Tripoli's Target (Justin Hall # 2) (35 page)

“I think all shooters are dead.” Abdul listened for any gunshots.

Justin found a pair of binoculars and surveyed the targets. All windows of the control tower were shattered. The terminal rooftop was shredded to pieces.

“I think you’re right,” Justin said slowly, “but I still have a feeling this is not over.”

A loud, sharp siren pierced Justin’s eardrums. He gazed at an approaching ambulance. It screeched to a halt a few feet away from the Prime Minister’s limousine.

“Where did that come from?” Justin asked.

“There’s a medical center at the airport,” one of the guards replied. “Someone must have called them. Or they noticed the explosion and the fighting.”

A dozen or so bodyguards rushed toward the white limousine. Two of them jammed their rifles into the twisted doors, using them as crowbars, to release the doors from their hinges. Finally, the driver was dragged out of the limousine. Then, four bodyguards escorted the shaken, but alive, Prime Minister into the ambulance. A man in a white paramedic uniform was standing by its back doors. He was glancing around nervously and looked away as Justin’s gaze caught his eyes. Turning around, he closed the ambulance doors, although the bodyguards were hardly out of the way.

“Where are they taking the Prime Minister in such a hurry?” Justin asked.

“Downtown, to a hospital,” one of the guards ventured a guess.

“They’re supposed to hurry, since the Prime Minister is probably wounded.” Abdul noticed Justin’s uneasiness. “They’re just trying to help.”

The paramedic climbed into the driver’s seat and began backing up the ambulance.

Justin turned his complete attention to Abdul. “What did you just say?”

“I said they’re trying to help the Prime Minister.”

Justin’s face turned pale. He swallowed hard as his stomach turned. “That’s what the Prince said. Those supposed to help the Prime Minister will kill him.” He looked around and shouted at one of the guards, “Give me that gun.”

Before the guard could reply, Justin had snatched the AK-47 from his hands.

“What are you doing?” the guard asked.

“Justin, what’s going on?” Abdul said.

Justin shouldered the rifle and pointed it at the ambulance, which was rounding one of the trucks in the barricade. It drove into the shoulder of the highway, and it began to come toward Justin. As the sunlight fell on the ambulance, Justin recognized the face of the second paramedic sitting in the passenger’s seat. He was the man who shot Nour.

“They’re not medics,” Justin shouted. “They’re going to kill the Prime Minister.”

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,” Abdul shouted at a few bodyguards and police officers aiming their weapons at Justin.

His words were followed by a quick burst of automatic gunfire. The passenger was shooting at Justin through the ambulance windshield. One of the bullets pierced the side of Justin’s left thigh. Others whizzed past his head.

“Ah,” he cried, maintaining his shooting position. He pulled the trigger. His single shot went through the neck of the shooter.

Justin moved his rifle sight half an inch, aiming at the driver’s head. The ambulance abruptly stopped. Six bodyguards stormed it.

“Make sure the driver is not lynched,” Justin said to Abdul. “We need a witness.” He dropped the AK-47 to the ground just as his left knee buckled underneath him.

“I got you,” Abdul caught Justin by his waist and arms and lowered him to the ground. “We’ll get a medic for you.”

“OK, just make sure he’s for real,” Justin said with a grin.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Canadian Intelligence Service Cairo Station, Egypt

May 18, 2:10 p.m. local time

Justin rested his wounded leg on the empty seat beside him. The bullet had sliced through his hamstring muscles but had missed the femoral artery and nerve. Still, he found it extremely painful to walk and was hobbling around on crutches. He glanced at Carrie, seating to his right. She smiled at him and opened her notebook. Across the square black table of the Maple Leaf Conference Room, George was fumbling with a keyboard, preparing their secure videoconference with the CIS headquarters in Ottawa.

“How are you feeling?” Carrie whispered at Justin.

“Great. You?”

“OK. You know we don’t have to do this today.”

“No, I want to. I want to get it over with.”

Justin took a sip of his hot coffee. “Hmmm, thanks for making this.”

“No problem.”

“Well, we’re almost ready,” George said.

