The Forgotten Soldier: A Pike Logan Thriller (4 page)

6

S
harif was flabbergasted. “The friend of those idiots outside? You sent him on a fact-finding trip? What on earth does he know about Cayman banks? What do any of them know about that?”

“He’s actually doing more than checking out the banks. Father, let me be my own man. I have learned much watching you. I’ve found an investment for the QIA. A real investment in Brazil. He’s investigating it for me. It’ll be worth it. An inroad into South America.”

Sharif felt the rage grow, squeezing the head of Tutankhamun on his desk, a gift from the former president of Egypt Mohamed Morsi. A supporter of the Muslim Brotherhood. Now gone. Another failure.

Speaking slowly, he said, “You. Do.
Not
have the authority to do this. You have
no
authority.”

Haider stammered for a moment, then drew up. His voice not nearly as strong as his stance, he said, “You gave me the mission to the Caymans. I’ve made it more than just dithering with the banks. I have created an opportunity for an investment in Brazil.”

Sharif looked at Tarek, shaking his head, saying without words,
See what I mean?

But he couldn’t bring himself to chastise his firstborn. He had five daughters, but only one son. Something he secretly cursed. What he wouldn’t give to have a brood of men to choose from. But he had only one.

He said, “Tell me about it.”

Haider did, and Sharif was mollified somewhat. He said, “Okay. Ahmed can continue, but he flies home immediately. No further contacts. He comes to me, personally. With you.”

Haider shifted again, agitated. Sharif said, “What now?”

“I told Ahmed he could take one of our boats to America. To Key West. For a vacation.”

The yachts owned by the QIA were legendary for their splendor, and they were all over the world, but they were restricted to those who had earned the right to use them. Sharif was astounded.

“You actually gave him access to one of our yachts? Even I can’t use them without . . . without . . . ever.”

Sharif tried to maintain control but was having difficulty. How to explain that slight? How to explain someone not of royal blood was taking a yacht to Key West from the Cayman Islands?

Haider said, “It was going to Miami anyway. He’s just riding. I didn’t order it to go. All I did was ask for a stop in Key West.”

Tarek stepped in and said, “Haider, you mentioned that we hadn’t heard the best part of your visit. Please, what was that?”

Sharif glared at his son, saying nothing. Haider, on shaky ground, hesitated. Tarek nodded. Haider said, “Jonathan Billings—the United States secretary of state—said they were holding peace talks with the Taliban. They’re holding a secret meeting, hoping for a ceasefire.”

Sharif heard the words, but didn’t believe them. “Peace meeting? Something we don’t know about? The Taliban have an office here, in Doha. The peace overtures happen here, in Doha.”

“Not according to Billings. He said the government of Afghanistan has worked a separate front, away from Qatar and away from the world. The Taliban wants to talk, but can’t do it on the world stage, with everyone looking at their every word.”

The thought was disquieting, because it meant the Taliban was willing to capitulate. Move away from the reason they existed: a
Sharia state. It meant an end to fighting in Afghanistan, an end to the influence of Salifist thought. A country that would become exactly what he despised: another secular state.

It was the very reason he had sent his son to open up discussions with the nascent Islamic State in Afghanistan. He’d feared the Taliban peace overtures in Qatar, the fear solidifying when they’d opened up an official office with the support of the Qatar government.

Peace would free up the hated United States to focus on areas they’d been woefully misguided about, precisely because of their fixation with Afghanistan. Iraq, Syria, and Yemen were all viewed under the optic of Afghanistan. A peace there would embolden future incursions. Future engagements. And future successes.

He had fought the Soviets, but had no illusions about the United States. They were a different animal altogether. Naïve for sure, but not dumb.

“Why would Billings tell you this? If it’s to remain secret? He was supposed to be here solely for Greece.”

“I think it was his back-channel way to inform the emir. I think he believes I have the ear of the government, which, given your position, we do.”

“When is this happening?”

“I don’t know for sure. I do know he’ll tell me. He trusts me and wants to include Qatar behind the scenes.”

“Did you promise anything?”

“No, no. I demurred, neither confirming nor denying his thoughts.”

“And you now have contacts with ISIS in Afghanistan? You can infiltrate the meeting?”

Haider hesitated, then said, “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“You will. You’re the man Billings trusts, and your actions in Afghanistan have given you leverage with the Islamic State.”

Haider absorbed the newfound responsibility and looked as if he wished he hadn’t spoken.

Sharif continued. “When is Ahmed Mansoor going to the Caymans?”

Confused at the intensity of his father, Haider said, “He’s there now. The meeting is tonight. Why?”

“Because I can’t let that imbecile affect what you’ve just told me. We need to stop that peace overture. In the most violent way possible.”

