A Murder of Crows (38 page)

This was new territory for him. It was most likely new territory for Jabbar, too. He doubted one of the most wanted men in the world held many face-to-face meetings. Hicks didn’t find that encouraging.

One anxious, dangerous man was enough.

T
WENTY MINUTES
later, after navigating the streets of downtown Toronto, Weaver dropped off Roger a block away from the CN Tower, before he pulled back into traffic. He began to circle the block around the tower as slowly as the flow of traffic would allow.

Before taking off from New York, Hicks had Jason divert one of the University’s Low-Earth-Orbit (LEO) scanners to move into position over the upper atmosphere high above the CN Tower. It was a fraction of the size of a standard OMNI satellite and not nearly as powerful. It was too high to be considered a violation of Canadian airspace, yet low enough to monitor Hicks’ immediate area. It also gave him a more reliable way of communicating with Jason and the team via a secure network.

Hicks checked his handheld to see if the LEO scanner had detected any hijacked camera feeds or if there were any other secure signals in the area. Canada might be another country, but it was still within the CIA’s sphere of influence. They could easily track him here as they could in New York, maybe even more so.

He was relieved to see the only signals OMNI picked up were from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP). He had expected that, especially around a major tourist attraction like the CN Tower. He bet this was why Jabbar had picked the tower. Sometimes a public location was the best meeting place for two hunted men. Mutually assured destruction could be an effective insurance policy.

He inserted the tiny Bluetooth earpiece in his ear in time to hear Roger’s first transmission. “I’m in position at the plaza. All clear. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Where are you located?”

“Now why on earth would I tell you that? You might look my way and accidentally give away my position, which wouldn’t be good for either of us, now would it?”

Hicks hated when Roger was right.

H
ICKS ASKED
Weaver to pull over when they got closer to the tower. He got out of the Land Rover and threaded his way through the crowd of tourists making their way to and from the skyscraper. He made sure his jacket was open as he moved. The feeling of the Ruger beneath his left arm was comforting.

All the guidebooks said the CN Tower is the tallest freestanding structure in the Western Hemisphere. As if one of the tallest buildings in the world wasn’t enough of a draw, the Toronto Blue Jays played next door at the Rogers Centre and a small patch of green named Bobbie Rosenfeld Park
separated the two complexes.

It was a warm day for early spring, so Hicks didn’t look out of place by keeping his jacket open. The lack of wind meant he didn’t have to worry about the jacket blowing open and revealing the Ruger beneath his left arm.

He subtly scanned the crowd for any sign of Roger, but was glad he couldn’t spot him. He heard him via the earpiece in his ear. “Jason and Weaver report they’re reading you loud and clear on all screens. No obvious hostiles in the area, but we don’t know what Jabbar looks like. He could be walking around out here right now and we’d never know it. Jason is also monitoring all secure signals via OMNI. I’ll let you know if he suspects our friends from the Barnyard in the area. Stay loose and keep your head on a swivel. We’ll handle the rest.”

The crowds of tourists in the plaza grew thicker the closer Hicks got to the tower. He didn’t know if Jabbar wanted to meet inside the tower or outside, so he split the difference and stood near the entrance.

His skin began to itch as he sensed the dozens of cameras in the area watching him. He doubted Stephens had tracked him to Canada, but he wouldn’t be surprised if they had. The Barnyard was not without its own resources, and if one of their computers picked up his image and ran a facial recognition scan, RCMP units would surround him within minutes. His sunglasses should be enough to throw off a casual scan, but if Langley had widened their search parameters, he could draw attention.

But grabbing Jabbar was worth the risk. He only hoped Jason and Weaver would detect any increased police activity before they got too close.

By sending Hicks the screen grab of the CIA surveillance, Jabbar had proven himself to be adept at hacking data systems. There was a good chance he was watching the plaza remotely right now, deciding whether or not it was safe enough to approach.

Hicks knew any one of the dozens of people milling past him could be Jabbar, so he didn’t waste time guessing if he was one of them. He hoped the terrorist believed he had followed his directions and had come alone.

The longer he stood at the entrance to the tower, the more Hicks began to conclude all tourists in all parts of the world looked the same. Men, women, and little kids. Tall, short, heavy, thin. Most of them had smart phones. Those who weren’t posting something on Facebook or Instagram were taking selfies from the base of the tower looking up. He heard accents and dialects from Pakistan and India, France and Australia. Jabbar could’ve been any of them and none of them. He didn’t try to guess. He tried to keep his mind a blank and make sure the Carousel didn’t fire up again. He focused on the task at hand.

Roger’s voice came over his earpiece. “On your ten o’clock, a light skinned male in his early sixties. Could be Middle Eastern. Carrying what appears to be coffee. Looks too sweet to be wholesome to suit me. This may be our target.”

Hicks spotted the man Roger had described. He fit OMNI’s general approximations of what Jabbar may look like: common, unassuming, and easy to overlook. The man with the coffee could have passed for Greek or Persian or Turkish. He was holding a full Styrofoam coffee tray with both hands as he gingerly steered his way through the tourists, making sure no one bumped into him. Hicks noticed he was clean-shaven with a receding hairline. He wasn’t carrying a bag or wearing a jacket. He didn’t look like a tourist.

