Brad Taylor - Enemy of Mine

“Are they any good?”

“Just as good as me. I trained them. And you trained me.”

I threw down the toothpick I was playing with.

“Well, that doesn’t give me any assurance. Today, you fucking ignored all of that training.”

He held his arms out and smiled. “Today there was no threat.”

Twenty-four hours later I was walking north along a tight little street in the port town of Sidon, about forty minutes south of Beirut. I carried an ancient laptop in a shoulder bag like an itinerant poet looking for the perfect setting to get in touch with my feelings.

The meeting was scheduled in thirty minutes, at eight P.M., and I was scoping the area before setting up in the chosen meet site, a large khan set next to the ocean. I reached the coast road and could see an ancient stone castle out in the water, at the end of a causeway, an old relic from the Crusades. Pretending to take in the view, I analyzed the daily rhythms of life. Nothing stood out. I knew that Jennifer, along with Samir’s little posse, was establishing surveillance positions around the cafe and would warn me if something looked dirty. I didn’t trust Samir’s crew, but I sure as shit trusted Jennifer.

I walked across the coast road, seeing my destination, a large cafe with both inside and outside seating. From Samir’s sources, the meeting would take place at the northeast corner, at the farthest table inside. I would set up early at the next table, happily typing away on my laptop, the hippie backpacker engrossed in the simple life of Sidon, sucking down espresso.

The laptop was actually nothing more than a camera housed in the shell of a computer. It had video capability both on the front and back of the screen, which meant I could set up facing the table or with my back to the meeting.

Samir had gotten the camera from his contacts and shown me how to use it, proud of his ability to get such equipment and eager to prove his contacts wanted to help. I’d stressed to him that after this was all said and done, I was the one walking away with the intel. He could take the computer/camera back to Hezbollah, but not before I had a complete copy of what was on it. Giving Hezbollah the chance to do the dirty work was fine, but if they failed to take action, I wanted the Taskforce to be able to protect American lives. He’d said Hezbollah would have no issue with that-like they were a bunch of schoolmarms simply out to help the illiteracy rate instead of a pack of bloodthirsty, backstabbing murderers.

All in all, the camera itself was pretty simple. A couple of keystrokes to boot up the software, then a couple more to start the recording. The hardest part was aiming the lens, since I wouldn’t have the luxury of seeing what I was taping at crunch time. After about an hour of practice, I was pretty good at it. The worst thing about the system wasn’t the skill required. It was the weight. The damn laptop felt like I was hiking around with an anchor on my shoulder. Hezbollah might be a powerhouse here, but they were still third-world when it came to covert equipment.

I set up in the cafe, taking note of the patrons around me. Some of them, without a doubt, were security for the meeting. It didn’t require any special skill to pick them out. Twentysomething tough guys at every corner, holding drinks they didn’t touch and glaring around. No training whatsoever.

I, on the other hand, looked like a sissy-boy. Fake glasses in place, Birkenstocks, and a hippy shirt with long sleeves. They sized me up and ignored me in the same glance.

The cafe itself contrasted starkly with the cinder-block houses and businesses jammed together just across the coast road. It was elegant and clearly old, with vaulted ceilings, wood moldings, and pillars scattered throughout the room. It reminded me of a Disney set for Aladdin . It wasn’t particularly crowded, but had enough people to keep the waiter busy. One man, at the opposite corner, caught my eye. Seated by himself, he was doing nothing overtly suspicious, and I wondered why I had keyed on him. Frail and skinny, he looked more like a pussy than I did, but I had learned to trust my instincts, and for some reason, he had pinged.

I surreptitiously watched him for thirty seconds, then went back to the room. He had done nothing but sip his coffee, showing no interest to anything going on. Certainly not at my end of the cafe.

Getting paranoid.

I had decided to put the meeting table to my back and use the camera on the screen side of the computer. Samir’s intel said the meeting would last no more than five minutes, and it would make me look less conspicuous. The position also afforded me the ability to watch the entrance without turning around every few minutes. I’d let them get seated, then hit record, leaving the computer running while I went to the men’s room.

Five minutes before hit-time I got movement around me. More men came inside, taking the tables to the left and right. Hard-looking guys, who spent all their time peering out from the table instead of focusing in and talking to one another.

The hit-time came, and a couple of older men entered and took a seat at the target table. They ordered something to drink and waited. My pulse started to pick up.

Here we go.

So far, I appeared to be good, with nobody paying me a second glance. Two minutes after hit-time, a large Arabic man came through the entrance, oozing outward machismo. The only thing stopping the effect was the set of coke-bottle glasses he wore. They made him look ridiculous, like a demented Mr. Magoo. He swaggered in and settled his eyes on the target table.

That’s him. All bluster and bad attitude.

My heart rate began to hum, but I showed no outward sign. I stroked the keys, waiting on the last one, and focused on my screen, running through the mission in my head. I began to second-guess my camera angle, my distance, and everything else. We would only get one shot, and if I screwed this up there’d be nobody to blame but myself.

The man settled himself directly to my back, facing away from me, which sort of sucked because I wouldn’t get a facial recognition shot of him, but I knew the embedded microphones would pick up the conversation.

They did the usual Arabic greeting, and I hit the final key, standing up quickly to avoid spoiling the view. I slowly walked toward the restrooms, pretending I didn’t know where they were. I flagged a waiter and asked. Given directions, I made my way at a leisurely pace. I entered the bathroom and looked around, dismayed to see there wasn’t a stall I could hide behind for a time.

I was pondering how I could kill five minutes when an explosion rocked the place, sending plaster from the ceiling.

What the hell?

I raced back to the main room and saw my little corner table was on fire, with torn bodies from the meeting lying all over the place. The explosion had been small, but forcefully directed against the target table. Coming from my table, where the computer had been vaporized. Coming from a screen I should have been facing. The rage came instantly.

Those fuckers…

That’s why the damn computer weighed so much. It hadn’t been old-school technology. It had been ball-bearings and explosives. And Samir, my friend , had given it to me.

I had time later to sort it out. What I needed to do first was get out of the area before anyone remembered I was the one at that table.

I fled outside and saw I was too late. Seven of the toughs providing security earlier closed on me before I could react. Two grabbed me, and one swung a club at my head.

Sitting on a park bench down the street, Jennifer heard the explosion and stood up, trying to vector the specific location. When she saw smoke rush from the target cafe, she took off at a sprint.