Chapter Eighteen
December 18
Rome Fiumicino Airport
Italy
Justin glanced nervously at the two men sitting kitty-corner from him near the next gate. They were most likely waiting for their flight, just as he was, although his gate was at the other end of the terminal. But he was executing a series of counter-surveillance maneuvers in an attempt to smoke out anyone tracking him.
He sighed and tried to calm himself down. But anxiety washed all over him. It was the bitter feeling of losing control he had experienced ever since he received the folded piece of paper at the café. He and Bianchi had gathered a somewhat detailed description of the couple, but Justin was not sure how useful it would be. None of the patrons or the clerks had noticed any distinctive features. The couple could be agents of practically any security intelligence service.
Justin had left behind the café, but not his anxiety. It actually grew to a feeling of almost paranoia, mixed with anger. How did I miss them? That was a rookie mistake. What else have I missed or am missing? On the way to the airport, he changed taxis twice and stopped at two cafes and a newsstand inside the terminal, in an effort to spot any surveillance. But he could not be absolutely sure he was in the clear.
Now, as he stood and waited by the window, he wondered how much of this was a figment of his imagination and how much was real. He remembered the training at The Plant—the agency’s facility for recruits—and his mentor’s words about mess-ups: They happen. Now what are you going to do about it? He recalled that, in an intense state of anxiety, the operative will see and interpret things that simply are not there. Everyone becomes an agent of the opposition, every face a potential surveillant, every corner a potential ambush. It simply was not possible. It was not real.
It is not real. No, it’s not real.
The noise of jet engines drew him out of his daydreaming. Justin sipped the last of his coffee and smiled at himself. Yeah, Justin, it’s your mind playing tricks on you. He crumpled the cup into a ball and tossed it toward a garbage can about ten paces away. The ball bounced on the edge, then fell inside. Yes! Justin pumped up his right arm. The joy of small victories.
He jogged to his gate feeling much more relaxed. He reasoned that whoever the people were at the café, they did not want him dead. They just wanted to rattle him, and they had achieved that. But Justin was not knocked down. He was still very much in the fight.
He boarded the late-arriving and late-departing plane and switched his seat for one near the back. He locked his fingers around his briefcase and before he could decide whether it was a good idea to snooze, he was dead asleep.
Justin woke up when one of the attractive blonde flight attendants gently tapped him on the shoulder, informing him they were about to start their descent to Stockholm. He felt refreshed, but his mouth was dry. The flight attendant brought him a bottle of water, and Justin downed it in one long gulp. Oh, yes, that was good. Nothing like a good sleep to fix anyone’s mood.
He checked his phone. Carrie had left him a short voicemail: Call me and be safe. Justin waited until he was behind the wheel of his Volkswagen, then dialed her number.
“Hi, Justin, how did it go?”
“Hi, Carrie. Did I wake you up?”
“You did, but that’s good. I . . . I must have fallen asleep.”
“Well, it’s almost two. It’s all right to sleep, it’s allowed.”
“I know, but I want to catch this bastard. What did you learn from Bianchi?”
Justin told her that al-Nueimi’s son was still alive.
Carrie could not believe the CIA had kept this piece of intelligence from MI6 or the other security agencies involved in the hunt for al-Nueimi. “I get it that this is very sensitive for them, maybe even embarrassing, but quite necessary for the rest of us.”
“They don’t see it that way.”
“Maybe we should make them.”
“Yes, but maybe we should first find the kid.”
“Any idea where he’s holed up?”
“None. I haven’t talked to Flavio, but I hope he can twist their arm.”
“Yes, we need that kid.”
“Bianchi said something interesting, and I wanted to run it by you.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“He said finding the kid and reuniting him with al-Nueimi will not change his mind.”
Carrie did not answer right away. “Bianchi doesn’t have children, right?”
“No, not that I know of. He’s just getting married, but that doesn’t mean much.”
“Yes, so Bianchi’s not really qualified to judge the love of a father. Al-Nueimi may be a terrorist mastermind, but first and foremost, he’s a father. He loves his son.”
“And you think that will stop al-Nueimi and his plot?”
“I do.”
“You sound very convinced.”
“I am.”
Justin drew in a deep breath. He thought about asking Carrie if her judgment was clouded by the fact she never had a true relationship with her father. Maybe she wanted al-Nueimi to have that strong bond with his son that she never experienced. Or maybe she was right, and the son would be sufficient to change al-Nueimi and stop whatever massacre he was planning.
“Justin, you’re still there?”
“Yes, just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Oh, I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow—well, later today.” He wanted to bring up the couple spying on his meeting with Bianchi, but that was a conversation to have in private. “See you in a bit.”
“All right, Justin. And I’ll tell you what we learned from Natalya. Not much, but perhaps it could help us connect at least some of the dots.”
“Okay.”
“Drive safe.”
He ended the call and looked at his face in the rearview mirror. A couple of hours of sleep and a full breakfast and I should be in tiptop shape. Then, we’ll see if we can find al-Nueimi’s son.