Justin coughed to clear his throat, waiting for Johnson to appear on the plasma screen on the wall. His BlackBerry chirped in his white shirt pocket and Justin picked it up. He frowned as he saw the caller’s name displayed on the screen.

“George, I got to take this.”

“Ms. Johnson is waiting for us,” George replied with a headshake.

“I said I have to take this, in private,” Justin shouted.

George flinched at Justin’s outburst.

“Sorry, George, didn’t mean to yell at you. I just… This is an important call and I find it hard to walk.”

“You’ve got two minutes.” George left the conference room, closing the door behind him.

The BlackBerry rang one more time before Justin answered it.

“Hello, Mr. Romanov, how are you?” Justin pressed the loudspeaker button and placed his BlackBerry on the desk.

“Fine, I’m doing really fine. But I hear you’re not doing so well.”

“You’ve heard it right.”

Justin sighed before continuing, “I meant to call you earlier, but I had a few things to do. Hospitals to visit and such. With regard to your Bugatti Veyron, I’m afraid I owe you an apology.”

“I’m listening.”

“I got into an accident while in the Veyron. Unfortunately, the beauty is wrecked.”

Justin hated the ensuing tense silence, which lasted for several long seconds.

“Is that it?” Romanov asked in a flat voice.

“Eh, yes. I’m very, very sorry about this and I will—”

“Don’t worry too much about it. It was just a car. I’m glad you are doing well, my friend.”

“Pardon?” Justin said, glancing at Carrie. Her face was filled with great wonder, just like his. Romanov was not concerned about the supercar reduced to a heap of scrap and was calling Justin ‘my friend.’

“I didn’t like that car very much.”

“Eh, why is that?”

“The ashtray was full.”

Justin and Carrie heard Romanov’s loud gurgle as he laughed at his own joke. There was a moment of silence, then they heard Romanov’s voice again, “Plus, I could have never gotten two million dollars for it, like I did from your old man Carter.” This time Romanov was dead serious.

Justin face froze at the mentioning of his father’s name.
What has he done to me?

Carrie leaned over the phone. “What did you just say?”

“Hey, Carrie, nice to hear from you.”

“Can you repeat your last?”

“About Mr. Hall, Senior? Sure. He vouched for his son, in case something went wrong with my car.”

“You’re lying, you bastard.”

Romanov snorted. “I’m glad to see you haven’t changed a bit. You think rich people are just a bunch of pricks, corrupted by their money don’t you?”

“No, I don’t
think
that. People like you
show
me that.”

“Well, let me
show
you something else, Carrie. Money is not that bad. It can buy you things. Like possibilities. Without Mr. Hall’s guarantee, you would have not gotten my Bugatti. In turn, you would have not been able to execute your operation.”

“That doesn’t make you less of a slimeball.”

“I’m not finished, Carrie. Sometimes money can buy information. Like classified FSB files from the Soviet era. About foreign army colonels in covert ops in the dead of winter. Around 1988. Still with me?”

Carrie slammed her fist on the table. The BlackBerry bounced, flipping over. Justin reached and turned it over.

“Don’t you even dare to talk about my father, you—”

“Let me finish, Carrie. I have some information that may help you in your investigation. The personal one. I’ll send it tomorrow.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“Romanov, I
will
pay you back,” Justin said. His voice was weak, still recovering from the early shock.

“No, I will not accept double payment.”

Another ringtone sounded in the distance. Romanov began speaking in unintelligible Russian. A few seconds later, he said, “Justin and Carrie, I have to go, but get better soon, OK?”

Justin ended the call without saying a word.

“What is he up to?” Carrie asked.

“I have no clue.”

As if eavesdropping behind the door, George entered the room before Justin could even put his BlackBerry back in his pocket.

“Ms. Johnson is losing her patience,” George said, wiggling a cellphone in his hands. “We should start our conference call now.”

“I think you’ll have to take this alone, Carrie.” Justin struggled to stand up on his good foot.

Carrie helped him with his crutches. “Are you OK?”

“I will be, after I talk to him. It shouldn’t take long.”

“No rush. Take your time.”

Limping outside, Justin crashed into one of the seats of the small waiting lounge.

