Brothers In Arms (27 page)

Youssef pushed his coffee cup away. “Shall we walk? I feel like moving.”

“Sure,” Britta said. “Let’s go.”

They rambled in the narrow streets. Britta tucked her hands into Youssef’s arm. He stiffened at first, then relaxed. He followed the slight tugs and urgings from Britta as they walked in silence and let her guide him. He felt as though he were afloat in a sea of people and Britta was his life jacket. Each time she nudged his arm, he clamped down for a moment, as though to hold her hands to him even more tightly. Finally, they came to a residential district. There were fewer pedestrians in this neighborhood.

“This is where I live,” Britta said. “Would you like to come up?”

“Yes,” Youssef said. “Very much.”

She led him up the stairs to a tiny studio apartment dominated by a huge window that looked out on the street below.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” she said. “I feel as though I can let the whole world in through that window, and I can close it anytime I want to. I can bring the world in or I can shut it out.”

Youssef stood before the window and looked out. The view was mostly of the building across the street, but he could see across
the rooftops as well, and there was a slice of canal to the left. There was a perfect view of the sidewalks below and a small café on the corner.

“It’s very nice,” Youssef said.

“I know you don’t drink,” Britta said. “Would you like tea, or some fruit juice?”

“I’d like fruit juice, please.”

She brought him a glass of apple juice which he drank thirstily. She took the glass from his hand and set it down, then turned to him. For the first time that night, she seemed hesitant. Youssef sensed that and turned to her. He put the courier bag with its deadly baggage down on the floor beneath a small table, and took her in his arms.

In the street below, Isabelle stood and watched till the lights went out, then turned away and made her way home.

Dale stalked back and forth in the crowded operations room. The equipment operators gave him plenty of room, and Hans and Charley, both seated in folding chairs, exchanged worried looks.

“How did they lose him?” Dale demanded of Hans.

“We only had three people on him,” Hans said defensively. “You should know how easy it is to lose track of someone in a crowd. He was running good CSR through the district. It was too much for the three of them. They lost sight of him and tried to reacquire, but couldn’t find him.”

“It happens with the best of crews, Dale,” Charley said.

“What about bin Faisal?” Dale said.

“He’s at his hotel and preparing to check out. He’s got a flight back to Damascus midday,” Hans said.

“Do we have that covered?” Dale said.

“Yes,” Hans said. “We’ve got a crew ready to go, and we’re setting up a reception team in Damascus.”

“If it’s any consolation, Dale,” Charley said, “it’s bin Faisal we want . . . the kid was just a cutout, a courier. We’ve got him in the system now. Bin Faisal is the mover and shaker and we’ve got him going home now. Don’t worry about it.”

“The ‘kid’ was high up enough to be privy to details of a sensitive operation,” Dale countered.

“There’s nothing more to be done,” Charley said. “He’s in the system now and that’s it.”

“Bin Faisal is in the lobby of his hotel,” one of the equipment operators said. “He’s going to the travel-agency counter.”

“What’s he doing?” Dale said.

“Give us a minute,” Hans said irritably. “You want miracles and instant results.”

Dale held one hand up, palm out. “I know you’re doing the best you can, Hans. It’s just . . . you know how important this is.”

They all listened to the terse comments on the radio as the surveillance crew staked out in bin Faisal’s hotel moved in.

“He’s changing his ticket,” the radio squawked. “He’s changed his departure from today for Damascus to tomorrow for Athens. First-class ticket, oh-nine-hundred departure, KLM airlines.”

“Athens?” Charley said. “I’ve got good connects in Athens.”

“Why would he be going to Athens instead of heading home?” Dale said.

Hans shrugged. “Athens is a hotbed for Al-Bashir. They use it as a transit point and for staging operatives during long operations. They have many safe houses there, and they have a working alliance with the November Seventeenth organization.”

“November Seventeenth?” Dale said. “They’re bad news.”

“For Americans, yes,” Hans said.

The November Seventeenth terrorist organization was one of the most bloody-handed and efficient terrorist groups operating. They had assassinated the DEA attaché at the US embassy as well as the CIA station chief. They were believed to be a small and tightly disciplined organization focused on anti-American interests in Greece. They were known for their signature assassination technique, a walk-up shooting with a .45 automatic pistol. Recently, with the help of Al-Bashir, they had ventured into car bombings, being scrupulous about striking only American targets like the embassy, and an American Express office. They were careful not to injure
Greeks, only American businessmen and government officials.

“He could be meeting with them,” Dale said. “What did you do there?”

Charley said, “I worked there with Special Activities, we ran a special operating group against November Seventeenth.”

“Did you get anywhere?”

“Nope. There’s no penetrating November Seventeenth. Tighter than turtle pussy, and that’s waterproof. They’re small and tight and—everybody believes—highly connected politically.”

“We’ll need to talk to Callan, see about getting some help on that end,” Dale said.

