Ops Files II--Terror Alert (16 page)

“That’s right.”

Ariel sighed. “I owe you five pounds. I was sure they’d take this more seriously.”

“Right. Well, it’s in character. They’re great at cleaning up the mess after the fact. Not so much at preventing it.”

“I don’t feel comfortable leaving this sit. Do you get the feeling they’ll have a problem if we deploy some of our agents to nose around?”

“He read me the riot act about racial profiling.”

“You think he meant it?”

“No. But he had to get it on the record.”

“All right, then. I’ll be in touch.”

Sol hung up and shook his head. He knew that Ariel would feel obligated to devote resources to the matter, especially given that the agency had paid in blood for the information. While he couldn’t blame the British for taking the approach they had, he couldn’t help but wonder if they’d be so laissez faire if one of their own had died to make the discovery.

In the end, it wasn’t his problem. He’d handled the negotiation, both parties had said what they needed to say, and the delicate waltz of relations between intelligence agencies continued apace, nothing revealed and nothing learned other than man’s capacity for deception.

Dubai, United Arab Emirates

A dense brown cloud darkened the sky to the south of the city as one of Dubai’s notorious dust storms strengthened on the horizon over the Rub’ Al Khali desert. Ajmal Kahn stepped from the elevator in the Al Seef Tower and found himself facing four hardened men in Western business suits, obviously armed, the bulges of their shoulder holsters telegraphing the seriousness of their intent.

He permitted himself to be searched, and then the taller of the men murmured into a headset and waved for him to enter the only door on that level. He did and found himself looking through a wall of floor-to-ceiling picture windows at a host of magnificent towers reaching for the sky, the blue of the Persian Gulf seemingly only footsteps away.

The room was cavernous, furnished in expensive Danish contemporary, and he was standing, unsure of how to proceed, when a voice called out from his left.

“Come in. Please. Make yourself at home. What can I get you?”

Kahn turned to face the speaker, a small, plump, hirsute man with an olive complexion, wearing a Versace shirt and ivory linen slacks.

“Aram, it is good to see you again.”

“Always an honor. Would you care for some refreshment? Perhaps some tea?”

“That would be nice. Thank you.”

“Sammy? Tea for us both,” Aram called out, and motioned for Kahn to follow him to an expansive set of sofas facing the breathtaking view.

“This is fabulous. Really,” Kahn said, knowing that his Saudi host reveled in earthly possessions like the suite. “I’ve never been to Dubai before. Impressive.”

“Well, it’s no Dhaka, but we make do.” Aram smiled, displaying receding gums that matched his hairline. “I trust you had no difficulty with customs.”

“No. All was as you said it would be.” Aram had arranged for Kahn’s safe arrival and had smoothed the way with immigration so that he was waved through without incident.

A young man dressed in white linen shirt and pants, barely out of his teens, arrived with the tea and set it down with graceful ease before disappearing soundlessly back into the depths of the suite. Kahn and Aram savored their drinks for an appropriate interval before Aram sat back and smiled.

“The five million has been transferred, as you asked. It should be in your account in about a day. First it must be bounced between several intermediary companies, but have no fear, it will be there by close of business tomorrow.”

“Allah be praised.”

“And how is our project coming?”

“I received word today that all is in place. Once this payment is received, the device will ship, and from there it is as good as done.”

“Excellent news.” Aram set his teacup down and smiled. “I heard from my sources that you had a problem at home?”

Kahn wasn’t surprised. Aram’s family was one of the ruling elite in his country, and intrigue ran in their blood. That he had connections within the
Ri'āsat Al-Istikhbārāt Al-'Āmah, the
Saudi Arabian intelligence service, was a given. And that word had spread of the attack on the safe house was not unexpected.

Kahn waved it away as though a minor irritant. “It was unrelated. A mole from the infernal Israelis. They are like flies – annoying, but in the end, incapable of doing anything meaningful.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss the Mossad. They have proven to be resourceful in the past.”