Hicks checked the man’s ample torso, hips, and ankle for the outline of a weapon. Nothing. Not even a smart phone in his pocket.

The man even smiled as he approached him.

Hicks flexed his right hand and eased it up toward his belt buckle. The grip of the Ruger was only a few inches away.

But the man passed him by. He used his shoulder to push through the revolving doors and enter the CN Tower lobby. He hadn’t spilled a drop of his coffee.

Hicks didn’t bother to watch the man after he went inside. If the man was Jabbar doing a dry run, he’d know soon enough.

“Shit,” Roger said in his ear. “I could’ve sworn he was our man.”

Hicks didn’t dare respond in case Jabbar was close enough to see his lips moving.
Keep looking.

He spotted a plump young woman walking toward him from the park side of the tower. She didn’t look much different from the other people in the plaza, but something about her caught his eye, though not in a romantic way.

She looked like she could be a kindergarten teacher or a babysitter or a nurse. She was in her middle twenties and around five feet tall. She had a round face which bore a naturally pleasant expression and dark, almond shaped eyes. Her black hair was tied back in a bun. Her clothes were non-descript and plain—a loose brown jacket over black pants. She had a cheap black book bag over both of her shoulders and her sneakers looked like bargain store knockoffs. Once again, he looked for an outline of a weapon, but her clothes were so loose, it was impossible to tell if she had one.

Despite all of his training, he knew he could have seen this young woman a dozen times and still never remember her. But as she walked closer to him, the more he knew what made her stand out.

It was her eyes. Eyes much older than she was. Eyes that were supposed to be kind, but were not. The kind of eyes that had an intent peace about them, a serenity caused by the contentment of commitment.

Eyes that had seen too much to ever genuinely smile.

The same eyes he saw each time he looked in a mirror.

He knew this woman had to be Jabbar.

“There you are,” the young woman said when she was only a few feet away. Her voice was cheerful and without a hint of an accent. “From what I saw on the ATM footage, I figured you’d be taller.”

He kept his hand on his belt buckle. “And I figured you’d be someone else.”

“I know.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m sorry. You were expecting some dusty old man with a long craggily beard muttering passages from the Koran, weren’t you?”

He decided to try to shock her. “No, but I expected you to at least have a penis. You bastards aren’t known for empowering women.”

“Women empower themselves, if it pleases Allah.” She inclined her head back to the park. “Why don’t we go over there where it’s quieter and less crowded? Don’t worry. I’m sure your people will still be able to keep a close eye on you from there. But we should hurry. We don’t have much time to chat.”

Hicks didn’t move.

She held up her hands and opened them. “No wires or trigger device in my hands.” She slowly turned so he could look into her backpack, which was open. “No bomb. No AK-47 either. Only my laptop and a couple of granola bars. See?”

Hicks peered inside the bag without touching it. All he could see was a laptop and a couple of granola bars, exactly as she’d said. Her clothes were loose enough to conceal a bomb vest, but he doubted it.

He motioned for her to lead the way and he followed when she did.

The wind picked up as they got closer to the park. She eased aside a few stray hairs from her face. “What does your agency call me, anyway? Jabbar? Abdullah? The Sheik? The last one’s my favorite. Makes me sound like a wrestler or something. ‘Jabbar’ seems to be the most common. It was the name the French DGSE used to identify my uncle, back when he was in charge of things.”

Hicks kept scanning the crowd as they walked. No one seemed to be paying them any attention. “How’d your uncle die? Drone strike, I hope.”

“Heart attack in his sleep,” she said. “After he died, I took up his cause. All of his sons had died fighting the jihad, so I was the only one left to carry on his work.”

“Carry on his work,” Hicks repeated. “I didn’t know terrorism was a family business.”

“Living this kind of life is a calling,” she said. “On my side and yours, too. I continued my uncle’s practice of keeping my true identity a secret from the rest of my operation. My uncle always believed people can never hurt you if they don’t know who you are. And, as you said, we bastards aren’t known for empowering women. Anonymity makes things easier, doesn’t it?”

Hicks knew the Dean would have enjoyed the irony of sharing management styles with the most wanted terrorist in the world. But Hicks hadn’t come to Canada for irony. “How about you skip to the part where you tell me why we’re here.”

“How about you tell me what agency you’re with?”

“I’m not with an agency.”

“Look at you being modest. I know you have to be part of some kind of agency or department or task force or whatever you call it. There’s no other way you could’ve made the number of hacks I’ve seen you make. So, which one is it?”

She looked up at him, waiting for an answer, before sighing. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore anyway. At least you’re not with any regular government agency. I know the CIA is going to a great deal of trouble to find out whatever they can about you, but they’re not having much luck. They know you took Bajjah in Philadelphia, but they still don’t know why or where you’re holding him. Or should I say ‘were?’ I assume you must’ve killed him by now.”