The man’s Air Canada flight arrived in Toronto a few minutes early from London, England, and he now stood in line at Canada customs at Lester B. Pearson Airport. He had not been able to camouflage his height, of course. But everything else about him was different: black wig, hazel-tinted contact lenses, blackish-brown mustache.
When his turn came, he handed the agent, a woman around thirty years old of East Indian descent, his customs card and fake passport, and waited.
The agent checked his passport, then gave the card a cursory glance. “Here on vacation, Mr. Carter?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said with a forced smile, accent all but hidden. “For five days.”
“I hope the snow doesn’t derail your plans.”
“Snow?” he repeated.
“Yes. Haven’t you heard? Very unusual for November. But you know what they say about Mother Nature.” The agent used a red ink pen to scribble her code across the card. Then she handed the passport and card back to him and wished him a pleasant vacation in Canada.
The man proceeded along the corridor, then rode the escalator down to the arrival’s hall. At carousel seven he waited to retrieve his luggage, which had still not made an appearance. When it did, some fifteen minutes later, he noticed his bag was slightly wet, no doubt from the snow the customs agent had mentioned. He picked it up easily, having packed light, and headed for the exit line.
A second agent—another East Indian girl, older than the first one—accepted his card and waved him through with hardly a second glance.
Stepping outside, he was caught unawares. His British topcoat was no match for the chill in the air. Most of the snow had been plowed, but more was falling. He was aware of Canada’s foul weather, although no one had ever mentioned that it could start this early.
The lineup for taxis was a long one. In order to keep warm, the man hopped from one foot to the next. Finally, his turn came. The driver, a middle-aged Trinidadian with dreadlocks, asked his destination.
“The Stanfield Hotel,” the man said, then added, “In Yorkville,” hoping he sounded like a native.
The drive was a slow one: south on Highway 427, east on the QEW, which connected to the Gardiner Expressway. Traffic was backed up for miles. They progressed at a snail’s pace. A normal journey of a half-hour took an hour and a half.
By the time he arrived, the man was ready to throttle someone. He was not appeased by the hotel staff’s politeness, finding it instead to be cloying: “Good evening, Mr. Carter. Glad to have you with us, Mr. Carter. We hope you enjoy your stay, Mr. Carter.”
While he was checking in, the clerk, a brunette of twenty-five or so, turned over the package that he had been expecting. “This arrived for you earlier today,” she said.
He took it in hand without comment.
Once in his room, he unpacked and removed the contents from the package. Then he headed out, taking the elevator to the lobby floor. Less than a block from his hotel, he reached in his pocket for his throw-away cell phone. When he couldn’t find it, he realized he must have left it in his bag upstairs.
Frowning, Alan Carter, aka John Dalton, aka Khalid Yassin, reversed his steps.
Avenue Road, a normally busy thoroughfare, especially as it neared Yorkville, was quiet this early in the evening. And the man realized that remaining inconspicuous would be difficult, what with the wait lasting longer than expected.
The cold was also getting to him, especially with the way it affected his hands and feet. Thick snow flakes were obstructing his vision. As he paced back and forth, he disparaged environmentalists everywhere. He deplored their decision to call the world’s changing weather patterns “Global Warming.” A misnomer if ever there was one. In a science of endless possibilities, why they would be so obtuse was beyond him. “Global Warning,” was more like it.
Finally, his target made an appearance, disguised as he’d been instructed, replete with wig and mustache.
The man, going by the name of David Wells, watched as Khalid Yassin reached into his coat pocket, then brought his hand out empty. And he cursed when Yassin returned to his hotel.
Mr. Wells found it ironic that he would be here at all. But fate had shined down upon him. Once word reached him that Yassin had taken over this operation in Canada, he wasted little time in involving himself.
Now, the wait continued for another seventeen minutes. During this time, David Wells regretted not following protocol. By contacting the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the Ontario Provincial Police, as well as the head of the Metropolitan Toronto Police Force, he could have had any number of personnel at his disposal. At least then he wouldn’t be the one standing out here, freezing.
Yassin used the cell phone, got directions, and left the hotel a second time.
He arrived at Jane and Finch. Many of the mid- and high-rise apartment buildings in this particular neighborhood were in disrepair. Most of the residents were black, law-abiding and poor. A minority belonged to gangs or were involved in nefarious undertakings too numerous to count.
Yassin had the cab driver let him off at the southeast corner, from which he only had to walk a few blocks.
He entered a red-bricked building that had graffiti running up and down its walls. The lobby was in shambles: there was a black couch, torn in various sections, with stuffing sticking out. Ninety percent of the mailboxes had been ripped open.
