Tripoli's Target (Justin Hall # 2) (5 page)

While Carrie took her time flipping through the menu, Justin ordered his usual fare at New York: bruschetta, a 20-ounce ribeye steak, and sparkling lemon water. He tapped his fingers on the black tablecloth and fiddled with the pepper holder, a replica statuette of Lady Liberty. The waiter arrived with his drink as Justin’s BlackBerry chirped.

“Is that Johnson?” Carrie asked, her eyes still glued to the menu.

Justin did not reply. He frowned as he glanced at the screen. He pressed the answer button then barked at the phone, “This is Justin. Who’s dead?”

Carrie looked up, slowly shaking her head. Justin greeted only one person with that dreadful question: his father, Carter.

“Justin, I can’t hear you very well.” The weak voice of his old man came quietly over the waves.

“I’m not surprised. You never did. Now what do you want?”

“I just . . . I wanted to hear your voice.”

“Are you dying?”

“No, no, I’m not dying. Not yet, anyway.”

“Uh-huh.”

Justin glanced at Carrie. She stood up and gestured to him she was headed to the washroom.

“How are things going?” Carter said.

“Fine.”

An awkward silence followed for a few moments.

“You still there?” Carter asked.

“Sure.”

“Yesterday was Seth’s birthday, but he told me you didn’t call him.”

Yes, I was trying to forget all about it.

“It’s always about Seth, isn’t it? He’s the son you always wanted.”

“Not again, Justin. You know that’s not true.”

“It isn’t? I never get a call from you or him on March 1. Or a card. Or a letter.”

“You’ve said many times you couldn’t care less about that stuff.”

Justin sighed and shook his head. “I don’t care about that stuff . . .” His voice trailed.
I care about the thought.

“So, why are we fighting about this?”

Justin kept silent for a few seconds, clenching his teeth. Then he took a deep breath, cleared his throat and said, “Listen, I’m quite busy here, so I can’t talk anymore.”

He pressed the end button on his BlackBerry so hard he thought he broke it. Then he tossed the phone on the table, where it clanged against the glass of water.
Oh, he always gets to me. As much as I tell myself I’ll stay calm the next time I talk to him, he always finds a way to drive me nuts.
Justin raised his left fist but saw Carrie out of the corner of his eye. He slowly dropped his hand to his lap, tried to regain his composure, and offered her a big fake smile.

“Don’t use the washroom if you can help it,” Carrie said while sitting down.

She took one of the napkins and scrubbed her hands. Justin detected the faint smell of smoke on her as the bathrooms were in the smoking section.

“Do you know what you want to eat?” Justin asked.

“Yes, I think so.”

The waiter appeared to take her order: a salad of mix greens and a four-cheese ravioli alla napoletana. Carrie stuck to sparkling lemon water like Justin.

“So when do you think we’ll hear from Johnson?” Carrie asked.

“If she’s changing the plan, tomorrow morning. Five minutes before takeoff.”

Carrie snorted. “Will she ever change?”

“Will we?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Haven’t we started yet?” She pointed to the BlackBerry on the table.

“Oh, no, that’s not change,” Justin replied with a headshake. “Well, the more I try to change, the more he stays the same.”

“But isn’t Carter trying though, trying to reach out to you?”

Justin wondered if her encouragement was motivated by recent news her mom was having health problems and a desire for Justin to make peace with his father before something similar happened to him.

“His shadow is,” Justin said. “I move to the other side of the world and he still finds me. I change my freaking phone number to classified, and the old man still pulls in favors to find it and harass me.”

Justin’s mother had gone off a bridge in her car when he was only eleven. The police had ruled out suicide, blaming instead the icy roads for the accident. But he knew better. And he hated the man he blamed for his mother’s death. The man he never called “Dad” again.

Carrie’s lips formed a thin line. “Yeah, big money buys pretty much everything these days. Even access to secret agent files.”

“He still thinks he can run my life and tell me what to do. Like hell he can. I won’t let him do that anymore.”

Carrie reached over the table for Justin’s trembling hand. “It’s OK. It’s OK,” she said softly. “It’s all over. Finished. He can no longer do anything. You, and I, we’ll never allow it. Never.”

