Dead or Alive (56 page)

“So how exactly are we going to do this?” Jack asked Clark.

“Play it by ear,” Clark replied, then turned back to his catalog.

 

 

 

T
he landing was almost as smooth as the takeoff, followed by the rollout and taxi trip to the terminal, and deplaning, and the usual shuffling walk-off. And the terminal was as nondescript as all the others around the world. They turned left and walked down the wide, anonymous concourse. Signs directed them to international arrivals, and it was just enough of a walk to get the blood flowing in their legs. Information TV monitors told them that the Alitalia flight was still ninety minutes out. A quick check of the area told them that it was easily surveilled. So much the better, there was a casual eatery in direct line of sight, with the usual plastic chairs surrounding plastic tables.

“Okay, guys, we have maybe two hours, counting processing the mutt through customs,” Clark thought aloud.

“That’s all?” Jack wondered.

“Maybe they’ll have a dog wander past the bags, sniffing for drugs, but not much more than that. The Canadians aren’t being all that careful. Bad guys transit Canada. They don’t stay here to do mischief. Good luck for them, I guess. It allows them to save money on security expenditures.”

“If the bad guys are casual here, you could bag a few fairly easily and put them on a boat to Buffalo.”

“And then,” Dominic continued the thought, “they’d make enemies they really don’t need. It’s business.”

“Good point,” Chavez said. “Business is business, and you let a sleeping dog alone, until you get bit. I wonder when they’ll have that happen to them.”

“Depends on the bad guys, but making enemies gratuitously is not good for business. Remember, a terrorist is a businessman whose business is killing people. Maybe they’re ideologically driven, but business is still business.”

“How many have you bagged?” Dominic asked Clark.

“A few, all in Europe. They’re not well trained. Alert, and they can be sly like a fox, but that isn’t the same as training. So you just exercise caution and take them down. Helps to shoot them in the back. Hard for them to return fire that way.”

Dominic frowned. “Huh.”

“Ain’t supposed to be fair. This isn’t the Olympics.”

“I suppose.”

“But it goes against your grain, doesn’t it?”

Dominic gave this a moment’s thought, then shrugged. “I don’t know about grain—just a different mind-set.”

Clark smiled grimly. “Welcome to the other side of the looking glass.” He checked his watch. The flight would be descending now.

 

 

 

I
t struck Hadi that the ground under an airplane always looked the same—but different. Distant but inviting as you came back down. Like America, all the roads and cars coming into view. He gauged height by whether or not he could see individual cars and trucks. The “Air Show” setting on his mini-TV said that altitude was 4,910 feet and dropping, ground speed 295, well down from their cruising height and speed over the ocean. They’d land soon. Ten minutes, according to the computer. Time for him to wake up all the way. The stewardess took his coffee cup away. Italian coffee was much like that of his distant youth in its acidity, and truth be told, he much enjoyed Italian food, though they served pork far too much, and though he drank wine, he drew the line well short of pig flesh. He’d get off, waltz through customs and immigration, spot his greeter, and get his ticket on to Chicago from him, who’d drive him also to his connecting flight for United Airlines Flight 1108, and he’d have a cigarette but not much of a chat.

He had to be alert coming through customs and immigration. He had nothing to declare, of course, not even a bottle of Italian wine. Business traveler, he was supposed to be, for whom such a trip was routine. Jewel dealer, that was his cover. He knew enough to have a brief conversation on the subject. Not enough to impress or fool a real Jewish diamond merchant, of course, but he knew how to deflect any conversation, even to fake an accent. Well, he was a business traveler of sorts, and this sort of trip was routine, though this was his first-ever visit to Canada. One more infidel country, with simple and gentle rules for people in transit, and they’d be just as happy to see him on his way, taking no notice of him as long as he didn’t carry a firearm or commit a crime.

The touchdown was a little rough. Perhaps the flight crew was weary as well. What a terrible life they had, Hadi thought. Sitting down all day, not walking around, constantly changing their body clocks to different places and times. But all men had their places in the world, and theirs was well paid, just unpleasant, even for infidels. His job and his cover compelled him to be pleasant to all he met. That included infidels who routinely ate pig. It was hard, but it was required by his place in life. The airliner stopped, and with the other 153 people aboard, he stood, collected his carry-on bag, and stumbled to the door.

You could tell the Canadian officials in their navy-blue visored caps, blank expressions, and scanning eyes. Greeters who didn’t care a whit about those whom they greeted to their infidel country. There were probably mosques within a mile or so, but he would not go near one of those. The local government might permit Muslims to worship Allah in a place of their own, but surely they were all watched, and the entrants photographed. His job was to be invisible.

I
t’s down,” Clark said, looking at the TV monitor hanging twenty feet away.

“All we know is that he takes a piss standing up,” Dominic reminded them.

Where’s the nearest head?
Clark thought. A lot of people made a head call soon after deplaning, after being too nervous to use the one on the airplane. Wouldn’t be a bad idea to camp out on that possibility. Spooks were not robots. Every one had his own peculiarities, and those, once identified, made them vulnerable. It struck him that he’d never been a counterspy. Identifying spooks was something he’d always worked to prevent . . . but maybe that gave him the resources needed to do the job? He’d see. They were after an Arab, probably late thirties to middle forties, male. Height, weight, hair color, and eye color were all unknowns. He was a trained operator. He’d probably act like a trained operator.

