The Mercenary (11 page)

Hmm. Defense Intelligence Agency. The military equivalent of the CIA. Usually not as subtle though, the bad haircuts gave them away. Still . . .

“What field?”

“Economics and—”

“Shit.” Axe threw up his hands. “This is not cocktails at the Officer's Club, Major. Nor is it a classroom at Bolling Air Force Base.” Bolling was the DIA Analysis Center outside Washington. “You're an amateur in this game.”

“What game is that,
sir
?” She leaned over the table and stared at him with those beautiful green eyes. “Drinking and swearing and playing Crud? Singing ‘Sammy Small' or ‘Swing Low'?”

Whoa. What kind of respectable field-grade chick knew about those little ditties? Or the most excellent and sublime game of Crud? Must've been shagged hard by a fighter pilot or two. Axe gazed at her with new appreciation. She was either more versatile than he'd given her credit for or a world-class fighter-pilot groupie. Either way it was an improvement over Miss Major Tightass.

“As I was saying”—Karen Shipman's cheeks flushed again—“and Collections. Advanced Technology.”

Whoops. A field agent. No one ever said
agent
, so it was simply
collections
.

“Enough.” His voice got its edge back at last and the major closed her prim little mouth. “Then you should be able help track down these guys.”

“That is exactly what the general had in mind for me,” she replied a bit tartly.

I'll bet, Axe thought. He stared at Major Shipman, and she stared right back. She had an almost bemused expression on her face that was irritating and sexy all at once. But he took a deep breath and forced his thoughts away from her straining buttons. DIA would have access to most of the spook universe. Money trails, electronic tracers . . . the works. Finding the mercenary maybe just got a whole lot easier.

Chapter
7

L
eaving his
hotel just after breakfast, the Sandman walked out into the forecourt of the
InterContinental. This was a rectangle with one long arm open and facing the
street. The other three sides contained shops beneath covered arcades that ran
along the ground floor.

Given that its clientele were wealthy Arabs and
similarly wealthy foreigners, the InterContinental took security seriously. No
vehicles could approach closer than 100 feet and this dead space was pleasantly
disguised by fountains and orderly rows of date palms. Heavy concrete barriers
had been cast into strangely artistic shapes and were cleverly hidden along all
approaches that a bomb-laden automobile might take. Because of this, a
designated taxi lane was set up just off the street. There were always a few
cabs waiting and, if not, men would materialize from the shadows and hail one
from the busy street.

The Old City was a pleasant place, filled with
expensive shops and shady, tree-lined alleys that kept most of the traffic noise
at bay. Seemingly out for a morning walk, one more elegantly dressed man
attracted no attention. Following Abu Meshad Street as it curved north, the
mercenary paused occasionally to window-shop. Appearing to admire the array of
fine clothiers, he was, in fact, watching reflections in the glass. Not just the
street, but vehicles and people. Occupied parked cars, men loitering on benches,
or anything out of the ordinary.

Stepping into a shoe shop, he spent a half hour
browsing the displays and keeping the front of the store in sight. But no one
passed. No one entered or looked in the window and when he emerged, there were
no familiar forms or faces.

He had no reason to be suspicious and this was
normal for him. A habit. A habit that had kept him alive and free. In truth, the
Mukhabarat
, the secret police, were a great deal
more subtle. Pitted against Israel's Mossad for fifty years, they were too
professional to be caught making obvious mistakes. In any event, there was no
reason why he should have come to the attention of the Jordanian authorities.
But there were others—the Chinese or Israelis, for instance.

Several hundred yards farther he came to the
cream-colored, spiraling tower of the Le Royal Amman Hotel. Crossing the street,
the Sandman entered a side door to the soaring lobby atrium. It was like
standing on the keel of a ship and looking up. Gleaming hardwood floors gave a
faint reddish tinge to the white sandstone walls, and every few feet,
comfortable wicker chairs created a small oasis for weary guests. The heavy
masonry gave way on the upper floors to graceful columns and immense, clerestory
windows.

Strolling unhurriedly through the lobby, he
returned a deferential nod from the doorman at the main entrance. In his dark
Italian suit and burgundy Hermes tie, the mercenary appeared to be simply
another affluent guest.

“Taxi,
sil vous
plait
.”

“
Ouay,
monsieur.” The
valet's accent was atrocious but the point was to be remembered as a French
guest of the hotel. “Where do you wish, sir?”

“Shemeisani District, please.
Vite.
”

“But certainly!”

