The Forgotten Soldier: A Pike Logan Thriller (38 page)

76

K
halid folded his napkin and saw that Haider was conflicted by Sharif’s demand that he travel alone to retrieve the vehicle, but also knew that Haider’s father understood the same thing that Khalid had in Afghanistan: Haider wasn’t a killer. He wanted to impress his father, but he didn’t understand the sacrifice expected.

Haider was not cut from the same cloth as his father. He was anointed as a son by simple fate, but Khalid understood that having a name didn’t mean one was worthy to wear it. He had none, and yet Haider’s own father saw the difference. A name indicated nothing about the true essence of a man, but in his world, it held a power like none other. And he was going to earn one.

Khalid said, “Haider, I told you. Your father wants to protect you. I’m expendable. I get the car and bring it back. You wait here. It’s what he wanted.”

“Why didn’t he tell me this? Why did he give you the order directly?”

“You told me to wait for his call. You were in a meeting. He called. That’s all it is.”

Khalid saw the suspicion blossom and said, “Haider, I’m with you. I’m with your father. I am dedicated to the mission.”

“That’s what concerns me. You never liked my father before. You called him one more bloated citizen. You talked me into going to Afghanistan
because
my father said it was a bad idea.”

Khalid said, “We all learn. We grow. Let me get the car, and quit worrying about things that don’t matter. You have to see the secretary today. Let that be your focus. Let me do what your father asked.”

Haider squeezed the napkin in his fist, then threw it into the middle of his breakfast. Khalid sat still, waiting. Knowing that Sharif was right. Haider did not have it in him to fight.

Haider fumed, glancing around to see if anyone had seen his actions, then said, “You’ll bring the car here, right?”

Khalid said, “Yes. Of course I’ll bring it here. Why would you ask that? We are brothers.”

Haider said nothing, waving him to the door. Khalid left the hotel out the side exit, on foot, not caring anymore about Haider’s feelings. He was on a new path, and if that meant pushing Haider out of the way, so be it.

The cold slapped him as soon as the door closed, a light dusting of snow coating the streets. He shivered and tightened his overcoat, cursing under his breath. He looked at his map, then began walking. In minutes he’d left behind the pure Norwegian world of Oslo and entered the new reality of Gronland. An area densely packed with immigrants from a variety of Muslim countries, it had become a hotbed of tension between the newly arrived and the native Norwegian population. While the same snow fell here, it was a small microcosm that resembled Beirut more than Oslo, with the same fault lines.

Layered underneath the conflict with the government was a battle between radical and moderate Islam, with most immigrants wanting nothing more than to live their lives, but a small minority espoused fanatical views that were vocal enough to seem to represent them all.

In 2014, one such group threatened a new 9/11 if Gronland weren’t made into a Sharia state ruled by the Quran. Their manifesto proclaimed, “Bar this city quarter and let us control it the way we wish to do it. This is the best for both parts. We do not wish to live with dirty beasts like you.”

It was a mere ten blocks from his hotel, but a universe away culturally, with women wearing niqabs and children in head scarves because of belief rather than the weather.

Truthfully, he felt more comfortable the deeper he penetrated. He passed by the Islamic Cultural Center and saw his garage at the end of the road.

Located in a small spit of parking lot with a roll-up door, it was sandwiched between two more respectable establishments, one selling secondhand clothes and the other plying halal grocery products.

He went to the door on the right and rang the bell. A teen answered, his effort at toughness belied by his pathetic attempt to grow a beard. Khalid said, “I’m looking for Abdul-Haq.”

He heard a voice deeper in asking in Arabic who was at the door. The teen answered, and an older man of about sixty came down the hall. Khalid said, “Abdul-Haq?”

“Yes.”

“I’m from Sharif al-Attiya. I believe you have a vehicle and some other items for me.”

Abdul sent the teen away and opened the door. Khalid entered, and Abdul said, “How is Sharif?”

“He’s fine.”

“I haven’t seen him since our time in Afghanistan. He has done well for himself. I was surprised to get the request. I would not think he would want to soil his hands with such direct engagements.”

