Tripoli's Target (Justin Hall # 2) (6 page)

He stepped down from the top of the sandbank, plowing through the steep slope. After a few seconds, he stopped and listened. His ears, trained to detect any kind of desert noise, sensed a light vibration in the sizzling air. Ali turned around and climbed fast, kicking up sand on both sides of his path. As he reached the peak, he blinked to clear his eyes and grinned at the anticipated sight.

A thick cloud of red dust was swiftly approaching the drop point, skirting over the tips of the sand ridges. It would have seemed like a dust devil to a mere observer. But Ali was not a mere observer. The thick cloud was the work of a man, piloting a helicopter at almost ground level. It was a crazy maneuver that had to be executed to perfection, so it would not turn deadly.
This pilot has brass balls, but he’s still a man. A man who can be shot and killed.

Ali dropped to the ground, cocked his AK-47 and pointed it to the ever-growing cloud. If the people who were going to rappel down from the helicopter were not the expected CIS agents, they would be welcomed with a hail of bullets.

* * *

Inside the Mi-17 helicopter cabin, Justin and Carrie wrestled the twirling curtain of dust sweeping in through the open door. The pilot had informed them only moments ago he was not going to land the helicopter. They would have to rappel down to the ground.
The Egyptians have taken the word “drop” quite literally,
Justin thought, but he had no time to argue. The helicopter wobbled, while the top layer of the sand began shifting at the dune seventy feet below.

“Olam!” Justin shouted at the pilot. “Steady the bloody thing!”

“I’m trying,” Olam replied. “I’m trying.”

The helicopter dipped about four feet then hovered almost perfectly still.

“Good job!” Carrie said between gasps.

“How does the anchor look?” Justin pointed to the rappel hardware affixed to the roof of the cabin right above the door.

“Slightly corroded,” Carrie replied, checking the steel karabiner for damage and feeding the rope through the field clevis. “The hose jacket is missing.”

“Will it hold?” Justin shouted, over the rumble of the two engines.

“I hope so.” She pulled on the rope, testing its strength. “Yes, I think it will hold,” she added without much confidence.

Justin stared at the untidy coil of black rope snaking around his feet then ran some of the rope through his gloved hands. The braided nylon cord felt solid, although some of its fibers were sliced, damaged by dirt, heat, and friction.

“Rope is good,” said the second pilot. “Used it last week. Held five people. Trust me.”

Justin shrugged.

Carrie snorted and tightened her gloves.

“Drop rope!” Justin gave the pilot the signal they were ready to descend.

He threw his camouflaged knapsack over his shoulders and swung his carbine to his right side. Then he stepped closer to the door. Carrie handed him the rope coil and he dropped it overboard.

“Good luck,” Carrie said.

“You too. See you at the bottom.”

Justin grabbed the rope with both hands and swayed his body outside the helicopter. He locked his feet around the rope and began to lower himself. He eased the grip of his hands, allowing for the rope to slide slowly through his fingers. He kept his boots fastened against the rope at all times, feeling the friction of the rope on his gloves.

The helicopter jerked a few inches upward. The rope scraped against his vest. Justin threw his head to the side to avoid bruising his face and held tight to the rope. As he reached the end, he let go and jumped down, rolling on the slope. He fell on his stomach and pointed his carbine toward the south, where Ali was expecting their arrival.
In case someone else shows up uninvited.

Soon enough, Carrie dropped next to Justin.

“Everything OK?” Justin asked.

“Everything’s OK.” She nodded, her face tight in concentration and her eyes sharp.

The helicopter banked to the right, turning around at a fast pace, the pilot seemingly eager to return to Egypt. Justin and Carrie protected their faces from the whirlpool of dust and waited for the red haze to settle. Carrie readied her C7 rifle, while Justin glanced at his wristwatch.
Thirty seconds from hovering to securing a perimeter. Not bad, but it can be better.
He looked toward the south.

“Do you see Ali?” Carrie asked.

“No, not yet. Wait, I see someone at ten o’clock.”

As the veil of dust began to clear, Carrie looked through her rifle’s sight and spotted a man pointing a gun at her. She squinted but could not make his facial features.

“His eyes are the only thing visible,” she said, “and I can’t tell if he’s our man. But I can tell you that he’s got us in his crosshairs.”

Justin’s eyes narrowed. His carbine was still pointed at the gunman who was making no moves. After a few moments, the gunman raised his left hand and waved it in the air above his head.

