Tripoli's Target (Justin Hall # 2) (30 page)

“Nothing.”

“So, why are you staring at me?”

Justin snorted. “I wasn’t.”

Carrie shifted in her tiny seat, her knees pressing against the back of the seat in front of her. The old Airbus A320 plane was a model of the early nineties. Small seats, no TVs, no power plugs, and now, thanks to the economic downturn, not even a tiny breakfast. Justin flicked the useless food tray in front of him.

“Now that you woke me up, are you gonna tell me what’s the matter?”

Justin leaned closer to her. Since the airplane was half empty, they had sat next to each other on the second last row, with no one in front or behind them. Abdul was two rows to their right, sound asleep.

“I dreamt of Marcel last night,” Justin whispered after a brief pause. “Same dream as before.”

Carrie gave him a slight frown, gripped the armrests and sat up straight. Marcel was the first person Justin had ever killed.

“How come?” Her hand gently rubbed Justin’s arm. Her eyes offered him a place of comfort.

He sighed. “No idea. Maybe… maybe it’s because this is all a mistake, like that time, when I went alone to the warehouse.”

Almost eleven years ago, in his first stint in France, Justin had arranged to meet with a source at an abandoned warehouse in Marseille. Marcel, a homeless man, had jumped from behind a garbage bin, spooking Justin. Instinctively, he had planted three bullets in Marcel’s chest. Upon a closer inspection, Justin had realized that Marcel, in his drunken state, presented little more than a nuisance. The CIS station in France had cleaned up the mess, erasing whatever little trace of Marcel may have ever existed. Justin had locked away memories of Marcel. Still, now and then, the grim face of the homeless man returned to torment him.

“This is not a mistake.” Carrie held Justin’s hand between hers. “We’re going to France. That’s why you’re reminded of him. And that episode in Marseille wasn’t a mistake either. Overreaction, perhaps, but definitely not a mistake.”

“What if I’m miscalculating the Prince? If he is really planning to kill Libya’s Prime Minister, who am I to try to stop him?”

“You’re the best agent I’ve ever worked with.” Carrie’s voice was full of conviction. “You’re smart, brave and capable, and together, the three of us,” she nodded toward Abdul, “we’re going to put an end to the Prince’s plans.”

“I hope so, I really hope so.”

“I know so and we will do it. We will.”

Carrie dropped her voice and smiled at a middle-aged woman waddling through the aisle toward the washroom.

“Our plan is failsafe,” Carrie added, once the washroom’s door was closed, “at first sign of foul play, we pull the plug.”

“That’s great if we notice the foul play. This isn’t a game for the Prince.”

“It isn’t a game for us either. We’ve done this before and we’ll do it again. This time, we’re just a few men short.”

“About seventeen men short.”

“Eh, details.”

Justin smiled.

“Well, the good news is that Pierre is already assembling our gear,” Carrie said. “We’ll have cars, Russian and French passports, money, guns, the works.”

Pierre Lamont was the only support Johnson had authorized for the team. After all, this was supposed to be only a reconnaissance mission.

“Pierre’s a genius,” Justin said.

“Yeah, he is.”

“I don’t have any good news,” Justin said, as one of the flight attendants, a tall Italian man, walked through the aisle.

“Will you call Anna today?”

“Definitely. I’ll call her from Nice.”

“Well, happy birthday to her.” After a brief pause, Carrie added, “And happy anniversary.”

“Thanks.”

“I might give Thomas a call too. He’s supposed to be in Vienna today, for some kind of shareholders’ meeting.”

“You’re still playing games with him?”

“Always.” A mischievous grin formed in her face.

Fiumicino Airport, Rome, Italy

May 16, 9:15 a.m. local time

The team cleared customs in Rome without a hitch. During the thirty-minute layover, Justin placed a call to Valerie. Romanov’s Veyron had arrived at the Monsati’s garage at 7:00 a.m. Valerie’s team was already at work on their makeover. In rapid Italian, Valerie explained the procedures, which sounded extremely complicated even for a racecar enthusiast like Justin. He decided to trust her completely, realizing it was something he was doing more and more over the last few days. He was trusting people.

