Ops Files II--Terror Alert (8 page)

Vahid Madani walked along the lushly carpeted aisles, past the expensive booths with their polished sales staff. Tariq trailed several steps behind him, his eyes watchful for a threat that didn’t exist in the rarefied space. Vahid stopped in front of a hydraulic pump manufacturer’s booth and studied the collection of valves and devices on display. A French company rep approached and began a well-rehearsed presentation in accented English, which Vahid suffered through, his mind elsewhere.

In seven minutes he would have his rendezvous, and his life would change forever. He would walk through a door into another world, leaving behind everything he’d achieved. His name would be reviled among his countrymen, and his only consolation was that his parents were dead and he had no romantic interest to mourn – bittersweet condolences, to be sure.

Tariq had been on edge all day, through the presentations and lectures, as though the reptilian part of his brain could sense something bad approaching. His career would be over after his charge disappeared into thin air, Vahid knew, with weeks of interrogation, or worse, his reward for failure.

“Any questions?” the Frenchman asked, his tone professionally courteous.

“No, I’m familiar with your line. Thanks for explaining the new products,” Vahid said, noting that the man looked a little green and smelled too much like breath mints – no doubt the victim of an overzealous celebration the night before. The salesman gave him a courtesy nod and moved to the next pigeon as Vahid tried not to check the time every ten seconds. The countdown pounded in his head like a hammer on an anvil, and the seconds crept by like years.

He approached another booth offering design and build services from a British firm that Vahid knew had been designing a reactor for the Chinese for the last six years. He slowed to admire the two stunning blonde models the group had hired to help make an impression, and noted a substantial collection of his peers lingering in the area, no doubt to condemn the long-legged beauties for their provocative miniskirts and come-hither looks.

Vahid turned and caught a knowing smirk on Tariq’s face. Ignoring the man’s expression, Vahid cleared his throat. His time had finally arrived. “Is there a bathroom around here?” he asked Tariq, as though Vahid hadn’t memorized the number of steps from his position to the target restroom when rehearsing his escape in his room with a layout of the exhibit area in hand.

Tariq looked around, and his eyes settled on a glowing sign at the other end of the hall. “Over there, by the coffee station.”

Panic surged in Vahid’s throat, but he choked down the sour tang of bile and shifted his eyes to his right. “Oh. There’s one right over there.”

Tariq hadn’t seen the nearer sign, his vision blocked by a closer slowly rotating one.

Vahid hefted the bag he’d filled with brochures he would never read. “Come on, then.”

The security man trailed him like a large, dangerous mastiff, and stopped at the threshold. Vahid handed him the bag and winced. “Give me a minute, would you?”

Tariq nodded and took the bag, his eyes nervous. Vahid didn’t wait for his response and instead moved into the restroom, which was empty except for a solitary janitor in olive coveralls, who was refilling the paper towel dispenser.

Vahid’s gaze met the cleaning man’s, and he shivered involuntarily. The janitor’s eyes were steel gray, the color of a tombstone, cold and expressionless.

He studied Vahid’s badge for a moment and nodded before leaning into him and whispering, “This way.”

A steel service entrance stood at the far end of the room. Vladimir, his masquerade as a cleaning person over, pushed it open wide. Vahid moved into the dark corridor and Vladimir pulled the door closed and locked it, then brushed past the Iranian to the faintly blinking lights of an electrical panel.

“Where are we going?” Vahid asked, rushing to catch up.

“Silence,” Vladimir hissed, intent on something Vahid couldn’t see.

They reached a set of double doors, and the Russian turned to face him as he shed the overalls. Beneath them he wore an impeccably cut blue suit. He felt around in a rolling trash bin and extracted a garbage bag, and then tossed it to Vahid.

“What’s this?” the physicist asked.

“A jacket and tie. In the inside pocket you’ll find a driver’s license, four hundred euros, and a cell phone. It has your new badge clipped to the lapel. Put it on.”

Vahid did as instructed. Vladimir studied him and then ferreted in the bag until he withdrew an electric hair trimmer.

Vahid’s eyes widened when he switched it on, the buzz loud in the confined area. Vladimir raised his chin and offered a frosty smile. “The beard has to go.”

