Tripoli's Target (Justin Hall # 2) (4 page)

Carrie nodded at Justin’s question. “The news they just gave Johnson,” she explained for George. “From the look on her face, it can’t be good.”

“Well, now she’s gonna take forever to analyze it, so I’m out of here.” Justin stood up and pushed back his chair. “If it’s going to be a long night, I need some coffee.”

George raised his hands. “Wait, what if she comes back on the line while you’re gone?”

Justin shrugged. “You’re the boss. Tell her I had to step out for a minute. But I’ll be back before she does.”

“Wait up,” Carrie said, “I’ll get some tea.”

George sighed. “OK, let’s all take a five minute break.”

* * *

“Hi, boss.” Justin pushed the door with his elbow, since he was carrying a coffee cup in each hand. “She’s still not back?” His question pointed out the obvious as the plasma screen showed no image.

George replied with a headshake.

“This is yours. Black.” Justin placed one of the cups next to George’s laptop before returning to his seat.

“Oh, thanks.” George lifted the cup and took a large sip.

“Hey,” Carrie said as she entered in with a teacup in her hands. “How much longer you think?”

George opened his mouth to venture a guess, but the image of Johnson returned to the screen. Her face looked paler and her eyes had sunk deeper into their sockets. “Hello, can you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, we hear you,” George said.

“I’m afraid I have bad news. There has been a series of explosions, car bombs in Tripoli, Libya, about twenty minutes ago.”

“What?” Justin and Carrie asked almost at the same time and exchanged confused glances.

“Yes. The information we’re receiving is still unconfirmed, but it seems four cars exploded close to major hotels in downtown Tripoli.”

“Casualty count?” asked Carrie.

“In the tens, I guess. We don’t have much intel yet, but we’re trying to—”

Justin slammed his fist on the table. He startled not only Carrie and George, but also Johnson, who stopped talking. “That’s why the sheikh left in such a hurry, to escape the Libyan mukhabarat.”

The Libyan mukhabarat was as notorious as its Egyptian counterpart for its powerful revenge, which extended well beyond Libya’s national borders. The looming backlash was more than a match for the Alliance and its leaders.

“Very good, Justin,” Johnson said with a nod. “It is exactly so, confirmed by the sheikh himself. We just received word from him.”

George let out a gasp, while Justin shook his head. Carrie kept her poker face on as she jotted down notes in her notebook.

“The sheikh denied the Tripoli bombing was the work of the Islamic Fighting Alliance,” Johnson said.

“Really?” Justin asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Did he also deny his men ambushed us tonight?”

“No, he took full responsibility for that attack. However, the intended targets were, let me find it . . .” Johnson shuffled papers on her desk and found her glasses. She began to read from one of the many documents covering her workspace. “Yes, the targets were ‘despicable collaborators of the infidels.’ I’m assuming that was Rahim and his nephew.”

“Very convenient,” Carrie said.

Johnson slid her glasses to the tip of her nose. “These words came through the sheikh’s messenger. It doesn’t mean I believe them. In any case, the sheikh still wants a meeting.”

“No freaking way,” George mumbled just loud enough for Justin and Carrie to hear him.

“This time he’s offering the guarantee of his personal honor to protect his guests,” Johnson continued.

“When and where?” Justin’s eyes flared up.

“He insists the information about the assassination plot is time-sensitive, and he would like to meet tomorrow morning, in Sudan.”

Justin frowned. “Sudan?”

“I’m assuming it’s because of Tripoli,” Johnson replied.

Justin bit his lip. Sheikh Ayman was luring them into the deadly no man’s land. Sudan’s deserts had been the breeding ground of rebellion, civil wars, kidnappings, human trafficking, and all kinds of smuggling for decades. Refusing the sheikh’s invitation, especially after the ambush, would make the CIS appear weak. Justin had spent a long time building his own reputation, and that of the CIS, as brave and fearless. They were not going to start backing down now. He had been to Sudan three times. And had come back unharmed.

He looked to his left at a tense Carrie. Her hand was pulling on the handle of her teacup as if it were a gun trigger.
Let’s do it,
her blazing eyes told him.

“Do you have the meeting coordinates?” Justin asked.

“Yes. I’ll get them to you.”

“Excuse my interruption,” George said. His voice came out dry and staccato. He coughed then resumed his thought, “but sending a team to Sudan is the same as suicide.”

