Counterblow Page 8

She returned the smile and said, “Mr. Gusev, that changes everything. Why don’t you take a seat right here?” She gestured to a series of leather armchairs across from the counter and to the right.

  “That would be perfect,” Javin said and looked at the security officer.

  His dark face registered an expression of disappointment that he wouldn’t be able to throw Javin out of the building.

  “Would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee?”

  “I’ll have some coffee, please.”

  “Honey? Or sugar?”

  “No, thanks. Black is fine.”

  “Certainly.”

  Javin took a seat, while the receptionist disappeared through a door to her left. She returned a minute later. “It will be ready soon.”

  “Thank you, again.”

  She brought a golden tray with a traditional coffee pot, called dallah, a cup, and a bowl of dates. The coffee’s strong aroma filled the area before she even started to pour it in a mini porcelain cup, finjaan. Javin thanked her and held the handle-less cup with his right hand. He savored the aroma again, then brought the cup to his mouth.

  “Mmmm, this is the best coffee I’ve ever had,” he said after taking a small sip.

  The woman gave him a radiant smile. “Let me know when you want more.”

  She placed the pot on the tray set on the coffee table across from Javin.

  He reached for a date and chewed it slowly. It was extremely sweet and rich. He kept a small piece in his mouth and sipped the coffee. The sweet taste of the date balanced the sharp, strong coffee.

  Al-Attiya’s meeting lasted longer than Javin had anticipated, but he didn’t mind it. The waiting room was quiet and the armchair comfortable. The receptionist served him a second cup while he scrolled through a couple of emails that Fang had sent him. Tonight, the team he had assembled would attempt to penetrate the electronic defenses of the Chinese airbase at Malan and steal an armed CH-4B drone.

  Fang had learned that the base was running a training exercise during the night, where the drones were fully loaded with missiles and GPS-guided bombs. The team had run a simulation the previous night, where they had successfully broken through a series of firewalls and other electronic security defenses. Javin didn’t understand much of Fang’s hacker jargon, but it was clear that he was confident they would be able to commandeer the drone. A hangar a few kilometers south of the base had already been located as the perfect place to store the drone. There, a team would disassemble it, and Mila would assist Javin with the transportation outside China and into Syria.

  He had just received a new email from Matthias, but he didn’t have time to review it. The door of a room to his left opened, and three men dressed in white thobes, the traditional robe worn by most men in Qatar, stepped out. Then came Al-Attiya, who was wearing a gold-and-white thobe and a white-and-red checkered headdress. The thobe was spotless and fit perfectly around the man’s thin body.

  Al-Attiya shook the hands of the men and began to walk them along the hall toward Javin. The Qatari businessman was in his early sixties, with a pockmarked face, small brown eyes, a beaked nose, and a thin mustache the color of charcoal.

  Javin stood up. Time to face the music, traitor.

  When Al-Attiya noticed Javin in the reception area, the Qatari businessman didn’t even flinch. He made no eye contact with Javin, but reached for a phone in his robe’s pocket.

  Javin couldn’t let him call security, so he stepped forward. “Salam Alaykum, Mr. Al-Attiya.” The common Arab greeting meant “Peace be upon you.” Javin said, “May I have a minute of your time?”

  “I will be with you shortly,” Al-Attiya said in English in a firm voice, with barely a hint of an accent. He gave Javin a sly grin and put the phone next to his ear.

  Javin had seen that grin before. It was bad news. So he said, “Sir, this is extremely important. It has to do with your recent business trip to Dubai, where you… eh… talked to Mr. Hossain.”

  Asad Hossain was the man that, according to Matthias’s intelligence, had procured a woman for Al-Attiya’s pleasure during his trip last week.

  Al-Attiya’s face froze when Javin mentioned the associate’s name, then his face pulled into a frown as he gave Javin a menacing glare. The Qatari moved the phone away from his ear, tapped the screen, and put it in his pocket. He attempted to give his associates a farewell smile, but his lips just produced a small scowl. He gestured for Javin to follow him to the conference room from which he had just emerged.

