Brad Taylor - The Polaris Protocol

Kurt said, “Yeah, what’s your point?”

“You’re basically saying you want to act like a drug cartel.”

“What the hell? You guys were the ones that didn’t seem concerned with any of that before. All you cared about was Operation Gimlet. What was it you said? ‘Better stop that YouTube video from getting out’? How did you think that was going to happen?”

Palmer held up his hands. “Hey, we aren’t going to solve that question with the principals. That’s definitely one for the entire Oversight Council. The president needs to be involved.”

“Well, you’d better involve him soon because we’re running out of time. We catch that guy with the GPS hack and you can execute Operation Gimlet as planned, but we’re going to need to squeeze him immediately to protect Project Prometheus. I can’t wait until after we capture him to begin debate. We’re—”

The light flashed above the door again, and Kurt cursed, exasperated. A man entered, looked around the room, then ran to the secretary of defense.

After he left, the SECDEF said, “That was from the Air Force chief of staff. There’s been another outage. Another test, but this time only two satellites were affected, which means he can pick and choose what he attacks. I hope it wasn’t a proof of concept for Hezbollah and they now have the hack.”

The comment brought a low murmur, with Kurt hearing the term Gimlet three different times. He attempted to calm them down.

“They can’t. They’re waiting on the money guy. They’re waiting on the Ghost.”

The D/CIA said, “I cannot believe the fate of our national grid and defense architecture rests in the hands of a Palestinian terrorist who’s sworn to kill us. I cannot believe I agreed to this.”

Kurt smiled. “Look at the bright side: This goes bad and the press finds out, nobody’s going to care what Anonymous does.”

57

Using the original reservation from the captured man and his new passport, the Ghost checked into his small boutique hotel without issue. In line two people behind him stood Mr. Black. Outside of the initial instructions in the bathroom, he’d said not a word to the Ghost the entire flight, never even acknowledging that they had met. That fact gave him some confidence that the Americans wouldn’t do something stupid and inadvertently get him burned. He had enough to worry about trying to pass himself off as member of al-Qaeda without the Americans causing trouble. On top of that, he had to start working on a means of escape.

As instructed, he went to his room, opened up a prearranged Yahoo e-mail account, and sent an instant message. He waited for five minutes, then received his response from Mr. Black. An e-mail would be coming shortly.

He puttered around the room, unpacking his things and cataloging what he would need to do to evade the clever little net they had created for him. First, of course, he’d have to find a way to remove the two ankle charges he was wearing. It wouldn’t be easy, because they were banded to his legs with metal that utilized a laser-cut key. Not impossible, though. He’d more than likely lose a little skin in the process, but he was sure they could be cut. The problem was the time needed to do so. The Americans would know everywhere he went, along with any instructions he had been given, so somehow he would need to introduce a delay. A meeting of some sort where only he would be present. Well, him and someone with a hacksaw who wouldn’t ask questions when provided enough cash. He just had to make sure the meeting was somewhere near the one in his instructions. He had no idea what boundary that devil Mr. Pink had set and didn’t want to find out the hard way. All Pink had said was if he felt a vibration, he had three minutes to get back on the inside.

He’d toyed with the idea of telling the men from Hezbollah what was happening and securing their help—becoming a double agent, as it were—but ultimately discarded the idea. They were planning on killing the original man who came, and he was fairly sure they’d do the same to him the minute he showed them he was being tracked.

The second problem was securing a passport. Even if he managed to get out of his electronic bonds, the name on the passport he was using was poison. He wouldn’t get very far having it as an identity. On this point, he was fairly sure he could leverage Hezbollah.

The final problem was money, and he had already fixed that to a certain extent. He had the captured man’s credit cards, which still worked, as proven at checkin. The e-mail coming would have the bank account information for purchasing the nuclear secrets, and he had no intention of giving all of that to Hezbollah or whoever else was involved. Some of it would be his nest egg for a future life.

He heard the laptop ping with an e-mail and felt a rush, just like he had in the past before going operational. He read the enclosed instructions, seeing he had a little walk in front of him, along with some link-up instructions. Hezbollah didn’t have his flight itinerary and apparently wanted to make sure they met the right guy.

He sent an instant message confirming receipt and left the hotel room, feeling strange conducting a meeting on behalf of the Americans he despised. Strange for being used to turn on members of Hezbollah, whom he also hated, in order to prevent the transfer of nuclear secrets paid for by al-Qaeda, with whom he had no quarrel.

Strange indeed.

*

As instructed, he had the taxi drop him off in front of a Sanborns department store next to the independence monument on Paseo de la Reforma Avenue. Before continuing to his destination, he accessed an ATM located outside. He withdrew the maximum daily amount his credit card allowed, then began walking north, looking for the second intersection from the Sanborns. He passed the first—an alley more than an intersection—and glanced down the street, seeing a sign that caused him to stop in his tracks: VISA APPLICATIONS DONE WHILE YOU WAIT.

He debated, ultimately deciding he couldn’t pass up this gift thrown in his path. He rushed down the little street and entered the small kiosk, knowing it was a risk. Knowing Mr. Black would more than likely question what he had done, but he could feign being lost. After all, his destination was one more street up, and he’d never been in this city.

Five minutes later, he returned to the main thoroughfare, now armed with two passport photos of himself. He reached the second intersection and took a right on a street called Rio Lerma. After a hundred meters, he began looking for the restaurant, fairly sure it would be easy to spot. There couldn’t be that many Lebanese food vendors mixed in with all the taco stands.

He smelled it before he saw the sign, a refreshing blend of spices reminding him of home. He reached the entrance and read a cheesy sign in English proclaiming something about Aladdin’s carpet. Here he knew he had to be very careful not to let slip in any way that he was from Tripoli, no matter how much he would have liked to reminisce about home.

He parted the beads hanging from the door and went to the order counter, saying hello in Arabic. The man behind it beamed, asking where he was from. He stated Pakistan, then, before the man could engage him in conversation, he gave the phrase from the instructions.

The man’s smile vanished, and he told the Ghost to wait. He disappeared in the back, and when he returned, he carried a cell phone.

“Hit redial.”

The Ghost said, “Who am I calling?”

“The people you are to meet. I don’t know anything else. I just run a restaurant. Please. Leave before you call. Please.”

The Ghost did as he asked, dialing the phone from the sidewalk. A man answered and he repeated the phrase from the instructions.