Nice, France

May 16, 11:30 a.m. local time

Soon after their arrival in Nice, they stopped for brunch at Petit Café, a cozy restaurant a few blocks away from Rue St. Pierre. Carrie hid behind a large cup of cappuccino after ordering pain au chocolat. Abdul took only an espresso. Before sitting down, Justin decided to walk around the block and check if anyone was following or surveilling them.

When he returned to their table on the sidewalk, he noticed a large plate of food on the table in front of his seat.

“I got you strawberry pancakes and black coffee,” said Carrie, sitting cross-legged in her chair and taking a small bite of her croissant.

“What are you getting?” Justin asked Abdul.

“Nothing.”

“Eat now, ‘cause I don’t know when we’ll do lunch.”

“Why, what’s wrong?” asked Carrie.

“Nothing, but our day is full and there’s food here and now. So dig in.”

Abdul called the waitress and ordered French toast.

“I want to survey Le Bataillon and its surroundings,” Justin said between bites of pancakes. “We’ll find a couple of places where we can meet the Prince and decide on how to approach him, where to park the Veyron and where to close the deal.”

Carrie nodded. “I’m still waiting for some files from the office, but we know the Prince travels with an escort of twelve bodyguards. Since he’s coming to us, getting past the bodyguards isn’t an issue. At least for a few minutes.”

“He would want to take the Veyron for a ride,” Abdul said, “are you going to let him?”

“Of course,” Justin replied, “but I’m going with him. That way, I have a few minutes to talk to him in private.”

“The Prince may already have his men in place at and around Le Bataillon,” Carrie noted. “We shouldn’t stay too long at the hotel.”

Justin nodded. “I agree. We’ll go separately at three different times. Pierre should have our cars ready, along with the cameras, at the apartment. Take pictures of everything, so we’ll become familiar with the layout.”

“I’ve asked for the blueprints of the complex, parking lot and nearby buildings, as well as aerial photographs,” Carrie said. “In case of a quick getaway.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Abdul said.

They both glanced at him, eyes wide open.

“Of course,” Justin said, “it will be necessary, extremely necessary, Abdul. Do you think the Prince will just let us walk after we corner him?”

Abdul looked at the white tablecloth and scratched his head. “No, I guess not.”

Carrie explained, “Unlike a recon op, we’ll be in plain view. The Prince will know what we want soon before we get out. We’ve worked out the entry; now, we’ve got to figure out the exit.”

“OK, I get it.” Abdul took a sip of his coffee.

“Our exit will depend on the Prince’s reply, which we can guess isn’t going to be pretty,” Justin said. “He’s not accustomed to be told what to do, so our tactic will be to allow him to come to his own conclusion. We’ll simply inform him of the big mistake he’s about to make and warm him against it, pointing out the end result.”

“And you think that’s going to work?” Abdul asked.

Justin shrugged. “That’s our plan. The Prince will have to make up his own mind, but we’ll offer him some incentives.”

Carrie placed both her elbows on the table, while Justin brought a fork full of pancakes to his mouth. “Oh, how I wish we could drill him about the assassination plot.” She stirred the bottom of her cappuccino mug.

“Yes, me too,” Justin added, “but that’s not the plan. If we play our cards right, nothing unusual will happen in Tripoli tomorrow.”

“And if he calls our bluff?” Abdul asked.

Justin hesitated before answering, “In that case may your God protect your Prime Minister, because no one else can.”

Nice, France

May 16, 5:00 p.m. local time

Justin was the first to drive to Le Bataillon for his reconnaissance mission, which lasted sixty minutes. Back at their safe house on Rue St. Pierre, the team analyzed the photographs he took, comparing them to the aerial shots provided by the Agency.

After Abdul returned from his stint, around 2:00 p.m., and after more analyses of his handiwork, it was Carrie’s turn to stakeout the hotel, the traffic in and out, the security, in short all aspects of the operation on the ground.

Carrie returned to the apartment at 3:10 p.m. Everything had gone well. She had not been made and no one had followed her. They printed more photographs, made more drawings on whiteboards, and drafted and redrafted more scenarios.

“I feel really good about this, now that I’ve been at Le Bataillon,” Justin said, tapping a poster-sized aerial photograph of the hotel complex. He walked to the dining table covered with papers and made room for the photograph. “We’ll use the VIP parking area to show the Veyron to the Prince, right here by the left side door.” He pointed at a spot in the photograph.

