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

A minute or so passed before the shooting stopped, but the screaming continued. He heard the distinct thuds of combat boots marching up the street. The police were approaching his truck. He looked up slowly as a policeman pulled open the driver’s door of his truck and aimed an AK-47 at his head

“Don’t move!” the policeman ordered him.

Satam nodded.

Without a word, the policeman juggled the rifle in his hands and slammed its buttstock hard against Satam’s head.

Chapter One

Cairo, Egypt

May 13, 6:25 p.m. local time

Justin Hall did not want to fire his gun. Too many witnesses crowded the street.

I will kill those two men following me if I have to. Then, I’ll clean up the mess.

His hand rested over the Browning 9mm riding inside the waistband holster at his thigh. He peered again at the reflections in the store window glass. He pretended to admire a black suit. In fact, he was checking every move of two young men behind him. Before he continued to his meeting, he wanted to make sure the pair, which had followed him for the last three blocks, were random strangers, rather than plainclothes police officers doing a poor surveillance job. Or worse. Assassins.

The two men did not stop by the store. They kept walking and, as they rounded the street corner, Justin followed them. He tailed the men for a couple of minutes. They wandered along the north side of Nile City Towers Mall, stopping at times for quick window-shopping but never looking over their shoulders. Still, he found their actions suspicious. He used the same counter-surveillance tactic. Justin wondered if a second backup team had replaced the first, after he had made the two men.
If this is mukhabarat, there has to be more than one.

The sun had begun to set, its last golden rays bouncing off the reflective glass of nearby tall skyscrapers. A thin crowd was building up around the shopping district in downtown Cairo. Justin glanced around him on all sides. He tried to spot anyone who looked as if they belonged to a surveillance team. He scouted the area for operatives in dull or baggy clothing, wearing boring sunglasses, sporting earpieces, or simply standing out in the crowd. He listened for the slowing of footsteps, the shuffling of clothes, and any metallic click. No one fit the profile.

The men turned another corner and Justin continued to follow them. Twilight shadows and the flow of pedestrians out for the evening should have made it easier for him to track his prey, but the dry, sizzling air, scorched by a punishing sun for twelve hours, countered all his advantages. Drops of sweat formed on his broad forehead. The bulletproof vest underneath his loose-fitting polo shirt felt twice as heavy as when he had put it on earlier in the morning.

His BlackBerry chirped from his pocket, the sound breaking his concentration. Without slowing down, he pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

“Where are you?” the short e-mail asked.

It was from Carrie O’Connor, his partner. They worked for the Canadian Intelligence Service, and they should have checked in at the Fairmont Nile City Hotel an hour ago. They were scheduled to meet with Sheikh Yusuf Ayman, one of the masterminds of the terrorist organization Islamic Fighting Alliance, but the sheikh had scrapped the meeting at a moment’s notice. Carrie was still surveilling the Fairmont, while Justin was returning from following two of the sheikh’s associates to a previously unknown safe house.

I’ll be there soon.
He pocketed the BlackBerry.
A few more minutes.

He followed the two men until they entered the Desert Rose, a hip bar favored by the young and rich. Justin kept a close eye on the main door, throwing casual glances at their table by the window. At the same time, he searched the streets for the elusive second surveillance team.

Ten minutes later, after the two men had finished their first drinks, Justin concluded they were not secret police, and he was not being watched by them or anyone else. But this was Cairo, and one could never be too careful. In a country still ruled by the General Intelligence Service, known simply as
mukhabarat,
one wrong turn could be the last, even for professionals like him. Controlled paranoia had saved his life more than once in the most dangerous back alleys of North Africa.

Justin headed toward the Castle, a small coffee shop where Carrie was waiting for him. The Castle was to the left of the Fairmont, with an unobstructed view of the hotel’s VIP entrance. Rahim, the owner of the joint, was on the CIS Cairo Station payroll. The coffee shop provided a casual yet safe place for CIS agents to run covert operations.

