“Well,” I said, “there could be a couple of reasons for that. First of all, some news stories I file only consist of video footage and a written script. In that case, an anchor in our stateside studio reads my script while showing the audience the video. When that happens, I don’t get any on-air credit for my work.”
Mr. Tariq nodded. “Yes, I’ve seen many such stories like that.”
I couldn’t help but notice the hint of a smile on Delaney’s face when it appeared Mr. Tariq was satisfied with my answer.
I assumed this was because she and I had worked together to come up with the best way to answer that question, and I’d just used the exact wording she’d given me.
While she looked pleased at that answer, I wasn’t sure she’d be so pleased with what I had to say next.
“The second reason you may not have seen any of my broadcasts is that GNS is hardly at the top tier of news agencies. In fact, it’s pretty much near the bottom. We primarily cater to independent television stations who can’t afford to subscribe to the packages offered by the major news networks. In fact, Mr. Tariq, if you’d prefer to have a more prestigious news organization cover the refugee camp, I admit I’d be very disappointed, but I assure you I’d completely understand the reason behind your decision to reject our request.”
His eyes widened. “Frankly, Mr. Brice, I’m surprised to hear you say that. I’m used to dealing with Americans who act as if they’re doing us a favor by visiting our country. Your honesty and lack of arrogance is very refreshing, and, for that reason alone, I’d be happy to allow GNS to tell the story of the refugees who’ve been displaced by the war in Yemen.”
Mr. Tariq pulled an official-looking document out of his bag, along with a handheld seal embosser, and laid them on the table in front of him.
“Before I authenticate your travel documents,” he said, “would you mind telling me about your experience at Columbia University? My son is looking for a good journalism school, and someone recommended he apply at Columbia.”
“Yes, Columbia is an excellent journalism school.”
Tariq said, “I received my degree from SMU in Dallas, but he’s not interested in going to Texas. He wants to live in New York City. Tell me about your experience at Columbia.”
At that moment, several questions traveled across the cerebral cortex of my brain in rapid succession.
How much research had his son already done on Columbia? Did any of his friends attend there? How far could I go in deceiving Mr. Tariq about my knowledge of the university?
I said, “I had a great experience at Columbia, so, of course, I’m totally prejudiced, but if your son plans to get a graduate degree in journalism, there’s no finer institution anywhere in the world.”
“What about the professors? Is there someone you could recommend we contact about their documentary program?”
At the same time Mr. Tariq had been asking me these questions, he’d been opening up some kind of app on his cell phone. Now, he had his forefinger poised over the screen’s keyboard, waiting for me to give him the name of a professor at Columbia who could answer his son’s questions.
I looked up at the ceiling a moment as if I were trying to choose just one name. “Ah . . . let’s see. It’s difficult to know who exactly . . . ah . . . would be . . . ah . . .”
“What about Professor Frederick Toalston?” Delaney asked. “You told me he was a great mentor for students.”
“Yes,” I said, nodding at her, “he would be perfect.”
I turned and looked at Mr. Tariq. “You should have your son contact Professor Frederick Toalston. He should be able to help him with any questions about the university. He was a great friend to me while I was there.”
Once Mr. Tariq had entered the name Frederick Toalston on his phone, he put down his phone and signed the document giving Global News Service permission to visit the Marlize Refugee Camp in Somahi, Yemen.
Afterward, he authenticated his signature with the official seal of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.
Operation Rebel Merchant had passed its first hurdle.
Despite this small victory, I had my doubts the operation would have made it out of the starting block without the timely assistance of Support Specialist, Delaney Karol.
It was an issue I’d have to address sooner rather than later.
* * * *
Mr. Tariq mentioned he needed to discuss some other matters with Mason Barron, so, after thanking him for his help, we left the embassy and headed back to our hotel.
As soon as we’d cleared the embassy compound, Taylor cut his eyes over at me as I rode in the passenger seat beside him and said, “I guess I should have told you I’m not that good at role-playing. It’s just not in my nature.”
“You did fine. I was the one who almost blew it.”
I glanced at Delaney, who was seated in the back seat with Mitchell.
“I have a feeling Mr. Tariq is going to give Frederick Toalston a call about his son attending Columbia within the next few days. If Toalston isn’t a real professor at the university, I need to know that now.”
Delaney smiled, “Oh, Frederick Toalston is a real flesh and blood professor all right. I was in a few of his journalism classes at the University of Nebraska before he accepted a position at Columbia. Professor Toalston is nearing retirement age now, so if he says he doesn’t remember a student by the name of Austin Brice, I don’t think Mr. Tariq will be surprised.”
“I need to apologize to all of you,” I said. “I’m usually much better prepared to be grilled on my cover story than I was today.”
“Yeah, I imagine that was a first for you,” Mitchell said. “You’re constantly on my case about getting the details right. If you ask me, your lack of preparation is the result of getting engaged to Nikki.”
He swayed his arm back and forth in the air. “You’re probably still floating around up there in the clouds somewhere.”
