Chapter Seventeen

 

 

Queen Rania Al Abdallah Street, northern Amman, Jordan

June 18, 10:05 p.m.

 

Their dark blue SUV was an old-model Nissan Pajero from the late nineties. It drew no second looks from anyone—passersby or onlookers from behind apartment windows—and it blended perfectly with the dark night.

Eli parked it across from the parking lot’s entrance to the informant’s apartment building. Away from the nearest streetlight, it was sheltered from the view of security guards manning the front entrance by a large white delivery van. But the agents had eyes on both the front and the side entrances. The Nissan had been customized with dark-tinted bulletproof windows. In the back seats, Justin and Raphael were completely invisible from outside glances.

Eli switched places with Carrie in the front passenger seat, which was part of the plan.

Then they waited.

Also part of the plan.

Raphael had come up with the idea to wait in the shadows until the CIS cyber tech team confirmed the use of the informant’s handle in real time. It would mean that someone was inside the apartment. Even if it was not the informant, hitting the apartment at that precise moment meant they would catch whoever was behind the keyboard.

They spent a little over thirty minutes in almost complete silence. Their attention was centered on everything that moved on the street or the sidewalks. It was a quiet residential area with only the occasional car and pedestrian breaking the relative tranquility.

Carrie had rolled down the window just a crack to let in some fresh air. The night was warm and dry, and with the air conditioner off so they could hear any and all street noises, the agents were melting inside the hot tin can of a Nissan.

Justin wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and shifted in his seat. He felt his SIG poke at his hip, so he checked his holster. Everything was in place, so he tucked it back under his black polo shirt.

His cell phone vibrated in his left side pocket. He checked the screen that was lit up with a short text message from Deb: Handle in use.

“Just got the confirmation,” he whispered. “Handle is being used as we speak.”

“Now we better get lucky,” Eli said.

The next stage of their plan depended on a resident from the apartment building arriving with their car and entering the parking lot. If such a scenario did not happen in the next fifteen minutes, then they would slither in through the side door. But their preferred entry point was the parking lot, since they needed the Nissan to transport their cargo back to the safe house.

Justin counted the long seconds that stretched into agonizing minutes. He prayed they would finally catch a break and gain access to the building without snagging anyone’s attention. The last thing they needed was someone to call the police, or worse, the GID.

A sleek red Alfa Romeo convertible glided from the other side of the street. It was still too far away for them to notice the driver, and the strong headlights blinded them. The convertible turned into the small driveway descending into the underground parking lot and stopped for a moment to punch in the code at the numeric lock box near the door. The gray metallic shutters began to roll up and the Alfa Romeo continued its smooth slide toward the parking lot.

Carrie hit the gas and the Nissan roared to life. She steered toward the driveway, hard and fast, aiming to sneak in behind the Alfa Romeo before the shutters closed down.

The driver in the red convertible must have noticed the grumbling SUV. The Alfa Romeo stopped a few inches away from the parking lot’s entrance. The shutters remained opened, and the interruption caused a low yet sharp beeping noise.

Justin winced. “The driver’s getting out of the car.”

“I’ll handle it.” Carrie unbuckled her seatback and pushed open her door.

The female driver—her slender silhouette in a pair of tight blue jeans and a pink cardigan was visible in the Nissan’s headlights—was already halfway toward the SUV, marching with purpose.

Carrie met her and pointed at the Alfa Romeo and then at the Nissan. The woman was in her late thirties or early forties—Justin was not sure about her age because of her light blue headscarf. She talked to Carrie for a few lengthy moments in a very animated way. Her body language and especially her hand gestures and head shakes indicated her strong refusal. She was not about to allow Carrie’s vehicle to enter the parking lot without properly inputting the right code.

“We should jump out and grab her,” Raphael said.

“No,” Justin said in a strong whisper. “We wait. Carrie has everything under control.”

“But the driver is not budging. We’ve got to act now.”

“No, I said no. You get it?” Justin turned in the seat to face Raphael. “If Carrie needs a hand—which I’m sure she doesn’t—she’ll let us know. Just relax, will you?”

Raphael just stared deep into Justin’s eyes.

Eli said, “It seems she convinced her.”

The driver gave Carrie a small uncertain nod but it was a nod nevertheless. Carrie shook her hand and looked like she thanked the woman. The latter headed back slowly to her Alfa Romeo while Carrie darted to the SUV.

“What did you tell her?” Eli asked once Carrie closed the door.

“We’re friends of Tala and we’ve come to surprise her for her birthday. That’s why we can’t ring the buzzer.”

“Who’s Tala and how do you know it’s her birthday today?” Eli’s voice did not hide his surprise.

“The young woman that let me in earlier today. We talked for a few seconds. And her birthday is actually tomorrow.”

Eli shook his head. “You learned that during a few seconds?”

“No. I also learned what floor she lives on, how much it costs to rent a two-bedroom apartment, and who the manager and the nosy neighbors are.”

The Alfa Romeo was still stopped on the driveway.

“She’s not moving. Is there a problem?” Justin asked.

Carrie shook her head. “No. She agreed to help us.”