  After Javin entered, Al-Attiya closed the door, then turned to Javin. “Who do you think you are, Pierce?”

  Javin shrugged. “Relax, nobody will know about your secret.”

  “What secret?”

  “Your ‘business’ trip to Dubai. Your relationship with Hossain and the pleasures with the women he finds for you.”

  Al-Attiya grinned. He stepped closer to Javin. “You know, Pierce, better men than you have tried to threaten me, blackmail me. They’ve failed, and you will too.”

  “You’re misunderstanding me,” Javin replied in the same firm tone that Al-Attiya had used. “I’m not here to threaten you. I don’t want your money. I just want the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “Why did you betray me and my team?”

  “Betray?” Al-Attiya spread his palms in front of him. He arched his bushy eyebrows. “What are you talking about?”

  Javin said, “We were followed by Saudi operatives every step of the way. They were outside the Morocco Nights restaurant where we first met. They tracked us down to Bahrain, then Barcelona. There was only one man who knew about all those places. You.” He pointed his index finger at Al-Attiya’s chest.

  The Qatari’s face showed no emotion. “Incorrect, Pierce. Many people knew about your movements. People in your own agency, in Mossad. Your Bahraini friends.”

  Javin shook his head. “No, I’ve gone over it many times. I’ve studied everyone. You’re the only one who knew everything.”

  It was Al-Attiya’s turn to shake his head. “Pierce, you’re mistaken, but you’re very stubborn. Nothing I say will change your mind. I’m telling you I had nothing to do with this, but you don’t get it. You don’t want to get it. Why would I betray you?”

  “Because you had a dirty deal with the Saudis, working against your master.”

  Al-Attiya’s eyes turned into small slits. His hands formed tight fists. “That’s a lie, a dirty lie. I’m not going to let you ruin my reputation.” He reached for his phone again. “Pierce, get out of here before I throw you out…”

  Javin cocked his head. “You can’t be serious…”

  “I’m dead serious.” Al-Attiya gestured with his hand toward the door and turned his body slightly in that direction. “You either walk out of here now and never come back, or I will make sure you’ll never walk again…”

  Pierce locked eyes with Al-Attiya for a long moment. Then the operative shrugged. “You’re making a serious mistake, Al-Attiya. A deadly mistake.”

  Al-Attiya shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

  Javin sidestepped the Qatari and opened the door. He didn’t look back, but said in a low voice, but loud enough for Al-Attiya to hear him, “You’ll regret this, but it’s already too late.”

  Chapter Twelve

  World Trade Center Doha

  Doha, Qatar

  Javin had painted a bull’s-eye on his back when he decided to confront Al-Attiya. The CIS operative had no illusions that he had escaped the wrath of the prince’s aide with a simple send-off from the building. The man wouldn’t rest until he had buried Javin.

  The Canadian wasn’t going to make it easy for Al-Attiya.

  He hadn’t expected the Qatari to reveal the reasons for betraying Javin’s team to the Saudis. It mattered little in the grand scheme of things, since the operation was over, and Javin knew the truth. But he wanted to offer Al-Attiya a way out, knowing that because of his arrogance, the Qatari would refuse it and sign his death w
arrant. Perhaps it wasn’t the cleanest way for Javin to wash his hands of Al-Attiya, but what was done was done.

  He glanced at his wristwatch. He was still in time for his next meeting, which, like this one with Al-Attiya, wasn’t scheduled. But Javin hoped this meeting would be successful. Otherwise, I’ll have to find a different strategy.

  He checked his email account and read the short email from Matthias. The Mossad agent confirmed that nothing had changed in the plan for the Mossad team to travel to Syria. Javin smiled. That’s good.

  Then he looked over his shoulder and toward the entrance to the World Trade Center. A couple of men in gray suits had stepped out and were standing by the glass doors. They were glancing once in a while in Javin’s direction, trying to be as secretive as possible, but failing miserably.

