Brad Taylor - The Polaris Protocol

Once he had that, he would ask the American for a test of the system to ensure it functioned. If it did, he would give half of the money in his account for purchase. Al-Qaeda had provided Gamal two million dollars, and from what Farooq had said, the sale was for one million, which would leave him a nice tidy sum to escape with.

Insh’Allah, he would leave with the device, following Hezbollah—ostensibly believing he was going to share in the treasure. A lamb being led to the butcher. Like Mr. Pink, Hezbollah was under a false assumption. They thought they were going to kill him. Mr. Pink thought he was going to wait on a signal from the Ghost to trigger an interdiction. None realized what was really going to happen.

As soon as they stopped at whatever kill zone Hezbollah had picked, he would initiate the device, knocking out the GPS in the ankle cuffs. Then he would slaughter the Hezbollah members. Afterward, he would flee with his new passport and money, finding someone to cut off the cuffs and leaving the cursed Mr. Pink and Mr. Black to pick up the pieces.

He would never be found again. He had earned the nickname the Ghost, and he would put that to good use.

He passed a throng of street vendors selling food and T-shirts in a parking lot and saw his destination: the National Anthropology Museum.

He walked up the stairs, past a fountain, and looked for Farooq. He was nowhere to be seen. He checked his watch and saw the meeting time was less than five minutes away. He grew concerned about a trap, snaking his hand into his pants and rubbing the initiation device Pink had given him. Basically a small pager tied into the cell network and slaved to Pink’s phone, it had two buttons: one benign for signaling the meeting was over and he had the device, and one for initiating the assault. Mr. Pink had said the second one was also a panic button. If anything went wrong, all he had to do was press it and forces would intervene.

The irony wasn’t lost on the Ghost that he was relying on Pink to rescue him if something went bad, but he had no intention of reciprocating if everything went as planned.

He saw a man sprinting up the stairs and recognized Farooq, a laptop bag swinging behind his back.

He reached the top out of breath and said, “I’m sorry. We got caught in a massive traffic jam. We’re late. We need to get inside.”

Should have walked, you idiot.

The Ghost said, “No. First my passport. I won’t transfer the money without it.”

Farooq fished in his pocket and pulled out a key. “It’s in a locker downstairs. I was supposed to get it before you came, but I ran out of time.”

The Ghost felt the trap. They didn’t make the passport because they intend to kill me.

“Without the passport there is no deal. I can’t get home on the one I have.”

Farooq turned and pointed down a set of stairs leading to an underground parking area. “It’s in a locker down there. Please. I didn’t place it there. I only had it made and delivered. It is done, I promise. You can retrieve it afterward.”

He was sweating and looking like he was on the verge of panic. Looking truthful. The Ghost considered. They would know I would go straight to the lockers, and they couldn’t kill me here, in broad daylight in front of tourists. If it’s not there, I’ll simply have to find another way out. After I kill them.

He took the key and they entered the museum. They purchased tickets and moved through the line of people. The Ghost noticed a strong police presence, but nobody searched either of their bags. They entered into a large open area with a giant fountain raining water from the ceiling, kids splashing about. Farooq consulted a map and said, “Come on. He’s out back, in the Mayan temple section.”

They moved through an exhibition hall, ignoring the displays and exiting on the south side of the building, into an outdoor area lined with paths and displaced temples. Farooq, seemingly knowing the terrain, went behind the stonework, almost running on the granite path. They turned a corner and the Ghost saw two men sitting at a picnic table, looking expectantly at them. He casually slid his hand into his pants and pressed the first button, letting Mr. Pink know the meeting was on.

Farooq took the lead, introducing a Caucasian as Arthur Booth and a Latino as Pelón. Booth said nothing, sitting meekly on his bench, a laptop in front of him. Pelón nodded, locking eyes with the Ghost. In that stare the Ghost saw his essence reflected back at him.

The man was a killer, just as he was.

61

Farooq couldn’t see it, but the talent that had allowed the Ghost to survive in the cauldron of Lebanon was predicated on a sixth sense that others lacked. He had an inexplicable gift for feeling danger, and he was staring it in the face. Unlike the pretenders from Hezbollah, this man was death.

The Ghost saw Pelón’s eyes narrow and knew the man recognized the same skill in himself. The two remained in a trance for a moment, neither speaking, ignoring the other men at the table. Farooq broke it, saying, “Shall we conduct business?”

Keeping his eyes on the Ghost, Pelón said, “Certainly. Have a seat.”

Farooq gestured to the Ghost and said, “Gamal here has your money, but he insists on a test before transferring.”

Pelón, still staring at the Ghost, said, “You people saw it yesterday. Transfer the money first. I’m not a traveling amusement park.”

Booth said, “I have to give you a class on it anyway. Let’s kill two birds with one stone. Pay him, I’ll teach you, then I’ll place it on your computer.”

The Ghost said, “I didn’t bring cash. I thought we were doing a wire transfer.”

Pelón broke his gaze and gestured to Booth, who brought out the portable MiFi device. Pelón said, “Let him have your computer and he’ll get you to the Internet.”

The Ghost did so, and while it was being worked, Pelón said, “What do you do, Gamal?”

Farooq looked confused, as there was to be no mention of their past, but the Ghost understood. “I do the same as you. Only in a different place.”

Pelón smiled, as if he’d learned something profound. “I have often wondered if there were others like me. Besides in Mexico, I mean. Others who do what I do. I’ve asked an American, and he told me no, that such men are evil and exist only in evil places. I wondered if he was wrong, or if Americans simply had no evil in their world.”

The Ghost answered as if the other men did not exist. “Americans have a quaint notion of evil. They don’t know the meaning of the term, unlike those where I am from.”

Now Farooq looked completely baffled, but he remained silent.

Pelón nodded, saying, “Tell me, do others fear you where you are from? Do they know your name?”

“Yes. I am known as the Ghost.”

Farooq’s eyes squinted, as if he were searching for something lost in his memory. The Ghost realized he’d said too much. Given away his shield. His secret. Should Farooq make the connection and realize his skill, he would have a much harder time killing them, as they would be on their guard. Even so, he was glad he’d told the truth to Pelón. A man who would understand.

Before Pelón could respond, Booth interrupted, saying, “Okay, we’re ready to make the transfer. I just need Gamal to input his account and password, and I need you to use your token.”

Annoyed, Pelón glared at him, and Booth shrank back. Pelón said to the Ghost, “I’d like to talk to you again. After we have completed our business. I have so many questions.”

The Ghost nodded, keeping his face neutral, wondering if the others understood Pelón wasn’t all there. Wondering if the man was completely insane. It didn’t matter, as they would soon be done, but unlike Farooq, he sensed the danger within Pelón. A killing instinct that was barely contained, like a vat of acid held in place by masking tape, the liquid dripping down.