All Necessary Force (24 page)

Pike said, “Okay, I’m at the Mustek station. If he comes this way, I’ll get on and pick up the target. You get off. Buckshot, you do the same if he heads the other way. Copy?”

“Roger all.”

Retro finally reached the end of the escalator, buying time by acting a little confused and looking at the wall map until Jug-ears had committed to a train line. Finally, he went left, toward the Mustek stop. Retro gave him a moment, then followed. Behind came the man at the escalator.

Hmmm. Stand at the bottom doing nothing, then decide to ride?

He checked the download bar on the phone and saw that he’d injected only half of the application.

Shit. I need to pass this phone to Buckshot or Pike
. When he left the metro, the connection would be broken, and the download would have to be started all over again. Luckily, his phone maintained a cell signal even in the tunnel.

Only the three of them were waiting at the metro stop, so he texted Pike to avoid being overheard, studiously ignoring the target and the other man. The text was routed to every member of the team, just like a radio call, alleviating gaps in information.

Mustek’s the stop and I’m fairly sure the other guy’s countersurveillance.

A second later, his phone vibrated.

PIKE:
No issues. I have a signal down here. I can see you on the map. I’ll meet you coming off the metro. Any idea about the CS?

RETRO:
No. He’s not Arab. Looks Eastern European. Need to pass you phone. Downloads still going.

PIKE:
K. Brush pass coming off metro.

Retro tapped “QSL” and waited for the train to arrive.

40

I

received the QSL, which was old-fashioned radio shorthand for “message received and understood,” used originally during Morse code days, then later during data-burst transmissions from cold-war radios. Now in use again for texting.
Talk about old-school. Screw all that LOL shit.

I had no idea how our little band of terrorists had managed to integrate into some sort of Eastern European countersurveillance network, but it was just one more data point in the string of things that had made no sense, starting with Johnny’s mission in Indonesia and ending with a traitor in the U.S. Congress. All we could do was continue what we were doing. Sooner or later, it would sort itself out. I would have liked a full-on support package, but this operation was way outside the standard Taskforce template. Which was to say that we didn’t usually pull everything out of our ass.

I knew I’d have very little time when the metro doors opened. Retro’d get about a half second to pass me the phone as he walked by. Done right, nobody would know something had occurred. Done wrong, and we’d signal to the world that we were involved in amateur-hour illegal shit. And I hated amateur-hour shit. Illegal or otherwise.

My phone vibrated with another text message. Apparently, the unknown countersurveillance guy had now made physical contact with the target, sitting down and giving him instructions. It looked like Retro had managed to deflect attention from himself.

Five seconds later, I got a text saying that Jug-ears had stood up, intent on getting off the metro.
Shit
… How in hell was I supposed to
do a brush pass, picking up the phone and entering the metro while Retro left, when the target was now leaving? I’d be stuck riding the metro while Jug-ears went on his merry way. The countdown timer for the arrival of the next train showed forty-five seconds.

This is like the damn
Amazing Race.

I texted Retro, asking what the CS was doing.

I felt the breeze of the approaching train, the wind growing with a howl as the air was pushed out of the tunnel and into the station. I positioned myself at the far end of the platform, looking to anybody watching like I wanted to board.

The cars squealed to a halt, then disgorged their passengers in a flurry. Since Mustek was a transfer station for both the A and B lines, there were a lot more people getting off, allowing me to integrate into the flow with little effort. I took one last look at the photo of the target, this time to get a fix on what he was wearing, then headed to the escalator with everyone else.

Halfway up, I saw a brown jacket topped by a black head of hair. I didn’t bother trying to close the gap because I absolutely didn’t want to spike anyone else helping him.

Getting to the top of the Disneyland-length escalator, I had two choices—either go outside or transfer to the B metro line. I chose outside, knowing if I missed him I could redirect Buckshot to the next stop on the other line and hopefully pick him up again. Worst case, we still had the anchor of the hotel.

The Mustek stop exited right out onto Wenceslas Square, a walking promenade that a couple of decades ago had filled to capacity with angry mobs marking the end of communism in the Czech Republic without a shot being fired, but nowadays was the heart of shopping in
Prague, full of cafés and department stores. It was a beautiful day, the air crisp enough to make me appreciate the warmth of the sun on my face. The square was teeming with shoppers and tourists, causing a sliver of alarm.

Too many people. I’ll never know if he took the other metro line.
I considered going back down to the train, but decided to check out the area first. I pulled the trigger on Buckshot, getting him in position at the Staromestska stop near the Charles Bridge, then did the same with Decoy on the other end.

The only good thing was that the same crowds that made it hard for me to track Jug-ears made it very, very hard to do surveillance detection work. No way could they be sure someone wasn’t just a dumb-ass tourist bouncing around.

Which means they’d have given him directions out of this place.

I rapidly looked around and saw multiple little alleys leading away from the promenade. I took the first one I could see and began winding my way through the maze that was Old Town Prague, with single-lane roads, cut-throughs, and cobblestone alleys the norm. I was sure I’d missed him, when I saw him lazily strolling down a side street that had to be as old as the tombs we’d seen last week.

I braked a little bit and matched his stride, causally noting anyone who might be watching his back trail. We walked by several outdoor cafés, all with people in them, so it was impossible to tell, but I was sure someone was checking me out to see if I was tracking the target. There was no other reason for him to be channeling and stairstepping like he was. It was all designed to flush out surveillance, and all I could do was continue to follow, maintaining my demeanor and ignoring the target as much as possible.

I saw nothing unusual. The people were all laughing and talking, enjoying the sunshine. I had the same surreal feeling I always got on operations such as this.