Khalid was taken aback at the connection, and realized why Sharif wanted him to eliminate the man. He was making sure nothing led back to him, and he was willing to kill a friend to do so. The fact spoke volumes about Sharif’s commitment, and far from causing Khalid to wonder about Sharif’s loyalty to follow through on his pledge to Khalid, it made him more resolute. He would need to be as strong as Sharif if he were to earn the right to work by his side.

They entered a small bay with a late-model Range Rover filling it.
Abdul said, “Here it is, and it’s a work of art. The explosives are double sealed in the fuel tank. Not even a trained canine will detect them.”

He opened the driver’s-side door and leaned in, reaching beneath the seat. He pulled out a metal container the size of a cigarette box. In the center was a spring-loaded hinge. He flicked it open, revealing a metal on-off toggle switch and a button.

Abdul said, “It’s simplicity itself. One, flick the switch to on. Two, press the button. That’s it.”

Khalid said, “Nothing else?”

Abdul closed the protective cover. “No. Sharif said he wanted it simple and direct. There are no timers or anything else. Obviously, someone will have to be in the vehicle to detonate, and the ignition must be turned on.”

“How big will the explosion be?”

“It will obliterate the car, that’s for sure. Anyone near it will be killed. Speaking of which, the only way someone will suspect anything is by the fuel gauge. The tank now holds only five gallons, but will show full. If you run out of gas, it will look strange.”

Khalid said, “And the weapons?”

Abdul went around to the rear, opening the hatchback. He rolled a section of the carpet away, revealing a hidden container set into the body of the vehicle. He opened it, and Khalid saw two folding-stock AK-47s and a Czech CZ 75 pistol.

Khalid withdrew one of the AKs and cycled the action, making sure it functioned. He did the same with the pistol and Abdul said, “You have experience with this, I see.”

He replaced the weapons and said, “A little. I understand payment has already been made?”

“Yes. I won’t ask what you intend to do with these weapons, but give Sharif my support. If he is involved in this directly, I’m sure it is something important.”

Khalid closed the hatchback, then rotated until Abdul was
between him and the vehicle. He said, “I will, I promise,” then wrapped his arms around Abdul’s neck, jerking backward sharply.

Abdul’s eyes bulged and Khalid felt his neck snap, then smelled a foul odor as Abdul’s bowels released. Khalid gently laid him on the floor.

He knelt next to the body and yelled for the teen, saying Abdul needed him. The youth sauntered in, all bluster and bad attitude, then saw Abdul.

His face registered shock and he ran to the body, shouting, “What happened?”

Khalid waited for him to kneel down, then said, “I killed him.”

It was the last thing the boy ever heard.

77

S
itting on a park bench across from the main entrance to the commercial section of the Alpha Bank, Knuckles said, “Doesn’t look like the noon rush is what we thought it would be.”

I said, “Yeah. I hear you. I wanted more folks than this, but I guess nobody goes to the bank anymore after the shutdowns last summer.”

I wanted a crowd of people inside to generate a lot of press, with folks running to the nearest TV camera to breathlessly detail the insane American inside. But it didn’t look like I was going to get it.

Knuckles said, “Want to initiate now, or wait a bit?”

“Let’s give it a couple more minutes. Maybe the lunch crowd shows up later than in America.”

“We wait too long and Jennifer’s going to need some more Clif Bars.”

“Yeah, I know.” Truthfully, I was feeling the pressure of our plan, and wasn’t so sure I wanted to initiate. It was borderline insane.

Knuckles had rented the safe-deposit box yesterday, wearing some Hollywood makeup, with his nose longer, his cheeks stuffed with cotton, and a cheesy handlebar mustache. He had it on again today for his little play, and it made him look ugly. He was no longer the hot hippie SEAL.

For my part, I had on a wig of rat-tailed hair, a soiled ball cap on
top of the matted mess, and dark sunglasses. In my case, I
wanted
to look like an Occupy Wall Street hipster.

Knuckles said, “I sit out here much longer, and my glue is going to start peeling off.”

I laughed and said, “Just make sure your squibs are ready to fire.”