A wrinkle the size of the Grand Canyon appeared on Johnson’s forehead. She lifted her glasses and peered at George.

“George, let me tell you something.” Johnson’s frown melted and her voice turned soft, taking on a motherly tone. “Cairo is deadly. Sudan is deadly. All of North Africa is a death trap. The whole world is a dangerous place, George, especially for secret agents.” Johnson sighed. Her left hand jerked in a dismissive gesture. “I appreciate your concern, though.” Her voice returned to her normal tone. “Your objection to this mission is duly noted. And overruled.” Johnson’s past as a judge often returned in the form of legal jargon whenever she whipped her subordinates like she used to lash at contemptuous counselors in her courtroom.

“Justin and Carrie,” she continued, “our contacts in the Egyptian Air Force should be able to provide you a safe passage across the border and a safe insertion into Sudan. I’ll get in touch with them.”

Justin nodded.

“The sheikh’s message indicates the drop-off area is about sixty miles south of the Egyptian border. We need to find a neutral intermediary escort to take you to the meeting place.”

Justin pondered the possibilities. The escort would have to be a local warlord with great authority in the area. But his authority could not be too strong, or the sheikh might consider it a threat to his own safety.

Justin nodded. “I know a few people, gunrunners in the area. The name of Ali Abd Alraheem comes to mind. If he’s still alive.”

“I don’t recall him.” Johnson rubbed her temples.

“I last worked with him three years ago.”

“OK, see if he can serve as the go-between and let me know. The sheikh expects an answer in the next hour.”

“He will get one.”

“How do we know we can trust this man, Ali?” George asked.

Justin said, “We don’t know and we can’t trust. Unless a man has taken a bullet for you, never put your trust in them. You’ll be disappointed and you could end up dead. I have worked with Ali but we’re still going down there with eyes wide open.”

A moment later, a stern frown covered his face.

“What is it, Justin?” Johnson asked.

“The change of plans and this detour.”

“Take care of this matter and then you’re off to your sailboat,” Johnson said, faking a smile.

“Yeah, my deposit is nonrefundable,” Justin replied with a grin.

He could not care less about the three-thousand dollar deposit for the forty-two-foot cutter. Justin was worried about disappointing Anna, his fiancée, whom he had promised a ten-day sail in the Caribbean on the eve of her thirtieth birthday. Anna used to work for CIS Legal Services in Ottawa, and their bond was forged during the eventful Arctic Wargame operation. To avoid any conflicts of interest, Anna had moved on to become an in-house counsel for the Canadian bivision of Vigorsoul Pharmaceuticals. Two weeks away from her desk almost never happened.

“If you’re quick, you can wrap this up by tomorrow at noon,” Johnson said.

“I’m planning to,” Justin said.

“When’s your flight out of Cairo?”

“6:00 p.m.”

“Yeah, you can make it.”

Justin nodded. “Anything else?”

“No, I don’t think so. Let me know when you’ve heard from Ali, or if not from him, your other contacts on the ground.”

“By all means,” Justin replied.

“Perfect.”

Johnson turned off the satellite feed and the screen went black.

George signed them out of the connection with a big sigh. “What was that? You have a death wish?”

“Relax, George,” Carrie said. “Nobody’s going to die. Well, at least we’re not.”

“You’re crazy, going all alone into the lion’s den.”

“Listen, the sheikh could have killed us today, if that’s what he wanted,” Justin said calmly. “I don’t think we’ll be of much use to him dead. He wants to talk. We want to listen.”

“We’ll fly down there and learn about this assassination plot,” Carrie said.

George threw his arms up in the air. “Do as you wish,” he said. Then he added with a sigh, “The two of you always do.”

Justin stood up. “Thanks, boss. We’ll bring back the intel. Now I’ve got to get in touch with Ali and finish making preps. Carrie, we’ll leave ASAP.”

“I’m ready,” she said and gulped down the rest of her tea. She placed down the cup on the table. “I’m ready.”

Chapter Three

Cairo, Egypt

May 13, 9:00 p.m. local time

Justin began to lose track of time as the hot shower splashed over his head and shoulders. He leaned against the white ceramic tiles, his fingers combing aimlessly through his wet hair. His scalp was smooth and soft, but he noticed some gray hairs stuck to his fingernails when he rinsed his hands. The water took them away and his eyes followed their swirl in the shower drain. A single hair became stuck to his left toe and it resisted the stream for a brief second. More water trickled down from his chest and the stubborn hair disappeared into the drainpipe.