7

T
he sea was fairly calm, but the boat was rolling enough to cause the view from my spotting scope to swing wildly due to the magnification level. I hit the stabilization feature, and the front patio and swimming pool of the “castle” came into crystal view, the setting sun backlighting it in a halo. I saw the security walking back and forth, then a glint of reflected light as one put some glass on us.

Satisfied with the angle, I flipped the switch sending the feed to a tablet I had mounted on a bench, right next to the dive package I wouldn’t use. Beside it hung a tuxedo and formal dress. I turned to Jennifer and said, “Frogman done yet? The guys are looking now. They need to see him.”

Jennifer smiled, dropped her swimsuit cover-up, and picked up a mask and snorkel. She said, “He’s having fun. We don’t need to bring him up. Let ’em see me instead.”

I adjusted the focus and said, “Yeah, I’m sure they’d rather have that view.”

She threw a towel at my head and left the cabin, going to the rear of the boat, where the dive platform was located. She made a show of prepping her mask, then slid into the water with a dive-marking buoy. Plying our cover for action.

We were currently anchored about four hundred meters off the eastern end of Grand Cayman, near Rum Point, and directly across
from our target—a large stone house overlooking the ocean. It was rented for the party tonight by a ranking member of Grand Cayman’s Barclays Bank Trust Company, and it was a pretty impressive structure. Built on an outcropping of rock, it was made to look like a turreted castle with three floors, each complete with balconies, and had an infinity pool and two sunbathing areas terraced into the rock flowing away from the house, the lower one sitting right by the ocean’s edge.

Earlier, we’d done a reconnaissance from the road running by the house and I was surprised at the security that was in place for this party. The building was behind a fifteen-foot stone wall, with the gate manned by two goons. Inside, near the front door, was another checkpoint, and the landscaping consisted of a thick tangle of jungle-like growth. It was going to be damn near impossible to penetrate the place. At least from the landlubber side. The ocean was a different story, but in order to do anything from there, we had to lull the security into thinking we were innocuous. In this case, a charter boat out for a night dive.

The easiest way to accomplish the mission would have been for the Taskforce hacking cell to simply get us invitations, but they’d failed—which told me how invested this bank was in security. There were very few pieces of cyberspace that those guys couldn’t own. But security was a double-edged sword, a facet I hoped to exploit.

Without an invitation, we were left with two courses of action: Penetrate the house covertly while the party was going on, or magic ourselves into the house in formalwear. After looking at the security and the terrain, I’d opted for scenario two. After all, nobody checks an invitation once you’re inside the ball. Just ask the White House gate-crashers. With that decision made, we needed to work only on the magic component to get my team inside.

The hacking cell
had
managed to get us a floor plan and some historical data points on previous parties the bank had hosted—to
include the interesting fact that Qatar had more than a 10 percent stake in Barclays International. All of the soirees had been at this location, habitually rented by the bank to entice foreign deposits in its system.

After studying the data, one tidbit stood out—a strange activity that occurred at every party: The host made guests give up their electronics. Cell phones, cameras, and anything else with a battery was confiscated, which was something the guests apparently preferred. Past events had included some high-profile celebrities, and I suppose selfies were verboten. Or maybe it was to prevent the digital existence of other shenanigans that went on.

It didn’t interfere with our mission, but it did present an opportunity. Having all the cell phones located in one spot was something I couldn’t pass up. Originally, I’d planned on simply getting Knuckles and Jennifer inside the party, with Knuckles wearing a recording device slaved to directional microphones built into the buttons on the sleeves and front of his tuxedo. Each mic was under his control, allowing him to turn one on and another off, depending on where the targets were located, thus preventing him from having to awkwardly rotate, trying to get audio.

Basically, he was a walking human bug.

With the cell phone confiscation information, I’d decided to expand the mission. While Knuckles wandered around gathering audio, I wanted to get Jennifer inside whatever area they used to store the electronics and have her copy the SIM cards of our target cell phones. It would be exponentially more information gleaned.

I heard a splash from the diving deck and saw Jennifer coming out of the water. I looked at the tablet, and sure enough, they were watching. I was also sure they weren’t watching because they thought we were some nefarious secret intelligence organization about to cause them harm. Not that I blamed them. I’d have done the same thing.

Because I’m a misanthrope.

She came in, wringing out her hair, and said, “Knuckles was right below me, exploring some old rowboat that sank. I told him to come up.”

I said, “I think we’re good. If he climbs the ladder with a tank on his back, they’ll fade away. Come here. Take a look.”

The sun was sinking below the horizon, and the first guests were arriving. I tapped the tablet and said, “I’ve been watching the posture, and they’re focused almost exclusively on the front, where the road is. There’re only a couple of guys on the deck, and they’re by the pool, up high.”

“Anything on the phones?”

Immediately zeroing in on her part of the mission.

