conflict.
It disgusted Bakr that the Muslims here would turn to the West as their savior, going so far as to put up a monument commemorating their weakness. Maybe if they didn’t act so much like the infidel, they wouldn’t have needed the help of the infidel.
He walked through the old section of the city and entered into the close-packed neighborhoods to the north. Using Juka’s directions, he approached what he thought was the safe house. It was hard to tell, since all the buildings looked the same, but this was the only house with a large concrete planter in the front yard, looking like a horse trough filled with dirt. Juka said it had been put up after a mortar round had landed in the street, but that it now served to keep people away from the front of the house. He could always call the number Juka had given him for the clean safe house somewhere nearby, but preferred to use that as a last resort.
Bakr glanced around, seeing nothing more than a couple of pedestrians walking away from him and a woman beating a rug on an upstairs balcony down the street. He went around the left side of the house and jumped the waist-high concrete wall of the courtyard. He moved to the northeast corner and squatted down. Looking closely at the ground, he searched for a length of twine coming out of the neglected patch of flower garden. Pulling gently, he followed it for a foot and a half, eventually pulling up a key. He smiled. He had the right house.
Bakr unlocked the back door and swung it open without going inside. He stood and listened for thirty seconds. Hearing nothing, he walked slowly into the house, smelling the musty, cloying odor of a space rarely used. He searched throughout the downstairs and upstairs, slowly walking and listening for anyone or anything. Eventually he was satisfied that the house was empty.
He moved to the front and peeked out the window, getting a clear view up and down the street. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. The woman continued beating her rug, dust swirling around her head, giving her a halo in the afternoon light, but nothing else was moving. He found the basement door and went downstairs, fumbling a second before finding a light. He took a moment to let his eyes get used to the dazzle.
Against the back wall, stacked from the dank floor to within a foot of the ceiling, were enough explosives to take out an entire city block. He saw blasting caps, AK-47s, blocks of Semtex, ball bearings, remote-control aircraft components, cotton vests, wiring, and anything else he might need to build his suicide weapon. It would take him some time to integrate his special detonator, but he had the expertise to make it work.
Lucas waited on his men outside of the Sarajevo customs area, where he was the first to make it through. The team didn’t have to worry about anyone in customs searching their bags — they were using black diplomatic passports secured by Harold Standish through contacts inside the National Security Council.
He hung up his cell phone for the third time. For some reason he had no contact with Mason at all. The phone simply rang and went to voice mail. He chalked it up to a sorry cell network. He watched the first team member come through the customs hallway, carrying his duffel bag covered in military patches.
96
On final approach to the Sarajevo airport, I could see a flurry of activity on the tarmac. Instead of airport workers in yellow vests, I saw a bunch of guys in business suits casing the place. Getting on the headset, I asked the pilot what was going on.
“Some sort of ceremony in town today. They got dignitaries coming in from all over Europe.”
Knuckles cut in. “That’s great. Should make our illegal exfil with a captured terrorist that much easier.”
I grinned at him. “Come on. What’s the point of living on the edge if you don’t lean over a little?”
He just shook his head.
The pilot said, “Might work out better for us. We’re being directed to land at the old military side of the airport — away from all the security. Should be able to come and go freely from this end.”
The Taskforce team exited the Bell 427 while the rotors were still turning, the whine of the engines slowly growing weaker. I was itching to get started. “We need some vehicles. Anyone know anything about this airport?”
One of the pilots responded, “Yeah, there’re a couple of car rental places inside. The terminal’s small, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find.”
I wanted to start barking out orders but held back, waiting on Knuckles.
“Okay,” he said, “pilots stay here, ready to move. Keep the helo on strip alert, because we’re probably coming back fast. Be prepared to flex to Tuzla. If I see the security’s too tight, we’ll exfil from there with the package. Retro, you and Jennifer go find a couple of rental cars. Something big enough to carry up to two more men than we have. You know what we’re looking for.”
Jennifer and the man called Retro had started to leave when one of the pilots shouted, “Wait. I’ll go with you.” Jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Knuckles, he said, “He always wants ‘strip alert,’ but we usually end up sitting around for days, begging for food from anyone who passes by. I’ll get a car for us as well.”
After they left, Knuckles asked me, “Well, what do you think? What’s the play? Go in hard right now?”
He was doing all the right things, taking input from everyone, making me a little proud for no reason whatsoever.
“No. I think we should get the cars and conduct a recce to get a feel for what we’re dealing with. From there we can make a plan.”
Knuckles nodded. “Yeah, I agree.” He started giving orders. “Break out the visor cams. We don’t have a lot of time to go pure clandestine, so don’t worry about a deep install.”
Jennifer and Retro returned in two beat-up sedans within twenty minutes, with the pilot right behind them. No sooner had they exited the cars than four men began rigging one for clandestine surveillance. Using four cameras the size of lipstick tubes, they hid them in the upholstery and fed the lines into a digital recording device. The cameras would give a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view around the chassis, allowing detailed planning against the target.
While the car was being rigged, Knuckles and I studied a map of the target area with Bull, the man he had selected to conduct the reconnaissance. Knuckles had picked him because he most closely resembled the indigenous population, and I’d given him the leather jacket I’d bought as additional camouflage.
Knuckles asked me, “You ever been here? What’re the neighborhoods like? Is it like Fallujah where everyone knows you don’t belong?”
“I haven’t been in that neighborhood, but you know the city’s a significant tourist attraction, at least as far as Bosnia goes. I’d say that most of the tourist stuff is centered on the sights downtown but they probably see strangers quite a bit all over the place. It’s probably not suspicious to drive by, especially just once.”
An idea hit me. “Hey, why don’t you take Jennifer as some eye candy? She’s pretty good under stress, and she’s already dressed like a Bosnian woman. She’ll lower the profile if she’s in the car. If they have some sort of early warning going on, they won’t suspect a couple.”
Knuckles chewed the idea over for a few seconds. “Yeah, that’ll work. Bull, you got an issue with that?”
“No. It’s not like we’re going into a gunfight. She’ll be much more of an asset than a liability.”
I saw Jennifer getting a little aggravated with the talk going back and forth, as if she weren’t there or didn’t have a vote.
“You game for that?” Knuckles asked her. “All you’d have to do is ride and keep your eyes open.”
She said, “Yes. I can do that. Thanks for asking. I figured you were just going to tie me to the front seat no matter what I said.”
Knuckles looked at me like he was going to scrub her participation.
“She’s good to go,” I said, smiling at her. “She just likes to be the one telling people what to do. She doesn’t listen to me either.”
Jennifer purposely ignored me. “You’re Bull, right?”
