Tripoli's Target (Justin Hall # 2) (10 page)

He ended the call and began cursing at Chief Engineer Burgoyne and his design team at the Bugatti manufacturing plant in France.
How dare they refuse the prince’s request? Don’t they know who he is and that he can buy the entire plant, if he wants?
The prince was not considered extremely rich by sheikhs’ standards. Still, with a net worth of five billion dollars, he frequently made the Forbes list of the richest people of the world.

A range of options appeared in Zakir’s mind. He could present those options to the prince, to ease the sting of the French rejection and to save himself a great amount of humiliation. Prince Al-Farhan was notorious for literally shooting the messenger, especially when they bore bad news. Zakir had learned many tricks over the years to ensure his survival. The prince wanted the 100th car of his collection to be a Bugatti Veyron Super Sport, but customized with a larger engine and a higher speed to fit his billion-dollar ego.
I can set up a meeting with the Board of Directors of Bugatti and convince them to accept the prince’s proposal. Perhaps the prince can make a considerable donation to one of their stupid museums or universities. Or perhaps I can convince the prince to accept a German or Italian aftermarket customization of a standard Veyron.

He stood up from his desk and glanced through floor-to-ceiling windows down at the city’s fascinating skyline. From the prince’s apartment on the 72nd floor of the newly finished Burj Khalifa, Zakir admired the city unfolding underneath his feet. His eyes followed the traffic racing through the six lanes of Sheikh Zayed Road. The thirty-for-mile stretch led to the border with Abu Dhabi, the capital of the United Arab Emirates, where Prince Al-Farhan was sealing an oil exploration business deal with powerful French investors.

His BlackBerry chirped with the arrival of another call. Zakir checked the caller ID and grinned. He spoke with clear anticipation in his voice, “Nassir, what is the good news?”

“We were ambushed,” Nassir rasped, loud clatter echoing in the background. “Almost everyone is dead. We’re pulling bodies out of the cars as we speak.”

“The sheikh?” Zakir asked. “Is the sheikh alive?”

“No, sir. The sheikh is dead.”

“Did he finish his job?”

“I think he did. He was talking to the Canadian agents when two choppers attacked our camp.”

“What rebel group was it?”

“Unconfirmed. We brought down both choppers, old Mi-17s. Everyone aboard is dead. The Sudanese Air Force often uses such choppers to attack rebel strongholds. The Liberty Front and Unionists also have such models. Egypt too is full of them.”

“What are the Canadian agents doing?”

“The man, Justin, is on a satphone. Talking to his chiefs, I assume. The woman, Carrie, is examining the briefcase. She’s going through a stack of documents in a large black folder.”

“The sheikh’s briefcase? Tell me it’s the sheikh’s briefcase.” Zakir placed the BlackBerry in front of his mouth so that Nassir would not miss a word.

“Yes, it is,” Nassir confirmed.

“Allahu Akbar! This is the good news that should have started your call,” Zakir shouted. “The prince will be extremely pleased to know you have delivered on your promise.”
And maybe, just maybe, the news about the Bugatti Veyron will not sound that bad after all.

Nassir barked a few orders to someone and Zakir quickly turned down the volume on his phone. “Nassir, you’re still there?” he asked after a few seconds.

“Yes, just having trouble with one of our Rovers. A bullet has pierced the radiator, so I’m telling my men how to patch it up.”

“Do you know if the agents are going to intermediate for the Alliance?”

“I’m not sure. All the sheikh’s men are dead.”

“That’s not a problem. They’re all replaceable,” Zakir said. “Stay close to the agents and learn their intentions. Then call me with an update.”

“Sir, they’ve already picked one of Ali’s men as their guide. It will be difficult to follow their moves.”

Zakir began to pace around the room. “Nassir, do I have to explain everything to you?
Become
the replacement for the guide at any cost. In this way, you’ll always be with them. We need to know what they’re going to do and where they’re headed.”

“I understand. My tasks are clear now,” Nassir replied in a humble tone.

“Great, I’m glad you finally got it. Sometimes I wonder why the prince wastes his money on you.”

Nassir did not mouth off an angry reply. “I’ll call you back to inform you of new developments,” he said.

“Do so in good time,” Zakir said before pressing the End Call button on his BlackBerry.

