Brad Taylor - Enemy of Mine

I turned the computer over to Knuckles and followed him out to the den.

“What’s going on? You look spooked.”

“My niece has been taken by Hezbollah. They want to talk to me about the deaths of their leadership. They suspect I had something to do with it. I told them no, and now they’ve captured her as leverage.”

Holy shit. I could see why he looked like he was going to puke. If he went into Hezbollah-land, he wouldn’t be coming back out. At least not in whole pieces. But he couldn’t leave his niece to the same fate. Even so, it had nothing to do with me. He had his entire clan to help him out.

“I’m sorry to hear that. We’ll be leaving soon. We can go right now if you need your house for a war council.”

“That’s not why I’m telling you. I’m not going to my people. They’ll go berserk. Probably just capture some other Hezbollah in reprisal. They don’t have the skill to help, and this could turn into a shooting war very easily.”

I said nothing, his words sinking in. He wants me to help.

I held up my hands. “Samir, I can’t do anything over here. I don’t-”

“I need surgical skill. I need to get her back without unnecessary bloodshed. Your skill. This has all happened because I helped you. Please. I will turn myself in and convince them I had nothing to do with the killings, but I want you to get her back.”

Kurt’s last command was still echoing in my head. “Samir, I really have no authority to do what you’re asking. I can’t risk my men and possibly start another Lebanese civil war. I’m sorry.”

“She’s nineteen, Pike. A university student. She knows nothing of war.”

Jennifer had entered the room and had heard the last part of the conversation. She was staring at me, waiting to hear what I would say.

Inching toward the desk in the Dubai immigration line, every step forward built a sense of dread within the Ghost. He had had no trouble leaving Yemen, including obtaining the necessary items for his mission, but then again, not many have particular trouble leaving a country. It’s getting in that’s tricky. Now, he was about to find out if his forged Dubai visa, coupled with his Jordanian passport, would withstand scrutiny.

He glanced again at the picture within the passport, mentally comparing it to his own visage. It should be close enough . They were both clean-shaven, and he’d purchased attire that was suitable for someone from Jordan. He closed the passport and studied the immigration desk, the people drawn toward it as if they were being sucked up by a slow vacuum.

Watching two more travelers go through the routine, he noticed each stiffen during the interview, rigidly facing the official behind the counter. He wondered what they were doing. He watched the next man, and it hit him: They were taking a digital photo and conducting a retinal scan. Of every person in line.

He ripped open the passport again, trying to find if it had some means of digital storage. All he saw was a bar code. Surely the Jordanian’s retinal scan wasn’t in that, was it? The Hashemite Kingdom didn’t include biometrics in their passports, did they? If so, he was doomed, because the scan of his eye wouldn’t match the scan in the passport.

He looked to the rear, contemplating moving back into the terminal and claiming he had gone the wrong way. That he had a connecting flight. But he had no connecting flight. No boarding pass to present. The glaring lack of documents would invite scrutiny. Questions he couldn’t answer.

While moving inexorably forward, he studied the immigration officials’ actions and relaxed a little. It didn’t appear as if they were comparing anything. Simply collating data, like what had happened to him yesterday with the Yemeni police.

The thought brought a bolt of adrenaline, causing his face to flush and sweat to pop on his neck. Did the Yemenis share such data? Was there a database on the Arabian Peninsula that was fed by such sweeps? It wouldn’t matter that he had no reason to be suspected of anything. The scan in Yemen was for a Saudi citizen, not the Jordanian passport he held in his hand. The difference alone would get him arrested. Then, when they gave his bags a much more thorough search than normal, they would find the explosives.

He looked up again and saw there was only one more person ahead of him. Too late to run now. He felt queasy, like he’d eaten something rotten. He should have done more research on Dubai immigration. He had thought using the Jordanian passport was the perfect break from all that Hezbollah knew, especially now that they were hunting him out of misplaced vengeance, but he wished he had stuck with the original forged passport.

The traveler behind him gently tapped his shoulder, causing him to flinch. The man pointed, and he realized he was being waved forward. He walked woodenly to the counter and presented his passport.

The official saw the visa for Dubai, then the missing national identification number.

“You are from Jordan?”

“Yes. Well, the West Bank, but the passport and visa are from Jordan.”

“What is the purpose of your stay?”

“I’m visiting a friend. I hope to find employment in Dubai.”

“Who is your friend?”

He read off the name and address of a man living in the old section of Deira, near the banks of the Dubai Creek. At least this much was backstopped. The man was real, a friend, and knew he was coming. After Yemen, the Ghost would rely only on those he knew he could trust. Knew the purpose of his cause.

“What does your friend do?”

The Ghost felt a trickle of sweat track down his cheek. He wanted to wipe it away, to hide the traitorous reaction of his body, but realized the motion would only draw attention to his nervousness.

“He’s a maintenance worker at the Al Bustan Rotana Hotel. He said I might join him there. They have openings.”

This part was not true. The friend did work at the Rotana Hotel, but the Ghost had no idea about their employment status. All he cared about was the fact that the man’s job would allow him to penetrate hotel security for his mission.

The official pointed to a lens on a stalk behind his chair and said, “Look here until I tell you to stop.”

The Ghost did so, giving a silent prayer.

The man glanced at the screen, apparently satisfied. He stamped the passport and handed it back, already waving the next man forward.

The Ghost snatched up his passport and willed himself to walk casually to the baggage claim area, and his next challenge-getting through customs.

He found his first suitcase already circling on the baggage carousel. Two bags behind it was the large computer box, swathed in cellophane for the journey. It looked no different than a half dozen other boxes on the carousel, but contained the explosives and detonators he’d acquired in Yemen.

He placed both on a luggage cart and passed through the door marked “Nothing to Declare.” He was directed to an X-ray machine, along with four other men, all competing to get out of customs.

He waited for his luggage to be spit out on the far side, surreptitiously watching the official tasked with reviewing the screen. The man barely looked at anything coming through, and in short order, the Ghost was free, feeling the bracing heat of the Dubai afternoon.

He took three deep breaths, glancing left and right to see if anyone had followed, still not believing he had made it into the country. He heard someone shout, “ Ash’abah! ” and turned to see his friend pull up in a rusty, belching sedan.

“Hamid. It’s good to see you.”

Hamid exited and helped with his bags, then said, “Where to first?”