One Rough Man (48 page)

Security? That sucks.
I didn’t push it. “No issues. It’s all yours. You got any kit for me?”

Knuckles grinned, obviously relieved that I hadn’t demanded to be with the entry team.

“Of course,” he said. “I knew you wouldn’t have anything. You never did.” He turned to a man carrying a civilian pack. “Give him the kit we brought.”

Inside the bag was some communications equipment and an H&K UMP, just like everyone else was sporting. It was a small, lightweight submachine gun built primarily of space age polymer, which made it easier to break down and hide from X-ray inspection. While it lost the power of the cartridges chambered in carbines and rifles, the UMP had the appeal for the Taskforce of being easily concealable. There were other automatic weapons that were smaller, but the UMP chambered the more powerful .45 caliber instead of the ubiquitous, but less powerful, 9mm. The .45 had a much greater knockdown power and was a subsonic round, thus making the UMP easy to suppress without the need for special rounds. I pulled it out and did a functions check, knowing it was unnecessary, but doing it anyway out of habit.

Once he saw I was ready, Knuckles started the ball rolling, telling Jennifer, “Showtime. We’ll be thirty seconds behind you.”

She glanced at me with a question. No fear, just unsure of whether she should leave. Wanting my approval before she followed the orders of a stranger she’d just met.

I said, “Time to put your money where your mouth is.”

She broke into a smile and started walking, saying, “Please. I’m just wondering if I should stay behind so I can pull your ass out of the fire.”

Knuckles let her get out of earshot before saying, “Is she good to go? What was that all about?”

“Nothing,” I said. “She’s just good at winging shit. And proud of it too.”

“Fucking great. Just what I need. You guys must be the perfect couple.”

Two minutes later, the entire team was stretched out along the hallway of Carlos’s room. I pulled security the way we had come, the team prepared to enter, with various team members covering the other hotel room doors. One man turned on a sophisticated thermal viewer that allowed him to see heat sources through a variety of construction materials. It couldn’t determine if the source was a man, but it would alert us if a large mass in the room was putting out more heat than the ambient temperature. Short of a space heater being operational, it would be a human, since the device wouldn’t register such things as candles or lighters. The man swept the room quickly, then shook his head. Knuckles turned to the next man, twisting his hand as if he were using a key.

The man immediately dropped to a knee, pulling out a much more sophisticated version of my homemade bump key. It looked like a key on one end, with a baseball sized lump on the other. He inserted it into the lock, pressed a button on the baseball, and swung the door open, leaning back as the entry team blew by him into the room. Five seconds later we were all in the room, discussing what to do next.

“He came back and took the detonator,” I said. “Ballsy guy, I’ll give him that.”

Knuckles said, “You got any idea where he went, or are we now at the ‘let’s go fishing’ stage?”

“I only know he has a safe house somewhere in Bosnia, presumably around here, but it could be anywhere.”

“That’s not much of a help.”

Then I remembered. “Wait. I copied a phone number while I was in here. I’m positive it was something of his. It might only be his contact here, but it might also be the safe house. Either way, we hit that thing and we’ll get something out of it.”

“We’ve both hit jackpot with less in the past,” Knuckles said. “Let’s get the hell out of here before the locals start sniffing around.”

Back on the street we linked up with Jennifer at the parking lot. I told her what we had, then read off the phone number to Knuckles.

She asked, “What’re you going to do, try to call that and trick him?”

“No,” I said, “we’re going to try to pinpoint it. The landline infrastructure here was pretty much demolished during the war, so this number is probably a cell phone. Just about every single cell phone built now comes with a GPS feature. What we’re going to do is try to turn it on and have it send us its location. It might not work, because we need a digital network to slave on, and the phone needs a GPS. If we have both, we can dial the phone without it ringing and do some black magic.”

While I was talking one of the team had pulled out a normal looking cell phone, telling it to boot up a hidden program. He said, “We’re good. We have a digital signal.”

