Brad Taylor - The Polaris Protocol

Farooq sat back down and said, “We were called here by Carlos, a man my organization has worked with in the past. I don’t know you at all. No offense, Mr. Death.”

The sicario realized he was losing the sale, losing his chance at a stake for a new life, but he’d never conducted such negotiations. All he’d ever been tasked with was punishment. He had no tact or skill in this world, unlike Carlos.

He said, “Farooq, I speak plainly, but it is only because of my nature. I have what you want. All I ask in return is what you were going to pay Carlos. That’s it.”

“We only pay for results. Can you prove it does what Carlos said?”

“I’m not sure what Carlos told you it does, but I can bring the man who will explain it all. He can show you it works, on the Wi-Fi network of this restaurant.”

“Can you do this now?”

“Yes. I’ll have to leave and fetch him, but it won’t take but about fifteen minutes.”

“Do so.”

“Before that, I’d like to know what Carlos knew. How much is this worth to you?”

He saw Farooq’s eyes flick to the left and knew he was about to get cheated. He had no idea what had been discussed for the monetary transfer, and he wished he could take back the ignorance of his question.

Farooq said, “Carlos wanted a wire transfer of one million dollars. We could not afford that. We discussed a cash transaction of one hundred thousand. He agreed.”

The sicario knew about the other man coming and had not played that card. He did so now.

“You said Farooq means one who separates falsehood. Please don’t play me for a fool. I want the wire transfer from the other man. As you agreed with Carlos. Where is he?”

Farooq slid his eyes to the bar, saying nothing. When he faced the sicario again, he said, “He is coming, but the protocol had better work.”

“It will. I’ll prove it shortly. When does he arrive?”

“He’s on an airplane as we speak. Coming here.”

53

The hat was a little big, and the jacket made me feel like a bus driver, but both were needed to get me through security. Jennifer looked a hell of a lot better, in my mind. Like the stewardess everyone fantasizes about having instead of the ninety-year-old tart who gave you a sour look when you asked for another beer.

Reaching the TSA checkpoint, Jennifer said, “Let me lead. If anyone says anything, let me answer. Whatever you do, don’t try to fake being a pilot.”

A little miffed, I said, “What’s that mean?”

“I know you. You think you’re smarter than everyone else, but you’ll get us in trouble trying to talk flying. Just stick with the hotel or the airport. Please.”

“I can talk flying. It’s just a bunch of buttons and dials. These TSA agents know less than I do.”

She gave me an exasperated look and said, “Pike, please. Let me do the talking.”

I smiled, letting her know I was just teasing. She didn’t know a damn thing about flying a plane either, but she knew plenty about airports. Her deadbeat father was an airline pilot, and after he’d left the family, he’d spent his limited time with her dragging her around the world while he worked. Leaving her in hotel rooms as he went out to find some cougar to bed. The memories weren’t nice, but it did give her a healthy appreciation of how airports worked. I was more than comfortable letting her take the lead.

My Bluetooth chirped, and Knuckles came on. “I’m set outside customs.”

I said, “According to the fight status, his aircraft is on the ground thirty minutes early. Shouldn’t be long. You got the ABS ready?”

“Yeah, but I hate using this stuff. I’m going to get it on myself.”

“You do, and it’ll be a very long flight to Mexico.”

ABS was our not-so-subtle nickname for the medication we were going to apply to the moneyman coming from Pakistan. A topical solution that was fashioned into a tube of ChapStick, ABS stood for Atomic Blow-Shits. A small amount applied anywhere to the exposed skin would cause incredible diarrhea within a matter of minutes. Knuckles, having purchased a ticket on American flight 833 to Mexico City, like our target, would use it on him when given the chance.

Unlike other countries’ international airports, those in the United States had no separated transient area for folks just passing through. If you landed in America, even if only transferring to another flight out, you had to go through US customs. Thus, Knuckles could pick up our target as he exited, at a choke point he would have to use.

It had caused a little consternation in the Oversight Council, because the man from Pakistan was flying under the name Gamal Hussein, which, unbeknownst to him, was on our no-fly list. He’d managed to get a US visa—admittedly for transit only—but that alone caused a spasm in Homeland Security and further investigation, because he shouldn’t have gotten a visa to use a bathroom in the United States. It did work in our favor, though, because we couldn’t have affected his application in time if it had been denied. We could, however, remove him from the no-fly list, which caused some on the council to question what the hell we were doing.

I’d have questioned it too, given the plan I’d come up with. Kidnapping a foreign national inside a working United States airport, without informing TSA or anyone else that we were operational, was a bit much. Throw in the fact that we were going to inject a known terrorist in his place, letting him fly to Mexico out of our control, and I could see why some were jumping up and down. The no-fly list was the least of our worries.

We reached the door to the Known Crewmember access in terminal C, and Jennifer presented her badge. The TSA agent checked it, then a second form of identification. He tapped on the computer and let her through. I watched her dragging her roll-aboard and followed suit. It was surprisingly easy; the agent only wanted to make sure I was in the database. Had he checked last night, I wouldn’t have been.

Started in 2011 in response to pilot demands after 9/11, the Known Crewmember program allowed prescreened participants to bypass security at select airports, one being Dallas. Given that we were bringing in some dangerous kit in our carry-ons, we definitely needed to bypass security.

We’d brainstormed a bunch of different ways to penetrate the airport and had decided on a combination. Posing as TSA agents had been the first choice, but having flown through a myriad of airports, both Jennifer and I had rejected it. TSA agents knew each other and habitually worked the same stations. Any time I had traversed a security point during a shift change, I saw them saying hello or good-bye, or just kidding around. That, coupled with the TSA’s natural suspicion, meant we’d be asking for trouble by trying to impersonate them.

We definitely needed to get equipment into the sterile area of the airport, though, and putting it through an X-ray machine was a nonstarter. Who could do that but wouldn’t be known to the TSA agents themselves? Who was transient but trusted at the airport? Why, an airline pilot and his loyal flight attendant, that’s who.

We’d had Knuckles buy a ticket and go through traditional security. His role was to babysit the Ghost on the flight. Outside of giving Hussein the shits, he would have nothing to do with the assault.

Decoy was in the transfer van outside of terminal A, acting like a baggage handler for American Airlines. Blood, dressed as an airport janitor, would be outside the freight elevator of terminal A, ready to push a large refuse cart with some decidedly different trash inside. With any luck, we’d be getting him inside the sterile area using some equipment in Jennifer’s carry-on bag.

I smiled at the TSA agent and pulled my little bag through, seeing Jennifer just inside the entrance to the secure area. We were in the middle of the mission, but I couldn’t help but feel distracted by the sight of her in a flight attendant outfit. I swear I didn’t want to, but the scarf, hat, and little wings were something out of a soft-core porno movie.