Great Sand Sea, Sudan

May 14, 11:55 a.m. local time

“No, we have no way of confirming his identity with a hundred percent certainty.” Justin curbed his anger to a mere raise in his voice.

“I understand you’re in a difficult situation, Justin, but keep your cool,” Johnson said over the satellite phone connection. “How do we know this man is not simply a supporter of the Israeli cause?”

“One of the local Tuaregs swears the man’s accent is not North African. And I mentioned earlier the man is wearing the Star of David around his neck.” Justin clenched the phone handset.

“Any helpful evidence found on him or at the crash site?”

“No, none. Ali’s men indentified some of the bodies of the helicopters’ crews as Sudanese militants. They belonged to a group called Freedom for North Sudan.”

There was a tense pause for a few moments.

“So you believe your captive is a Mossad field agent?” Johnson asked.

“Yes, I do. And I don’t want to be his watcher or get in the way of a Mossad rescue mission.”

Another pause followed. Justin could hear the mental gears turning inside Johnson’s head.

“What are you suggesting, Justin?” she asked finally.

“An intel exchange. Israelis tell us the nature of their operation here in Sudan and how it ties to the attack against the sheikh. In turn, we give them the location of their agent.”

“Is this man in your custody?”

“No, but we know where he is,” Justin replied, looking at the black smoke from the burning helicopter ballooning above the ridge. They had lit up the fuel, leaving no evidence for the surviving gunmen to dig up when rummaging through the wreckage. Their attempts at looting the other helicopter had produced nothing of significance. “I don’t want the Mossad to come after us, thinking we have their man. I want to avoid a war with Tel Aviv at all costs.”

“Is he safe at least?”

“Yes, for the moment. But deserts of Sudan are not the safest place on the planet even for well-trained Mossad agents. The man has a shoulder wound, which we treated, and which will not cause his death. Dehydration, on the other hand . . .”

“All right, ensure his safety until I get a reply from the Israelis.”

“I will, but my first priority is to ensure the safety of my team as we complete our mission.”

“I expect nothing less,” Johnson said dryly. “Now back to the late sheikh’s demands. You told me about the promise you made him. I’ll talk to our minister about that. How certain are we the intelligence obtained from the sheikh is reliable?”

Carrie coughed and Justin moved the satellite phone handset closer to her. She said, “At first glance, the documents seem legit. The photos look undoctored, the signatures authentic. The assassination plan against the US president is very real.”

“OK, I’ll talk to the CIA and the Secret Service. They have advance ground teams already in Libya, since their president’s visit to Tripoli takes place in three days.”

“Great, so they can handle this situation and return us the favor later,” Justin said.

“Not so quick,” Johnson said, “I want you to deliver this intelligence to the Americans and assist them in investigating this plot.”

Justin took a deep breath before replying to his boss, “This is not part of our mission and was not—”

“Now it
is
part of your mission, Justin. I expect your fully cooperation with the Americans. You will get to Tripoli tonight.”

Justin’s right hand tightened into a fist. His fingers crackled and his jaws clamped shut as he began grinding his teeth. Two years ago, a botched rescue operation in Libya had landed Justin and Abdul—one of the CIS local contacts—in one of Libya’s worst torture chambers. Their nightmare ended with a prison escape as they fought their way out of hell, leaving behind a long trail of dead demons. The torture slashes on Justin’s back healed well in a matter of months; the grave marks carved in his memory took much longer. Some never healed.

Carrie leaned closer to the phone. “Ms. Johnson, with all due respect, our relationship with the Secret Service has not been the greatest. After yesterday’s explosions Tripoli will be extremely hostile. Our presence will only complicate the situation.”

“I understand your concerns, Carrie, and I’m fully aware of recent developments in Tripoli. Our Cairo station is providing us hourly updates and they’ll give you any support you need, serving as your backup.”

Justin cleared his throat. “Can’t the rest of the Cairo station handle this?” he asked with caution, avoiding a direct confrontation with his boss.

“Yes, they can, but not as efficiently as you and Carrie. You’ve already been briefed and are familiar with all details. Besides, you have experience working in Libya and a considerable network of contacts. And this is a matter of national security for Canada too. Our prime minister will attend the G-20 Summit in Tripoli along with the US president and dignitaries of other countries.”