  Javin didn’t mind having Al-Attiya’s watchers on his back, but he’d rather they didn’t follow him. If one of them became impatient or was trigger-happy, they might intervene and derail Javin’s plans. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

  So he strolled toward the north until he reached Jurnin Street. He didn’t turn his head around, knowing the watchers were right behind him. He flagged a taxi, but didn’t take the first yellow-and-teal vehicle that stopped next to him. Javin was looking for a younger driver, one who wouldn’t mind driving a bit faster and perhaps more aggressively than usual, if it became necessary.

  The second cab driver also didn’t fit the profile.

  The third one was a man in his late thirties or early forties, dressed in a white shirt and a pair of beige pants. He had a pair of black sunglasses on and a full beard. When he stopped his Toyota sedan a few steps away from Javin, the CIS operative dashed toward the taxi and jumped into the backseat. “Al Faisal Tower,” he said to the driver in Arabic.

  The driver nodded. “Yes, okay.”

  He merged with the fast-moving traffic.

  Javin looked to the left. The pair of surveillants was rushing to climb into a taxi right behind them. He leaned closer to the driver and said, “How long does it take?”

  “Usually, five, six minutes. But at this time of day, there’s a lot of traffic. Especially on Al Shatt Street.”

  “Are we going to get stuck there?”

  “We might.”

  Javin grinned. “That should be okay.”

  The driver turned down the music coming from the car’s stereo, which was playing some Arabic hip-hop tune. “You like music?” the driver said.

  “It’s all right.”

  “This guy is Triple G, from Bahrain.”

  “Sounds all right, but don’t turn it up.”

  “No problem, my friend.”

  Javin shifted in his seat and looked at the sideview mirror. The other taxi was about twenty meters behind.

  “How much does it cost?”

  “Twenty-five riyals.”

  Javin made some quick mental calculations, converting the local currency into US dollars. It was a little over seven dollars. “I’ll make it forty riyals for you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said in a warm tone.

  Javin pulled two twenty-riyal banknotes from his wallet and handed them to the driver. “Take them now.”

  “Okay, but why?”

  “I like to pay in advance, since I’m going to make a quick exit.”

  “Sure.”

  The driver put the money in his shirt’s pocket, then turned the steering wheel.

  They drove in silence until they came near the intersection of Omar Al Mukhtar Street and Conference Center Street. The traffic light up ahead switched to red, and the driver hit the brakes. “We’re stuck.” He gestured with his hand at the long line of vehicles formed in front of him and on the other three lanes.

  Javin looked at the sideview mirror, then over his shoulder. The taxi with the two surveillants was in the next lane to his left, about ten meters behind. He decided to wait no longer. The CIS operative flicked the door latch and jumped outside.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” the driver called behind him.

  Javin ignored the driver, threw the rucksack over his shoulders, and bolted toward the next taxi.

  The surveillants had seen him.

  The man on the right side opened the door and tried to get out, but Javin was already at the car. He kicked the door, slamming it into the man who had managed to get half his body out of the door. The man reached for his pistol in the shoulder holster, but Javin grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm. He shoved the man against the car and wrestled the gun out of his hand.

  The other surveillant had already stepped out of the vehicle and had drawn his pistol. He trained it on Javin’s head. Before the surveillant could take a shot, Javin stepped behind the first man and hid behind his body. The CIS operative cocked the pistol and rammed it against the man’s temple. “Drop your gun,” he shouted at the gunman, “or your friend’s dead.”

  The gunman hesitated, but didn’t lower the pistol.

  “Do it, or I’ll kill him.”

  Honks and shouts came from the vehicles surrounding them.

  Javin started to worry someone might bolt out and try to break up their fight. He took a couple of cautious steps to the side, always making sure he was completely hidden behind the surveillant.

  The gunman flinched and seemed to ponder his actions.

  “Now, or I’ll blow his head off,” Javin shouted.

  The gunman nodded, then lowered his pistol. “All right, all right, just let him go.”

  “Toss it this way. Over the taxi.”

