The Courier: A Ryan Kealey Thriller (28 page)

T
angier is both the past of Morocco and its future.

Settled in the fifth century BC, it has been home to countless cultures—all of whom have left their mark on the land and its people. In the last century, its location between Africa and the Middle East and Asia made it a stopping point for European and American diplomats, all of whom boosted the ancillary banking, military, and transportation facilities that come with being an international hub. The city is now leapfrogging beyond the financially strapped European cities by becoming a sports hub for the region with coastal resorts, world-class hotels, and state-of-the-art communications and transportation services that include a modern new airport and upgraded rail service to and from Rabat, Casablanca, and Marrakech along the coast and Fès and Oujda inland.

Kealey had never been to the city and was immediately suspicious—not of the people or the history that was still readily discernible in the architecture and markets, but of the wealth. It had to come from somewhere, and in this region “somewhere” was often petrodollars or black market and drug income being laundered. That meant behind each legitimate businessperson was a hierarchy of thugs.

The drive took three and a half hours. It would have been quicker without a half dozen checkpoints where police were looking for faces, not cargo. Rayhan had slept and Yazdi had mostly rested but occasionally texted. Kealey didn’t bother waking Rayhan to find out what he was writing. He had decided that as long as it got the bomb out of the terrorists’ hands, he could live with it—for now. And since the group handling the terrorist wasn’t stupid, he was considering what they might do to prevent that.

Clarke had called—not texted—to tell him who Khalid al-Otaibi was and what the other intelligence divisions had recommended to Brenneman . . . and what he was doing. Unlike Clarke, Kealey didn’t mind the time squeeze. He worked better under pressure and, besides, the longer this dragged on the colder the trail. So he had six hours.

“Your uncle is here now with Allison—a remarkable man who had one perspective for you.”

“A distraction,” Kealey said.

Clarke’s brief hesitation told him that was exactly what Largo had suggested. “A distraction,” the intelligence chief said. “I just ran some numbers. They’ve tied up half the police force in northern Morocco without even trying, looking for one or two bombers. Imagine what they could do with a bigger attack.”

“Which, because of their lack of manpower, will most likely be near where they plan to leave.”

“What makes you say that about their boots-on-the-ground?”

“There was an ambush back in Moulay Bouselham with just one man. This is a boutique operation.”

“With big explosives, possibly more,” Clarke said.

“I never did trust university professors,” Kealey said. “Most’ve got more brains than common sense. Don’t worry—I’m watching.”

He said a closing “Hi” to Allison before hanging up. It seemed like weeks, not a little less than two days, since they were sitting by the Lincoln Memorial having one of their personal but non-relationship talks, doing the dance that both of them were reluctant to acknowledge was at arm’s length.

Kealey spent the rest of the time keeping his tired mind busy by putting himself in the terrorist’s place. He started over at that Moulay Bouselham cemetery more times than he could remember and it never got him closer to where he needed to be. The device was presumably en route here. The terrorist would be hidden with it—possibly in a van, possibly in a limousine, possibly in a fruit truck. His face was likely known, so it could not afford to be seen. Perhaps the agents working with him would take the highway, possibly back roads, or they might even try a helicopter. The point was, to get out of Africa quickly they would most likely come to Tangier. It wasn’t just the length of a runway. Here, they had proximity to Europe and honorable targets if they were forced to pull the trigger quickly: there was Madrid and there was Paris, two targets that Muslim extremists had struck before. And if this Saudi banker had the resources Yazdi had said, then a private jet or yacht would be less obvious here among the other transports of the rich.

It was all more tenuous and seat-of-the-pants than Kealey would have liked, and it didn’t have the dominos-falling trail he usually followed. This was a new kind of enemy, a fiercely radical nomad with top-flight guides and handlers and a lot of money. It was one target, not a fish in a barrel but a bird or snake in a continent. The trails were now being carefully obliterated, not simply concealed. He was traveling with a potential enemy. And he was playing catch-up, sifting for clues, not waiting somewhere with a catcher’s mitt as intel flowed toward him.

