“Yes, we’ll be here waiting,” George added but Johnson tapped a key and the screen turned black.
“Did you see that?” Justin asked.
“No, what was it?” George said.
Carrie nodded at Justin’s question. “The news they just gave Johnson,” she explained for George. “From the look on her face, it can’t be good.”
“Well, now she’s gonna take forever to analyze it, so I’m out of here.” Justin stood up and pushed back his chair. “If it’s going to be a long night, I need some coffee.”
George raised his hands. “Wait, what if she comes back on the line while you’re gone?”
Justin shrugged. “You’re the boss. Tell her I had to step out for a minute. But I’ll be back before she does.”
“Wait up,” Carrie said, “I’ll get some tea.”
George sighed. “OK, let’s all take a five minute break.”
“Hi, boss.” Justin pushed the door with his elbow, since he was carrying a coffee cup in each hand. “She’s still not back?” His question pointed out the obvious as the plasma screen showed no image.
George replied with a headshake.
“This is yours. Black.” Justin placed one of the cups next to George’s laptop before returning to his seat.
“Oh, thanks.” George lifted the cup and took a large sip.
“Hey,” Carrie said as she entered in with a teacup in her hands. “How much longer you think?”
George opened his mouth to venture a guess, but the image of Johnson returned to the screen. Her face looked paler and her eyes had sunk deeper into their sockets. “Hello, can you hear me?”
“Yes, yes, we hear you,” George said.
“I’m afraid I have bad news. There has been a series of explosions, car bombs in Tripoli, Libya, about twenty minutes ago.”
“What?” Justin and Carrie asked almost at the same time and exchanged confused glances.
“Yes. The information we’re receiving is still unconfirmed, but it seems four cars exploded close to major hotels in downtown Tripoli.”
“Casualty count?” asked Carrie.
“In the tens, I guess. We don’t have much intel yet, but we’re trying to—”
Justin slammed his fist on the table. He startled not only Carrie and George, but also Johnson, who stopped talking. “That’s why the sheikh left in such a hurry, to escape the Libyan mukhabarat.”
The Libyan mukhabarat was as notorious as its Egyptian counterpart for its powerful revenge, which extended well beyond Libya’s national borders. The looming backlash was more than a match for the Alliance and its leaders.
“Very good, Justin,” Johnson said with a nod. “It is exactly so, confirmed by the sheikh himself. We just received word from him.”
George let out a gasp, while Justin shook his head. Carrie kept her poker face on as she jotted down notes in her notebook.
“The sheikh denied the Tripoli bombing was the work of the Islamic Fighting Alliance,” Johnson said.
“Really?” Justin asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Did he also deny his men ambushed us tonight?”
“No, he took full responsibility for that attack. However, the intended targets were, let me find it…” Johnson shuffled papers on her desk and found her glasses. She began to read from one of the many documents covering her workspace. “Yes, the targets were ‘despicable collaborators of the infidels.’ I’m assuming that was Rahim and his nephew.”
“Very convenient,” Carrie said.
Johnson slid her glasses to the tip of her nose. “These words came through the sheikh’s messenger. It doesn’t mean I believe them. In any case, the sheikh still wants a meeting.”
“No freaking way,” George mumbled just loud enough for Justin and Carrie to hear him.
“This time he’s offering the guarantee of his personal honor to protect his guests,” Johnson continued.
“When and where?” Justin’s eyes flared up.
“He insists the information about the assassination plot is time-sensitive, and he would like to meet tomorrow morning, in Sudan.”
Justin frowned. “Sudan?”
“I’m assuming it’s because of Tripoli,” Johnson replied.
Justin bit his lip. Sheikh Ayman was luring them into the deadly no man’s land. Sudan’s deserts had been the breeding ground of rebellion, civil wars, kidnappings, human trafficking, and all kinds of smuggling for decades. Refusing the sheikh’s invitation, especially after the ambush, would make the CIS appear weak. Justin had spent a long time building his own reputation, and that of the CIS, as brave and fearless. They were not going to start backing down now. He had been to Sudan three times. And had come back unharmed.
He looked to his left at a tense Carrie. Her hand was pulling on the handle of her teacup as if it were a gun trigger. Let’s do it, her blazing eyes told him.
“Do you have the meeting coordinates?” Justin asked.
“Yes. I’ll get them to you.”
“Excuse my interruption,” George said. His voice came out dry and staccato. He coughed then resumed his thought, “but sending a team to Sudan is the same as suicide.”
A wrinkle the size of the Grand Canyon appeared on Johnson’s forehead. She lifted her glasses and peered at George.
“George, let me tell you something.” Johnson’s frown melted and her voice turned soft, taking on a motherly tone. “Cairo is deadly. Sudan is deadly. All of North Africa is a death trap. The whole world is a dangerous place, George, especially for secret agents.” Johnson sighed. Her left hand jerked in a dismissive gesture. “I appreciate your concern, though.” Her voice returned to her normal tone. “Your objection to this mission is duly noted. And overruled.” Johnson’s past as a judge often returned in the form of legal jargon whenever she whipped her subordinates like she used to lash at contemptuous counselors in her courtroom.
“Justin and Carrie,” she continued, “our contacts in the Egyptian Air Force should be able to provide you a safe passage across the border and a safe insertion into Sudan. I’ll get in touch with them.”
Justin nodded.
“The sheikh’s message indicates the drop-off area is about sixty miles south of the Egyptian border. We need to find a neutral intermediary escort to take you to the meeting place.”
Justin pondered the possibilities. The escort would have to be a local warlord with great authority in the area. But his authority could not be too strong, or the sheikh might consider it a threat to his own safety.
Justin nodded. “I know a few people, gunrunners in the area. The name of Ali Abd Alraheem comes to mind. If he’s still alive.”
“I don’t recall him.” Johnson rubbed her temples.
“I last worked with him three years ago.”
“OK, see if he can serve as the go-between and let me know. The sheikh expects an answer in the next hour.”
“He will get one.”
“How do we know we can trust this man, Ali?” George asked.
Justin said, “We don’t know and we can’t trust. Unless a man has taken a bullet for you, never put your trust in them. You’ll be disappointed and you could end up dead. I have worked with Ali but we’re still going down there with eyes wide open.”
A moment later, a stern frown covered his face.
“What is it, Justin?” Johnson asked.
“The change of plans and this detour.”
“Take care of this matter and then you’re off to your sailboat,” Johnson said, faking a smile.
“Yeah, my deposit is nonrefundable,” Justin replied with a grin.
He could not care less about the three-thousand dollar deposit for the forty-two-foot cutter. Justin was worried about disappointing Anna, his fiancée, whom he had promised a ten-day sail in the Caribbean on the eve of her thirtieth birthday. Anna used to work for CIS Legal Services in Ottawa, and their bond was forged during the eventful Arctic Wargame operation. To avoid any conflicts of interest, Anna had moved on to become an in-house counsel for the Canadian bivision of Vigorsoul Pharmaceuticals. Two weeks away from her desk almost never happened.