I’m out here tracking a killer, and everyone else is drinking beer.

It seemed like there was a pub every fifteen feet, all with outdoor patios. There was no way I could ascertain if anyone was working with him, although if they were, they were probably drunk.

I got within thirty feet of the target and interrogated his phone. I achieved a lock with his Bluetooth, starting the application download again. He continued his little stroll, eventually breaking out into the tourist Mecca of the Old Town Square, with the Astronomical Clock and Old Town Hall, along with dozens of locals begging for attention at various attractions. He went through it to another small alley, heading toward a booth that advertised bus tours.

I let him get inside the alley but didn’t follow when he stopped at the booth. No sense in pushing my luck, since there wasn’t anything else in the alley and I’d stick out like a hippie at a corporate retreat. I stopped short at the square, next to a local beggar on his elbows and knees, prostrating himself in stoic silence, his grimy hands outstretched.

I dropped some coins into his cup and watched the target. He was talking to the man in the booth more than was necessary for a bus tour. Eventually, the man handed him a map of some kind. I checked my phone and saw the download was just about done. Out of the corner of my eye, I sensed rapid, hostile movement.
The beggar.

I whirled, raising my arm against my head and ducking, but not quick enough to evade the strike of the beggar’s coffee cup shattering against my skull.

I reeled back, out of his range, clearing my head before he got a chance to hit me again. He closed the gap, seemingly for the kill, but I was ready now.
And the drunk’s going to regret picking this fight.

As soon as he came within range, I batted his hands away and stunned him with four rapid jabs to his face as if I were working a heavy bag—left, right, left, right—popping his head back and forth like a paddleball on a rubber band. I followed up with a side kick to his upper thigh, using all of my weight behind it. He bounced off the wall he’d been kneeling against, the pain radiating through his face. He looked over my shoulder at something.
Bum Reinforcements on the way
.

I rotated until my back was to the wall, seeing nobody else coming to help.

He pantomimed a fake, like a high school kid, alternating his hands back and forth as if I would fall for something that stupid, then looked down the alley again. Inexplicably, he took off running.

What the hell?

I did nothing to stop him, more concerned with whether I’d spooked my target in the commotion. When I looked down the alley, he was gone, and it dawned on me how stupid I’d been. I glanced at my phone.
At least the download completed, you jackass.

“All elements, this is Pike. Target has active countersurveillance now. I was just given a diversion while he slipped out. The phone’s loaded, but I’m burned. Pick him up, but stay very, very loose.”

I passed the code to unlock the target on our Blue Force application, then waited to see who’d get to him first. Minutes later, my headset sprang to life.

“Pike, Buckshot. He’s headed across the Charles Bridge. I’ve got him on the map and can see him walking away.”

“Use the map to maintain situational awareness. If you lose him visually, let him go until you can reacquire without getting burned. All other elements vector in.”

“He’s stopped and receiving a call…. Okay, now he’s dialing someone else.”

I was sure he was getting the next instructions, but with the application it wouldn’t matter now.
Run around all you want, asshole.

Jennifer came on. “Pike, other targets are leaving the hotel.”

Oh boy. Here we go.

“Get a photo and launch it to us.”

“Already done, but they’ve got bags. They’re leaving for good.”

Motherfucker.
We were now losing our anchor spot, leaving us with Jug-ears for a thread. A single point of failure that I didn’t like, but I didn’t want to spook the other targets.

“Let them go. Don’t burn yourself. We’ve still got Jug-ears. They’ll link up again.”

Three minutes later, Buckshot came back on.

“He’s getting into one of those open-air tourist cars on the other side of the bridge. He’s being taken somewhere.”

“Fine. Let him go. Regroup back—”

“Pike, the driver just took his phone. He threw it in the street. They’re driving away.”

Our single point of failure just snapped.

“Break-break, Jennifer, interrogate the other target’s phone. Get on them.”

I knew it was too late but figured it was worth a shot. She came back sounding like it was her fault.

“They’re gone. I’ve lost them.”

I felt like punching the wall next to me. Not only had we lost our targets, and maybe our only chance to recover the EFPs, but now they knew we were tracking them. And they’d thrown away the cell phone, so we couldn’t even use the high-risk technical capability we had to track the Arab. I was hard-pressed to imagine how it could get any worse, and I had nobody to blame but myself. I wished I’d really taken it to the fake bum.
Meet his ass again and I’m going to rip him apart.

41

S

uffering the indignity of a full-on body search, Kamil offered no resistance, noting the security surrounding the person he was to meet. All were rough-looking men, and none had lowered their weapons, even after he had given them the introduction letter provided by Rafik.
Paranoid
.

He was deep in the Czech Republic countryside, one hour outside of Prague, the only structure a large stone house rising through the morning haze a quarter of a mile away. Completely on his own. He could feel the sweat build under his arms despite the morning chill.
They could bury me out here and no one would ever know.
But the man he was to meet was worth the risk. Without him, Rafik’s grand operation would be stillborn.

By all accounts, Draco Ljustku was a ruthless killer, a leader in the Albanian mafia precisely because no other challenger could match his amoral ferocity. But it hadn’t always been that way.

Originally a farm boy living in central Kosovo, he had become a fighter in the Kosovo Liberation Army after his family was slaughtered by Serbian Special Police. Through that quirk of fate, he had learned that he not only had a talent for violence, but also a taste for it.

The KLA itself was inexorably intertwined with crime; it was one of the few ways for the rebellious force to gather income for their fight. Drug running and prostitution were as much a part of their makeup as any nationalistic tendencies against the Serbs. When the conflict finally ended, the organized crime did not.