“I’ve got it covered,” Hans said. “We’ve worked many times in Athens. I can send a team today, to prepare for bin Faisal. Are you going to want to go, too?”

“Yes,” Dale said, looking at Charley, who nodded his assent. “We’ll be there, too.”

Hans dispatched a special operating group to Athens. They would prepare a reception for bin Faisal at the airport: a few operators in the crowd outside customs waiting to spot him when he came out, and another team with vehicles waiting outside. The Amsterdam surveillance team on bin Faisal worked like smooth clockwork following him: they watched an expensive prostitute visit his hotel room and determined that he enjoyed oral sex, and that he had surprising stamina for a man of his age. The prostitute left at a little before ten that evening, and he ordered in room service, a small steak and a large salad and a bottle of chilled mineral water. Then he packed and went to bed.

In the morning he had a leisurely breakfast at the hotel restaurant downstairs, then took his garment bag and carry-on bag to the front, and took a taxi to Schiopol airport. Bin Faisal was relaxed, and practicing only minimal countersurveillance; he took a cab directly from the stand in front of the hotel after a slow check of the lobby. Hans and his people stood off, leaving only one man in the lobby.
The rest of the team covered all exits from the hotel with a vehicle crew standing off ready to follow the target vehicle. There were already operators out at the airport, ready to receive the surveillance subject when he showed up.

Charley and Dale sat in the backseat of a taxi parked on the street in front of the hotel. The driver was one of Hans’s people.

“I’m glad Hans will be with us in Athens,” Charley said. “This guy is golden.”

“He knows his job,” Dale said. “I wish he hadn’t lost the other guy, though.”

“They’re still looking for him,” Charley said. “And we got his image in the system, that’s what counts.”

“I’d feel better if we had him buttoned up someplace.”

“He’s probably already out of here and headed back home, wherever that might be.”

“That’s one of the questions we didn’t get answered.”

“Leave it alone, Dale. There’s nothing to be done about it now that Hans and his people aren’t already doing.”

The driver looked at the two of them in the rearview mirror, then looked back at the front of the hotel.

“The subject is moving,” he said. “He’s in a cab and pulling out.”

Their car followed at a safe distance the cab carrying bin Faisal. Two other surveillance vehicles rotated the eye between them, while another car paced ahead of the cab on the direct route to the airport. At the airport, bin Faisal got out, and the vehicle teams pulled off, one of them dropping an extra man to shadow bin Faisal into the airport and into the box prepared by the waiting operating group, who were positioned along the main entrance to the airport terminal building. They shadowed bin Faisal to the KLM counter, where he checked in, leaving his bags, and then went to the first-class lounge to wait for his flight.

Dale and Charley checked in. Both were traveling business—class, leaving Hans’s people to insert one of their operators into first-class to be a close eye on bin Faisal.

“You want to go into the lounge?” Dale said.

“Not a good idea,” Charley said. “Americans stick out, and he might remember you. This is a stalk, not a pounce.”

“I want to see this guy’s face,” Dale said.

“Hey, your call,” Charley said, irritated. “I don’t think you should be exposed to him yet . . . we’ve got a good stretch of time ahead of us, and you can look at him on the plane. Don’t give him a reason to remember you.”

“I’ll meet you at the gate,” Dale said. “I’m going in to have a firsthand look at Mr. bin Faisal.”

“Whatever,” Charley said. He turned away, angry, and stalked off, leaving Dale watching him go. Dale went to the first-class lounge and showed his ticket to the woman at the front counter.

“Go right in, sir,” she said courteously. “The departure times are listed on the monitor, and if you like, I’ll call you for your flight.”

“That’s all right,” Dale said. “The monitor’s fine for me.”

He went into the lounge. He looked the part of a business traveler. He was dressed in khaki trousers, a blue oxford shirt with no tie under a blue blazer matched with cordovan loafers. No one looked up when he came in. Bin Faisal was seated in a corner armchair in the lounge, reading the
International Herald Tribune
. Dale took a
Newsweek
magazine from the stand that held reading materials and took a chair where he could see bin Faisal in his peripheral vision. The Saudi was engrossed in his paper, and sipped from a steaming cup of tea on the end table beside him. Dale flipped through the news magazine without really reading, then went and got himself a sparkling water from the sideboard where the refreshments were laid. He went back to his seat and began to read the cover story, a lengthy piece about the new face of terrorism.

The Saudi was a handsome man, his face folded and soft at the edges with fine living. He was dressed in an immaculate business suit as though he were going to a business meeting. His cuffs were secured with expensive diamond links, and there was a motif of a repeated monogram on his silk tie. Dale wondered about his background. He knew what the databases had on him: the Saudi was the
son of a wealthy family, who had spent much of his adult life without the inconvenience of a job thanks to his family money. That gave him the opportunity to delve into anti-American politics, always an undercurrent in the subtleties of Saudi Arabian government. His financial expertise was garnered from the finest business schools and his deft handling of his family’s wealth had made him an ideal target for the Al-Bashir recruiters.