Two minutes later the pair walked across the floor, the clean-shaven Vahid unrecognizable in his new garb. Vahid resisted the impulse to look back toward the bathroom, where he knew Tariq would be on the radio with the other members of his security squad, advising them to seal the exits. He followed the Russian through the foyer and out into the crisp air. A service van was waiting there in a loading zone, its emergency lights blinking.

By the time the Iranians had locked down the hall, Vahid was blocks away, watching the city pass by, his heart beating a rapid tattoo in his chest as he realized that his days of dread and waiting were finally over.

The Russian turned to look him over. “Welcome to the world. You ready to go to work?”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“Good. Our first project is waiting for you. We extracted a source from a generator and have it in Reims. We need you to put the final touches on the device for us.”

“What’s the isotope?”

“Strontium-90.”

Vahid inhaled sharply and nodded once. “A simple task.”

“I was hoping you’d think so.”

Dhaka, Bangladesh, three hours earlier

Gil finished his tea, his eyes roving over the bustling street outside the café window with practiced concentration. His contact was late. Again. He’d grown so accustomed to the sloth of the locals and their lack of punctuality that he would actually be surprised if the man showed up within a half hour of the appointed time.

Still, it bothered Gil. Another in a long string of annoyances in a country that could slide into the sea, for all Gil cared, the sea getting the worst part of the deal. After two years in the filthy country, he actively hated the place – a steady degradation from the disgust and apathy he’d felt on arrival. But the Mossad in its wisdom had seen fit to partner him with a geriatric head of station whose paranoia had been reaching epic proportions of late, Gil thought; and he, a career officer, would do as his superiors ordered.

His hope was that he would get transferred at the official two-year mark. He’d served his time in purgatory without complaint, after all. Perhaps he’d be even be assigned somewhere with working plumbing and first world amenities, like Prague. He knew another agent who’d served in Prague.

The Czechs knew how to party. And they showered. Not to mention that the women were…

His thoughts moved to the new arrival. Maya. Gorgeous, tough, smart. Real trouble for Gil if he let down his guard. He had a soft spot for beautiful, capable women. Put one in front of him and he was a weak man.

He shook his head and checked the time on his cell. Twenty minutes late.
Bastard.
Gil was offering to hand the scumbag a small fortune, and the man couldn’t make it to their meet on time. If the terrorists were as inept as this idiot Farhad, they could all pack up, go home, and leave the cleanup to the drones.

The café door opened and Farhad stepped in, his jaundiced complexion and ratlike face a study in debauched avarice. Gil knew the man enjoyed the narcotic slumber of opium, which was the wedge he’d used to widen the gap between the reprobate and his beloved imam. Apparently the devout took a dim view to those in the flock partaking of a smoke or a toke now and then, and Gil took it upon himself at every meeting to remind Farhad subtly of his fate should Kahn discover his addiction.

That anyone could miss it boggled Gil’s mind. The Arab was a classic junkie, right down to the nervous worrying of his lips with his decaying teeth and the constant furtive skittering of his eyes. But apparently the imam saw and heard no evil, likely because good help was hard to find, especially when you couldn’t pay market rates and your acolytes were impatient for their promised seventy-two virgins on the other end of their suicide vest detonation.

The wonder was that they’d even succeeded in convincing females to blow themselves up lately, in spite of a dearth of sensual promises in the afterlife. The men were promised eternal delights – but what could be in it for the female martyrs?

Gil dismissed the musing and stood as Farhad approached the table.

“Tea? It’s very good here,” Gil lied, the foul beverage tasting like dishwater to him.

“Please. Very kind of you.”

Gil waited until the tea had been brought and Farhad had sipped half his cup before clearing his throat and leaning forward so only Farhad could hear. “Give me an answer, Farhad. The funds are in place, but my boss is getting anxious. There are others he has his eye on. It’s time to make a decision.”

Farhad looked everywhere but at Gil as he finished his drink, his hands trembling slightly. “I’ve decided to go forward with it, Hassad,” he said, using Gil’s code name. The man had no idea what Gil’s nationality was; he’d told him Turkish when Farhad asked. “But you must promise to keep our dealings confidential. Great misery would befall me if my arrangement were to become known.”