I’m here to react to a scent or misstep or something that doesn’t seem right
, he thought. He told himself over and over,
Spain’s got the waterways. I have to cover the airport.
Relying on institutions was something else a field agent did not do happily. And as they passed the signs that directed them to Ibn Battouta Airport, Kealey reeled in all the frustrations and thoughts that were as much a part of an operative’s life as his bottom-line ability to face reality:
Now stop your goddamn complaining and catch that bastard.

The roomy expansion of the N1 created an easy access to the low modern buildings. Set under clear, star-filled skies and palm trees, with the smell of seawater on one side and jet fuel on the other, the floodlit main terminal looked like a highly polished block of sandstone set under a suspension bridge, with high silvery columns reaching skyward, each one anchored by a cable on two sides along the facade. The writing was in English and Arabic, a nod to the global status of the airport.

Rayhan was awake now, and Yazdi was looking out both windows in turn. The Iranian was on edge. He seemed to be looking for something and Kealey almost aborted. But this was about the bomb, not about who took it from the terrorist. He went to long-term parking. His intention was to get a look at the field and search for likely aircraft.

Kealey exited the car, took a moment to stretch—but also to steal a look at Yazdi. The man was clearly distracted. A veteran field agent had a certain look when he was focused. Not the stereotypical signs of a creased brow and hesitant movement but the exact opposite. He was not a deer sensing danger but a man prepared for action. He was loose limbed and ready to act in whichever way events dictated or his intuition or mind told him. But the eyes: those were the giveaway.

“Why did you park so far away?” Rayhan asked quietly.

“Because if the terrorists are here they’d expect us to go to the curb or short-term,” he replied.

As the group walked into the big brick-tiled courtyard in front of the terminal, Yazdi stopped. Kealey kept walking. Rayhan stayed with him, though she looked back. Yazdi said something to her.

“He said there are two armed men in the terminal,” she told him. “They will shoot us if we enter.” Her voice was steady but her eyes were restless as she looked from Kealey to the guards to Yazdi.

Kealey peered ahead. It was easy to see inside the lighted terminal. There were a few dozen travelers inside, some crossing the lobby, others at ticket kiosks. A few were outside, to the right, checking luggage with skycaps. Just inside the revolving doors were two security guards—or men dressed as security guards. They seemed watchful, no more. Each wore a handgun.

“Tell him to prove those men are his,” Kealey said. He wanted to move, not stand here and debate primacy.

Yazdi listened, then replied.

“He said, walk through the door,” Rayhan said. “You are armed with a dead man’s gun. They will tie you to one murder at least and two bombings at worst. Your identity will be exposed.”

Kealey stopped a few feet from the door. He stepped aside so other travelers could pass. He put a hand encouragingly on Rayhan’s arm as he moved her with him. “Ask what he wants.”

She asked and Yazdi answered.

“He and his team are taking charge of this mission,” she said. “We can join them or get on a plane and leave Morocco.” He was speaking and she added, “He wants to know who the authorities will believe: three Arab nationals or two Americans.”

Rayhan seemed proud to be included in the latter group. That was something.

Kealey allowed one scenario to play out in his mind: he took the gun he carried and put it to Yazdi’s belly. That might get them away; it wouldn’t get them into the airport. He did not think they had a lot of time. Leaving Moulay Bouselham, by road, the terrorists could be arriving the same time as they did.

He faced Yazdi. “Tell him we need as many eyes on the tarmac as we can get,” Kealey said. “If we’re with him, if his two men are with him, that lessens our chance of spotting our target or his cargo.”

Rayhan translated.

“Tell him I swear we will join him after we sweep the field,” Kealey said before she had finished translating.

Yazdi came forward. Kealey was trying to keep an eye on the people arriving for flights. It was difficult in the dark. It was difficult not knowing whether the terrorist, if he was here, would enter by the shadows or walk boldly inside. Or if he was inside already—a private jet could already be loaded without having undergone any checks by customs. Only papers were checked for private flights, not luggage.

