Tripoli's Target (Justin Hall # 2) (16 page)

Justin dug out a dusty Tom Clancy paperback with a dog-eared cover. He retrieved the Glock’s magazines.

“OK, that’s about a hundred and fifty rounds.” Abdul observed Justin’s skilled hands checking the high-capacity magazines. He slid one in place, inside the gun’s handle, noticing the bottom of the magazine sticking out a couple of inches. “What do you intend to do?”

Justin gave Abdul a sideways glance. “You’re good at math. Four mags times thirty-three rounds each, plus fifteen in the standard one, yeah, that’s about one fifty.”

Abdul shook his head. “You’re gonna start a war, like the last time, aren’t you?”

“Me? I’m a peaceful guy, you know that. I only return fire.”

“As peaceful as a camel in heat. If you didn’t carry such an arsenal, we wouldn’t have to return fire.”

“
We?
Who said anything about we?”

“Oh, come on! I always end up caught in the crossfire. This time around I want to know up front what I’m getting into.”

Justin gazed at Abdul’s face. He could not see the man’s eyes, but he noted his jaws were clenched like a tight vice.

“OK, here’s the deal. Americans are doing their own investigation into the car bombings, since some casualties were Yankees. I’m just helping out, ‘cause I know the city and I have a few contacts.”

Abdul chewed on this information. “That’s it?” he asked after a few seconds.

“Yeah, that’s it. A small job. In and out the country in a few days.”

“Eh, I have heard that before. I have a feeling things will not go according to plan.”

“You know things never go according to plan.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Listen, Justin, my life becomes much more complicated when you’re in town.” Abdul’s voice turned into a whisper and he wiggled closer to Justin. “Giving you and your agency the occasional files and reports is one thing; providing weapons, ammo and logistics, especially in the heart of Tripoli, at this crazy time, that’s a suicide mission, pal.”

Justin nodded, but Abdul cut him off before he could start speaking.

“No, let me finish. Look, Tripoli is not Cairo. I’ve moved up the ranks of the mukhabarat, and I’d like to see my son’s graduation next summer.”

Justin hesitated a second before replying. “Of course you will, Abdul. I appreciate your help, and I’ll limit your involvement with this case to a minimum.”

“You’re never satisfied with the minimum. And neither am I,” he replied with a sigh. A few moments went by before Abdul spoke again, “I’ve got to tell you about the colonel.”

“What colonel?”

“Colonel Farid Haydar. He’s the chief of the Agency’s counter-terrorism section for the city. And he’s heard about your antics.”

“What do you mean?”

“He knows you’re in town. His men followed you to the Corinthia. They have already swept your penthouse.”

“It was a standard room, thank you very much. And, you don’t have to worry, because the room is clean.”

“Where have I heard that before? The ‘don’t worry’ part, huh?”

“C’mon, Abdul, you know our business is unpredictable.”

“Exactly. So, let’s try to make it less impulsive, shall we?”

Justin groaned.

“Yes, we shall,” he replied.

Abdul shook his head in disappointment but kept talking. “You came here on a very short notice, alone, and without a clear purpose. That always gets the attention of the mukhabarat.”

“Yes, I saw two goons eyeing me in the terminal.”

Abdul nodded. “Yeah. Those guys radioed their partners, who, lucky for you, lost you as you left the Corinthia.”

“Yes, my cabbie was driving like a rally pro.”

“I made a couple of calls and found out so much. I wanted to make sure no one was following you as you came to meet me.”

“Nobody did. I…” Justin hesitated.

“What?” Abdul said with a frown.

“I eliminated them.”

“You did what?”

“Shhhh, you’re too loud.”

“No, no, no. You’ve been here only two hours and you’re already killing men.”

“Man. One man.” Justin raised a finger.

“Oh, that makes a big difference.”

“It was self-defense.” Justin shrugged.

Abdul cursed out loud.

“Now, I’ve got to clean this mess.”

“Unfortunately.”

More loud swearing followed, while Justin looked out the window, worried someone may hear Abdul’s choice words.

“What happened?” Abdul asked after he was more or less calmed down.

“I was attacked by the Embassy’s east wall. A man in a police uniform, who turned out to be Tarek.”

“Tarek? From jail?”

“Yes. He came at me out of nowhere, knife-wielding and wanting blood.”

“I thought Tarek was dead.”

“He is now. How did he find me?”

“Well, you walked through the main door to Tripoli. What were you expecting?”

“I was expecting to have some room to breathe, not people coming back from the dead to hunt me down.”

“Shouldn’t you be used to this by now?”

Justin sighed. “Maybe I should. Tell me, what does this colonel want?”

“You have to ask?”

“I mean is he interested in me personally or in my operation?”

“I don’t know for sure. I’ll do some digging. After I clean up the crime scene.”

“OK. In any case, I’m sure I’ll cross paths with the colonel as the Americans move forward with their investigation.”

“And how exactly is a travel journalist caught in a terrorist investigation, Mr. Schmitt?”

“Hmmm… that’s a good question. How about, as a freelancer, I write about issues that pay good money, and traveling is very much affected by suicide bombings?”

“You may sell it if you put more heart into it.”

Justin snickered.

“Who’s your wingman from the embassy?”

“A certain Noureddine Milad, chief of security. You know him?”

“I’ve heard of him. Never met him though. Jordanian by birth, a naturalized American. Tough as a rusty screw. A take no bull type of guy.” Abdul’s four years of study in the US in the late nineties came back in the form of typical American expressions.

“I noticed that much when I talked to him.”

Abdul’s hands fiddled with the steering wheel.

“What’s the CIS got to do with these car bombings if there were no Canadian casualties? Americans have their own resources and they’re not shy about flexing their muscles to get what they want.”

