, well concealed but ready for action.
“He smokes,” Clark observed. More to the point, he also posed pretty well. Sometimes luck worked in your favor. “Okay, shoot me,” Clark said, posing. This Jack duly did, and afterward Clark came over to say something innocuous, followed by, “Got him?”
“Dead on. Now what?”
“Now I try to get a ticket to Chicago. You follow him to the gate and call me when you ID the flight.”
“Think you can get a ticket fast enough?”
“Well, if I fail, we’re no worse off than we are now.”
“Gotcha,” Jack agreed. “I got your number.” And he hopped to it, taking position fifty yards from their friend Hadi, who enjoyed every possible puff from his smoke before turning to walk into the terminal. He had a good photo of the mutt, Jack realized, checking the preview screen.
Clark walked toward the United desk, pleased that there wasn’t much of a line to fight through.
Hadi finished his smoke and flipped the butt onto the curb, took one deep breath of
non-airliner air, and walked inside. Dominic followed at a discreet distance, holding his secure cell phone in his left hand. Hadi walked directly toward the proper concourse and checked a monitor for the right jetway. He walked out just like any normal person trying to catch a flight. It took under ten minutes, and then he took his seat at D-28. Brian made his call.
“Clark,” the voice said on the other end.
“Jack here. Gate D-Twenty-eight, flight one-one-zero-eight.”
“Got it. Does it look crowded?”
“No, but the bird’s pulled up to the jetway, and the posted departure time is in twenty-five minutes. Better get a move on.”
“On my way.” John walked to the desk, had to wait for one business puke to get his ticket, then smiled at the desk clerk. “Flight one-one-zero-eight to Chicago, please. First-class, if possible, but I’ll take coach.” He handed over his gold MasterCard.
“Yes, sir,” the clerk said politely. She proved to be wonderfully efficient, and the computer printer spat out the cardstock ticket in just three minutes.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“To the right.” She pointed in case he didn’t know where right was. John walked evenly. Twenty minutes to make the flight. No problem. That came at the metal detector. It pinged, rather to John’s surprise. Then a uniformed rent-a-cop waved the magic wand over him and it pinged at his coat pocket. John reached in and found that his U.S. marshal’s badge had tripped it. This metal detector was really turned up.
“Oh, okay, sir.”
“I’m not even here on official business,” Clark said, with a shy smile. “Is that it?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Right.” Next time he’d toss it on the conveyor, John thought, and let the whole world think he was a cop. It had not pinged on the pen in his pocket. Wasn’t that interesting, or could be, if he had the Magic Pen. But he didn’t. Too bad.