After her call with Durrani ended, Khalila made another one. Harrison listened to Khalila’s half of the conversation, but didn’t understand much since she spoke in Arabic, although he noticed that Khalila spoke in concise sentences, her tone terse.
Khalila hung up, then turned to Harrison. “We meet with Futtaim tomorrow afternoon.”
She leaned back into her seat, lost in her thoughts for a while, then said, “Our meeting with Hasan did not go well.”
“We got the information we needed,” Harrison replied. “I’d say it was a job well done, aside from almost getting us killed.”
Khalila frowned. “I need to be more discreet.”
Harrison agreed. Her tack with Hasan was bold and it worked, but jamming the knife between his fingers could have been disastrous if she’d hit flesh instead.
“What did you say to Hasan after you put the knife in the table?”
“I pointed out his place in the food chain.”
Harrison contemplated Khalila’s response, plus Hasan’s sudden shift in his demeanor when Khalila pulled her niqab down. Reflecting on the encounter, he realized he had misinterpreted Khalila’s actions. She hadn’t lowered her niqab so she could speak clearly — she had done so to reveal who she was. It seemed that Khalila wasn’t just an ordinary woman, as she had claimed on the flight to Damascus. She had some sort of status in the Arab world.
“And where do you reside on that food chain?” Harrison asked.
Khalila gave him a blank stare. She realized she had slipped up, revealing information about herself that she preferred to keep hidden.
Harrison decided to ask a simpler question, harboring only a glimmer of hope she would answer it. “You revealed to Hasan that you are…?”
When Khalila didn’t answer, Harrison modified his query, hoping to chip away at the mystery. “I assume Khalila is an alias. What’s your real first name?”
Khalila turned away, staring out the car window as they traveled along the congested streets.
22
JDEIDAT YABOUS, SYRIA
The sun was climbing into a clear blue sky as Lonnie Mixell drove northwest on Highway 30M, tapping a thumb on the steering wheel as he traveled along the dusty, desolate road. He was in a good mood; everything was proceeding according to plan, and he would soon be on a flight departing from Beirut-Rafic Hariri International Airport to begin the next phase of his plot.
He was approaching the Masnaa Syria-Lebanon border crossing when his cell phone rang. After verifying the call was the one he was expecting, he answered.
“Everything is arranged,” Issad Futtaim said. “Your item has been procured and is being prepared for shipment. The shipping manifest and instructions for pickup at the destination will be emailed to your account.” Mixell had a few questions, which Futtaim answered, then the Arab ended the conversation with, “It has been a pleasure doing business with you. Please keep me in mind for future procurements.”
The call concluded as Mixell approached the first of two border checkpoints, this one at Jdeidat Yabous, Syria, which marked the beginning of a five-mile trek through neutral territory between the two countries.
Mixell’s cell phone vibrated. It was a unique text-tone vibration, set to one person. Mixell picked up the phone and read the text.
The CIA is gaining ground on you. Your friend Harrison now works for them and is in Damascus. He’s meeting with Futtaim this afternoon.
Mixell replied, What time?
3 p.m. I recommend you tie up loose ends before then.
Mixell slammed a hand against his steering wheel. Harrison was going to muck things up. After contemplating his options, Mixell slowed and turned around, heading back to Damascus. He placed a call.
When the man answered, Mixell said, “I need assistance.”
After explaining his needs and verifying they could be met, the two men struck a deal, which included a dozen armed men. They wouldn’t be as well trained as Harrison, but there would be a lot of them.
Additionally, Mixell wasn’t about to let the outcome rest in someone else’s hands. He asked the man to hold as he pulled up a map on his cell phone, then zoomed in to Futtaim’s building. After assessing the nearby terrain, a plan formed.
“I need some equipment this afternoon,” Mixell said, then detailed his requirements.
“That won’t be a problem,” the man replied.
23
DAMASCUS, SYRIA
Seated beside an open window in his hotel room on the eighth floor, Mixell examined the weapon on the table before him: a Steyr SSG 69 rifle with a ten-round box magazine, propped up by an integrated folding bipod. He placed an eye against the attached Kahles ZF 95 Riflescope, peering through the center crack of the room’s drawn curtains, studying the two men in Issad Futtaim’s office across the street, visible through one of the windows.
Although the Steyr SSG was a highly accurate weapon, Mixell had picked up the rifle only an hour ago and hadn’t had time to acquire a zero. The dealer had assured him the rifle was sighted in, but that didn’t mean a thing; zeros were different for each shooter. Still, for today’s distance, the Steyr was more than up to the task. However, in case he failed to obtain a clear shot or somehow missed, a dozen armed men were only a block away, awaiting his signal.
Satisfied his weapon and mercenaries were ready, Mixell shifted his attention to the laptop computer beside him, connected wirelessly to a satellite, and entered his password. Although the software routine he was about to execute had been prepared weeks ago, he was implementing it earlier than planned; the CIA had tracked him to Futtaim much quicker than he had expected. He entered the security code, then halted the routine one keyboard click away from executing.
Mixell peered through the window, studying the street below as he waited for Harrison’s arrival.
It was quiet in the backseat of the sedan as it navigated the busy streets. A few blocks from Futtaim’s building, Harrison paused from making a mental map of the route Mussan was taking, to examine Khalila beside him. She was dressed similar to the day before, except she wore no niqab this time, just a hijab wrapped around her hair and neck, leaving her face exposed. She had explained that there was no need for concealment; Akram Aboud, Futtaim’s executive assistant, as well as Futtaim himself, knew who she was.
Khalila seemed tense, and Harrison couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling she was holding something back. Before leaving the hotel, she had tested both knives concealed in her jacket sleeves several times, verifying they were easily and reliably retrieved. She recommended he carry a firearm, but that he leave it in the car, since he would be disarmed upon entering the building.
Their driver, Nizar Mussan, also seemed nervous, although it could’ve been Harrison’s imagination. While looking in the rearview mirror, Mussan’s eyes shifted occasionally to examine his two passengers, with keen interest displayed when their case manager, Asad Durrani, called with an update. Earlier in the day, the two-million-dollar bribe had been approved, and Khalila reviewed the account information on her phone.
As they approached their destination, Mussan slowed and pulled over to the curb, stopping a short distance from the entrance to Futtaim’s building.
Harrison was easy to spot, standing a head taller than most, as he and a woman stepped from a sedan. Mixell tucked the butt of the rifle against his right shoulder and peered through the scope, centering the crosshairs on Harrison’s head as he strolled up the sidewalk toward the building entrance. Mixell released the air from his lungs and was about to squeeze the trigger when a bus pulled in front of Harrison, grinding to a halt in the congested street.