DUBAI AIRPORT, DUBAI, UAE—15:15 / 3:15 P.M. GST
Eyes everywhere. Mahmoud could feel them. But whose eyes were they and were they looking for him?
He passed his customs form to an agent who waved him through without even looking at it. Mahmoud had long ago concluded that if you weren’t bringing in a lot of luggage, the customs agents figured that whatever screening you had at passport control was good enough.
Casually scanning the airport lobby as he walked, he tried to memorize anyone who was sitting on a bench or leaning against a wall. He ruled out anyone who was obviously African or East Asian. It was the Israelis he was worried about, and the ethnicity of their agents tended toward Jew, Arab, and European. Every now and then there might be an Ethiopian or Tunisian but nothing sub-Saharan. The fox in Mahmoud had developed a sense about who was looking at him. Even if their head was buried in a newspaper or they were thumbing a text into their phone, he could tell if that was real or just a cover.
With all the people passing through the front of the airport, only four possibilities stood out. A European-looking man talked on a pay phone, but his back was to the wall. A young Arab couple sat on a bench with a baby carrier between them. He was dressed in the traditional Emirati white Kandura and was leaning back with his eyes closed. She was talking to her baby in the carrier. Two fit young men leaned against another wall. They wore white, red, and blue warm-up suits with the Czech Republic logo on the sleeves. Finally, a tall, thin, balding man with a beard seemed to be taking a much longer time than usual looking at the departure board.
I’m betting it’s the beard.
He diverted his course and walked into a men’s room. Finding a stall, he closed the door and sat down. He knew he was being overly cautious. Who could possibly know about this trip? But the Israelis seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere, and one could never be too careful. Besides, his sources told him he was near the top of the Mossad’s hit list.
The thought of his death being that important to the Israelis both frightened him and filled him with pride. It meant he was doing his job well. He was a connections man, a financial wizard, and an acquirer of goods important to certain groups of people—weapons of all kinds. Parts for the Palestinian-made Carlo submachine guns, Russian Katyusha rockets, 82mm and 120mm mortars, even the raw materials to make TATP explosives… He could and had bought weapons of all shapes, sizes, and calibers.
The certain groups of people for whom he purchased these weapons were mostly Hamas, the militant and nationalist Palestinian organization, and its military arm, the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades. These were his people, and one day they would push the Jewish invaders into the sea. His clientele wasn’t limited to home, though. He freelanced, too, arranging deals for groups like Hezbollah, al-Qaeda, the Palestinian Islamic Jihad, and Fatah al-Islam. He’d even overseen a shipment of 2,000 AK-47s to Boko Haram in Nigeria.
It was true that his work had made him a wealthy man. But he liked to think he wasn’t in it for the money. He was a servant of Allah. He did what he did so the warriors of Islam could be well prepared for battle. And if Almighty God chose to bless him with a comfortable life here on earth, it was simply recompense for the sacrifices he made.
JUMEIRAH BEACH HOTEL, DUBAI, UAE—15:17 / 3:17 P.M. GST
The tension in the room was almost unbearable. Plasma Screen had landed, and now it was just a matter of spotting him. Nicole sat at a small desk in the suite with her laptop open. Gail and Kevin stood on either side of her.
“Team Bet, got him,” came a female voice over the computer.
Peter, who was pacing on the other side of the room with a phone held to his ear, said, “Ident confirmed?”
“Root,” a deeper voice confirmed.
“Is he leaving?”
“Hold on,” said the second voice. “Looks like he’s hitting the head.”
Peter stopped his pacing. “Okay, Bet, I want you out. Gimel, you take over. Team Vav, you stay where you are outside so you can identify his transportation. Got it?”
“Bet,” the first team confirmed.
“Gimel.”
“Vav.”
Ten minutes later, Nicole heard the team member posing as a young, French-speaking father report, “Il quitte l’aéroport.”