“That’s our signal,” Justin whispered, but made no attempt to stand up.

“So the man’s Ali?”

“I’m not sure.”

The gunman kept gesturing for the agents to approach him. Finally, he rose to his feet, his AK still pointed at them, and slowly began to lower his headscarf. His face became visible.

“Yes, he’s Ali.” Justin eased his finger on the carbine’s trigger. “We can go now.” He began to get up.

“So trust no one, eh?”

“Yes, trust no one.”

Justin shook the sand off his bulletproof vest but did not bother with his pants. The last two weeks spent between Mauritania, Nigeria, and Egypt had taught him sand crawling under your skin was a simple fact of life. And the same was true for deception and lies.

* * *

The agents waded through ankle-deep sand and crossed the distance separating them from Ali. Carrie followed in Justin’s footsteps, her weapon in a cradle carry position in her hands. Justin’s weapon was hanging muzzle down behind his back in a sling fastened to his vest.

“Welcome to Sudan.” Ali put out his right hand.

Justin shook it as the gunman pulled him closer in a friendly embrace.

“It’s great to see you again. You look fit.” Justin observed Ali’s tall, thin frame and his biceps flexing under his robe.

“So do you,” Ali replied. “And tanned. I almost didn’t recognize you there. I was looking for a white face.”

Justin grinned. He threw a glance at the Land Rover at the bottom of the dune.

“You never trust anyone, do you?” Ali asked, nodding toward the Land Rover then pointing at Justin’s body armor. But for a square, bulky patch on his chest, the bulletproof vest was invisible.

Justin shrugged. “A habit. Can’t help it.”

“Neither can I. But my men we
can
trust.”

Justin looked at the two men positioned on each side of the car, holding rocket-propelled grenades over their shoulders. They were pointed in his direction.

“This is Carrie,” Justin said.

Ali measured up the woman with his small eyes.
I can’t believe he brought a woman here and didn’t tell me about it. He just said “another agent.” Nassir will hate me for this. Still, she looks like she belongs here. And she’s with him, so she’s OK.
In desert camouflage pants, similar to Justin’s, Carrie wore a tan vest and a khaki shirt. Ali noticed her tactical knee pads and a thigh holster strapped around her left leg revealing the butt end of a pistol. She also carried a large knapsack on her shoulders.

“Nice to meet you,” Ali said with a smile, placing his right hand above his heart.

“Likewise,” Carrie replied.

“Let’s go before Nassir gets nervous.”

Justin nodded and they followed Ali to the Land Rover. Nassir waited until the group reached the vehicle before lowering his RPG-7 on the hood of the car.

“Nassir, this is Justin and Carrie. And this is Omar.” Ali pointed at the young man whose RPG weapon was still over his right shoulder. Omar gave them a reluctant nod, his face still locked in a menacing grin.

“You said they were
Egyptians,
” Nassir blurted in English with a slight British accent, his hands folded in front of his barrel chest. Then he switched to Arabic, pointing a finger toward Carrie, “And he brought a woman with him.
A woman?
Our deal with the local tribes doesn’t include the transport of American—”

“We’re not Americans,” Justin said quickly in Arabic. His tone was calm yet firm.

Nassir peered into Justin’s eyes and tried to read his face for any hints revealing his ethnicity.
He’s definitely Caucasian, despite the suntan. The black hair and large nose are of no help. High cheek bones. Thick lips. Is he a Spaniard? Turk? Arab-born Brit?

The woman is easier to read. And younger. Maybe early thirties.
Her light copper hair made Nassir think of Ireland.
IRA?
Carrie had a small figure, a bit shorter than Justin, and he stood at five feet ten inches.
Pointed nose, thin lips and a stoic grin. She can’t be Arab.
Israel came to Nassir’s mind, more as an afterthought, since he knew well Ali’s hatred for the Hebrew nation. He was sure Ali would never agree to provide a safe passage for two Israeli agents, but he also did not like having a woman around.

“They’re not Americans,” Ali said. “Local tribes don’t care about anything else.”

“But
I
do,” Nassir said. “Americans, British, Spanish, Irish, they’re all the same to me.”

Justin stepped forward, moving closer to Nassir.

“It’s funny that your disgust for Brits didn’t stop you from studying at Oxford and
definitely
isn’t stopping you from enjoying the best cars of the Kingdom.” Justin pointed to the Land Rover.

