Mason looked at the faded number six written on the plastic and walked back through the dense haze of cigarette smoke until he found the assigned terminal. He passed the desk, continuing to the rear of the shop, where he located the exit, before returning to the computer. Taking a seat, he checked his watch and logged in.
The space was jammed with computer terminals and the people sitting in front of them spanned every nationality in the region. Arabs, Africans, and Asians sat side by side, blowing smoke into the air, while chatting over Internet phones in their native languages. It was a chaotic homogenization of culture and technology that was unique to North Africa.
Mason scanned the room as he waited for the computer to boot up. The connection was slow. He’d already been at the computer for a minute.
Being on the run was impossible without a network, and while Mason had been taught to kill in the military, he had learned to survive from his mentor, Ahmed. Like him, the Libyan was a fugitive, and a deep friendship had grown between them. Over the years Mason had been able to repay the man for saving his life, but he never forgot the debt he owed.
The Internet provided a level of ambiguity, but e-mail accounts could be hacked and traced, so he still had to be careful. Obscure chat rooms provided a way to hide in plain sight by using simple codes, and Ahmed had set up a list of such sites, which they rotated to avoid detection.
It had been a week since their last contact and the site Mason logged in to was for Nissan car enthusiasts. The Web page allowed people to chat on various blogs or privately message another member. After typing in his password, Mason composed a quick message explaining his need to get out of the country.
The message was addressed to “gearhead71” and Mason wrote, “I need a new brake job on my old truck and wanted to know a good time to bring it by the shop.”
Leaning back in the plastic chair, Mason lit a cigarette as the phone in his pocket chirped. Vernon was making a call.
Mason plugged an earpiece into the cloned phone and, shoving the earbud into his ear, hit the answer button. On the same day he shook Vernon’s hand to begin working for him, he’d broken into the spy’s apartment and found the cache of burner phones that Vernon rotated sporadically. Mason hadn’t had time to clone them all, but luckily the CIA man was lazy and soon tired of rotating the phones, which gave Mason the upper hand.
“Yes,” a man’s voice answered. Not someone Mason could recognize, but definitely someone in command.
The connection was bad and Mason assumed that whoever was on the other line was using a satellite phone.
“Are you secure?” Vernon asked.
“I wouldn’t answer if I wasn’t.”
Mason leaned forward and closed his eyes against the babble of the room. He didn’t recognize the voice, but he was immediately struck by the inherent command of the speaker’s tone. This was a man used to giving orders.
“The target made it out of Kona, he’s going to Libya.”
“Libya.” There was a long pause on the line.
“Yes, sir, is that a problem?” Vernon asked hesitantly. He was obviously intimidated by the man on the other end of the line.
“No. Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir, I’m sure. Look, I’ve released his file to the locals, so there’s nothing to worry about. Is everything set on your end?”
“Does he know about me?”
“No, how could he?”
“Because he’s a lot smarter than you are.”
“Look, he has no idea what’s going on. Trust me.”
“I find that people who ask for trust are usually the ones who don’t deserve it. Send Decklin to deal with him, and tell him not to fuck it up this time.”
“Yes, sir, what about the drone?”
“As long as you have done your part, Barnes will take care of the rest.”
“I loaded the override software, and the target’s itinerary has been forwarded to the colonel.”
“Get Decklin to Libya, and take care of this problem,” the voice replied.
“Okay, I’ll—” The line went dead before Vernon could finish his sentence and a second later the spy ended the connection.
Mason felt a chill creep up his spine as he tried to process the conversation. Obviously Decklin and Vernon were up to something, and it involved Barnes pretty deeply.
He’d heard rumors that his old teammate had sold his soul to the private sector, but it sure sounded like someone was putting the band back together. Decklin had many talents, but his lack of ethics was what made him valuable. There was nothing the man wouldn’t do if he thought it would profit him.
Mason had learned this lesson firsthand.
The local intelligence apparatus was a joke, but if Vernon leaked the fact that he was in Morocco, there was no way for him to know who would come out of the shadows for a chance to take him out.
Mason’s hand slipped subconsciously to his pistol. The bulge was reassuring but not practical in the tight confines of the Internet café. Checking his watch nervously, he decided to give Ahmed five minutes to reply and then he had to leave.
He lit another cigarette and felt his foot tapping nervously on the chipped concrete floor. Mason strained to see the front door. It was out of sight, hidden just off to his left.
The computer tab blinked suddenly and a small white envelope appeared at the bottom of the screen. He clicked it open and greedily read the message that appeared.
It read, “Can fit you in on Thursday. Do you need a ride home?”
Mason typed, “See you then — need a ride.”
He hit the enter button, sending the message, and was about to log off when he saw that Ahmed was typing a reply.
His watch told him he’d been at the computer for six minutes.
The new message popped up at the top of the previous one, and Mason leaned in to read it.
“You’re burned, get out now.”
Fuck.
Mason quickly logged off the computer and moved to the front of the café. He handed the man the plastic card and turned his back to the desk while the shopkeeper checked the computer for the amount of time Mason had used.
A black sedan cruised slowly past the shop, its windows tinted dark against the sun.
Relax, you’re good, he told himself.
The Arab was counting out his change and trying to watch the TV at the same time. He fumbled with the coins, dropping them on the floor with a curse. Outside in the street, the sedan had come to a stop near the curb.
Mason’s hand reached for his pistol as a man with a cropped haircut got out of the passenger seat and looked down the street before closing the door behind him.
“Keep the change, my friend, I need to use your toilet anyway,” Mason told the man in Arabic.
The shopkeeper handed him the key to the restroom and returned the bills to the register without taking his eyes off the Bollywood remake he was so engrossed in. Mason weaved his way back to the rear, passed the bathroom, and pushed on the back door. It was locked.
“Seriously?” he asked aloud, cursing himself for not checking earlier.
Mason searched for a latch; there wasn’t one. The door had to be secured from the outside. He was about to kick it open when he noticed the welds on the door frame.
There was a small recess near the door, partially obscured by an empty crate of wire. Mason moved back to the bathroom, unlocked the door, and flipped on the light. The smell of shit and stale urine poured out, and he checked to see if the man was coming before closing the door and wedging himself behind the crate.
It was a bad spot, but it was all he had. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his knife and flipped the blade open with his thumb. Mason ducked down behind the box and prayed the dark corner would conceal him.