The Sandman slid across the backseat so he was
directly behind the driver. It was harder for the cabbie to see him and any
suspicious movements would be well telegraphed. But the driver just smiled
broadly and said, “Good morning,” in the sharp Palestinian dialect of
Jordan.

Stretching an arm across the backseat, the
mercenary casually turned to look back as the cab pulled out onto Zahran Street,
did a prompt U-turn into oncoming traffic, and headed west. As usual, the barely
controlled mayhem of Arab drivers was worth watching. With no concept of
queuing, little patience for rules, and absolutely no tolerance for their fellow
drivers, it was always an experience. Add to it the famous Arab fatalism of
insh'allah
—“God wills it”—and the whole trip
became a moving game of Russian roulette.

“Where arr you to be go?” The cab driver asked him
in horrible English.

“
Parle tu
francais?
”

“Eh?”

“Do you speak any French?” the mercenary repeated
in French-accented Arabic. The other man's eyes cleared and he smiled. “No
. . . no French. But your Arabic is very good.”

Understanding him perfectly, the Sandman
nevertheless replied, “I am sorry. Please speak slower.”

“But of course. Where . . . do
. . . you . . . want . . . to . . .
go?”

“Ah.” He nodded and beamed back at the man.
“Shemeisani District, please. Al Ameer Garden.”

“Ten minutes and we will be there. You are
French?”

“No. Canadian.”

“Ah. I have a brother living in Montreal.” He
smiled again, showing stained and broken teeth. “Much better than America.”

That was an ironic statement, the mercenary
thought, since the cab was northbound on Queen Noor Street. Queen Noor, born
Lisa Halaby, was from Connecticut.

Several minutes later, after some honking and
weaving, the cab pulled off Bin Zeid Street and headed into the quieter area of
the financial district. Large cream-colored stone villas sat back from the
street. Each had some sort of fence, usually heavy black wrought iron, and lots
of landscaping. Jordanian city dwellers loved bright pink and blue flowers and
they sprang up everywhere on balconies and window ledges. Most of the villas had
thick glass entryways covering massive wooden doors.

“Anywhere in here is good,” he said as they
approached the park. Pulling a few Jordanian dinars from his pocket he passed
them over the seat and the driver nodded. Most of the cabbies who worked the big
hotels moonlighted for the GID, the Jordanian General Intelligence Directorate.
The Sandman had no doubt his drop-off would be duly reported, which was
precisely why he picked a public garden in one of the busiest sections of
Amman.

Standing by the curb, he admired the scenery until
the cab disappeared, then walked up Al Khouri Street away from the park. He
occasionally stopped to window-shop or chat with a vendor. His clothing and
colloquial Arabic marked him as a Middle Eastern businessman. Non-Muslim
foreigners, even wealthy ones, were treated differently. If possible, they were
politely ignored by upper-class Arabs and continuously harassed by the rest.
Merchants automatically doubled their prices and panhandlers attached themselves
like sweaty, smelly shadows.

Old men sat in the shade of awnings or under
umbrellas on the sidewalk cafés. Some of them had been here before Palestine had
become Israel and Jordan was little more than a British territory. They'd seen
the Six Day War, Yom Kippur and both Gulf Wars. They'd seen their king
successfully straddle the fence and transform Amman into the “New Beirut.” Dusty
robes were exchanged for suits and ties, horses and bicycles for Mercedes and
SUVs, the prayer calls of the
muezzin
competing with
the incessant twittering of cell phones.

Stout middle-aged men ambled along the
thoroughfares, sometimes talking and gesturing on their phones, sometimes
followed by a family several steps behind. Some wore suits or open collars
beneath sports jackets. Others wore the red-and-white headdress of the
Hashemites.

Then there were the young men. Prowling bands of
skinny sharks cruising on foot or in cars. Black slacks with white shirts
proliferated, and dark wraparound sunglasses were back in vogue. They looked at
women, talked about them, and certainly thought of little else. But unlike the
West, unless the female was a fourth world worker or a particularly brazen
tourist they were rarely confronted. The men and boys frequently held hands as
well—something never seen in the West outside of a gay district. And through it
all foreigners and tourists gawked, snapped pictures and spent money.

Boutiques lined the wide street and the Sandman
continued his aimless shopping like any other wealthy tourist.

He was not.

He was snapshotting. The flat, gray eyes behind the
dark glasses scanned faces in the crowd and filed them in short-term memory. He
took random turnings down side streets or suddenly stopped at street vendors. He
changed sides of the street and, seemingly interested a window display, studied
those behind him. Anyone loitering, anyone who stayed in one place, anyone who
stopped when he did.

