Tripoli's Target (Justin Hall # 2) (3 page)

“What do you think spooked him?” Carrie asked.

“I don’t know. Very few things would scare someone like Sheikh Ayman.”

“Will he reschedule our meeting?”

“I hope so.”

While the location and the time of their meeting were determined two weeks ago, they knew nothing about the specifics of the assassination or the intended target.

“I just don’t want it to take place in Sudan.”

“Hey, why not? It’s easier to bag him down there,” Carrie replied with a wide grin.

Kidnapping or eliminating the sheikh had crossed his mind too, albeit as a fleeting thought. Sudan was a lawless land and the perfect place for such a hit. The zeal in Carrie’s voice did not surprise him either. According to her, the most efficient solution to a problem was often also the most extreme. The one she always favored.

“That’s not our mission,” Justin said.

Carrie shook her head in resignation.

Justin walked over to one of the windows that overlooked the Fairmont VIP entrance and the Nile. Glowing lights from towering buildings shone from Giza, a suburb of the capital across the river. A constant stream of cars rushed through the top level of the Imbaba Bridge that connected the two parts of Cairo, their headlights flickering through the heavy smog. Justin hated the Imbaba Bridge. In fact, he hated all bridges. It was a bridge that shattered his life when he was only eleven years old.

Justin took the last sip of his coffee. He stepped closer to the other window, facing the apartment building across the alley. On a second floor apartment, two lights were on. They were almost in a clear line of sight to their room. Justin squinted and saw the silhouette of a man wandering around in the living room. A television set was flickering in one of the corners. A knock on the door startled him, and Justin turned around.

“It’s me,” Rahim said, “I brought the mezze.”

“Come in,” Justin said.

Rahim walked in, holding a round tray with pita and garlic bread, pickled olives, slices of cucumbers, and a few bread dips. Carrie began to make room on the table for their supper when a bullet pierced the window glass and slammed into Rahim’s chest. The man tumbled to his knees. The small plates of food flew across the table.

“Get down, get down,” Justin shouted. Carrie had already hit the floor, her hand clenching her pistol.

A short burst of gunfire exploded, breaking the other window. Sharp slivers of glass rained over the agents’ shoulders.

“Two shooters!” Carrie shouted.

Justin nodded, reaching for his Browning pistol. He cocked it and held it tightly in front of his face.

“You can handle them?” Justin asked as he stared at Rahim. A dip dish still swirled next to Rahim’s lifeless face.

“Yeah, I got them,” Carrie replied.

“Cover me and watch your head.”

He crawled to the door and ran outside.

* * *

As soon as the gunfire paused for a brief second, Carrie took a quick peek over the shredded windowsill. A gun muzzle flash betrayed one of the shooters’ location. She squeezed her trigger. She ducked as bullets sailed past her head. A few long moments dragged on. She lay low, her chest heaving with each quick breath. The gunfire stopped for a second. She looked up just long enough to fire the rest of her magazine. Once she heard the dull clink of her empty gun, she slid in a fresh magazine. She leaned against the wall and listened. Chaotic screams and rushing footsteps came from the street, but no more gunshots.

Carrie looked out of the window. A car engine roared and tires screeched. Down on the street, Justin chased a white Ford, shooting even as he ran to keep up with the car. Despite his torrent of bullets that riddled the runaway target, the Ford rounded the corner and disappeared behind the grocery store. Justin, gun in hand, stood alone in the middle of the alley.

* * *

Carrie walked outside to meet Justin. She stepped cautiously around a body lying halfway through the entrance to the apartment building. She noticed an AK-47 by the man’s hand and her eyes rested on the wound in his neck. Justin had fired kill shots. Most of their targets wore bulletproof vests, so they rarely aimed at their chests. After a couple of clashes with mercenaries in the Niger River Delta swamps two years ago, they almost gave up shooting at the heads of their enemies. Kevlar helmets were becoming increasingly resistant to small arms fire.

“There’s another body upstairs in the hall,” Justin said, drawing nearer to her.

Carrie nodded. “Is this the work of the Alliance?”

“If it is, it’s lousy at best.” Justin looked at the dead man.