Justin said, “Did she ask to see the presents for Tala’s birthday?”

“No, she didn’t. I would have said that we were her present. Or that her present was in the trunk, and then invited her to come and take a look.”

Justin smiled. If it came to popping the lid of the trunk, the driver would have ended up gagged and tied inside the trunk. Her kidnapping would be another complication to their operation, but at least they would gain entrance to the building.

“There she goes,” Carrie said as the Alfa Romeo resumed its almost silent glide.

She stepped on the gas and the Nissan followed the red convertible inside the gray but well-lit concrete parking lot. Carrie looked for a parking space reserved for visitors, or in any case as far away as possible from the driver’s assigned stall.

When they came to an intersection, Carrie waited until the Alfa Romeo cut to the left, then she steered their Nissan to the other side. She parked behind a large black truck, then opened her door. “Wait for my signal.”

She stepped outside under everyone’s watchful eyes. She waved at the driver, who was looking for her, then dug into her jeans pockets for her cell phone. She toyed with it to gain a few seconds, then pretended to dial a number and talk to someone.

The driver eventually made her way among the parked cars. Justin’s gaze followed her until she disappeared behind a door that led to the elevators, according to the signs written in Arabic along the wall and above the doorway.

“All clear.” Carrie tapped the SUV’s window.

Justin waited until both Eli and Raphael had stepped outside, then he opened his door. He picked up a small black duffel bag, which was a part of his cover, and walked around the Nissan.

Carrie and Eli were already on the move, hurrying toward the staircase. Justin and Raphael waited ten more seconds, then followed suit. In this way, if any of the agents ran into one of the residents it would not be immediately obvious they were part of the same group.

Before Justin and Raphael reached the staircase, a car’s tires screeched from the other side of the parking lot. Justin turned his head and saw a silver BMW sedan zooming through the parking lot. It turned to the left and raced toward the exit. Because of the speed he could not make out all the details of the driver’s face. He was young, with a full beard and sunglasses. Who drives at night with sunglasses?

“Passengers?” Justin asked Raphael.

“No. You think he’s a problem?”

“You never know.”

They hastened their pace as they reached the narrow staircase. Its beige carpet was worn and stained in a couple of places, but it still muffled their footsteps as they dashed toward the third floor. They had already lost a few seconds because of the zooming BMW, and Carrie and Eli were probably already in position.

The staircase was empty and so was the third floor, apart from Carrie and Eli standing nonchalantly near one of the four doors, which were all steel plates painted black and with large deadbolts. Breaking one down would not be a cakewalk. Even with Justin’s lock-picking skills, it would take a couple of minutes to open the door. That is, if they had the right apartment and if the informant had not thought about installing a swing door guard or security chain lock on the inside. That’s why they had come up with a smarter alternative.

“Which one?” Justin whispered.

Carrie nodded toward the one to the left, the nearest to the staircase. “Try this one.”

Eli and Raphael crouched behind the wall near the landing, about five, six feet away.

Justin pulled out his cell phone and checked for any text message from Deb. There was none, which meant the handle was still in use over the Internet. Deb was expected to inform them the moment the user ended the connection to the jihadi chat rooms.

Justin gave the door a hard knock. “Blue Zone technicians,” he said in a loud voice in Arabic and leaned against the wall near Carrie and away from the door.

No answer.

He counted slowly to five, then rapped twice on the door. “Blue Zone technicians to repair your Internet. Is anyone home?”

Again no answer.

Justin glanced up at the peephole in the door across the hall and tried to look like a bored Internet technician out for a house call. He was not sure if Blue Zone actually did send their personnel out at this late hour of the night. If the residents living in the target apartment did not want to open their door, all they had to say was they had no Internet or no problems with their Internet connection. Either answer would be useful.

Justin raised his left hand for the next knock but a slight shuffle from inside the apartment stopped him. Steps drawing near the door. Then the quiet slide of the security chain lock. Metal scraping against metal.

A pair of large hazel eyes glanced at Justin through the crack in the door. The woman was young, early twenties. “What took you so long?” she replied in Arabic. Her voice was truly exasperated and exaggerated. “The Internet has been down for over an hour.”

Her reply caught Justin by surprise. It was the last thing he was expecting to hear. Is this the right apartment? They would have to search the woman’s computers before determining if the handle had been used from this location. He nodded at Carrie, who came closer to the door.

The woman shut the door and reopened it wide a moment later. She stood in the doorway and measured them from head to toe with a slow, careful look, before stepping to the side and gesturing for them to come inside the apartment. “Is this all? Just the two of you?”

“Yes.” Justin walked into the small entrance hall. “Were you expecting more?”

The woman rearranged some of the auburn hair that had fallen out of her hijab. She was dressed in a golden-and-black robe that flowed down to her feet. “If this is really important, as important as my husband thinks it is, I thought there was going to be at least four of you.” She shrugged.

Justin clued in that they were no longer talking about an Internet connection failure. “Who is your husband and is he here?”

The woman shook her head. “I’m Leyla, and my husband is not here. His name is Mustafa al-Masri, but you probably refer to him as ‘the informant.’”