But there was no one.

A government would often keep tabs on wealthy
foreigners who made repeat visits. Most were businessmen conducting legitimate
and boring business. Some were tourists or wealthy expatriates who simply liked
to travel. But there were also drug traffickers, intelligence agents, and arms
dealers. There were also mercenaries.

The Sandman was certain his true profession was
effectively masked to all but a few. But one never knew. All it would take would
be a chance sighting by an old acquaintance or a suspicious, traceable money
trail. Others in his strange brotherhood had been brought down by a small detail
and never seen again.

So the Sandman believed in details. And he was
still alive and still free.

Eventually passing into the eastern edge of the
Shemeisani District, he stood on the curb in front of the Regency Palace Hotel.
A white Metro cab appeared, heading south, and he crossed the street to hail
it.

“Al Bouseeri Street. At the bend in the road,” he
said in English, and hopped in the back on the driver's side. The vehicle stank
of burnt meat and sweat.

“Yayssur,” the cabbie answered in thick English. As
they moved away from the curb, the mercenary looked back. No one dashed across
the thoroughfare to hail a cab.

Almost exactly two hours after leaving the
Intercontinental, he walked casually into the lobby of the Levant Investment
Bank. Like most premier banks, it had a concierge who catered to corporate
financiers and other big money.

This one caught sight of the tall, well-dressed man
striding purposely toward him and straightened up behind the polished walnut
desk.

“Good morning, sir,” He smiled as only an Arab can
when ingratiating himself. “How may I be of assistance?” He asked in good
English.

“
W'a salaam alaykum
,”
the mercenary replied, and the concierge broke into a huge smile.

“
Alaykum w'a salaam
.
Ah, yes sir.” The concierge was Egyptian himself and continued in the same
dialect. “What may I do for you today?”

The Sandman pulled a slim calfskin wallet from his
breast pocket and opened his passport on the man's desk. He dropped a small gold
key beside it.

“I need to access my box and then to your Executive
Club please.”

“But certainly,” the man replied and glanced at the
proffered identification card. “You are Lebanese,
sidi
?”

“Yes,” the mercenary replied. “North of
Beirut.”

The man clucked sympathetically. “Such a horrible
civil war for so long. I hope things are improving now. It is such a violent
world, is it not?”

“It certainly is.”

The concierge didn't pick up on the mild sarcasm in
the voice or notice the eyes carefully watching his face. He tapped a few keys,
then did a double take at the computer screen. A small white icon showed next to
the man's name. A White Pearl Club customer. He knew of it, of course, but had
never met one of the exclusive group of men—they were all men—who paid for that
level of privacy and discretion.

“Mister Jean Elias Karam,” he looked up and got a
nod. “Sir, it is a pleasure!” Another nod. “The director of Customer Relations
has noted that he is to be called anytime you are present in the bank.”

The concierge reached for the phone but the Sandman
stopped him. “No. Please don't trouble him, Mister . . .”

“Haddad, sir.”

“Mister Haddad. I won't be staying today but will
surely greet the director when I return on Thursday.”

“But of course, sir,” the concierge fairly gushed
with politeness but the Sandman noticed that he'd discreetly flashed the
passport beneath an electronic scanner on the desk. “If you will please follow
me to the vault?”

Jean Elias Karam. A Lebanese national born in the
Maronite enclave of Shikka, north of Beirut, and it was an identity that suited
him well. Many Lebanese were physically larger than other Arabs and had European
features. Like the Palestinians, the Lebanese were recovering from occupation
and there was some sympathy for them in the larger Arab world. This generally
meant exaggerated politeness and few questions. The Lebanese were also famous
merchants and bankers, so movement within financial circles attracted no
attention.

He had no fear about Jean Karam. He had no fear
because the passport was not a forgery. It, and several others he possessed,
were quite real. False passports were too easy to detect. The days of stealing
passports and altering them were over in the security-obsessive,
computer-dominated modern world. Magnetic strips, biometrics and a worldwide
law-enforcement database made forgeries entirely too risky.

Even more sophisticated methods, such as using
social security numbers and national identity numbers of prisoners or deceased
individuals were also perilous.

Several years ago, after his initial disappearance,
the Sandman moved to the Federation of St. Kitts and Nevis and purchased a
moderate villa. Six months later, following a successful contract, he'd quietly
made an “economic contribution” of $225,000 to the tiny island and was granted a
passport under the name submitted on the contribution. It was all perfectly
legal, Caribbean style.