DUBAI, UAE—JANUARY 19, 2010—00:10 / 12:10 A.M. GST
The man ahead of Nir stepped up to the booth. Inside sat an Emirati immigration agent who looked to be in his late thirties. His thick black hair was combed to one side, and he sported a narrow mustache. Nir studied him as he worked. His hair was starting to sag a bit in the front, and his uniform had lost the crispness of its seams. This was good. It meant he was likely nearing the end of his shift, so he wouldn’t be quite as on top of his game as he would if he were just starting his day. Also, as he worked, he kept his head down nearly the entire time, looking up only once to compare the photo in the man’s passport to the face that stood before him.
Here’s a man who does not love his job. Another good sign.
The agent punched a stamp onto the passport, then turned back to his computer monitor as he lifted the document to the traveler. The man snatched his passport and hurried off.
“Next in line,” he said in Arab-accented English.
Nir stepped forward and placed his passport into the agent’s upraised hand.
Turning from his screen, the man gave Nir a once-over, then looked at the cover of the passport. “United Kingdom?”
“London, born and raised.”
“Name?”
“McCann. Michael John Agnew McCann.”
The agent’s brief moment of interest in Nir quickly passed, and he turned back to his desk. Nir’s passport slid through a reader, and the man’s computer screen populated with information.
“Reason for your visit?”
“Business.”
“Where will you be staying?”
This was a tricky question, since Nir had no good answer. Headquarters was still working out accommodation details as he was boarding his flight.
“Jumeirah…the Jumeirah something,” he said, taking the advice of his Caesarea handler. Apparently, half the hotels in Dubai were the Jumeirah something or other. “I’m sorry, I forget the exact name. I can dig it out of my carry-on if—”
The agent interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand.
There are few better sounds than a stamp hitting a passport, Nir thought when the man added the Emirati seal. Especially when that passport is… well, compromised.
Nir took the booklet when it was offered and exited the immigration hall. He’d fit everything he needed into his carry-on, allowing him to bypass the baggage carousels and walk straight to customs. He’d filled out his declaration slip on the plane, and he handed the paper to a customs agent and passed through to the terminal.
No sooner had he cleared the secure area than he heard his cover name—“Michael.”
The tall, thin man walking toward him had a shaved head, and his tight beard was a mix of brown and white. The smudges on his glasses told Nir he usually didn’t wear any visual enhancement.
“Peter,” Nir said. This man was Peter just as much as Nir was Michael, so it wouldn’t do to be overheard calling him Shmuel, his actual name. This was particularly true here in an Arab Gulf state where nobody had much love for the Jews. The handler had emphasized that everyone would be using legend names on this operation the whole time, no exceptions.
Keeping those names straight for this 36-member team would likely be tough for the operation leaders, but not for Nir. The operators were broken into smaller squads, so he had only a handful of names to remember. Peter, Gail, and Kevin were the operation’s three key leaders. The fourth name belonged to his hotel roommate and fellow member on the four-person hit team, James.
“Good flight?” Peter asked.
“Ah, you know the Lebanese.”
Peter wrinkled his brow at him but didn’t follow up.
Speaking softly as they moved through the terminal, Peter said, “The operation is called Operation Plasma Screen, after the code name for the target. Go to the hotel and get some sleep tonight because you’ll need to be rested tomorrow. James is flying in from Paris in two hours. He’ll have a key card to let himself in. At 09:45 tomorrow morning, a car will be out front to take you both to a shopping mall. Kevin or Gail will meet you there. The situation is fluid now, but they’ll be able to give you more information as time goes on. Any questions?”
“Where is the target staying?”
“We’re working on it.”
“How are we dispatching the target?”
“We’re working on it.”
“How will we—”
“What part of the situation is fluid do you not understand?”
“So asking me if I had any questions was rhetorical?” Peter had sounded exasperated, but it was frustrating to have so little information. Still, Nir figured this is how it worked in Kidon—no time for detailed plans going in. You just figured it out as you went along.
Something touched his hand, and he instinctively took hold of it. Peter said, “In this envelope is a key to your hotel room, Hilton Dubai Jumeirah, room 2910. Take a cab. In the envelope is 1,000 dirhams for expenses. Go straight to the hotel. It’s late enough that any maslul will probably draw extra unwanted attention. Tomorrow we’ll make sure no one is interested in you. Be safe.”
Peter stepped away without another word.
Cold air hit Nir as he passed through the terminal doors, and he wished he’d brought a coat. The cab ride was uneventful, but the city itself was spectacular. The lights of the skyscrapers rose high into the sky, while down on the ground a surprising number of cars were out on the road for this late at night. Most of them cost far more than he could make in three years at the Mossad.
Once at the hotel, Nir bypassed the check-in desk and took the elevator to the twenty-ninth floor. He removed the key from the envelope and saw no Hilton markings on it. Hopefully, whoever made this key did a good job. Otherwise, I’m probably sleeping on the beach tonight, because I doubt the front desk even knows I’m here.
He slid the key into the door slot for room 2910, and the red light turned green.
As he toured the room, making sure there were no bad guys hiding in the shower or under the beds, he could see that the room was Hilton nice. Clean, well appointed—sort of like the business class flight he just took. It wasn’t quite first class, but it was good enough for his tastes. After examining lamps, picture frames, and any other little crevice for listening devices or cameras, he pulled a bottle of Dos Equis from the mini-bar fridge and stepped out onto the balcony. The air was even colder at this height as the wind blew past the hotel. Nir stepped back in, then took one of the blankets in a closet and returned outside.
He tested one of the patio chairs for dryness, then positioned it so he could see the room’s entrance out from the corner of his eye. Once seated, he covered his legs with the blanket. Bright lights outlined the shape of the Palm Jumeirah, the middle of three large artificial islands built in the Gulf waters. Shaped like enormous palm leaves, they were architectural and construction marvels. At the top of the Palm was the massive Atlantis resort, and beyond it lay the blackness of the Persian Gulf waters.
He put his feet up on a glass-topped table. Closer to the hotel, boats of all sizes were moored in the calm waters of the marina. Some of the yachts anchored a little farther out into the Gulf looked like they had to cost in the millions of euros.
As he sipped his beer, he thought back to when his parents had taken the whole family on a weeklong vacation to Haifa. The second day, his father had rented a sailboat. Dad had done some sailing when he was younger and wanted to teach Nir’s two older brothers the basics. Nir, fourth out of the five children and the only other boy, was declared too young by his father and left out of the training. Everyone piled into the boat and Dad pushed off, but the trip was ill-fated from the beginning. Despite his bravado to his family and the marina master, Dad had forgotten more about sailing than he remembered.
Tensions escalated quickly as his father’s embarrassment grew. When Nir’s oldest brother, who was 13 at the time, made a joke at Dad’s expense, the man swung at him with the back of his hand. His brother dropped to the ground, his mouth bloodied.
Not that getting hit by their dad was that unusual. While certainly not a daily occurrence, each of the kids would occasionally feel the brunt of his frustration, and Nir got used to the taste of blood in his mouth. Mom made excuses for him, saying he hadn’t been the same since the First Lebanon War in 1982. But by trying to explain away his violent outbursts, she’d allowed them to continue.
The Haifa trip ended early, and Dad disappeared for a few days after they got home.
Nir drained the last of his beer and went back inside, dropping the bottle into a little can by the bar. Enough reminiscing. Nothing good comes from looking backward.
He practiced his Arabic by watching some strange TV show until James arrived. Then he took a shower before slipping into the queen bed nearest the window, eager for sleep.