  The gunman de-cocked the pistol and slid it across the taxi roof toward Javin. He wasn’t able to grab it, and the pistol fell onto the ground.

  The traffic light behind him must have changed to green, because the vehicles around him began to move slowly. Javin stepped even closer to the taxi and continued to hide behind the surveillant, in case some “Good Samaritan” decided to drive toward them. The taxi driver, an old man who looked like he should have retired twenty years ago, was frozen in his seat and had his hands up in the air.

  More honking, shouting, and curses came from all around him. Javin aimed the pistol at an SUV that seemed to be coming a bit too close to the taxi. The SUV driver returned to his lane, then sped away, after yelling a string of curses at Javin.

  He let go of the man he had been holding as a hostage and reached for the pistol on the ground. The man pirouetted and tried to kick Javin in the head. He had anticipated the man’s reaction and was prepared for it. Javin grabbed the man’s foot and twisted his ankle hard. The man screamed in pain. He fell onto the asphalt, hitting it with his knees and elbows. The snapping noise of a knee joint breaking and the howling of the man told Javin it had been a hard landing. The man wasn’t going anywhere soon.

  Javin put away one of the pistols in the small of his back, then walked to the second surveillant while holding the other pistol in his hand.

  The surveillant began to tremble. “Don’t… don’t hurt me,” he said in a shaky voice.

  “I won’t, but don’t follow me. Take care of your friend.” He gestured with his head toward the front of the taxi.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll do that. I will.”

  Javin nodded, then looked at the other lanes. He took advantage of a small gap in traffic and darted across the street as he hid the second pistol in his waistband. Passersby seemed to be going about their business without any care in the world. Maybe they hadn’t noticed or paid attention to the scene unfolding in front of their eyes, considering the stream of vehicles rushing along the street. Javin had also found that most people weren’t particularly good about or attentive at observing their surroundings.

  He found a trash can, then looked surreptitiously around the square. He was to the side of the Al Faisal Tower. He looked toward the impressive building with fifty-four floors, with a height of two hundred and twenty-seven meters. Its unique design was of a structure with a concrete core on either side of a suspended, curved geometric prism where the off
ice spaces were located.

  Javin glanced around, and when he was convinced no one was paying any attention to him, he quickly discarded both pistols inside the trash can. He covered them with some of the food containers and napkins that were close to the top, being careful not to stain his hands. Then his eyes went across the square and to the street. The teal taxi was gone and so were the men who had been following him. Javin wasn’t sure if they had heeded his warnings and taken off, or whether they were still surveilling him from a distance.

  He was taking no chances.

  He glanced at his watch. He was ten minutes late, but it didn’t matter. Prince Al-Thani was attending a conference on oil and gas exploration and could step out at any moment. Especially after Javin brought him the good and bad news.

  Javin dashed to the left, walking toward the Twin Towers, one of the other landmarks in the West Bay area, at a brisk pace. Once in a while, he looked over his shoulder. No old or new surveillants.

  Javin rounded the block and drew near to the back entrance of the Al Faisal Tower. About a dozen luxury SUVs and sedans were lined up in the parking lot. A large section was cordoned off with a yellow-and-black ribbon. About twenty or so men in black or gray suits or white thobes were chatting in small groups—bodyguards of the prince and other dignitaries attending the conference. Farther to the right side, there were a couple of police Toyota SUVs.

  Javin didn’t make eye contact with anyone, although he felt the eyes of a few of them fall on him. No one said anything until he came to the entrance. A gray-suited man who had been following Javin ever since he had crossed through the parking lot stepped in the way and held up a hand. “Where are you going?” he asked in Arabic in a sharp tone and with authority.

  Javin smiled at the man. He nodded politely and replied in Arabic, “Salam Alaykum.”

  The man’s face formed a sarcastic frown. “Alaykum Salam,” he said in a voice that matched his glare. His words meant “And peace unto you.” Then, he added, “Where are you going?”

  “I have some business inside.”

  “What’s your name?”