I immediately denied that was the case, but his comment brought a barrage of personal questions from Delaney about my engagement. Naturally, that meant I had to spend the rest of the drive back to the hotel telling everyone about Nikki.
But, as I listened to myself giving them far more information than they needed to hear about her, I decided Mitchell was probably right.
I needed to focus on Rebel Merchant and get my head out of the clouds.
Forty-eight hours later, I had no choice.
Chapter 30
Sunday, December 6
Although I was anxious to hear from Barron about what Stephen Gault had done after his arrival in Riyadh on Saturday afternoon, I waited until after I’d finished breakfast on Sunday morning before deciding to give him a call.
I was concerned if I contacted Barron too soon, he would think I was pressuring him to get the tracking device planted, and then he might decide to do something reckless—something I would have to clean up later, or worse yet, have to explain to Carlton.
At this very moment, Carlton’s plane was about to land in Aden, Yemen. From there, he’d be picked up by an EAI staff member and driven to the Marlize Refugee Camp.
By the time the Rebel Merchant team arrived at the refugee camp in Somahi tomorrow, I’d be surprised if Carlton didn’t have a set of protocols ready to go, detailing exactly how I was to make contact with Jacob. On the other hand, if Jacob himself was the person who was meeting Gault’s flight from Riyadh tomorrow, then all of Carlton’s meticulous protocols would have to be revised.
The scenario of Jacob showing up at the airport tomorrow seemed less likely to me after hearing Jacob had a driver who escorted him everywhere he went in Somahi.
For some reason, it appeared the Saudis were restricting Jacob’s freedom, and I was anticipating they would treat Gault the same way and send a military driver to pick him up.
After leaving my waitress a generous tip, I walked down the steps of the hotel’s patio restaurant and followed a cobblestone pathway that led down to the swimming pool and then me
andered around the oasis-like flower garden and lush grounds of the Rosh Rayhaan Hotel.
For a brief moment, I considered waiting another hour before making the call to Barron, but as soon as I realized the walkway was deserted once I got past the swimming pool, I pulled out my Agency sat phone and began punching in Barron’s number.
Before I was able to finish the sequence, my sat phone vibrated.
Barron was calling me.
“Mason here,” he said. “Are you clear?”
“Clear,” I said, after making sure I was still alone. “What’s up?”
“I wanted to update you on Gault’s status.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“My watchers had him under surveillance from the time he left the airport until he arrived at his hotel yesterday. They said he took a taxi from the airport and didn’t make any stops along the way. I was already at the Al Khozama Hotel by the time he arrived, but he refused to let a bellboy help him with his luggage, and it would have looked suspicious for me to get in the elevator with him since it was already crowded when he got inside.”
“Did you contact the Ops Center to see if they could get his room number from the hotel’s computer?”
“There wasn’t any need for that. I was near the registration desk when he checked in, and I heard the clerk tell him they had him booked into Room 504.”
Although Barron could be foolhardy at times, I couldn’t deny his tradecraft was excellent. Even so, when I complimented him, I was careful not to praise him too much, lest he think I was encouraging him to take even more risks.
“I’m impressed, Mason,” I said. “Great job getting his room number.”
“Yeah, thanks. My plan was to slip up there when he went out to get some dinner, but I guess he must have ordered room service. He never left his room last night.”
“I imagine he was dealing with jet lag.”
“That’s what I thought too. Maybe that’s still the case, because he hasn’t left his room this morning either.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ve still got twenty-four hours to put the tag on his luggage. I’d offer to come over and take your place so you could go home and get some rest, but if Gault spotted me at the hotel, I’m afraid he’d recognize me.”
“There’s no need for you to do that. I’ve got it covered. You won’t be able to reach me for the next couple of hours, but I’ll call you when it’s done.”
“Okay, but if you—”
Barron hung up on me.
* * * *
I tried calling him back immediately, but the call went to voice mail. Red lights started flashing along the outer edges of my cerebellum.
I kept running over his last statement in my mind. “You won’t be able to reach me for the next couple of hours, but I’ll call you when it’s done.”
Why wouldn’t I be able to reach him for a couple of hours?
It wouldn’t take him that long to get in and out of Gault’s room. On the other hand, if he’d come up with some elaborate scheme to plant the tracker, then he’d probably need the extra time to put it into play.
Should I just sit around and wait for him to call me back?
My walk around the hotel grounds had taken me back up to the Rosh Rayhaan’s main entrance, and before I even realized I’d made a decision, I found myself heading down Olaya Street toward the Al Khozama Hotel where Gault was staying.
As I covered the two blocks over to Gault’s hotel, I considered contacting either Mitchell or Taylor to let them know what I was doing and where I was going.
Delaney had never been to Riyadh before, so the three of them had driven over to Kingdom Centre, a ninety-nine-story landmark building in the center of Riyadh. The building was purported to be the world’s third largest skyscraper, and they’d made plans to tour the Sky Bridge at the top of the structure.
To get out of going with them, I’d made the excuse I needed to call Barron—in reality, I also wanted to contact Nikki—but now, even though I figured I’d be back at our hotel before they returned, I decided I should at least let one of them know I was leaving the hotel for a few hours.