Well, he was being met. They knew that much. Somebody to hand him a ticket for a connecting flight. Probably not as well trained. Probably a stringer. Maybe somebody hoping to earn a promotion in whatever organization he belonged to. Maybe as smart but not as experienced or as well trained. Somebody who knew his inbound asset by sight? Maybe, maybe not. Probably a driver. He’d be looking to make the pickup. Scanning the faces for recognition. Holding a sign?
Yeah, maybe THE EMIR SENT ME,
Clark thought with a snort. He’d seen some dumb ones in his time, but never that dumb. Might as well eat a gun outside the terminal with TV cameras watching. These guys might not be pros the way he thought of the term, but neither would they be stupid. Somebody had trained them or instructed their organization on how to teach them fieldcraft. It wasn’t that hard. The nuances came with experience, but the basics were things a half-smart guy could figure out on his own. The four of them were standing in line. That wasn’t smart. He shuffled over to Dominic.

“Break into pairs, opposite sides of the railings. Dominic, you and Brian. Jack, you’re with Ding and me.”

Dominic and Brian moved down the escalator and away, curling back to a place opposite Clark and Chavez. John tapped his nose, and the twins repeated the signal.

“What are you thinking, Domingo?” John asked.

“Who, them? Good instincts, a little rough around the edges, but that’s natural. If trouble develops, I think they’ll handle it okay.”

“Fair enough for a ninja,” Clark responded.

“We own the night, baby.” That had been quite a while ago, but it was part of Domingo’s core identity. He was a hard one to spot. Short as he was, people often overlooked him. His eyes could give him away, but only if you took the time to scan his face, and he really wasn’t big enough for any tough guy to worry about, until you were on your back, wondering how the hell you got there. Times had changed since his SEAL days. Third SOG had had a few John Wayne types, but the new ones looked more like marathon runners, short and skinny. They tended to live longer, being harder to hit. But their eyes were different, and that’s where the danger was. If you were smart enough to notice.

“Little nervous,” Jack admitted.

“Nice and casual,” Clark replied. “Don’t try too hard. And never look directly into the subject’s eyes, except maybe to check out the way he was looking around, but only briefly and carefully.”

Who are you, Hadi?
Clark thought.
Why are you here? Where are you going? Whom do you want to meet?
None of which was he likely to ask or have answers for. But the mind did its own thing all the time, the more so for a fairly intelligent and active mind.

H
ADI COULD have been the first in line, but he manufactured a false delay to avoid that possibility. He didn’t have to pretend to be tired. Counting the feeder flight from Marseille and the layover at Milan, he’d been in the air for fifteen hours, and the reduced partial-pressure of oxygen had taken its toll on his body. One more reason to wonder about the flight crew and their miserable jobs.

“Hello, Mr. Klein,” the immigration clerk said with what appeared to be a smile.

“Good day,” Hadi replied, reminding himself again of his false identity. Fortunately, no one had tried to speak with him on the flight, except the flight attendant, who kept his wineglass fully attended. And the food had been tolerable, a pleasant surprise.

“The purpose of your visit?” the clerk asked, studying Hadi’s face.

“Business.” It was even true.

“Duration?”

“Not sure yet, but probably four or five days. Is that important?”

“Only to you, sir.” The clerk scanned the passport, ran the cover through the barcode reader, wondering if the red light would go on—but they almost never did, and it didn’t this time. “Nothing to declare?”

“Nothing at all,” Hadi replied.

“Welcome to Canada. The exit is that way,” the clerk said, pointing.

“Thank you.” Hadi took his passport back and walked to the multiple doors. Western countries were so self-destructively welcoming to their enemies, he noted yet again. He supposed they just wanted the money to be had from tourists. They couldn’t really have such hospitality in their infidel hearts, could they?

 

 

 

H
eads up,” John said. The first two people through the doors were women, and Hadi wasn’t one of those . . . unless the intel was really bad, Clark thought. He’d had that happen to him more than once.

Okay, what are we looking for?
Male, thirty-five to forty-five, average height, maybe a little less by American standards. Dark eyes, not looking around very much, feigned relaxation, but still looking around. Curiosity, but controlled curiosity. He’d be a little tired from the journey. Flying usually tired people out. A little wrung-out from the drinks he’d probably had . . . but he would have slept some, too.

They saw a tan camel-hair coat, mid-thigh in length. It looked Italian.
Hadi was supposedly based in Italy—in Rome—right?
Five-eight or so, medium build, a little on the skinny side. Dark eyes.
Dark as hell, almost black,
John thought. Looking studiously forward, not to the side, pushing a wheeled dolly with one large bag and one small one. They didn’t look that heavy, and the big one had wheels on it . . . lazy or tired? His hair was as black as the eyes were; nondescript haircut. Clean shaven. No beard, perhaps—probably?—deliberately so. Two more people came out behind him, obviously Canadians, fair-skinned and ginger-haired. One waved to somebody to Clark’s right. Wave off. Back to the camel coat. His eyes were moving left and right, but his head remained still.
Good fieldcraft,
John thought at once, on noting that. Then they locked on something: Clark’s head turned and saw somebody in a black suit, like a chauffeur but without the cap, holding a white cardboard sign with KLEIN written on it in Magic Marker.