“Perhaps, but in this case they risked an international incident for nothing. The Bangladeshi police are actively seeking those involved in the affair. All they achieved was to make life more difficult for themselves.”

“Then you are not worried?”

“Of course not. I assure you it was not connected to our effort. More a routine game of cat and mouse that’s as old as we are.”

“What are your plans from here?” Aram asked, apparently satisfied with Kahn’s response.

“I have been invited to spend some time in India with several other like-minded clerics before wintering in Tehran. That sounds like a welcome diversion.”

“Yes. Well, I should warn you that my contacts tell me there is now a considerable price on your head. The Mossad can be a vindictive bunch.”

“It is of no concern to me. They have no reach where I am going.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. All I am saying is, you must be watchful. They mean to make an example of you.”

“The West will soon have its hands full with more pressing concerns, thanks in large part to your generosity and commitment,” Kahn said.

“We all play the roles we are destined to. I am honored to be able to help with the struggle. It is time for a rebalancing of power, for the righteous to reclaim their birthright.”

Kahn suppressed a smile of his own. Aram was a member of the Saudi lucky sperm club, born into a vast oil fortune and then educated at the finest schools, receiving a degree first from Harvard University and later a doctorate in philosophy from Cambridge. He had as much in common with the Palestinian refugees or the Hezbollah fighters as Kahn had with a Hollywood starlet. But it appealed to his sense of self-importance to contribute to militant causes, which Kahn supposed gave him bragging rights with his cousins, all of whom were also generous financiers of global terror.

“Indeed it is. And this blow will be a mighty one, felt around the world.”

“We can only hope.” Aram finished his tea and stood. “It was good of you to come and see me. I am much relieved that you are well and that things are still on track.”

“The pleasure is mine.”

The two men embraced, and Aram escorted Kahn to the door. “My men are at your disposal. If you need anything at all, simply ask, and they will make it so.”

“Your hospitality knows no bounds. The hotel you arranged for me is fit for a sultan.”

“I know you have no interest in matters of the flesh, but when one is traveling it is always nice to be comfortable, is it not?”

“I cannot argue with you.”

The sky darkened outside the picture windows as they stood at the door, and the turquoise of the sea was replaced by impenetrable brown as the dust storm engulfed them. Even through the double-plated glass they could hear the wind’s fierce howl, and Aram eyed nature’s fury with detached interest. “This is one of the prices of having a place here. It’s usually beautiful, but occasionally we have to suffer through one of these. Have no fear, it will pass within minutes. You are welcome to stay until it’s over.”

“I have taken enough of your time. I will be fine in the lobby. Please, do not wait on my account.”

“Very well. Congratulations on your progress. I will be watching the news.”

Kahn nodded, one eye on the swirling beige cloud outside the window, and offered a small smirk of triumph. “Allah is great.”

“Praised be His name.”

Manchester, England

Maya sipped coffee as she waited for Jeff to appear. She’d awakened early and gone for an hour run, and then made a light breakfast in preparation for a long day. Jeff had called the landline late the prior night and told her to be ready to spend the day practicing her surveillance skills, so she’d packed a purse with sunglasses, two differently colored baseball caps, a blue sweater, a long overcoat, and a cinnamon long-sleeved blouse, in case she needed to change any part of her appearance. Her jeans were loose fitting so she wouldn’t call attention to herself, and she’d worn black running shoes in the expectation of being on her feet for the duration.

When Jeff arrived, he was all business and no friendlier than the previous day. He set a thin file on the breakfast bar and helped himself to coffee. “That’s your assignment. A suspicious character in Birmingham named Imran Nazari that we’ve had our eye on.”

She quickly scanned the data sheet and studied the three photographs, all taken with a zoom lens from a clandestine position, she could tell from the angles. “Says here he’s based in London. What’s he doing in Birmingham?”

“He’s been skulking about there for the last few days. Why is one of the questions we have. Your job is to follow him and keep your eyes open, while avoiding detection.”

“He’s not overtly linked to Kahn?”

“No. But his name has come up several times as a prominent advocate of radicalism, and Birmingham’s close enough to Manchester to be of interest.”