He took the stairs to the second floor and knocked at 217.
Four men were waiting for him. Each was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. Kaffiyehs covered their heads. Each was thin with a look of desperation in his eyes. One wore glasses. Three were tall, while one was of average height.
“Asalaam alaikum,” they welcomed him in unison.
“Walaikum asalaam,” he said in reply, embracing each man in turn.
He stepped inside. The tiny apartment was no bigger than seven hundred square feet. Everywhere he looked he noticed stained wallpaper, the original color of which was deeply obscured.
One of the men served tea. In the background, Yassin could hear a baby crying, then the sound of a woman’s voice trying to soothe it.
The leader of the group, a boy with a pock-marked face, took the initiative. He handed a crude map to Yassin and drew his attention to the target areas that had been circled in pen. “Triple-B awaits your go-ahead,” he said.
Triple-B, Yassin thought to himself. How appropriate. “Bathurst Bloody Bathurst” had been coined by one of the men. It stood for Bathurst, of course, a major north/south street long associated with its Jewish residents.
“There are five targets,” the boy pointed out. “Each a synagogue, as you had requested.”
“Estimated number of casualties?” Yassin asked.
“Well over a thousand.”
“Excellent.”
“So we have your blessing?”
“You do.”
“Good.” The leader said. “And when can our date be confirmed?”
Calmly, Yassin removed the Luger from his shoulder holster. It had been concealed in the package collected at his hotel when he had first checked in. “As soon as the traitor in our midst is identified,” he said.
Mr. Wells was staying at the same all-suites hotel as Yassin. His spacious room was situated at the far end of the corridor on the fifth floor. He had requested this location for its lack of foot traffic.
Earlier, once Yassin’s destination had been verified, he had seen no need to continue his surveillance and had returned to the hotel. But he’d been back for nearly two hours and there had been no phone call. He wondered why.
Months ago, his man inside had apprised him of the plot, code-named Triple-B. All that remained was for the date to be confirmed. Then they could put countermeasures into effect.
He looked at his watch. It was almost 8:00 PM. He went to the hall closet, took out his suitcase, and entered the code for each of two locks. He removed the equipment, relocked the bag, and replaced it.
Footsteps in the corridor drew his attention. He stood to one side, and quickly attached the suppressor to his Beretta. Then he watched as a legal-sized envelope was slipped beneath the door.
There was no indication that the person was leaving.
He moved along the wall and lifted the folded luggage rack. He approached the door but kept clear. Then he used the leg of the rack to nudge the envelope toward him.
Once he had it in hand, he tore the envelope open…and immediately felt faint.
There were six photographs of his contact—Ibrihim—a twenty-one-year-old naturalized Canadian born in Lebanon. The boy was a devout Christian doing an extremely competent job posing as a Muslim extremist. Each picture was three by five, in vivid color. It hurt Wells to the core to see the puncture wounds to the boy’s face. His body was covered with cuts and burns, especially to the genital area. Nothing was left to the imagination.
Wells let the photographs drop to the floor. Then he reached for the equipment he had removed from his bag.
Months ago, Ibrihim had supplied details not only of what Yassin had planned, but exactly what he and his group had in their arsenal. This included a gas identified as CO449, a product used to incapacitate but not kill.
Wells knew that Yassin’s cell consisted of himself and three others. It wouldn’t be long now before they fired a blast of this same gas into his room. The door would be forced and they would take him captive, have him suffer a fate equal to Ibrihim’s, perhaps worse.
But thanks to Ibrihim, he was prepared. Scientists in his home country had developed a gas to counteract the other gas, a gas that would impregnate Yassin’s group’s gas masks but not his own, and render them unconscious in a matter of seconds.
David Wells, aka Jeremy Samson, knew he had only a few seconds left to prepare.
Khalid Yassin was enjoying the moment. A number of months ago he believed that Jeremy Samson was a simple business associate of Blair Mulligan’s and nothing more. There had been no indication of Samson’s connection to Mossad. This bit of interesting news only came to him today, once they had made Ibrihim divulge the name of his handler. And Yassin could not believe his good fortune.
Yassin was only here as a replacement for the man normally in charge of Canadian operations. So the thought of taking down a prime enemy of al-Qaeda was too good to be true.
He indicated to the other men—boys, really—that they should prepare for the assault. As prearranged, he would stand guard against any interlopers before joining them.
Positioning himself at the opposite end of the corridor, Yassin attached the silencer to his pistol. He confirmed that no one was coming. Then he gave the signal to proceed.
They filtered the gas beneath the door. A moment later the lock was blown.