He said, “The squibs will fire just fine, but damn, this sounded a hell of a lot easier in the hotel room. Looking at the size of this place now gives me a little pause.”

“It’s still the same plan. Doesn’t matter how big the bank is; all we need to do is get to the elevator and get underground.”

He was right about the size. This branch of the Alpha Bank was huge. It took up a whole block between Panepistimiou and Stadiou Streets, five stories tall, with a myriad of offices handling everything from venture capital to insurance concerns. The commercial branch on Stadiou Street was built of modern glass and stone, grafted onto the rest of the bank’s old architecture stretching north to Panepistimiou.

The problem we had was that we needed to get into the safe-deposit box owned by the Qatar Investment Authority, but we couldn’t do that without a manager’s key. Two were required to open the box, and there was no way to get that key in the limited amount of time we had. Hell, I wasn’t sure there was a way to do it given a year. So I’d opted for a frontal assault.

After kicking around the problem for about two hours, going back and forth, I’d decided we were looking for the wrong solution. We needed the information inside the safe-deposit box, and we were beating our heads against the wall trying to do it clandestinely. I decided a covert approach was just as good.

A clandestine operation, by definition, meant that the opposing force never knew it had occurred. A reconnaissance before an assault, a death engendered by “natural causes,” or a plane crash caused by a “mechanical failure” were all clandestine. At the conclusion of the
mission, nobody was any wiser that an operation had occurred, and that was exactly what we wanted here, but it was impossible.

So I’d opted to embed the clandestine part of our mission into a covert one.

The term
covert
was used ad nauseam in descriptions by the press, but it had a specific definition. It was the close cousin of
clandestine
, meaning that someone knew the action had occurred but had no idea who had done it. A coup in Guatemala where US involvement was unknown, a bridge explosively destroyed without a fingerprint from the perpetrator, or an assassination without anyone claiming credit were all covert. And that was where I decided we needed to go.

Attack the bank, knowing that the action would be all over the news, but cloak the reason for the attack within the attack itself. It was risky as hell, mainly because we couldn’t hurt anyone on the mission, but it was the only solution I could find.

At the end of today, they’d definitely know we’d been inside the bank, but I didn’t really care. The
why
we were inside was all I wanted to camouflage. In no way could I let word get out that we’d targeted a specific safe-deposit box, with the QIA realizing they’d been breached. That would cause all sorts of repercussions for the follow-on chase.

The biggest problem we had now was that they’d have Knuckles’s and Jennifer’s information on the rental of our safe-deposit box. It was all fake, of course, but a thread nonetheless. Nothing I could do about that, and it was a risk I was willing to take.

Talking about it today was a smidge of too little too late. After all, we already had Jennifer inside prepping for our escape.

I keyed the radio and said, “Koko, Koko, you a go to execute?”

She came on immediately. “This is Koko. Roger. The sooner the better. I’m ready to get out of here.”

I called Nick, currently monitoring all of the video feeds and
shouldering the responsibility of shutting down select ones when asked. “Veep, we still have control?”

“This is Veep. Roger. Creed’s got complete control now. No record.”

That was good news. The last thing I needed was to be seen on the nightly news in a grainy surveillance video.

I said, “Roger,” then switched to Brett, currently hiding in a sliver of alleyway two buildings over. “Blood, Blood, you secure and ready?”

“This is Blood. Roger all. I’m tucked in tight behind a Dumpster. I can stay for a little while, but don’t push it. I keep seeing folks leave the building to smoke. Sooner or later, one’s going to come over to the van and ask me what I’m doing.”

“Good to go. We’ll be in and out in less than an hour.”

Knuckles followed up with, “We hope.”

I smiled. Off the net I said, “You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Okay. Let’s rob a bank.”

He stood and said, “For Guy.”

I bumped his fist and said, “For Guy. See you on the inside.”

He walked away without looking back. I saw him disappear from the street, going into the side entrance of the old section of Alpha Bank. I gave him a minute, then stood up, shouldering a black duffel bag. I walked toward the modern granite-and-glass structure of the commercial entrance, keying my radio.

“All elements, all elements, it’s showtime.”