She looked at him distrustfully. “Are you sure you’re not just making busywork for me to keep me occupied?”

His expression didn’t change, but she thought she saw the hint of a smile before he took a long sip of coffee. “It’ll take us a couple hours to make it to Birmingham. We have another agent in place. You’ll replace him and be relieved at the end of the day.” He drained his cup and set it down. “Come on, then. I’ll take you to the train station.”

Maya cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not coming with me?”

“Afraid not. I have other duties that demand my attention here.”

“Ah,” she said, keeping her tone neutral. So he was shunting her off to get her out of his hair – her instinct had been correct.

The atmosphere in the car was tense as he negotiated the morning traffic. When they arrived at the station, she got out and turned to him. “I have your number if anything comes up.” He’d given her an encrypted cell number, as well as the phone for the other agent in Birmingham.

“Should be a milk run.”

“I don’t suppose you have a gun for me,” she said.

“That’s frowned upon here. But from your dossier, I’d think your entire body is a lethal weapon. Did I misread that?”

“Seems like if I were going to misbehave, England would be a good place to do it, since nobody’s armed.”

“Maya, this is a surveillance operation, not an assault. Sorry to disappoint you. Most of what we do errs on the side of the discreet. One might even say mundane.”

“Let’s hope the bad guys are as sensitive to the local customs as you are. My experience has been that criminals aren’t concerned with gun laws.”

Jeff sighed, exasperated. “Try not to leave a trail of bodies behind you. You’re just following the man, right?”

She threw him a disarming smile. “Of course.” Maya glanced at her watch. “I better hurry, or I’ll miss the train.”

He watched her stride away and shook his head slightly. “Wouldn’t want that,” he muttered, and then pulled away from the curb.

The ride to Birmingham was only a third full with grim-faced commuters and pensioners, Birmingham the drab industrial city clearly not a dream destination. When she arrived at the euphemistically named International Station, she was underwhelmed by the gray buildings brooding in the drizzle – if anything, the first impression was even gloomier than Manchester.

The target, Nazari, was in a coffee shop in what passed for the business district nearby, and she picked up surveillance from the other watcher without ever seeing the man, only speaking to him on the phone. She stood across the street at a florist’s shop, keeping an eye on the café as she surveyed the display and occasionally pretended to text someone on her phone.

From what she could tell, Nazari was in no hurry, taking his time as he read the paper. After a half hour of that, a bearded man entered the café and sat with him, and Maya managed a couple of surreptitious photographs from her vantage point, for later examination. Eventually the pair left the café on foot, as she’d been told to expect, but then surprised her by getting into a car parked a half block away.

Maya flagged down a taxi and felt like an idiot telling the driver to follow the blue sedan. The driver was good-natured enough, though, and cackled with humor at the idea.

“What is it? Cheating boyfriend? Husband?” he asked.

“Something like that.”

The driver, a hard fifty if he was a day, studied her in the rearview mirror. “Dump the wanker, luv. You can do better, trust me on that.”

“I’m seriously thinking about it.”

The ride only lasted a few minutes, and the sedan parked in a lot in front of a sleek modern semicircular building. The cabby dropped her off, and she asked the driver to wait for her.

“No worries, but I have to leave the meter running.”

“Of course.”

She trailed the two men for several blocks, past flats with shops on the ground level, and waited as they paused in front of a pub – the Old Fox Theater Bar – that boasted having been at the location for well over a century. They turned the corner and she gave them twenty seconds before following them, and stopped when she found herself facing an empty sidewalk.

Rather than standing out conspicuously, she elected to continue walking, pausing at a men’s clothing shop and then again in front of a small market. Wherever Nazari and his mystery friend had disappeared, it had to be one of the proximate shops, but she didn’t see the men as she covertly observed the windows.

When she reached the end of the block, she pretended to answer a call on her cell as a drizzle began, and ducked into a doorway for cover. The other possibility was that her target had entered one of the homes, in which case there was no guarantee when he’d reappear, if at all.