End of Days (Pike Logan #16)(37)
Jennifer was a little bit of a freak when it came to climbing. I was pretty sure if she spit on her hands she could, in fact, climb down the bricks, but there was no way I was going to try to do that.
She said, “Follow me,” and swung out to the left, letting go of the sill, and clamping on to an old-fashioned iron gutter pipe about four feet away. She began scampering down it like a monkey, and I cursed, thinking I’d just clock the maintenance guy in the head. I’d rather have the police find him instead of me splattered on the pavement.
I heard the bolt-lock turn, raced to the bedroom door and closed it, then crammed my frame out of the window going feetfirst. I slithered down until I was hanging by my hands, then glanced at the pipe a mere four feet away. It looked to me more like four hundred, and if I missed, I was going to have a serious impact with the pavement. I swung a little bit right, then violently left, pushing off the wall with my feet and releasing my hold in a dynamic move.
I gave it way too much energy.
I slammed into the iron pipe hard enough to clock my skull, clamping my hands around it like it was life itself. Which it was.
I cleared my head, then began scampering down to the earth, landing between a row of trash cans, Jennifer waiting on me.
She touched my forehead, a bruise starting to form, concern on her face. I let her take a look and said, “Do you do that shit just to make me look bad?”
Confused, she said, “What?”
I grinned and said, “Nothing. Let’s get out of here, spider monkey. You just saved the day, in more ways than one.”
Chapter 24
Back in our Israeli paid-for Hyatt Regency high-end hotel room, we discussed what the next steps would be. We now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt this guy was somehow involved in the killing of the Ramsad, but we still had no proof of who his masters were—Iran or otherwise—which was the mission.
The text box—which was presumably embedded within the photo on the thumb drive that Qassim had used to send via ProtonMail—was asking about a linkup in Bahrain, and mentioned that the money would be coming with the man to pay for the next “operation.” He was apparently some sort of badass from Bosnia, and had impeccable credentials for unspecified skills. It didn’t say what, but I assumed it was for killing. Included, of course, were the usual bowing down to Allah and proclaiming the world would be free of the infidels, In’shallah. Meaning if God willed it.
The strange thing was the text seemed to be begging the far site to accept the parameters. It wasn’t like Qassim was just stating facts. He was asking for permission, which was weird, given that they were supposedly all working together. He made a hard sell that Iran was demanding this—which also didn’t sound right. If Iran was demanding it, it would just happen. No questions asked. He wouldn’t need to flaunt it in a text.
Given that, there was no doubt in my mind now that this asshole was in the kill chain. The only thing missing was proving it. Right now, we really only had a lot of smoke. A text message that said nothing other than a meeting about money with everything else cloaked in innocuous wording. Nothing illegal, in and of itself, and nothing pointing the smoking gun at Keta’ib Hezbollah.
By the text, he was going to return to get the linkup specifics at noon tomorrow, so we had a time frame. What we didn’t have was a new lead. Or any idea of what we should do about it.
Shoshana said, “So what do we do now? I can’t take this back to Mossad. We have nothing to prove that Keta’ib Hezbollah killed the Ramsad, or anything to prove they didn’t. All we have is evidence that he was involved.”
Knuckles said, “Let him do his little dance again tomorrow, then we just repeat what you guys did. Brett and I will do the B&E, clock back the Time Machine, and see what the message says.”
Jennifer said, “That’s a long shot. There’s only one in a hundred chance it will work. We were lucky that his Time Machine backup took a snapshot at that precise time he was using the program. He could do the entire message thing and more than likely it will be in between snapshots.”
I nodded, thinking. Then said, “There’s only one way to get that message.”
Shoshana said, “How?”
“We need to roll up Qassim after the drop tomorrow. We need that thumb drive.”
Nobody said anything for a moment, still processing my words. Finally, Brett said, “Did I hear that right? Are you talking about conducting an Omega operation on foreign soil when we’re not even operating as Taskforce? Seriously?”
I considered his words, nodded my head, and said, “Yeah, I guess that’s what I’m saying. We need to interdict him after he gets the instructions tomorrow, but before he transmits them. Make it look like a mugging. Rough him up a bit, steal his watch and wallet, and get the thumb drive. We get that lead, and we continue on.”
I looked at Aaron and said, “The point of this is to prove or disprove Iranian involvement, right? This guy that’s doing the linkup isn’t Iranian. He’s sketchy, and he’s sounding like what your Mossad skeptics think—somebody else pulling the strings. We need to sort that out. He’s the guy we ultimately want.”
Aaron said, “So how does our interdicting the Professor before he has the ability to transmit the plan help us? The guy won’t get the instructions.”
“No, he will, but we’ll be controlling the information. I say we roll up Professor, get the message, and then craft our own linkup plan—make him think we’re the cell. We go to Bahrain, roll up his ass, and squeeze him. That’s where the answers will come. And we’ll short-circuit anything they had planned as well. It’s a win/win.”