Before pushing open the carved wood door of the Castle, Justin stopped and glanced at the alley in front of the coffee shop. He noticed a white sedan, an old model Ford, parked halfway between the entrance to a three-story apartment building across the alley and a grocery store. Justin squinted and noticed the silhouette of a small woman wearing a hijab crouched in the front passenger’s seat. A tall man was talking to the shopkeeper by the fruit and vegetable stand in front of the grocery store.
Is that her husband? Her brother?
Justin scanned the windows of the apartments but noticed nothing suspicious. He threw another sweeping look at the other side of the street and stepped inside the coffee shop.

A thin cloud of tobacco smoke billowing from a handful of patrons engulfed him. Justin sneaked in, skirting around the tables and avoiding eye contact with anyone. He stood near the counter until Rahim, who was filling a couple of glasses with dark beer, took notice of his presence.

“Where have you been?” Rahim asked in a low voice. “You’re late.”

“Making sure I wasn’t followed,” Justin replied. “Is somebody waiting for a ride?” He gestured with his thumb back toward the door.

“I don’t understand.”

“There’s an old Ford parked outside.”

“That would be Leilah,” Rahim said, his pot-like head bobbing with every word. “She’s waiting for her husband, Farouk.”

A few servings of
kofta,
minced lamb sprinkled with spices, sizzled on the grill behind Rahim.

“Did you send Nebibi for a closer look?” Justin asked.

“No. Why?”

A surveillance camera was installed above the archway entrance to the Castle, and it hidden inside one of the lighting sconces. It transmitted clear images to Rahim’s computer screen, which doubled as a cash register. With a few clicks, he could keep a constant eye on what happened on the street. Justin preferred to be on the scene, the difference between being an observer and actually understanding an evolving situation.

Justin pointed to his left, toward the kitchen separated from the bar by a reddish curtain. “Have him check things out.”

Rahim nodded and disappeared inside the kitchen.

The CIS trusted Nebibi, the cook, like they trusted his uncle Rahim. Justin, on the other hand, did not trust many people. He knew Rahim had great financial incentives to provide actionable intelligence to them, as the CIS paid him handsomely for his services. But he worried about another buyer tempting Rahim. The man was willing to trade in nearly all secrets for the right price. The Egyptian was not bound by the same code of honor streaming through the veins of CIS agents. Justin realized CIS had to rely on local sources to navigate the labyrinths of Cairo’s streets and Egypt’s foreign policies. Still, he kept his reliance on Rahim to the bare minimum.

Rahim returned.

“A man was talking to some guy from the grocery store when I walked in,” Justin said.

“Yeah, that man is Farouk. He’s a good friend of the store owner. Nebibi is going out the back. Are you hungry?”

“No, not really. Still two hours until supper.”

“Yes, for Egyptians.”

“I am half-Egyptian.”

“You’re half everything.” Rahim turned around to attend to his grill.

Justin grinned, rubbing his dimpled chin. His Mediterranean complexion—dark olive skin, raven wavy hair, big black eyes, and a large thick nose, inherited from his Italian mother—allowed him to blend in naturally among the countless nationalities living in the bustling city of eighteen million. Youthful stamina, a natural talent for languages, and an overdose of stubbornness had allowed him to master spoken Arabic like a native Egyptian.

“Can I bring you some
mezze
at least?” Rahim asked, referring to appetizers.

“Sure.”

“Coffee?”

“Definitely.”

Rahim turned around and poured coffee from a long-handled pot into a porcelain cup. Justin savored the strong aroma of the thick, concentrated drink and clenched the cup in his left hand. He climbed the concrete stairs, which took him to the second floor. A narrow hall led to two safe rooms, once part of Rahim’s family apartment. Now they were reserved for the private use of CIS operatives. Justin knocked twice on the white door of the first room.

“Come in,” a woman’s soft voice called from inside.

“Hi,” Justin greeted Carrie.

She sat cross-legged on a chair by one of the windows. A pair of powerful binoculars and two manila folders lay spread over a plastic table, next to a CIS-issued Browning 9mm and a tea mug. Poster-sized photographs of the Great Pyramid of Giza and the Sphinx covered the beige walls.

“Hey, you finally made it.” Carrie tossed her reading glasses over one of the open folders. She tilted her head back, stretching her neck muscles. Her auburn shoulder-length hair, which she usually kept in a semi-ponytail, flowed down her slender neck. “What took you so long?”