“Did you get the men in the Ford?”

“Yes, I’m sure I got the woman passenger on the shoulder.”

“A woman?”

“Yeah.”

Carrie raised her hand and touched Justin’s bristly face. A reddish stain appeared on her fingers trailing over his chin. “You’re wounded?”

“Slivers. My favorite shirt is ruined though.” He ran his hand over his chest. “That’s Rahim’s blood.”

“If Rahim had checked the Ford, maybe this would have not happened.”

“If
I
would have checked it, this would
not
have happened.”

“It wasn’t your responsibility. It was his. You can’t do everyone’s job.”

“Maybe Rahim didn’t want to check the Ford.”

Carrie’s gray-blue eyes narrowed. “He wanted this to happen?”

“Well, not the part where he died.”

She glanced back at the Castle. Some of its patrons had run away. A few curious souls peered from behind the windows. She scanned the windows and balconies of the apartment building. Narrowed eyes of some of the residents glared in their direction. An old woman screamed at them in Arabic. A dog howl cut through the hot, heavy air.

Justin was staring at the dead man.

“What is it?” Carrie asked.

“I wonder if this is why the sheikh disappeared.”

“You mean he lured us for a meeting and set up an ambush? That is, if Rahim gave us up.”

“Yes, and before the ambush, the sheikh disappears.”

“Uh-uh, the sheikh needs no alibi. It has to be something else.”

Justin nodded and checked the magazine of his pistol. Four bullets left.

“You’re right. But this was no coincidence either.”

“Whatever it is, we’ll find out.”

“You’re right about that too. Whoever it is, they made a grave mistake putting us in their crosshairs.”

* * *

“Tell me what you see.” The man passed his binoculars to the driver.

He took the Bushnell binoculars and peered through it. The powerful magnification produced a sharp close-up image even through the BMW’s windshield. They had a clear view of the entrance to the Castle coffee shop from the Nile City Fairmont parking lot.

“He’s standing outside the shop, talking to the woman,” the driver said.

The man shook his gray-haired head.

“No, you see two brave soldiers ready for a fight.”

His voice showed clear disappointment. After so many years in the Islamic Fighting Alliance, the driver still failed to see beyond what was in front of his eyes. “They still have their weapons drawn?”

“They do,” the driver replied.

“Our men have become martyrs now.” The man’s voice held no regret. “Good thing they were our least talented shooters. They served their purpose.”

“You don’t think we went too far?” The driver raised the binoculars to his eyes. Justin and Carrie were now pacing in front of the Castle.

“No. We want to make this fight personal. Revenge is a powerful motivator. In this way, they’ll be more eager. More dedicated. That’s exactly what we want.”

Faint police sirens sounded in the distance.

“I’ve seen enough. Let’s go,” the man ordered his driver while looking to his right for police cars. “It’s time to brief Sheikh Ayman and play our next card.”

Chapter
Two

Canadian Intelligence Service Cairo Station, Egypt

May 13, 7:45 p.m. local time

George Patterson was struggling to establish a videoconference connection with the CIS headquarters in Ottawa. He kept pressing keyboard buttons and plugging and unplugging wires into the back of his laptop. Despite his efforts, no images appeared on the plasma screen of the Maple Leaf Conference Room.

George was the CIS Cairo Station Chief and Justin’s direct supervisor, at least in terms of administration. For operations work, Justin and Carrie still reported to Claire Johnson. They had returned to their jobs with the Cairo Station last year, after a CIS internal inquiry had cleared them of any misconduct during a hostage rescue operation in Libya. The inquiry was completed right after the Arctic Wargame mission that almost claimed their lives.

Sitting across the square table from George, Justin mulled over the evening’s events. As soon as Carrie had finished retrieving all their documents and gear from the Castle, the mukhabarat arrived at the scene. Of course they did not buy the agents’ implausible cover story, according to which two employees of the Canadian Cultural Agency in Egypt had survived a shootout with barely a scratch. Justin and Carrie claimed they found the guns in the coffee shop where they were having dinner and used them in self-defense. Their explanation was unlikely, but that was their cover story and they were going to stick to it. The mukhabarat confiscated their guns and interrogated them for a few minutes. Once Justin produced two Canadian diplomatic passports, the mukhabarat had little choice but to escort them to their embassy.