He dialed the number, watching the screen. “It’s a cell.”

He spent thirty seconds thumbing the keypad as if he were texting a friend.

“Got a GPS.”

He continued to work it for another half minute.

He looked up with a smile. “We’re in business. Got a grid.”

He read the grid reference out to another man working a laptop computer with a world mapping program.

“It’s a house in Sarajevo,” he said, “north of the river about middle way through the city.”

“That’s outside the Republic of Srpska part of Sarajevo. It’ll be a Muslim neighborhood,” I said. “That fits. We need to get moving. He’s got a few hours’ head start.”

Knuckles said, “Well, unless he’s flying, we can beat him. We sent the 427 to the old Eagle base. No Americans there now, since SFOR left, but it is an operational airport. We can probably beat him to Sarajevo. The key question is whether that’s where he’s going.”

“Won’t know that until we get there. Let’s load up. You can follow me. I still remember the way to Eagle base.”

An hour and a half later we were flying south, with me fuming over the bureaucratic nightmare of getting the helicopter fueled up and ready to go at the old air base.
Third-world bullshit. Maybe we should chase Carlos right into that damn terminal. Give ’em a sense of urgency.
Watching the ground race underneath, I relaxed. It would take less than forty-five minutes to get to the Sarajevo airport, even taking into account more bureaucracy. We should be very close behind him.

My mind wandered to the team we had killed, and how they had managed to find Jennifer and me. Eliminating everything I could think of, I was left with one possibility: They had somehow managed to track Kurt’s pager. I couldn’t see how on earth that would be true, since the pagers were treated as sensitive items in the Taskforce, but there simply wasn’t any other explanation. Short of some miraculous new technology, it was the only weak point I could find, and if Kurt’s pager was compromised, they were all probably vulnerable. With the team dead or bleeding on the side of the road, it was no longer a threat on this operation, but the compromise would need to be explored after we finished here.

B
akr waved his arms at a cloud of smoke spewed out by the departure of an inner-city bus. He surveyed the area, getting his bearings. Juka had given him directions to the house from the Sarajevo bus station, and Bakr had researched the city while waiting on Sayyidd to answer, but the image he had created in his mind didn’t fit the reality on the ground. Finding a map on the wall, he quickly located the tram that would take him to the city center.

The trek back to his hotel room had been little trouble; the man from Guatemala and his henchmen were nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t pushed his luck, spending less than three minutes in his room, packing up his things and taking the detonator. The bus ride itself had been inside a bouncing, belching machine that should have been retired years ago, but that was quickly forgotten in his eagerness to find the safe house.

Riding the tram parallel to the Miljacka River, he could still see the scars of war throughout the city, with mortar impacts slashing the street and bullet holes pocking the walls of older buildings. As the tram closed in on the old section of the city known as Bascarsija, he began to notice a healthy security presence. Pulling into his stop inside the old market area, he saw an overwhelming number of police. Too many for simple tourist protection.

His first thought was that he had already been tracked and was now on the verge of getting captured. Frozen in place for a second, the panic rising, he debated whether he should simply keep riding. He was broken out of his thoughts by someone else trying to exit.

Speaking in English, Bakr asked, “Why’re all the policemen here?”

The Bosniak smiled and said, “Big ceremony today. It’s the fifteenth anniversary of the Markale massacres during the war. They’re just here to keep the peace.”

Hoping the relief didn’t show on his face, Bakr exited with the man, asking what the massacre was about.

“During the siege here the Serbians launched three separate mortar attacks on the Markale Market right up the road there. Killed a lot of people. They’re putting up a memorial today. Something more formal than a Sarajevo Rose.”

Bakr thanked the man and moved on. He hadn’t known the name of the market but had read about the actions there, as well as the siege itself, in his research earlier. The Markale was the largest outdoor market in Sarajevo, and the attacks had killed hundreds of civilians who were simply trying to survive. He knew a “Sarajevo Rose” was the impact of the mortars themselves, now filled in with red paint and left as they were the day they were fired as a reminder of the callous act. Ultimately it had convinced the Western world to intervene in the bloody conflict.