“Trying to shake what I thought was a tail. A couple of guys who turned out to be nobody.”

“Well, double-checking never hurt anyone.”

“Sorry I’m late.”

“Don’t worry about it. Still hot out there, eh?” She pointed to the soggy shirt stuck to his chest. A trickle of sweat had made its way down his neck.

“Hell on Earth. Ninety degrees in the shade.”

He placed his coffee cup on the table and stumbled onto an empty chair across from her. He took a deep breath, enjoying the cool breeze flowing down from the air conditioner mounted on the wall.

“Did you see a white Ford downstairs?” Justin asked.

“No. Nothing there when I came in.”

“Rahim hadn’t checked it out, but he’s sending Nebibi now.”

“OK, let’s hope it’s nothing.”

Justin dabbed his face with a Kleenex. “Where did Team One lose Sheikh Ayman?”

“We didn’t
lose
him. Johnson ordered us
not
to make contact, just track his movements, which we did. Sheikh Ayman arrived at Terminal 3 of Cairo International. Then he boarded a Sudan Airways flight bound for Khartoum.”

Claire Johnson was the CIS Director General of Intelligence, the North Africa Division and their boss. Johnson’s reputation within the CIS was that of a meticulously thorough individual. Terrified of committing a career-ending blunder, Johnson displayed a certain amount of sluggishness that crippled field agents. They joked that she was more efficient at witch hunting than terrorist hunting, as scapegoating often resulted from botched operations in her division.

Justin chewed on Carrie’s words. The sheikh’s departure aboard a regular commercial flight meant he was not hiding from Egyptian authorities.

“If mukhabarat is looking everywhere for the sheikh and his brotherhood, how come he can sneak right under their noses?” Carrie asked as if reading Justin’s mind.

“I was thinking that too. The short answer: he’s the sheikh and this is Cairo. The sheikh’s men are everywhere, even inside mukhabarat. They may be looking for him, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to find him. And according to the Egyptians, the sheikh is only
allegedly
linked to the Alliance.”

“
Allegedly? Allegedly?
What more do they want? A written and signed confession saying I am the second-in-command of Islamic Fighting Alliance?” Carrie clenched her fists.

Justin stood up. “It’s more complicated than that. The government is fragile, unable to defeat the militants by force, at least at this time. Maybe after the elections.”

“Oh, that’s months away.” Carrie sighed.

“That’s why we usually don’t accept
support
from the secret police. There’s too much to lose by sharing intel with mukhabarat.”

Justin unfastened his holster and placed it on the table. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, along with his bulletproof vest. He felt Carrie’s admiring eyes. He thought he saw her cringe as he turned around, knowing she would never get used to the sight of three deep scars, almost eight inches long, carved along his shoulder blades. They were reminders of the time he was captured in Libya after a hostage rescue operation that went wrong.

Justin fetched a short-sleeve shirt from a white cabinet by the door. The shirt smelled of bleach. It seemed Rahim had forgotten to ask his wife, who often did their laundry, not to use chlorine. Justin sighed as he noticed a slight bleeding of his favorite navy blue shirt.

“Did any of the sheikh’s men come back to the Fairmont?” He returned to his seat and took a big gulp of coffee.

“Yes, one of his bodyguards. He retrieved the armored Mercedes from the valet parking. I have the address of the house where he dropped it off.” Carrie tapped one of the folders.

“The sheikh’s abrupt, but not secret departure, is unusual. Why leave in such a hurry and without giving a reason? What’s so urgent? Is he afraid of something? He’s protected in Egypt. There’s nothing to fear.”

“Well, maybe there is
something
to fear.”

“If so, it has to be something big. Something powerful for the sheikh to abandon our long-planned meeting.”

Their meeting had been in the works for over a month. In late March, intermediaries of the Alliance contacted the CIS Cairo Station, seeking a meeting with them. Johnson initially had chosen another team of agents to handle this case, suspecting the militant was a low-level soldier. Once the identity of the senior leader requesting the meeting became known, Johnson insisted Justin organize all aspects of the operation. His presence became even more essential when they learned Sheikh Ayman held information about an assassination plot against a Western head of state.