“You will come with me,” Yazdi said as Rayhan translated.

Kealey handed Rayhan his gun. “I’m going into the terminal. If they shoot me, shoot him.”

Yazdi glared at Rayhan, who surprised him by stepping forward, not back, and pushing Boulif’s gun into his side. The move was fueled by courage that grew from years of quiet rage over what Iran had become, a state more oppressive than that of the Shah.

Yazdi looked at the men and the men looked at him. Kealey was about ten feet from the door. The American watched their hands, their eyes. They weren’t going to fire. Like Kealey, Yazdi wanted the device to be found. All he’d achieved with his game of chicken was to waste time.

The air rumbled as a big jet took off. Kealey looked up and to his left. It was a Brussels Airlines passenger aircraft. The whistle of the engines actually caused the cables holding the poles on the roof to vibrate a little.

He saw a flash from the corner of his eye, to the right. There was a loud pop, like someone bursting an air-filled paper bag. It came from the shadows behind a row of palm trees. That sound launched another whistle. It was higher and shriller than the whine of the jets.

A faint, white contrail streaked skyward over the roof of the terminal until it was lost in the dark beyond the spotlights.

The jet was out of reach. It wasn’t the target. Kealey ran inside as, to the left, the top of the tall, blocky control tower erupted into the shape of a cotton ball. Glass glittered in the dark for a moment, like stars, and then the glow of the explosion faded. Shards of window and metal rained on the terminal roof and tarmac, bits of flesh and clothing tumbling down among them.

Like waters changing their course after a rockslide, the people in the terminal flowed as one toward the two revolving doors. Yazdi’s men, still uncertain what had exploded or where, initially tried to step aside but were quickly pushed through the emergency doors on the sides. The crowd flooded out along with terminal employees and aircraft crews. It wasn’t quite a panic, but it was not an orderly evacuation. Police who had been outside, in a patrol car parked on the far left side of the terminal, cut through the mob toward where they had seen the flash that launched what was obviously a rocket.

Kealey did none of that. Taking out the control tower could only mean one thing. Whatever flight plan had been filed, a jet was next in line to take off and did not want to be tracked.

“Watch the next takeoff!” Kealey shouted back at Rayhan. “Watch the lights—see which way they go!”

He shouldered his way through the masses to get inside the terminal. He wanted to get to a window overlooking the tarmac. Behind him there was gunfire, well off to the right. The police and whoever fired the rocket, he suspected. Neither Yazdi nor Rayhan had anything to shoot about. Kealey reached the large picture window as the small white jet rose through the thin cloud caused by the explosion. It wouldn’t have had clearance and the pilot was obviously told not to concern himself with that.

Kealey could not make out any distinctive marks on the jet as all but the winking lights were swallowed by darkness.

Furious, he turned back to the entrance. The two-minute delay had made a difference between having eyeballs on the plane and not. He took out his cell phone, updated Clarke as he stared into the nearly deserted terminal, told him to have the Department of Defense turn everything they had on planes that had just left the field. Even if he landed in fifteen minutes somewhere in Spain, one of their satellites should be able to spot the damn thing.

“Don’t let anyone shoot it down till we can be sure the target’s onboard,” Kealey said. “And make sure they follow whoever gets out. They could set a half dozen false trails in motion.”

Kealey heard keys typing orders on the other end. “I know what to do,” Clarke assured him.

“I was just thinking out loud,” he said apologetically. “Sorry.”

Kealey hung up as sirens screamed from all directions. Vehicles were clogging the two exit roads, driving over grass dividers, trying to get away from the third terrorist attack in Morocco in one day. Kealey understood. This country wasn’t like Iraq or Lebanon or Syria. People were militant but restrained about it. Now that restraint was gone, all they wanted to do was get home and stay there. Kealey wished he could do the same.

Rayhan was looking toward the terminal. Yazdi was standing behind her with his two security officers

“Let’s get out of here,” Kealey said when he reached the woman’s side.