When I called Mitchell’s number, it went to voice mail, so I left him a brief message. “I’ve walked over to the Al Khozama Hotel to check on something with Mason. If I’m not back by the time you return, or if I haven’t contacted you by then, you’ll need to get in touch with headquarters.”
As I got near the Al Khozama Hotel, I slowed my pace and considered how I was going to enter the hotel without alerting Barron or his surveillance team that I’d come over to check on him.
As I studied the entrance, I noticed it might work to my advantage that I’d arrived at the hotel on foot instead of by car.
Valet parking at the hotel was mandatory, so several doormen were stationed at the main entrance to usher guests into the lobby after they’d handed their vehicles over to a parking valet. All this activity at the front entrance had created a bottleneck for guests who were returning to the hotel on foot after shopping at the stores on Olaya Street.
But, a few guests had figured out they could enter the hotel through the gift shop and avoid the congestion at the main entrance.
That’s where I headed now—straight for the gift shop.
I felt sure I could blend in with a group of American tourists who were discussing their sightseeing plans for the day, and, sure enough, as the youngest guy in the group held the door open for an elderly couple—who looked old enough to be his parents—he motioned for me to enter the gift shop ahead of him.
I thanked him, hoping he didn’t consider me old enough to need someone to hold the door open for me, even if I did have a few gray hairs of my own.
As the Americans strolled through the gift shop on their way to the lobby, I pretended to be part of their entourage by nodding when the older guy made a comment about the pungent smell of incense in the shop.
I recognized the scent as oud, a fragrance produced from the resin of the agarwood tree, which is probably why I associated it with the smell of a musky old wooden barn.
Oud is considered a masculine scent in the Middle East, and a bride often gives it to her husband-to-be as a wedding present. As I thought about wedding presents, it reminded me I hadn’t called Nikki.
Now, as I entered the lobby, I made a mental note to remain focused on the task at hand and not get distracted by a wedding or a honeymoon or a beautiful bride.
I admit Nikki was still on my mind when something caught my attention over at the registration desk.
It was a bellboy dressed in the same type of uniform worn by the bellboys at the Rosh Rayhaan Hotel—a long-sleeved red jacket with gold buttons, sleeves trimmed in black and gold braid, black pants with a red stripe running down the side, and shiny black loafers.
However, the uniform wasn’t what drew my attention.
It was the person wearing the uniform.
Apparently, Mason Barron had decided to dress up as a bellboy.
* * * *
The moment I spotted him, I slipped behind a massive white column in the elaborately decorated lobby and considered my next move.
As I stood there, I suddenly had a flashback to our earlier conversation when Barron had told me Gault had refused the services of a bellboy when he’d arrived at the hotel yesterday.
Perhaps Barron had been dressed as a bellboy even then.
Maybe that was how he’d planned to affix the tracking device to Gault’s luggage. It might also explain how he’d been close enough to the registration desk to hear the desk clerk give out Gault’s room number.
While I applauded his resourcefulness, I was bothered by the fact his actions were putting his cover as the Public Affairs Attaché in jeopardy. I was certain he knew Carlton wouldn’t approve, which is probably why he hadn’t been forthcoming with me about what he was planning.
Should I leave him alone and trust him to get the job done or should I make my presence known and suggest he drop the charade and wait
for Gault to leave his room?
I’d almost decided to walk away when I spotted Barron guiding a luggage cart toward the elevators.
At that moment, I told myself I needed to follow him and watch his back, but, when I thought about it later, I believe my curiosity got the best of me, and I wasn’t able to resist finding out what he was up to.
Once Barron had maneuvered the luggage cart inside one of the elevators and the doors had whooshed shut behind him, I entered a second elevator and pushed the button for the fourth floor.
When I stepped off the elevator on the fourth floor, I took a few seconds to orient myself to the layout of the room numbers—figuring the fifth floor would have a similar layout—and then I opened the door to the stairwell and took the stairs up to the fifth floor.
When I eased the stairwell door open on the fifth floor, I peered down the hallway, expecting to see Barron pushing the luggage cart toward Room 504.
Instead, Barron had left the cart beside the elevator and was standing in front of Room 504 with his back to me.
Barron rapped on the door a couple of times. “Bellboy,” he said. “I’m here to take your luggage down to the shuttle.”
In essence, Barron was using the I’m-sorry-I-must-have-dialed-the-wrong-number ploy to get Gault to come to the door.
Although there was a good chance this approach would work, I had no idea what Barron would say or do to get access to Gault’s luggage once Gault answered the door and informed him he’d knocked on the wrong door.
For some reason, I had a vision of violence being involved.
Barron repeated himself, and when Gault didn’t answer, he checked to make sure the hallway was clear, and then he removed a small black box with a thin wire attached to it. At the end of the wire was what appeared to be an electronic key card.
The device was called a Proxie Box and when a user turned it on and either inserted or held the key card in front of a room’s electronic lock, the computer inside the Proxie Box was able to unlock the door simply by running through all the possible codes that could be used by the hotel’s key card system.
Five Years in Yemen Page 28