“I need some privacy,” he told the assistant behind her desk. “Take a coffee break or something. Those phones can wait.”

The young woman nodded and left the room in silence. Justin dialed his father’s direct office number. Carter answered the phone after its first ring.

“Tell me, why did you pay Romanov?” Justin barked on the phone.

“Justin, how are you?”

“I was fine until I heard you stuck your nose into my work. Again. Why do you keep doing that, eh? Why can’t you just stay away?”

Carter sighed. “Because I care about you, my son.”

“Stop caring about me. I’m a grown up man and I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can. You could do that even when you were a child.”

“Well, it’s about time you learn to leave me alone. If I need your help, I’ll ask you.”

Another sigh, this time deeper and sadder. “I’m afraid I don’t have time to learn that or anything else.”

“Why? Why is that?” Justin asked gruffly.

“Justin… Last week I found out I have cancer. The prognosis is not good. A few months, a year at the most.”

It was time for Justin to let out a sigh. “No, no, this can’t be. You’re a strong man, a very strong man.”

“I used to be. Now, I’d like to ask you something. I’d like to see you one last time, before—”

“Of course, Dad. I’ll be home tomorrow.”

Justin had not called Carter “Dad” for over twenty-five years. He had not stepped foot inside Carter’s home in Toronto in nineteen years. He knew he was breaking every promise he had made himself all these years. But he also knew his dad needed him at this moment, and he was going to be there.

“Thank you, my son.”

“No, thank you… Dad.”

Justin’s left eye had produced a small tear. He rubbed it away quickly before the assistant or someone else saw it. He felt weak and empty and it was not because of his wounds. Justin took a few deep breaths, trying to slow down his racing heart. Then, as the assistant reappeared, he struggled to climb to his feet and limped back to the conference room.

Carrie was midway through her debrief, describing the course of events that took place in Nice. Johnson was in her office and had placed her camera on the left side of her computer monitor.

“Oh, Justin, welcome, welcome.” Johnson’s voice was colder and sharper than usually. “I’m glad you could join us.”

Justin brushed away her sarcastic bite with a nod and perched himself on his seat.

“Carrie was telling me about the
unauthorized
Nice operation. What do you have to say?”

“Not much. The results speak for themselves. We stopped the Prince’s attempt on the Prime Minister’s life. Everyone is safe.”

Johnson frowned. “I think you’re forgetting something. You’re forgetting how you endangered the lives of Carrie and Abdul, by running this clandestine operation, for which you had no authorization whatsoever. You put the lives of CIS agents at risk, and also the reputation of our entire Service, by operating illegally in a friendly, ally country. On top of that, a Saudi prince is dead and my agents are the primary suspects.”

“I agree, Madam Director. I miscalculated the Prince and his reaction to our plan. I believed he was going to refrain from violence. I admit it. I was wrong.”

Johnson nodded, pleased at Justin’s confession.

“However, Carrie and Abdul knew what they getting into, and they went to France upon their own free will. And I was there with them, all the time. I went with them all the way. I never mislead them or held back vital intel.”

“Are you accusing me of any indiscretion, Mr. Hall?”

“Yes, I am. You should have told us you gave the Mossad the location of our meeting with Sheikh Ayman and that the Mossad was active in Sudan to kill him.”

“That was irrelevant to your mission.”

“I disagree. The Mossad attack almost killed two CIS agents and cancelled our extraction plans.”

Johnson’s face came very close to the screen. “Your disagreement is duly noted,” she said in a solemn tone as if rendering a final verdict.

Justin did not blink. “Providing misleading information about our Prime Minister’s visit to Tripoli was even a greater offence. You put two of your agents in harm’s way. Intentionally.”

“At the time when I ordered you to go to Tripoli it was uncertain whether our Prime Minister was going to attend the G-20 meeting—”

“With all due respect, Madam Director, that’s bullshit. The Prime Minister never planned to go to Tripoli. You knew it and you chose to lie to us.”

Silence fell on the other side of the line. Johnson leaned back in her chair. She tried to maintain a certain amount of composure, but there was an almost invisible twitch at the corners of her lips. She clenched her jaws and her left hand fingers closed tightly around her coffee mug.