I said, “Yeah. They’re taking the phones to a bedroom on the left. The one that’s a stand-alone.”

She leaned forward, looking at the screen but seeing nothing except a few early arrivers. She said, “The one with the sliding glass door? The bedroom that’s separated from the rest of the house?”

“Yeah.
That
one. Any ideas on how to get in?”

The building had seven bedrooms. Six were inside the house. One, the seventh, was accessed only by a sliding glass door on the left side of the compound, right in front of the infinity pool. I wasn’t too surprised, since it would be the single location they could store all the phones without worry of someone wandering in—especially with a man outside—but it did present a problem.

Jennifer tapped the screen, switching from the video feed and bringing up the 3-D floor plan the Taskforce had given us, rotating it until she found what she was looking for.

“Right there. If I can get to the top bedroom, I can scale down outside and enter through the bathroom. Nobody will expect that. No guards.”

“But how will you get to that bedroom? It’s the master at the top of a spiral staircase. I doubt it’ll be in use for the party.”

I heard a splash, then Knuckles shouted, “Give me a hand?”

I shouted back, “Screw you. Some of us are working. Glad you got a dive vacation.”

Jennifer laughed and went to the platform, helping him up and pulling his tank off of his back. She set it aside and Knuckles said, “Really? I’m preventing them from penetrating our elaborate cover, and you scoff?”

I said, “They smell the seaweed on you, and you can explain it. Jennifer told me you were just screwing off down there.”

He rubbed his hands through his ridiculously thick hair and said, “Diving is never screwing off. Helps to get my mind right.”

I said, “Okay, Frogman. Whatever.”

Jennifer switched back to the video feed and said, “Target. Target’s here.”

Knuckles quit drying off and came forward. He tried to pop me with the towel and I wrapped my hand around it, jerking him off-balance. Jennifer hissed, “Stop it. Look at the screen. Is that him?”

We immediately quit, feeling a little foolish. We both leaned into the monitor, seeing a well-groomed older man of about seventy, flanked by two women half his age. Well, maybe a quarter his age. And both were stunners, their clothes leaving little to the imagination.

Knuckles said, “Yep. The Brazilian. Now just waiting on the guy from Qatar.”

We watched security make them place their phones in a Faraday bag—a special pouch designed to prevent any electronic emissions either in or out—then seal it, tagging it with a number. Jennifer hit the image capture, and we had the number on the bag. The security man with the bag began to move outside of view, and Jennifer manipulated the tablet, panning the camera.

Knuckles said, “Wait. What are you doing? We know where they put the bags. Keep on the target.”

He tapped the screen, moving the scope back to the Brazilian. And the stunners.

I said, “Yeah. That would be best.”

Jennifer saw the reason for Knuckles’s call and slapped my shoulder.

She said, “Really? That’s what you want to see?”

I stepped back and said, “No, no. I was checking out the target. Knuckles, pan to the Faraday bag.”

He grinned and did so. Jennifer crossed her arms and gave me a hip bump, glaring.

The security man came out of the glass doors next to the infinity pool and took the bag to the same bedroom. The disconnected one.

I said, “Looks like that’s the target room. A little rough to get into.”

Jennifer panned the spotting scope back and we saw an influx of people, the host greeting each one. Within five minutes, a man came in, wearing a tuxedo and a sissy-looking groomed beard, flanked by two men with the same facial hair. They were Arabs, no doubt about it. Jennifer split the screen and brought up our Qatar target package, the image given to us from the Taskforce on the left of the screen, and the live action on the right.

I said, “That’s not him. No match.”

We waited until the unknowns had finished their Faraday transfer, the security man running a wand over each to make sure they weren’t hiding anything. He tagged the pouch, allowing us to get the number.

We continued, watching every guest who arrived, but our target from Qatar never entered. I now had a hard call. Abort? Or go ahead, with the other man the focus? In the no-fault world of the Taskforce, this was a definite abort. No way was the mission worth the risk. Nobody was going to die because of the meeting. No direct threats to the nation were involved. It was just a stupid expansion of our mission set by the Oversight Council.

On the other hand, when on earth would we get to do a movie-
version James Bond mission? Never, that’s when. No way was I flying all the way to the Caymans, renting a dive boat and formalwear, just to walk away. That was simply a nonstarter.

We watched the last guest enter, the crowd now at about seventy people, and Jennifer said, “Okay, no target. Let’s contact the Taskforce and ask for guidance.” Like this was some super-secret sniper mission to assassinate a head of state.

I looked at Knuckles and read the same feeling I had. I said, “You good with this?”

He grinned. “Are you kidding?”

Jennifer looked back and forth between us and said, “We don’t have our target. We’ve met abort criteria.”

I said, “Nope. That sissy-boy in the beard is the target. You’re going in. All we need to do is wait an hour or two to let them get juiced.”