Nassir was unfazed. “A+ on doing your homework and looking into my background. They taught you well at your secret service, whichever it is.”

Justin craned his head toward Ali.

“He’s not a fool.” Ali spread his palms, grinning wildly. “A hothead maybe, but definitely not a fool.”

Justin shook his head.

Nassir’s nostrils expanded and his chest rose up as he drew in a long breath. “I don’t hate the Brits, but I can’t stand it when they bend over for the CIA. Europe is as guilty as the Americans, those bloody oil thieves, for the mess in the Middle East.”

Justin stared into Nassir’s eyes. “I don’t like politics either,” Justin said after a tense pause. “We’re here to interrogate the high-value detainee.”

Justin had given Ali a cover story about a man captured in Sudan, who could be in possession of important intelligence. If pressed for answers, anything Ali revealed would not put in danger their true operation.

“Listen to him. He even talks like a CIA op.” Nassir snorted, handing his RPG-7 to Omar and opening the driver’s door.

Omar took both weapons to the back of the Land Rover.

“Will you use ‘enhanced interrogation techniques’ to extract information from the detainee?” Nassir asked sarcastically.

“I was told the source is very eager to talk to us. Plus, we don’t torture people,” Justin replied.

Nassir groaned. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard all that before.”

Justin and Ali took the second row of seats in the Land Rover, a newer model than what Justin was used to seeing navigating the Sahara Desert. He admired the tan trim of the doors and felt a bit of regret when resting his sandy boots on the new floor mats. He was able to breathe easier now since the air conditioner was going at full blast. Nassir got behind the wheel and Omar took the front passenger seat. Carrie sat in the third row behind Justin.

“I see business is going well,” Justin said, his hands gesturing around the cabin.

“I’m not complaining,” Ali replied. “The wars in Libya and Syria have created new markets.”

Nassir released the hand brake and put the car in reverse.

“Cold water?” Ali offered Justin and Carrie two glass bottles Omar had fetched from a cooler in the car’s trunk.

Carrie nodded politely and took a bottle but did not drink from it.

“Thanks,” Justin said. He removed the cap and emptied the half-liter bottle in a long gulp. Then he began digging in his knapsack.

Ali noticed Justin’s weapon resting on his lap. “C8 carbine?”

“C8 carbine,” Justin replied. “Very reliable, yet compact. Short barrel, adjustable stock. I removed the carrying handle and attached an HK launcher.” Justin slid his right hand over the Heckler & Koch 40mm grenade launcher.

Ali tried to hide his admiration for the shining carbine. “Eh, nothing beats my old Russian friend.” He knocked on the wood stock of his AK-47. “Mud, sand, gravel. Still fires straight, right between the enemy’s eyes.”

“Yes, it does.”

“How did you get your C8 to Egypt?”

“Diplomatic pouch.”

The vehicle dipped into a shallow pit and Nasser bore down on the gas pedal. The Land Rover roared, jolted out of the hole and began rolling over a hard-packed trail.

“This is for you.” Justin finally found what he was rummaging for in his knapsack. “You still smoke these, right?” He handed Ali an elegantly carved humidor with brass edges.

The gunman weighed the chest-shaped wooden box in his hand before lifting the hinged lid and discovering a row of thick cigars. “Man, you have a good memory.” Ali’s eyes sparkled with excitement as he picked up one of the CAO eXtreme cigars.

Omar, attentive to the flow of the conversation, produced a lighter.

Ali chewed off the end of one of the cigars, spit it out of the window and lit the cigar. He puffed a couple of times and groaned in pure pleasure. “Oh, I missed you baby.”

“I have to warn you: smoking causes cancer,” Justin said.

“Ha. Men like us don’t live long enough so slow diseases can eat us up. We die fast, by taking a bullet right in our head.” Ali tapped his forehead with his right index finger.

Justin nodded.

“How long has it been since we last met?” Ali asked

“Three years. Nigeria. Port Harcourt.”

“Yes, yes, now I remember. The aid workers.”

“Yeah, that crazy affair.”

“It
was
a bloody mess. Sometimes I wonder what goes through those people’s minds when they accept jobs in war zones. Kidnappers don’t care if you’re in their country to feed the poor and help the sick. To them, you’re a goat waiting to be gutted. If not me, then someone else, they think. Plus, for the huge salaries these ‘volunteers’ collect, Africa can pay ten locals to do the same job and even better.”