“Oh, really?” Justin asked.

“Well, schedule permitting.” Johnson seemed to take a step back from her previous assertion. “In any case,” she added hastily, “an assassination attempt would throw Libya and the entire North Africa back into chaos. After the civil wars, the car bombings and the events in Tunisia and Egypt, we need to do everything to maintain stability in this region.”

Justin mulled over Johnson’s last words. She was right, in part. It was a very sensitive situation and he was already at the center of the storm.
Anna will never forgive me for missing both her birthday and our anniversary.
More than the revenge of his sworn enemies in Libya’s mukhabarat, Justin feared shattering Anna’s hopes of a peaceful and memorable getaway.

“I’ll arrange for a chopper to meet you at the Egyptian border. It’s too hot to have them fly into Sudan as originally planned because of this attack,” Johnson said. “I’ll ask them, but I’m sure they’ll not do it. Once you’re back in Cairo, secure the intel from the sheikh and the alleged Israeli agent at two separate, safe locations. I’ll update you on the Mossad and the US Secret Service responses. Then, make plans to get to Tripoli and meet with the Secret Service advance team.”

“We’ve taken pictures of the Israeli agent and of some of the documents from the sheikh’s briefcase,” Carrie said. “I’ll send them to you right away.”

“Perfect.”

“The sooner we return the agent to the Mossad, the more time we’ll have to unravel this plot,” Justin said without much conviction. He was not sure if he preferred staying in Cairo while chained to an Israeli agent, waiting for a Mossad rescue team to shoot him in the face, or sneaking into Tripoli and risk being chained to a torture pole, waiting for Libyan henchmen to cut his throat.

“Cairo is not their most preferred place to do business. Although, if this man is really theirs, they’ll send a team in no time,” Johnson said.

“This man is not my responsibility,” Justin said, “I hope the Israelis don’t delay. And I hope they come in peace.”

“Saving the life of their field agent is sufficient reason to come in peace.
Mazel tov,
Justin.”

Justin sighed, not appreciating Johnson’s attempt at humor. He mumbled, “Let’s wait for congratulations until the exchange is over.”

“Call me in an hour. I should have some instructions by then about your transport and this man.”

“We’ll do.”

“Good luck to both of you.”

“Thanks,” Justin and Carrie replied almost in a single voice.

They stared at each other in deep silence for a few long moments.

“What are the chances we’ll still be alive at the end of this?” Carrie asked.

“Do you have a will?” Justin replied.

Before she could say anything, loud noises erupted in the gunmen camp. Two men were exchanging blows. Justin recognized Nassir and Khalid as the fighters while two other men were cheering them on. At one point, Nassir produced a pistol. He pressed it against Khalid’s chest, who threw his arms up in complete surrender.

“Hey, knock it off! Stop! Stop!” Justin charged toward the grim spectacle. “What’s the reason for—”

His words were cut off by a loud gunshot. Justin’s hands instinctively went to his carbine. Khalid collapsed to the ground two steps away from Nassir’s feet.

“What the hell did he do to you?” Justin shouted at Nassir as he leaned over Khalid’s body. Blood was gushing from a large wound and the man had no pulse. At point blank, Nassir’s shot had proven fatal. Carrie held up her rifle inches away from Nassir’s head.

“He . . . he was a traitor,” Nassir replied, a small GSh-18 Russian-made pistol still in his left hand. “And, you saw, it was an accident . . . I mean self-defense.”

Justin gazed at Nassir. There was a glow of self-contentment on the man’s grin. The killer’s face showed no hint of guilt or remorse.
Not even the slightest concern about the young man, whose life he ended with a single, cold-blooded gesture. A natural killer. But I’ve got more important issues on my plate.

“Time to go,” he said to Carrie, who was still holding her rifle pointed at Nassir.

“What about Khalid?” she asked.

Justin gave the dead body another glance. Then his eyes rested on the two gunmen. They were standing at the side of the Land Rover, dazzled by the deadly turn of events.

“You,” Justin called at the younger of the two, barely in his twenties, who had no weapons in his hands or on his body. “You speak English?”

The man gave no reply while the other one opened his mouth and said, “I speak English.”