“It shall be so,” Gil intoned. Like all cowards and turncoats, the man was thinking only of his own skin and not the consequences of his betrayal. Perfect as far as Gil was concerned. The last thing he wanted was an attack of conscience at the last minute. Besides, what Gil had asked for – Kahn’s network of quislings and sycophants – would have no value if the imam wasn’t up to no good, which Farhad had gone to great lengths to assure Gil was the case.

Gil, for his part, assumed the junkie was lying, as was the custom of addicts the world over.

The relationship had worked well so far.

Gil paid the bill and both men rose. “I have a list at my place,” Farhad said. “Do you have the money with you?”

“Of course not. That’s too much to walk around with. But we can go to my bank together and do a transfer or make a withdrawal once you show me the list.”

Farhad sighed. “Fine. You want to come with me, or meet somewhere?”

Gil thought about it and decided he didn’t want to let the fish out of his sight now that the hook was set. “I’ll go with you, and then we can head to the bank.”

They walked together toward the slum Gil knew Farhad lived near – one of the most dangerous areas of the city. The streets narrowed and then became unpaved, with rivers of noxious fluid coursing along the edges. The odor was overpowering, to the point where Gil’s eyes were tearing, and he was regretting his decision when Farhad turned into an alley.

Gil followed him into the cramped passage. Rats scuttled ahead of the two men, and he wondered about the number of communicable diseases he was exposing himself to. The thought was barely formed when he sensed movement behind him, and he was turning when a blow to his head knocked him off his feet. His knees buckled and he collapsed, his face landing in the slag oozing along the alley, and then everything faded and went black.

~ ~ ~

Gil felt movement, and as his consciousness returned, he tried to remember what had happened. Memory returned in a burst and he cracked his eyes open. He was in a cart of some sort, being towed by a bicycle. He tried to move, but his wrists were cuffed.

An old man’s wizened face peered at him from the shadows of a shanty, his skin the color of boot leather, his clothes barely more than rags, and then Gil was past the specter, continuing into the bowels of the city. Two children trotted along beside him, laughing, and it took him a moment to realize that the toy they were waving at him was a dead rat covered in excrement. He gagged and almost choked, and then they were gone, the vision like the surreal remnants of a nightmare.

His strength gradually returned, and he struggled against the sharp metal cuffs, wincing as the edges bit further into his flesh. The cart bounced and swayed. From a tinny speaker somewhere to his left came the wail of music, and he turned his head, but a spike of pain lanced through his skull and everything spun. He closed his eyes again and awareness slipped away, replaced by the numbness of oblivion.

Manchester, England

A line of men shuffled forward, huddled against the constant gray drizzle of the industrial city, the wall and overhang towering above them providing slim shelter from the rain. All appeared bored, accustomed to long queues, beaten by the reality of constant unemployment and sustenance existence in a nation that boasted of revitalized prosperity and newfound opportunity.

Not so in Manchester, where crime was high and any new jobs were in the illegal drug trade – heroin was a big favorite with the working class, cheaper now than ever before due to overproduction in Afghanistan under American rule.

A stocky man with a face that had taken more than a few punches called from the doorway. “Next.”

The line advanced as another hopeful entered the dreary employment office of the Sportcity complex of soccer stadiums, rugby fields, and smaller sporting venues. A woman with hooded eyes shoved a form across her desk at him without looking away from her computer screen. “Fill that out, luv,” she said, her voice seasoned by cigarettes and Scotch.

The man completed the form using the supplied pen and then sat quietly awaiting instruction. The woman sighed and tore herself from the computer, quickly scanned the paperwork, and then slid it back to the man. “Number two.”

He rose, walked to the indicated door, and knocked.

“Come in,” a male voice barked from behind the wooden slab. He twisted the knob and pulled it open. An obese bald man glanced up at him from a desk overflowing with paperwork, his porcine face sweating in spite of the chill, and gestured at a chair. “All right, then. Come on, we don’t have all day.”