Yassin watched as the three men, with masks attached to their faces, made their way into the room.
Jeremy had his mask in place and released his own gas canister. Then he dashed into the bathroom and waited.
In less than sixty seconds all sound died.
He opened the bathroom door a smidgen. The haze was thick. He had to hold on a bit longer for it to dissipate.
When he came out, his stomach constricted. There were only three unconscious bodies where there should have been four. Quickly, he went from one to the other. He removed their masks and discovered who was missing.
Without hesitation, he fled the room. He dropped the moment he reached the hallway and went into a roll, holding on to his gun with both hands.
Noise from the stairs drew his attention.
He removed his mask and got back on his feet. He opened the door leading to the stairwell and bent low with the intention of making himself as small a target as possible. He looked up, believing the noise he’d heard had emanated from that direction.
The quiet was ominous.
The first bullet barely missed his scalp. The second grazed his left arm. The force of it threw him to his knees. It was just a flesh wound but it stung nevertheless.
Shit! The bastard was below him, not above.
He had to pause until the pain subsided. Blood was flowing but not sufficiently to require a tourniquet. He moved his arm; it was uncomfortable but still functioned. He wiped the film of sweat from his forehead.
Descending the stairs two and three at a time, he gained some ground. The minute he got Yassin in his sights, he fired off a round.
Yassin returned the gunfire.
Jeremy had to cling to the wall of the stairwell to avoid being hit again.
Yassin reached the lobby level. He burst through the door, then disappeared.
Jeremy was right behind him. He realized that without prudence, it could all end here. Badly. He slipped to the cement floor and flattened himself. He opened the door from his lying position. The corridor was brightly lit. He couldn’t see anyone.
Taking the narrow corridor, he reached the lobby barely in time to see Yassin pushing his way through the crowd.
Throwing caution to the wind, Jeremy went after him, keeping his gun hidden, his gaze pointed straight ahead.
“Hey, you’re bleeding!” someone called out, as if he wasn’t aware of it himself.
There were too many people in his way.
Yassin sailed through the revolving doors.
He followed him outside.
Yassin was wearing a white shirt and trousers. Jeremy wasn’t dressed any warmer. But Yassin’s shirt was like a beacon in the dark. Jeremy was easily able to keep track of him. The man was less than half a block ahead, going north on Avenue Road.
The snow was falling again. The wind had picked up and the cold was sufficient to cut to the bone. There were a few pedestrians on the sidewalk. Vehicular traffic, while not as heavy as usual, was steady.
On the run, Jeremy began to close the gap.
Before he could take aim, however, Yassin began to fire at him, showing a disregard for the pedestrians.
Jeremy understood he could no longer remain on the sidewalk.
Yassin followed his example and moved onto the road.
Having been to Toronto before, Jeremy was aware of the average driver in this city. Most were ill-equipped to drive in rain, let alone snow. Too often they either went too fast or too slow. Tonight, the streets were especially slippery.
Seeing Yassin dart through traffic, he quickened his pace. Once he was close enough, he waited for a car to pass, and he fired his weapon.
Yassin ducked.
This went on for several minutes, with each man trying to gain the upper hand.
The cold was getting to Jeremy. He could especially feel it in the flesh wound in his arm. It was affecting his reflexes.
Suddenly, a woman slipped on the icy sidewalk.
Her cry distracted Yassin.
Taking advantage, Jeremy bent low and began to run alongside a fairly new Honda Civic. The driver was a woman in her late sixties or early seventies. Her hair was more white than gray, and she looked stricken.
He held up a hand, trying to indicate the need for calm.
The woman slowed down.
This perfectly served Jeremy’s purpose. Popping up at the approximate spot he expected Yassin to be, he called his name.
Startled, Yassin backed up, straight into the path of a fast-moving car—a white Audi—coming from the opposite direction.
There was a horrific sound.
Yassin’s body flew into the air, then came down with a thud.
Jeremy rushed to his side. He felt for a pulse but was unable to find one.
Pausing, he checked again.
“Dammit!” he swore aloud. Yassin deserved to suffer, not to succumb to what was practically a merciful death.
Standing, Jeremy caught sight of the distraught driver of the Audi making a beeline toward him. The man was elderly and heavyset, wearing an overcoat, scarf, and gloves. “It wasn’t my fault,” he was babbling. “You saw it. There was nothing I could do.”
“Easy—” Jeremy started to say, when he spotted the man’s yarmulke.
And he burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” the driver said, growing angry.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
The question seemed to unsettle the man even more. “Ch… Charles,” he said.
“Charles?” Jeremy repeated. “You did good, Charles. You have no idea how good…”