He ignored the bleating horns and the maniacal swerving of the cab driver, lost in his own thoughts. He had a lot of preparations and fewer than four days to accomplish them.
He hadn’t realized the cab had pulled over until the driver rotated completely around and pointed to a massive stone archway crossing the road. “Bab Al-Yemen.”
He paid with his dwindling reserve of money, took his suitcase, and gave the name of a travel agency, asking where it was. All he had been told was it was near the gate to the old city. The driver shrugged, saying he had no idea.
On his third attempt, he found someone who knew the location and was happy to see it was less than a hundred meters away, across the square.
The
He entered the old city through the great stone gate and found a hotel, a rundown affair that catered to the lower income. The room consisted of nothing more than a mattress on the floor, a dangling light bulb, and a mirror on the wall, but it was clean. He left his luggage and began to wander the old city, looking for a suitable target.
His criteria was simple: First and foremost, the target needed to bear a fairly close resemblance to himself. Other than that, the target needed to be traveling alone and not necessarily here on business. Someone who wouldn’t be missed for a few days at least. He had decided on Sanaa’s old city for this reason, as most of the people here would be tourists, although he knew the pickings would be slim given the upheavals Yemen had been going through.
He wandered the souks in the darkening gloom, beginning to think this mission might need to wait until after he’d conducted his business. Using Hezbollah’s contacts, he had established a meeting with Khalid al-Asiri, a technical bomb-maker. A member of al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula, the man was reputed to be a master at camouflaging explosives and was responsible for constructing the ingenious printer-cartridge bombs that almost brought down two cargo aircraft in 2010, along with underwear-bomb devices splashed all over the news. The meeting was the following day, in Zabid on the coast of Yemen, and not something he could miss.
If he found nobody tonight, he would have to spend an extra day in Sanaa after his meeting, a day he couldn’t afford. The alternative was to use the tainted Saudi passport. A passport that too many people knew about.
As he stopped in the middle of a spice souk, the smells made his stomach rumble. He was about to leave and search out a restaurant when he noticed a man haggling over a bag of spices. He was younger than the Ghost and didn’t wear glasses, but was slight of build with the same facial characteristics. Unlike the locals in the souk, he was wearing a full-length dishdasha without the ubiquitous sport coat over the top. The Ghost edged closer until he could hear snippets of conversation. His interest picked up when the man, attempting a harder bargain, stated he was leaving in two days and couldn’t come back tomorrow.
He followed the target for another three hours, until it was completely dark. Finally, carrying all of his purchases, the Jordanian entered a hotel, an economic step above his own, but still on the cheap side. The Ghost stopped short in the small lobby and surveyed the establishment. It had a few chairs, a table, and one lone staircase. If he went up, the clerk at the counter would surely see him. Difficult to do what he needed and get away.
The hotel maintained an old-fashioned keyboard behind the counter, and the Ghost took note of the key number handed across, debating his next steps.
He went back outside and surveyed the street. He circled the hotel, looking for a side entrance he could use, but found none. He did find a group of young boys playing in the dirt and came up with an idea.
He approached them and said, “I’ll give you each two hundred rials if you’ll play a joke on my friend inside the hotel.”
The boys were skeptical, but when he produced the money, they eagerly stepped forward.
“All you have to do is tease him until he chases you out. Get him to chase you down the street. I’m going to slip in and surprise him on his birthday.”
Now all smiles, they took the money and began jabbering among themselves, coming up with a plan as they circled around to the front. When they entered, the Ghost waited to the side.
In short order, he heard a commotion, followed by the desk clerk shouting. Something rattled to the floor, bringing on more shouting. Seconds later, the boys came flying out of the doorway, laughing and shouting. The clerk was a few steps behind them, but a lifetime of tobacco ensured he’d never catch up.
As soon as his back was turned, trotting down the street, the Ghost slipped inside and bounded up the stairwell. He quickly looked at doors, finding the one that matched the key he had seen. Not wasting any time on an elaborate ruse, he simply knocked. When it was opened, he pushed the target back, entered, and closed the door.
The man got out one exclamation of surprise before the Ghost hammered his windpipe with the knife-edge of his hand. The target collapsed to his knees, holding his throat. The Ghost threw him on his back, straddled his body, and trapped his arms to his side.
He placed a hand over the man’s mouth and nose, and rode the bucking body until it quit moving. The Ghost held on for an additional minute, then checked for a pulse. Finding none, he searched the body, pulling out the man’s travel documents from a pocket. He opened the passport and was relieved to see the man was indeed from Jordan. The picture looked passable as well.
He slowly stood, feeling shame at what he had done. He glanced at the corpse and consoled himself by remembering the cause he was serving. The fact that the target was Jordanian helped, as the Hashemite Kingdom had a long history of persecuting Palestinians.
He was about to place the passport into his own pocket, when he noticed something that made him feel ill. There was no Jordanian national identification number. The target lived in Jordan, but wasn’t a citizen. Which meant one thing: He was a Palestinian, from the West Bank or somewhere else.
The Ghost had killed one of his own.
Lucas finished packing his possessions, deciding what he would take and what he would be leaving behind forever. He got it all down to a backpack and one duffel bag. It left him no room for any specialized equipment, but with any luck he’d be able to get that in Dubai.
He had a list of Hezbollah contacts all over the world, and routinely used them as cutouts to get hotel rooms and operational equipment. He’d have to be careful setting up any meetings, but with the secrecy of the Martyrs Battalion and his little ploy with the forger, he was fairly confident he could leverage assets outside of Lebanon without them turning on him. It wasn’t like Hezbollah sent daily updates around the globe, and most of the contacts were simply part-time help with a specific skill-set. Hezbollah wannabes, as it were.
He was sure the Ghost had gone to Yemen, but was equally confident he was headed to Dubai next, and he had the location of the
Finished packing, he toyed with the idea of going out on the town. He was leaving Beirut tomorrow, never to return, and hadn’t ever sampled the nightlife here. He’d seen it, of course, the loose women and brash men partying the night away, but had never entered that realm due to the secrecy of his job. In no way could he be entangled with a female inside Beirut. Although he’d often dreamed about it. Snooty little bitches from rich sugar-daddy Lebanese. He would have loved to show one a good time instead of the whores he’d had to pay while on assignment outside of the country.