Justin could not help but wonder about his swimming against the tide of death. He did not think much about dying, for death was an almost daily occurrence in his life. Few days went by without Justin shooting at or being shot at by someone. So far he had been wise and, in part, lucky. Flesh wounds, broken bones, stitches, but nothing he had not overcome. Despite that, his mind still raced at the moment when the current of violence facing him would grow strong, stronger than him, and it would drag him down the drain. Like the hair strand that had gone and could be seen no more.

“It hasn’t happened in the last eleven years. It didn’t happen today and it’s not going to happen tomorrow either,” Justin cried in a loud voice and slammed a clenched fist against the shower wall.

Speckles of grout burst out of the tile edges. Justin used his foot to push them toward the drain. He blinked to clear the last drops of water from his eyes and stepped out of the shower.

Fifteen minutes later, dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt and navy blue pants, Justin waited for Carrie in the hall of their apartment building, a short walk away from the Canadian Embassy. Both agents rented two-bedroom apartments paid for by the Service. At one time, Justin used to live in a small house, northeast of the Garden City, by the American University. But that was seven years ago when he first arrived in Cairo. At that time, field missions took him away once or twice a month. Now, he could not remember the last time he spent a full week in the city.

“Hey, you look sharp,” Carrie said as she stepped out of the elevator.

“You, on the other hand, you look gorgeous.”

Carrie’s V-neck black dress flowed down to her knees. A gray cardigan added a casual touch to her look. Her shoes were the essential pumps, with a rounded toe and four-inch stiletto heels. She had applied very little makeup, just a light shadow of mascara and pink lip gloss. Her hair was pulled back and arranged in a small ponytail. A black leather purse hung loose around her left shoulder.

“A bit of overkill, you think?” Carrie pointed to her dress, noticing Justin’s gaze moving up and down her body.

Justin hesitated for a second then nodded.

Carrie shrugged. “I thought so. Oh, well. How often do I get to wear a dress and heels in his job?”

“Not very often, but this is a simple dinner.”

“If you knew how to cook, you’d know there’s nothing simple when preparing a delicious meal.”

Justin grinned. He remembered Carrie taking pride in cooking suppers when they were still dating. They had soon discovered they were better off being good friends. Once in a while, Carrie came over to his apartment and cooked supper for the two of them. Some of the best steaks he had ever enjoyed were grilled by her hands.

“I meant—”

She waved a hand. “I know what you meant. We’ll go and enjoy our meal. Let’s just hope nobody is planning to interrupt us like the last time.”

“You never know.” Justin swung open the doors for Carrie. “New York is two blocks away and that place has more Westerners than locals. Still, one crazy bastard wearing explosives can blow everything to pieces.”

They walked out in the warm evening toward New York, an Italian restaurant around the corner. The narrow alley, cordoned off to vehicle traffic, was well-lit, with lampposts at every ten steps. The sidewalk was in a decent shape and a few security guards patrolled the area, offering a visible safety presence. But a dog yelp, followed by a short burst of gunfire, reminded them of the ever-present danger.

“Jim doesn’t like it when you come in packing heat,” Carrie said, pointing to Justin’s right thigh.

The pistol in his waistband holster was not visible, but she knew it was there. And so did Jim, the restaurant’s head of security. Three months ago, a brawl among a group of drunken Russian military contractors had ended in a free-for-all shootout. Justin had sent four Russians to the hospital, and New York’s renovation bill had been over fifty thousand dollars.

“And I don’t like it when they burn my steak.” Justin nodded at two guards stationed in front of the Belgium Embassy. “Don’t tell me you didn’t bring yours.”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” She glanced at her purse. “But Jim doesn’t seem to mind it.”

Jim—the man Justin had nicknamed “Rhino,” not only because of his body size, but also for his unexpected charge toward targets—was off duty this evening. Much to the delight of both agents, Wilson, Jim’s underling, threw them a disinterested gaze when they came in. They had no reservations, but it was a slow night at New York. The hostess escorted them to their table, next to a window overlooking the eastern shore of the Nile. They were the only people sitting in the dimly lit, non-smoking section of the restaurant.