Brad Taylor - The Polaris Protocol

The man wasted no time with pleasantries or questions. “Go to the Sanborns you passed on your way to the restaurant. Enter, move to the café in the back, and get a table. Place a newspaper on the table open to the front page and take a seat facing the door. Ensure the table is away from anyone else. When approached, give the security phrase.”

Before the Ghost could respond, the man hung up. The arrogance aggravated him. Pretentious kafirs. It reminded him of why he hated them. Convinced they were superior to any other group, they always acted like everyone else should bow before their almighty presence.

He was tempted to ignore the instructions just to set the tone but knew that would be asking for compromise. He was the one hiding something, not them, and making them suspicious or angry wasn’t the way to escape the grasp of Mr. Pink.

Fifteen minutes later, he was sitting as asked, wondering if buying a cup of coffee would set them off. The restaurant, set in the back of the department store down a small flight of stairs, was practically empty due to the time of day, with a few patrons drinking coffee or eating dessert, but not many. He’d scanned all of them upon entering, a casual once-over to determine if they were surveillance or security, but was convinced they were not.

He heard the front door chime and saw two men coming into the restaurant. They were dressed in western clothes but were not Hispanic. At least not to the eyes of a man who’d spent most of his life in Lebanon.

He didn’t stand, waiting on them to commit to his table. When they did, he uttered the phrase from the instructions in Arabic. The first nodded and sat down on his right. The other moved to his left.

“I am Farooq. This is Hashim. Thank you for traveling here to us. What shall we call you?”

For a split second he almost spit out Ash’abah—the Ghost—wanting to shove a little of their condescension back down their throats, as the nickname had been given because of his skill in Lebanon and even the mighty Hezbollah feared what he could do. But that would have been suicide, so he said, “Gamal Hussein,” just like his passport called for.

Farooq nodded, satisfied, and said, “Did you have any trouble coming through the United States?”

The Ghost thought, Well, yes. Gamal had an extreme case of travel sickness that caused him to be shoved into a giant garbage bin. He said, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. There was a tick on their no-fly list. I had to go through extra questioning before being let on the plane. Someone with my name from somewhere else is on their list. I do not want to use this passport to get home. Can you help with that?”

Taken aback, Farooq said, “Can’t your people do it? We aren’t here to facilitate your travel.”

“My people aren’t here, in Mexico. You are, and you require my money. All I’m asking is that you help me return.” The Ghost slid across the two passport photos he’d taken earlier. “I don’t wish to sound demanding, but the price for me to help is a new passport. I don’t trust the one I was given anymore.”

Farooq stared at the photos for a moment, then passed them to the other man, Hashim. “Okay. But it will be a Lebanese passport. Is that an issue?”

The Ghost couldn’t believe his luck. “No. That will be perfectly fine, as long as it has a visa for the United States. I can’t get through their airports without one.”

At this, Farooq scowled. The Ghost said, “Given how much money I have brought, I don’t think that’s too much to ask. Especially since you and your leaders will benefit most from what I’m buying.”

Farooq said, “Yes, the device is very expensive, but it will help you out with your drone attacks more than it will us, which is why we asked for you to pay in the first place.”

Drone attacks? How will nuclear secrets help al-Qaeda stop drone attacks? And what’s this about a device?

He’d known all along that Mr. Pink was hiding something but never imagined it could be the very reason for the mission. He decided to proceed cautiously, not knowing what the real Gamal had been told.

“We’re happy to pay, depending on what it is.”

“It’s just like I sent in the e-mail. A way to stop the drones from operating.”

The Ghost relaxed. Whatever e-mail had been sent, it most assuredly hadn’t been directly to Gamal. There would be go-betweens, especially with how hierarchical Hezbollah was. They’d never let a nobody like this talk directly with anyone in Pakistani al-Qaeda.

He said, “I never got the e-mail. I was just told to bring a sum of money here and evaluate whatever it is that you found. Please, forgive me, but you will have to repeat yourself.”

Farooq smiled, pleased to explain what he was responsible for locating. “There is a man who has a way to turn off the GPS that the Americans use. Make it so it doesn’t work, which means the attack drones won’t work. He’s willing to sell it to us but wants a large amount of money. A million US dollars.”

The Ghost ignored the money, focusing on what Farooq had said earlier. “What do you mean, turn off the GPS?”

“Just like I said. He has some computer program that is tied into the satellites. He can turn individual satellites off, just the ones that affect certain sections of the world, or the entire GPS architecture. Not only that, but he can do it at any time that is set. It’ll turn the Great Satan’s drones and all of their GPS-guided bombs into junk. Isn’t that worth a million dollars to you?”

The Ghost heard the words and didn’t think a single instant about drones or bombs. He was thinking about the GPS ankle cuffs on his feet. About escape.

“Yes. Yes, that is definitely worth a million dollars to me.”

58

Booth heard the door to the shoddy hotel open and felt the fear return. The crazy man was back. He jerked his hands out of reflex, feeling a sharp stab of pain from the metal of the handcuffs digging into his raw skin.

The door to the bathroom swung open, and his captor was there, holding a box in his hands. The sight caused Booth’s imagination to go into overdrive. What did it contain? What horrific device was he going to use?

How on earth did I end up here?

Booth said, “Please, please. I’ve done everything you want.”

“No. Not everything.”

He opened the box, and Booth shut his eyes, feeling dizzy.

“Look at me.”

Booth did, and saw the man was holding a new laptop computer.

“I need help with this. I don’t have the skill you do.”

Booth sagged on the floor. “Yes. Of course. Whatever you want.”

The killer bent down and unlocked his wrists. He turned and left the bathroom without a word. Booth stood up, hesitated a moment, then followed, finding the man plugging in the laptop on the nicked table in front of the television.

“I have opened a bank account that can be accessed by the Internet. I need you to configure it for the transfer of my money.”

“I … I can’t do anything here, without Wi-Fi.”

The killer placed a small device next to the computer, saying, “I bought this. It’s supposed to give Internet over the cell network.”

Booth recognized the device as a MiFi hotspot. He stood, unsure if he was allowed to move.

The killer said, “Can you not do it?”

“No, no. That’s easy. I can do it.”

When he remained still, the killer fixed his hypnotic glare on Booth and said, “Then do it. Now.”

Booth scuttled to the chair in front of the table and went to work. His captor said not a word, watching. Within fifteen minutes, the computer was configured and online.

Booth said, “I need the bank information.”

He was passed a sheet of paper, and he went back to work. A few minutes later, he had the bank account online but now had to ask for specific information from the killer. Information he did not want to know. Things that would make him worthy of extermination. He sat with his hands trembling on the keyboard.