His eyes found hers and she gave him a reassuring nod. Justin let out a sigh of relief.

“Talking of control freaks, me being one of them, Thomas is starting to worry me,” Carrie said, changing the subject.

“You think your boyfriend may be chasing tail?”

“No, he’s loyal, I know that. But lately he is kind of distant.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I called him tonight and told him what happened. He didn’t seem overly concerned.”

“That’s because he knows you’re a big girl and you can handle things just fine.”

“Yeah, thanks. His lack of interest was a bit unnerving, I should say.”

“What was he like when you last saw him?”

“Last month in Malta? He was fine. Joyful, funny, relaxed. Everything was great.”

“Could it be work wearing him down?”

“PR work? Give me a break.”

“Well, Thomas is still CEO and I’m sure there’s a lot on his mind.”

“Not the same thing as on my mind.” Carrie took a deep breath.

“Don’t worry about it. He’ll come through.”

“I hope so. I really hope so.”

“Thomas is a good guy. He’s just looking for the perfect ring, for the perfect girl.”

“Ha. Thanks. At this point, an onion ring would do.”

She locked her fingers together, her elbows resting on the table. Then she said, “Oh, Thomas, Thomas, why does it have to be so difficult?”

“Love always is.”

Carrie opened her mouth but saw the waiter bringing her drink. She waited until he left then asked, “Talking about love, did you call your sweetheart?”

“Yes. Anna’s wasn’t in her office and she wasn’t picking up her cell. I left a message. She’s probably in some merger meeting or something boring like that.”

Carrie took a quick sip of the cold lemon water.

“Oh, that’s good.” She drew her lips together. “The lemon taste is so strong. Does she ever pick up when you call?”

“Anna’s very busy and I always seem to call at the wrong time. It was better that way, ‘cause I didn’t feel like explaining that I’m going to miss my flight tomorrow.”

“You don’t think we will make it in time?”

“No. We haven’t heard from Johnson yet and I doubt we’ll leave before midnight. We’re not meeting Ali until 8:00 tomorrow morning. If everything goes smooth, we’ll not be back before nightfall.”

Carrie shrugged and brought the water glass to her lips. Justin glanced out the window.

“They’re taking their time with the appetizers.” He turned his head toward the door leading to the kitchen and stared in that direction for a few seconds, hoping the waiter would appear with a tray of food. He did not.

“This place may be called New York, but their service runs on Egyptian time.”

“Well, I’m starving here.” Justin rubbed his stomach with his left hand.

Carrie grinned.

Moments later, the waiter waltzed in with a large tray of food in his hands. Justin instinctively looked out the window, his hand jerking toward the Browning pistol in his holster.

“Relax.” Carrie said. “Twice in half a day?”

“It has happened before. It may happen again.”

“Not here. Not now.”

The aroma of the fresh baked focaccia bread, topped with tomato, garlic, and onions and seasoned in olive oil and herbs, loosened Justin up. He broke off a piece of the wedged-shaped bread and looked at the steam rising up in the air. Devouring the piece in a swift move, he looked over at Carrie. She was carefully sifting through her green salad, pushing to the edge of the plate every small slice of black olives.

“You know those things are good for your skin,” he said and stuffed another large piece of focaccia in his mouth.

“And you know this is not a race.”

“Hmmm, but it’s so good.”

Carrie rolled her eyes. She lifted a small portion of shredded carrots and peas to her mouth. She closed her eyes and savored her food.

* * *

By the time Carrie was halfway through her salad, Justin had cleaned up not only the last crumbs of the bruschetta, but also the sour cream and roasted garlic dips.

“Man, you were hungry,” Carrie said.

“Starving.” Justin wiped his lips with his blue napkin.

“Tell me, how did you convince Ali to help us?”

Justin smiled. “SCR 1267.”

“UN’s blacklist?”

Justin nodded.

“What promise we can’t keep did you make him?”

“This one we
can
keep. Ali has a half-brother listed as a terrorist, an accomplice of Al-Qaeda. The man secured a car and drove a group of terrorists for a week or so around Baghdad about two years ago.”

“So you told Ali that Canada will delist him?”

