This time, D’Angelo entered the country as Rateb Samin, an Iranian expatriate stockbroker living in America. He told immigration officials in perfect Arabic that he was on a short holiday and he came to visit the major religious sites. He drew no attention to himself. However, for added impact, he observed Muslim law by praying at the appropriate hours.
Actually, D’Angelo considered the 5,000-year-old Damascus one of the most beautiful destinations he’d ever seen. As the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world, founded in the third millennium B.C., Damascus is noted for classic architecture. The buildings date back to the time when the city was the center of the Aramaic kingdom. It thrived through the Greek and Roman eras, and continued to flourish with the Byzantines.
Some scholars maintain that the name is owed to Damaskas, son of Hermes. Others attribute the origin to the myth of Askos or Damas who offered Dionysias a skin (skene), a Damaskene. Still other historians argue that the designation belongs to Damakina, the wife of the god of water.
No matter the correct derivation, Damascus has figured into the Old and New Testaments and the Qur’an. It served as the capital of the first Arab state during the time of the Omayyads in 661 A.D. The Omayyads were dedicated to building a workable infrastructure, organizing the city into districts, and providing potable water to the inhabitants, as well as erecting hospitals, palaces, and churches.
One of their great wonders is the Omayyad Mosque. It was constructed on the site of an earlier Aramaic temple, which, if history served D’Angelo correctly, provided a degree of irony. That temple was dedicated to the Aramean god of the ancient Syrians: the god Hadad.
Chapter 52
Roarke grew anxious. Three dead ends turned into four. Four obvious cases of mistaken identity. Then five. Now they were onto the next target, a possibility in Shawnee Mission, Missouri.
The suspect performed at one of the local community playhouses, The Barn Players. He didn’t seem to have a day job, which certainly fit Depp’s profile. He lived in a recently built three-bedroom house on East Green Gables, traveled a great deal, and had just returned home.
Roarke and Davis trailed him for about an hour. He made stops at the theater, a watch repair store, and now he drove his Mercedes, an expensive car for someone without work, into a parking lot at Town Center Plaza, not far from the Sprint World Headquarters on 119th.
“This looks like as good a place as any,” Davis said.
“Might as well be here,” Roarke agreed.
They held back as the man parked about fifty yards up from the stores.
“Let’s see where he goes, then we’ll move,” the FBI agent added.
Once out of the car, the man walked toward a Sharper Image. “Boytoys!” Roarke exclaimed enthusiastically. It made sense that Depp would want anything and everything on the shelves. But it was his appearance that really made Roarke’s heart race.
“This is the guy,” Davis affirmed. Roarke silently hoped he was right. His height and weight were dead on. Too bad a baseball cap made it difficult to get a closer look at his face.
“Sure you don’t want me to go in after him?” Roarke asked.
“Absolutely not. He could nail you in a second. He doesn’t know me from Adam. I’ll shop around a little, then hang back when he leaves. You stick by his car. He’ll come around, and when his back is turned to unlock the car door, we’ll nail him.”
The plan was sound. They talked more about whether to call in backup, but ruled it out. It would take another thirty minutes to get more FBI officers to Shawnee Mission from Kansas City, Missouri.
“You just shop. No grandstanding. You have that?” Roarke demanded.
“Hey, it’s one of my favorite stores. No problem.” But Davis was nervous. He hadn’t worked a takedown in years. He sucked in his gut, gave Roarke a salute, then briskly walked to the store. Roarke watched him enter, but that was all he saw — the afternoon glare off the floor-to-ceiling windows obliterated his view. He didn’t like it. Shit! He wished he’d gone in.
O’Connell was back at Red Square for the third day. He wasn’t used to waiting. He didn’t like it, and now everyone was beginning to look like an old KGB operative. He started each of the two previous mornings feeding the pigeons across from the Kremlin. He hadn’t seen blue sky yet. Smoke from forest and peat fires outside of Moscow made the gray city even gloomier. After an hour’s opportunity to get spotted, he walked to GUM. He spent time going in and out of the stores, visiting only the ones that might be on an American tourist’s itinerary. When that failed, he picked up the Metro at nearby Ploschad Revolyutsii Station and spent the afternoon at the museums his editor recommended.
So far, no one approached O’Connell. Not even another American, which he would have welcomed. By the third day — today — he admitted to himself he was ready to call it quits. Even getting through the typical mess at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport would be a welcomed change. He’d be happier still after his Aeroflot jet touched down at JFK. O’Connell didn’t like playing where the rules were different and so final. And he just kept worrying, what if they think I’m a spy?
Roarke drew his Sig from his shoulder holster and brought it down to his side. He didn’t want to be caught with it in the open, yet at the same time, he couldn’t be unprepared. “Nobody come, nobody come,” he whispered.
Roarke ducked down and went between the rows of cars until he got a good twenty-five feet closer to the store. It took six cars before he lost the sun’s reflection. He leaned against a Ford Focus. His gun was flat to his stomach with the safely off. He thought he could see his man browsing. Davis was behind him and off to the side.
Two minutes. Three. Roarke wished that he had gone to the bathroom before they started the surveillance. Stupid, he thought. Four minutes. Come on already. Don’t you read the catalogue? You should know what you want! Five. That’s when he saw his man making a purchase at the counter.
Roarke took that as the cue to get back into position. This is where it would happen. This is where he would take down Depp. Right here. Right now.
It came from out of nowhere. A little shove from the side, and a hint of a thickly accented “Excuse me.”
“What?” O’Connell turned to his left, but no one was there. Then he looked ahead. Yes. O’Connell caught a glimpse of a man, an older man, already steps ahead of him heading through Red Square in the direction of GUM. He wore a tweed sports jacket with worn elbow patches, black slacks, and dirty, beat-up shoes. He walked slowly, occasionally giving a fleeting, yet thorough, glance back.
The reporter’s heartbeat quickened. That’s him! He had been right. Red Square and GUM. O’Connell congratulated himself for his skills as a spy, then quashed the thought. That’s not who he was.
No quick movements. Do what you’ve been doing, he said to himself. Finish feeding the pigeons and go shopping. When he picked his head up again, the man was gone. He remembered what he had been wearing. The man also had a newspaper rolled up in his left hand. A gun?
O’Connell was suddenly overwhelmed by fear. He found his man.
So had Sergei Ryabov of the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti. A tip from a bell captain at the Sovietsky, one of dozens of hotels he visited, paid off. It seemed money still talked louder in Russia than threats. Ryabov paid 200 U.S. dollars for the information, which led Ryabov to Aleksandr Dubroff in Red Square. He spotted Dubroff walking among the tourists feeding the pigeons. He observed him for five minutes when he thought he saw Dubroff make contact. A brush pass? A comment? Possibly. He held back. Dubroff continued through the landmark square. Ryabov looked for the man he bumped, but he lost him. Ryabov decided to stay with Dubroff. He knew he should call Deputy Ranchenkov, but he wanted to redeem his standing; he wanted to bring in the traitor himself.