The Canadian Embassy was in the lush neighborhood of Garden City, one of the safest neighborhoods in the capital. It was always crawling with Egyptian uniformed police, security contractors, and secret agents. The CIS station occupied several offices in the east wing of the embassy. It had its own entrance, parking lot, and security system. The station served the intelligence and operative needs of the entire North Africa. It was run in a quasi-independent manner from the rest of the embassy—mainly for “plausible deniability” purposes—but still under the umbrella of diplomatic immunity.

“Here, I think I got something,” George said as a bright blue light flashed on the plasma screen.

“Great,” Carrie replied with a sigh. Sitting next to Justin, she was impatiently drumming her fingers on the edge of the desk, swinging in her swivel chair. “That was only what, ten minutes?”

George ignored her and clicked a few more buttons. Then he proudly pressed the Enter key. The image on the screen changed. The three of them gazed at Johnson’s long and narrow face, distorted because of how she hunched over the camera at her work station.

“Hello, Ms. Johnson, can you hear me?” George asked.

“Yes, yes, I can hear you. I’ve been waiting here for a while.”

“Hmmm, we had some technical difficulties with the connection, but, we’re, eh . . . we’re good to go now.”

“All right. I see you have Justin and Carrie there. How are you two holding up?”

“We’re fine,” Justin said.

“Everything’s good,” Carrie added with a nod.

“OK, now tell me what happened exactly? Your e-mail was quite short.” Johnson spread her hands.

“We were at the Castle conducting surveillance when we were ambushed.” Justin leaned over his folded hands with his elbows resting on the table.

“I know that much already,” Johnson said.

“Those are all the facts we have so far. I suspect the shooters were from the Alliance, since Cairo has always been their home.”

“The Alliance?” Johnson asked. “Why the ambush if their sheikh was meeting with us?” She frowned while pondering the answer.

“One possibility is that the ambush was the purpose of this so-called ‘meeting,’ to lure us into their trap,” Justin said.

He glanced at Carrie and his eyes caught a slight jerk of her left hand. He nodded for her to speak her mind.

“One theory is that Rahim sold us out and helped stage the attack,” Carrie said.

“Really? What evidence do you have for that?” Johnson asked.

Carrie shrugged. “None, it’s a theory.”

“I noticed a suspicious car parked by the Castle and asked Rahim to check it out,” Justin added. “Two of the shooters escaped using the same car.”

Johnson absorbed the information. “So Rahim never checked the car?”

“He sent his nephew, presumably.”

Johnson did not ask why Justin was not sure if Rahim’s nephew had searched the car.
She probably concluded he disappeared or died before I could talk to him,
Justin thought.

“Who is dead?” asked Johnson.

“Rahim, his nephew, and two shooters. I also wounded one of the passengers as the car sped away. She should die soon, if she’s not already dead.”

Johnson’s eyes remained still despite the coldness in Justin’s voice.

“I don’t get it,” Johnson said, “if Rahim, and maybe his nephew, sold us out, how come they’re both dead?”

“I didn’t kill them, if that’s what you’re asking.” Justin said. “They both got popped during the shootout. I can’t really tell whether if it was by error or on purpose.”

Johnson nodded and a few strands of her gray hair came loose. “I want you to find out the identities of these shooters and their motives,” she said softly, removing a pin from her hair and fixing her stubborn curls. “Then—”

A knock on her office door interrupted her.

“Yes, come in.” Johnson turned to her left.

A man’s voice could be heard, but he was outside the camera’s angle, and his words were unintelligible. But Justin could read Johnson’s facial expression. It went from shock to awe and then to doubt in a matter of seconds. Before he could ask anything, she said, “Justin, I’ve got to check something urgent here. I’ll put you on hold for a few seconds, OK?”

“That’s fine,” Justin said. He had no other option.

“Yes, we’ll be here waiting,” George added but Johnson tapped a key and the screen turned black.

“Did you see that?” Justin asked.

“No, what was it?” George said.