It disgusted Bakr that the Muslims here would turn to the West as their savior, going so far as to put up a monument commemorating their weakness. Maybe if they didn’t act so much like the infidel, they wouldn’t have needed the help of the infidel.

He walked through the old section of the city and entered into the close-packed neighborhoods to the north. Using Juka’s directions, he approached what he thought was the safe house. It was hard to tell, since all the buildings looked the same, but this was the only house with a large concrete planter in the front yard, looking like a horse trough filled with dirt. Juka said it had been put up after a mortar round had landed in the street, but that it now served to keep people away from the front of the house. He could always call the number Juka had given him for the clean safe house somewhere nearby, but preferred to use that as a last resort.

Bakr glanced around, seeing nothing more than a couple of pedestrians walking away from him and a woman beating a rug on an upstairs balcony down the street. He went around the left side of the house and jumped the waist-high concrete wall of the courtyard. He moved to the northeast corner and squatted down. Looking closely at the ground, he searched for a length of twine coming out of the neglected patch of flower garden. Pulling gently, he followed it for a foot and a half, eventually pulling up a key. He smiled. He had the right house.

Bakr unlocked the back door and swung it open without going inside. He stood and listened for thirty seconds. Hearing nothing, he walked slowly into the house, smelling the musty, cloying odor of a space rarely used. He searched throughout the downstairs and upstairs, slowly walking and listening for anyone or anything. Eventually he was satisfied that the house was empty.

He moved to the front and peeked out the window, getting a clear view up and down the street. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. The woman continued beating her rug, dust swirling around her head, giving her a halo in the afternoon light, but nothing else was moving. He found the basement door and went downstairs, fumbling a second before finding a light. He took a moment to let his eyes get used to the dazzle.

Against the back wall, stacked from the dank floor to within a foot of the ceiling, were enough explosives to take out an entire city block. He saw blasting caps, AK-47s, blocks of Semtex, ball bearings, remote-control aircraft components, cotton vests, wiring, and anything else he might need to build his suicide weapon. It would take him some time to integrate his special detonator, but he had the expertise to make it work.

 

 

LUCAS WAITED ON HIS MEN outside of the Sarajevo customs area, where he was the first to make it through. The team didn’t have to worry about anyone in customs searching their bags—they were using black diplomatic passports secured by Harold Standish through contacts inside the National Security Council.

He hung up his cell phone for the third time. For some reason he had no contact with Mason at all. The phone simply rang and went to voice mail. He chalked it up to a sorry cell network. He watched the first team member come through the customs hallway, carrying his duffel bag covered in military patches.
Way to go, 007. Real inconspicuous.
He reflected again on the fact that he was dealing with the second tier. They were all special operations guys, but not the cream of the crop. They were good enough at executing simple missions, with specific instructions, but would not do well at contingencies or thinking on the fly.
They sure as shit aren’t as good as Mason’s team. Why won’t that guy answer the phone?

O
n final approach to the Sarajevo airport, I could see a flurry of activity on the tarmac. Instead of airport workers in yellow vests, I saw a bunch of guys in business suits casing the place. Getting on the headset, I asked the pilot what was going on.

“Some sort of ceremony in town today. They got dignitaries coming in from all over Europe.”

Knuckles cut in. “That’s great. Should make our illegal exfil with a captured terrorist that much easier.”

I grinned at him. “Come on. What’s the point of living on the edge if you don’t lean over a little?”

He just shook his head.

The pilot said, “Might work out better for us. We’re being directed to land at the old military side of the airport—away from all the security. Should be able to come and go freely from this end.”

The Taskforce team exited the Bell 427 while the rotors were still turning, the whine of the engines slowly growing weaker. I was itching to get started. “We need some vehicles. Anyone know anything about this airport?”