Brad Taylor - Enemy of Mine

I got both Knuckles and Brett moving ahead of the van on the other side of the creek on Sheikh Zayed Road, positioned to pick it up and allow Decoy to roll off.

I decided to cross the creek myself, staying far back from the pack, not wanting to accidentally run into Lucas. Acting as the surveillance controller with just a cell phone was proving to be a challenge, since I couldn’t hear what was going on with the team. I knew Knuckles, Decoy, and Brett were talking because they had Taskforce phones, but they wouldn’t call me unless it was necessary, so I had no situational awareness.

My phone buzzed, and I snatched it up, seeing it was Jennifer. I felt a prick of disappointment and a flood of relief at the same time.

When we’d gotten the grid to the drop zone, I’d decided to send Jennifer on the recovery mission. I didn’t want to send one of the clean guys, depleting my already small surveillance capability, since Lucas knew Jennifer on sight. I was a little worried about launching her out into the desert by herself, not because she was a woman, but because nobody should go out in such a harsh environment as a singleton. If she got stuck in the sand, or had any other issues, there wouldn’t be anyone to rescue her.

She’d seemed pretty confident, and I’d given her plenty of four-wheel-drive training last year. She was no slouch at vehicle recovery. I’d decided to let her go after she’d given a pretty thorough brief-back on her route in and out. She’d rented a Nissan 4?4 from one of the adventure travel services that dotted Dubai and headed out. Hearing her voice meant she was back in cell range and safe.

“No issues with the equipment. Got everything we asked for.”

“No issues with the drop?”

“Well…no, not really.”

I smiled. Something had happened. “What’s that mean?”

“The drop was off by about a thousand meters. Idiots never waited for me to initiate before tossing it out of the plane. No signals, no commo, nothing. Like they had someplace else more important to be.”

“And?”

“And I got stuck in the sand. Okay? I’m still sweating like a hog from digging out.”

I started to rib her just for fun when my phone buzzed from an incoming call. “Gotta go. Brett’s on the other line. Go take a shower. See you tonight.”

Brett said, “He was just dropped off at the Financial Centre metro station. I’m on him, Knuckles is off.”

“Okay. See if he’s meeting anyone on the train and give us a call when he gets off. We’ll parallel on Sheikh Zayed Road.”

I confirmed instructions to Decoy and Knuckles, trying to piece together what Lucas was doing. Why leave his vehicle on a major thoroughfare and take the metro? What’s he up to?

Brett called twenty minutes later. “He’s off at the Internet City stop. Talking on a cell phone. He did nothing but ride. I see his van approaching. Knuckles is coming to get me.”

What the hell?

“Stay on him. Something’s up.”

We lost him for about ten minutes, forced to conduct a lost-contact drill of trolling the neighborhood he had last been seen entering. The next call came from Decoy and did nothing but muddy the waters even more.

“I got him. He’s parked in a section of hardware stores, just sitting still. Like he was at the electronics store. Isn’t getting out.”

He gave his location, and I asked, “How long was he unsighted? Could he have gone inside?”

“I don’t know. I suppose he had time to get out and purchase something.”

It was Brett who broke the code on the strange activities. “I see him. Got him from the north. He’s looking through binos at a store entrance.”

He’s following someone else.

The Ghost exited the taxi outside a hardware store and slowly turned around, as if to get his bearings. In reality, he was looking for the white-panel van. He was now sure he had seen the same van at both the Burj Khalifa and the electronics store, and while it might have simply been a coincidence, he had decided to run a surveillance detection route to see if he could flush out anybody on him.

He’d entered the metro, hoping to see the white van disgorge a passenger, knowing if he was under surveillance that’s what would have to happen or risk losing him. The van didn’t appear, and he had ridden for a few stops before getting off again, spotting nothing suspicious. Nobody on the train paid him any undue attention. He’d attempted to memorize anyone getting off with him, but none had spiked or done anything that indicated they were interested in what he was doing.

He entered a rustic hardware store with a large front window. Perusing a shelf of tools, he maintained observation on the front door, waiting to see if anyone entered.

After five minutes, he began to believe he was imagining things. He dropped a hammer back on a shelf and proceeded toward the exit. Before he opened the door, he saw a car directly across the street, a long scratch in the paint on the passenger side. The damage held no interest to him, but the man in the passenger seat sure did.

The black man from the metro.

He stared hard through the window, trying to convince himself he was wrong, but the more he studied, the more he was sure the man had been in his metro car and had exited with him. Now he was in his own vehicle, driven by someone else.

Why take the metro for two or three stops if you have a car?

But the man hadn’t entered the metro with him. He’d come on at the next stop and hadn’t given him a second glance. And he wasn’t giving him or the store any attention now. He was looking down the street. If he were following me, why would he be so stupid as to park out front?

He decided to find out once and for all. And take the fight to them if it proved true. He had a small wad of explosives left, and one detonator. He’d thought about simply cramming it all on the final radar-array in the elevator shaft and was now glad he hadn’t.

He walked the aisles until he found a small spool of soft soldering wire, rated to melt at three hundred degrees. He continued and purchased a roll of electrical tape, a metal funnel, and a package of magnets. Moving to the checkout counter, he glanced again at the front door. He saw the vehicle was gone.

He exited the store and hailed a cab. He told the driver to head downtown, rapidly assessing a plan of action. He needed to separate the followers from their vehicles, which meant he would need to dismount in an area that contained at least some Westerners. He knew they wouldn’t risk raising attention by trying to penetrate a locals-only area.

He also needed the ability to wash himself. To lose the surveillance and let him execute his plan. He gave the driver directions to the Bastakia Quarter, an ancient Persian merchant center that was now a pseudo cafe/art area. It would have both tourists and locals and was big enough, with winding walkways between two-story buildings, that the surveillance would be forced to follow on foot. It also had limited parking areas. Few choices for them to leave their car, and few areas he would have to survey. Most important, it was anchored on the west end by a mosque. A place no Westerner would dare enter.

The cab dropped him off in one of the two parking areas, and he rapidly moved into the labyrinth of ancient buildings, weaving through swarms of tourists and locals alike. He saw an open double-wood door and entered, finding himself in a courtyard with men smoking water pipes and women drinking coffee. He ran to the east wall and peered out, seeing the parking lot and the roundabout that led to it. Within a minute, he saw the white-panel van coming through the roundabout. He had been right.