“These are the last of my pictures.” Carrie handed Justin a stack of about thirty 8” x 10” color photographs. She sat by the window overlooking the Promenade des Anglais and the Mediterranean Sea. A few waves slapped against an old, wooden pier, and a swift breeze raised white grains of sand. The weather had turned cold and windy, and Carrie thought it may rain, considering the gray streaks of clouds to the south.

“Where are you first meeting the Prince?” Abdul asked, hiding a yawn. Without waiting for a reply, he got up from his seat next to Justin and walked to the kitchen. “Anyone want coffee?”

“Sure, I’ll have some,” Justin replied.

“Make that two,” Carrie said.

“I’m thinking of meeting the Prince or his aides or bodyguards at the Royal Lounge, just off the main reception area.” Justin sifted through the photographs, while Abdul was still in the kitchen. “It’s for the exclusive use of hotel guests. Very private.”

“By the way, when are we checking in?” Carrie asked.

Justin did not answer her. He was staring at one of the photographs in his hands.

“Justin? What is it?” Carrie asked.

“When did you take this picture?”

Carrie moved closer to him. The photograph showed three men talking to each other, sitting on couches by the hotel’s entrance.

“It was one of the last ones, I believe. I parked, talked to the receptionist, walked around pretending I was making a phone call. Then, I came back to use the washroom. On the way out, I snapped three last shots. Why?”

“I think I’ve seen one of these men before.” Justin’s voice was dry and cold. “Can you show me the photo on your laptop?”

“Sure.”

Carrie typed a few keys and a folder with the picture files appeared on the screen. She switched to the thumbnail view.

“It’s this one.” She clicked on the right one.

“Zoom in the face of the man to the left.”

Carrie tapped the keyboard and the face of the man filled the entire screen. The image became grainier but still sufficiently clear for Justin to reach his conclusion.

“I think he’s one of the Prince’s men. Let me check the files Matthew gave us.” Justin looked through a couple of folders, until he found it. “Yes, look at this.” He showed Carrie a picture of a man in his early thirties, with a thick black moustache. “It’s the same man.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

“What does this mean?” Abdul walked in the dining room with two large coffee mugs. “I only heard part of the story.”

“This means the Prince’s men are already in place. We can’t risk being seen around Le Bataillon any more, if they haven’t spotted us already.”

“Even venturing around the city is too risky,” Carrie said. “We could blow our cover.”

“But what about tomorrow?” Abdul asked. “What if they recognize us tomorrow as we drive in and start shooting? Or if they recognize us as we meet the Prince?”

“They won’t shoot with all hotel guests and staff around. This is Nice, not Tripoli,” Carrie replied.

Justin nodded. “And tomorrow, we’ll be prepared. We’ll have the advantage of surprise. Even if the Prince or his bodyguards recognize us, we’ll be closer to the Prince than we are at the moment. I just don’t want us to run into these people today, while we’re still making plans.”

“What if the Prince is a no-show and this is an ambush?” Abdul asked.

Justin took a few seconds to think of an answer. “That’s a possibility and a risk we take every day. Everywhere we go, everyone we meet may not be what they seem.”

Abdul sighed. “OK. Let’s hope this isn’t an ambush. I was so looking forward to spending a night in that palace.”

Chapter Twenty-five

Nice, France

May 17, 9:45 a.m. local time

The team left their apartment in a black Mercedes-Benz CLS 550.
If we’re going to act like millionaires, we need to look like millionaires,
Justin had told Pierre, who had also found designer clothes and fashion accessories for the team. Justin had never heard of the brand names, evidence of their exclusivity. He was wearing cream-colored pants, a gray short-sleeved shirt, and a sports jacket. Carrie had put on faded blue jeans and a pink tie-back blouse with a purple cardigan. They wore dark sunglasses, and Justin had a Rolex and a thick gold chain around his left wrist. Carrie’s jewelry included a white gold necklace, matching earrings, and a couple of diamond rings. Abdul, their driver and bodyguard, was dressed in a more conservative fashion: a black three-button blazer, dark blue shirt, and black pants.

Although Le Bataillon was only fifteen minutes away, Justin did not want to get bogged down in traffic, in case of an accident or a detour. According to Valerie, Romanov’s Bugatti Veyron, polished and ready, was going to be delivered at the hotel at 10:30 a.m. Justin wanted to be there when it arrived, to make sure everything was in place for the meeting with the Prince.