“I don’t want to lie to you Abdul, but I can’t tell you the entire truth.”

“What a
shocking
surprise.” Abdul grinned, his left lip curling up.

“Trust me. I wish I could let you into all I know.”

“I thought you never said that word.”

“I do
trust
you, Abdul, but you also have to trust me. Some of these things are state secrets. All I can tell you is that Americans want to get to the bottom of this matter. They want Libya to be as stable and as safe as possible.”

“Of course, so they can suck out our oil and gas.”

“Yes, that and other things, which are not relevant to our mission. I’ll help the Americans for a few days, we’ll wrap this thing up, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Abdul sighed.

“I wish I could believe it was that simple.”

“Simpletown is just a mirage, Abdul. Life is complicated.”

“Yes, sometimes more than ever.”

Abdul pushed on a button, popping up the Nissan’s trunk.

“I forgot the bulletproof vest, but there’s a bag with some clothes and a satphone in the back. Unregistered number, extremely difficult to find. As with the Glock, take it apart and get rid of the pieces when you’re done.”

“Thanks, Abdul. I appreciate your help.”

“Don’t mention it. Hopefully, you won’t need anything else, but knowing you, I’m sure you will.”

“Again, thank you.”

“Good luck.”

Justin shook Abdul’s hand before getting out of the police car and retrieving the black duffel bag. He watched his contact speed out of the parking lot. As soon as he turned the right corner, in front of a small mosque, he disappeared into the dark of the night.

Justin walked to the edge of street and looked around. A few young men were standing in front of a grocery store about a hundred feet away. He could hear their loud shouts. Soccer fans replaying recent victories of British clubs.

He proceeded in the opposite direction. When he was sure no one was within eavesdropping distance, he took out the Thuraya satellite phone and placed a call to Anna. The cold electronic voice of the answering machine startled him and he stuttered while leaving a short message. Anna was probably running errands or perhaps had gone out for supper with her girlfriends.

The next call he placed went unanswered as well. This time he heard only the continuous beep of the phone ringing, but no one picked it up.
Did the operation go wrong?
Justin paced back and forth in the parking lot.
Carrie, answer the freaking phone.
He began having second thoughts about leaving her behind in Cairo to face the men of the Mossad without him. There was not much he could do now. He dismissed the option of checking with the CIS station in Cairo. Carrie would frown at what she would certainly interpret as a lack of trust in her.
I don’t need a babysitter to remind me of bedtime,
she would blurt out.
I’ll try her again in half an hour or so.
He turned around and headed toward the Four Seasons Hotel. He would not fall asleep until he had talked to Carrie.

Chapter Thirteen

Museum of Egyptian Antiquities, Cairo, Egypt

May 14, 10:15 p.m. local time

Carrie knew the Mossad’s agents were never late. Without a reason, that is. It was a different matter if they were playing a cruel game of patience with Carrie’s nerves. When employed efficiently, the famous tactic of “lying in wait” produced surprising results. As time trickled away, agents grew nervous and began making rookie mistakes. The extended state of alert wore out even the most weathered marksmen. Inaction and fatigue killed even the most skillfully planned mission.

She could not allow her operation to meet the same fate. Her meeting with Eliakim Ben-David, the liaison sent by the Israeli Embassy in Cairo, was set for 9:30 p.m. Forty-five minutes later, Carrie still held hopes the liaison would arrive sooner or later. “Something is holding him up,” she repeated more than once to agitated CIS agents. “This meeting is too important for him to be a no-show.”

However, she harbored her own doubts. Were the Israelis willing to negotiate the return of their man, if he was indeed one of their own? Were they planning an ambush as she withdrew? Carrie knew her team was most vulnerable while leaving or arriving at a location. Cairo’s crooked alleys and clogged roads offered endless opportunities for executing a hostage-taking mission. “An eye for an eye” was the Golden Rule of the Hebrew nation. Their long wars with neighboring Arab countries had proven this beyond any doubt.

The reason Carrie had chosen the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities as the meeting place was security. The museum exhibited and stored over 100,000 priceless relics—world treasures from Pharaohs’ tombs, such as the Statue of Khafre and the solid gold mask of Pharaoh Tutankhamen, the Boy King—therefore, the security cocooning the complex was comparable to that of the White House or Fort Knox.

The security measures consisted of metal detector checkpoints at entrances to the fenced area surrounding the museum buildings. A second perimeter of protection was provided by security booths inside the main entrance, manned by local guards brandishing AK-47s. The crowds of history junkies were an added protective measure. The evening was the busiest time for the museum, as tourists squeezed a few hours of sightseeing before leaving Egypt earlier the next day. The doors of the museum stayed open until 10:30 p.m.

Carrie chose a quiet room on the ground level. Away from most of the flow of visitors, it still had sufficient tourist presence to deter any violent outburst of the Israeli team. Fire exit doors, leading to the back of the museum, were at hand, in case a quick exit became necessary.

Carrie glanced at her wristwatch. Five more minutes and the bell would toll the signal for the closing, giving visitors ten minutes to clear the halls. Still no sign of Eliakim or anyone else looking for her. She held the eyes of an agent stationed by the entrance to the room. He responded with a swift headshake. Carrie sighed and stood up from the small, uncomfortable leather chair. She began pacing around the room, looking at a showcase of poison dart blowpipes. The air was cool, thanks to powerful air conditioning systems, in place mostly for the preservation of relics, rather than the benefit of visitors, and it carried a musty smell that reminded Carrie of thrifty bookstores.

“Carrie, we got something.” The strong voice of one of the agents positioned at the end of the hall pierced her left ear.