Brad Taylor - Enemy of Mine

An hour later, he was above ten thousand feet and allowed to use his computer, the two “State Department” personnel directly behind him, the unknown across the aisle and one row up.

He connected to the in-flight Internet and dialed the ISP of the device, holding his breath. He’d checked it at the Internet cafe, and it had worked, giving him a shot of confidence that his hotel contact had emplaced the device correctly, but now was the moment of truth. If he couldn’t input the data, the IED might as well really be a flower vase.

The reader went through a self-test, connected to the Internet, then the ISP. He hit send and waited while the two readers talked. He saw the bar for the upload moving agonizingly slow, like an anchor pulled from the mud. He was about to reload, convinced the system had locked up, when it whipped to the end in the span of ten seconds. The data was gone.

He relaxed for the first time in days. It was out of his hands now. In six hours, the two men with the diplomatic pouch would either be vaporized, or he’d be flying to the Far East empty-handed, looking for a job.

Our aircraft pulled into the VIP terminal of Al Udeid Air Base, an hour southwest of Doha, and I wondered who would greet us. The entire coordination had been hastily done, and chances were high that someone on the tarmac was expecting a three-star general to march out and start handing out challenge coins. The only good thing about it was we were two hours ahead of Lucas. Just enough time to get set.

I’d given Brett and Decoy their marching orders to board Lucas’s plane, getting them out the door, then had Knuckles and Jennifer pack up while we waited on Kurt. He’d eventually called and said he had a C-21 aircraft at Ramstein Air Base an hour away from us. The C-21 was the military version of the Learjet 35 business jet and was used to transport dignitaries and generals around the world. This one was hauling a three-star around when it had broken down. It was in maintenance and due to continue its journey today. Somehow, Kurt had managed to cloak that it was ready to fly, with the general thinking he had another day of TDY in Germany. In the meantime, we’d stolen the plane. It was a one-way trip, with the general getting his bird back tomorrow morning none the wiser.

Now was the tricky part: getting out of this aircraft and off a U.S. Air Force base in a foreign country without anyone remembering who we were. Which would be tough considering we didn’t have any vehicles, and this base was treated as if it was in a war zone.

I looked out the window and saw two men in civilian safari clothes. The kind CIA office clerks wore whenever they went overseas. Zip-off cargo pants and multipocketed shirts. It was a good sign, especially since I didn’t see anyone in uniform.

The stairs lowered, and I went out first. A man walked up, and I prepared to roll with whatever came out of his mouth. A skill perfected over years of lying about who I was or what I was doing.

He stuck his hand out and said, “Channing Gray. I understand you’re here in support of security for State and need a vehicle.”

Wow. This is going to be easy.

I shook his hand and said, “Pike Logan, and yes. We’re behind schedule, so whatever you could do to expedite would be appreciated.”

He pointed at a white SUV and said, “That’s yours. I just need the fund cite to release it. My boss isn’t willing to pay, so it’s going on State’s bill.”

Dammit. It’s all taxpayer money . I faked a number, adding in an occasional letter, and praying he knew less about fund cites than I did. He studied the number, and I began coming up with excuses as to why it didn’t look right. A second later, he handed me the keys saying, “Inspect it for damage before you go. If it’s not noted, we’ll charge the fund cite when you return.”

I nodded my head, then completely ignored the request. We loaded up the SUV and headed out, seeing the massive search of inbound vehicles at the entrance gate, but we were free to go as a vehicle leaving.

As soon as the wheels hit the ground, Lucas turned on his new cell phone and dialed the porter. If he wanted the remainder of his money, he’d be waiting outside. The phone began ringing, and he noticed the unknown two rows up dialing as well. That, in itself, wasn’t suspicious, but Lucas really wished he could hear what the man was saying.

He hadn’t shown Lucas any interest whatsoever on the entire six-hour flight, making him feel a little bit better about his paranoia, but Lucas had lived a long, long time precisely because he assumed everybody was out to get him, and he wasn’t about to relax now.

The plane reached its designated parking area, and everyone stood up to retrieve their carry-ons. Lucas ignored the men behind him, knowing they would all be in the same bus in a matter of minutes. Better not to show any interest whatsoever.

They reached immigration and, as first class passengers, were all shuffled into the diplomatic line, with the two CIA men let through before anyone else. Lucas didn’t mind that, since they still had to retrieve their luggage from baggage claim. Lucas was going to let his luggage spin around the carousel until someone picked it up and put it in storage. If all went as planned, he’d be back at the airport in under an hour. He’d retrieve his baggage and return to Europe, leaving while the officials here were still trying to sort out the disaster. He hadn’t planned anything further than that. It all depended on what the dip-pouch contained.

He parted ways with the fake State Department escorts, heading straight for the exit and the porter he’d paid to pick him up. He saw the original person of interest from his flight was doing the same. No luggage. Another spike.

He decided to test it, swerving toward the bathroom. Inside, he dialed his contact, telling him he was on the ground. He exited the bathroom, looking to see if the unknown was waiting, knowing he would be if he was surveillance.

A quick survey told him the man was not in the immediate vicinity. He relaxed, then caught another guy from his flight. A black man who had been in first class with him. He was now hanging out next to the baggage carousel, the belt no longer moving, the only luggage on it Lucas’s own. The man was leaning against the wall doing nothing, the crowd swirling around him.

No bags at his feet, no apparent reason to stay, but there he was. Another person to watch.

Lucas ignored him and went through the exit, seeing his porter, smiling like the Cheshire cat.

“Hello, sir. Luggage?”

“It’s coming later. Just get me to my hotel.”

They exited the airport, heading north on Ras Abu Abboud Street. Reaching the Doha port, the driver drove along the Corniche, passing by the Emiri Diwan presidential palace where the peace talks would be held. Lucas wondered how many of the Diplomatic Quartet, as the Palestinian/Israeli diplomacy group was known, were staying in the same hotel as the envoy. He hoped all of them, because his strike would generate that much more confusion as they tried to assess the political purposes behind it.

The porter continued north along the Corniche, heading toward the diplomatic quarter. When they stopped at a traffic light Lucas flipped his visor down, lowering the makeup mirror. And felt the adrenaline flow. The black man from the airport was directly behind him in a rented SUV.

He said, “Don’t take me straight to the hotel. Take a left at the roundabout by the Sheraton and stop at the City Center mall. Drop me off quickly, then keep going.”

“Why? It is too hot to walk.”

“I need to buy phone minutes. I’ll be okay. Once you drop me off, I need you to go back the way we came. Park at the Souk Waqif, then do some shopping.”