“I promised I’ll write up a request, asking for his name to be removed from the list. It’s up to our bosses to decide.”

“You know your request is going nowhere.”

“I can’t control that. The man used to live in Canada and still has relatives in Ontario. Our government doesn’t want him back, even though he hasn’t been convicted of any crime.”

“I see.” Carrie sipped the last of her drink and looked over Justin’s shoulder for the waiter. He was nowhere in sight.

Justin’s BlackBerry chirped twice and he picked it up. “It’s Johnson.”

“Speakerphone.”

“Hello,” Justin said and placed the BlackBerry on the table between the two of them. “How are things going?”

“Great, great,” Johnson said.

He thought her voice sounded with an echo as if she were in a tunnel. Then a familiar elevator ping solved the mystery.

“I don’t have a lot of time as I’m running to a meeting. Just wanted to confirm the Egyptians reluctantly agreed to drop you into Sudan tomorrow morning. Do you have a pen handy?”

“Yes.”

Carrie pulled out a pen and a small notepad from her purse.

“This is the place where you’ll meet the transport.” She gave them the coordinates. “You’ll take off at 1:00 a.m. The Egyptians have committed one of their helicopters to this operation.”

Carrie shook her head.

“Is it a Mi-17?” Justin asked.

“Yes, it is.”

Carrie swore under her breath. She hated Russia and everything Russian, even the Mi-17 helicopter. Ever since her father, a Canadian Army colonel, disappeared during a covert mission in the late eighties in the Soviet Union, she had begun to first fear, then hate everything related to the country that took away her father. She joined the Army with high hopes of learning about his fate, but she was no closer to the truth today than when she began scrapbooking her memories.

“OK,” Justin said. “Anything else?”

“No, that’s all. Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Justin ended the call.

Carrie looked out of the window staring at nothing in particular. Justin could see the fog of memories building up in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Carrie shook her head. “It’s OK, I guess. I should let go. I
will
let go.”

Justin nodded. He had heard such pledges before and Carrie tried real hard. Some habits were extremely difficult to break. He knew that first hand.

Chapter Four

Sixty miles south of the Egyptian border

Great Sand Sea, Sudan

May 14, 8:15 a.m. local time

The gunman tightened the headscarf around his mouth and shut his eyes tight as he cocked his head to the left. It made no difference. The sudden wind gust swept a handful of red sand into his face. He coughed and spat. A spurt of obscenities burst out of his mouth. He cleaned his eyes, scrubbed the grit off his crooked teeth, and wiped his cracked lips and thick beard. Finally, Ali Abd Alraheem looked at the two men in the light brown Land Rover parked about fifty feet away at the base of a crescent-shaped dune.

“Where the hell is the helicopter?” he shouted at them.

“Should be here anytime,” replied the driver. He was barely in his twenties, the younger of the pair. He coughed, more out of solidarity with his chief than necessity.

“Come take a seat,” said the other man who was in his forties. “No point in eating sand and boiling under the sun.”

“It’s better than being blown to pieces by Zionist jets, Nassir,” Ali replied. “That car is a deathtrap.”

“Israeli F-16s strike convoys carrying big guns,” Nassir replied, his right arm spearing out of the window. “We’re only two cars.” He pointed to an identical Land Rover about two hundred feet behind theirs. “And we only bring in light weapons.”

“No fish is too small for the Mossad.” Ali took a deep breath through his nose. His right hand tightened around the AK-47 hanging on his left shoulder. “And they can hit anyone, anywhere.”

“Suit yourself.” Nassir mopped his brow with a crumpled white handkerchief.

Ali gazed intently toward the north. His eyes were glued to the horizon, right above the top of the dunes. The helicopter with two guests from Egypt was expected to arrive from that direction. They were thirty minutes late. In Ali’s line of business delays meant trouble. He ran his black, calloused fingers over the pocket of his long robe, feeling for his cellphone, but he resisted the urge to dial the contact number and check the status of the drop.

It was still early morning, but the temperature had climbed to ninety-five degrees. The air was parched, without a single drop of humidity. Ali’s body grew warmer with every breath he took. He felt his tongue dangling inside his mouth like a piece of dry meat and decided to return to the Land Rover for a sip of cold water.