End of Days (Pike Logan #16)(46)
She didn’t reply, which meant she didn’t like me telling her what to do. Jennifer said, “You know she speaks fluent Arabic. With her black hair and dark skin, she’ll blend right in.”
I said, “She’d blend in with a bunch of Arabs who are strangers, like in an airport, but that neighborhood is tight. They won’t do anything because they suspect she’s an Israeli—but they might just because she doesn’t live there.”
I’d gotten Omega authority for the Bosnian guy not more than four hours after sending it, which surprised me. Actually, it made me a little bit squeamish, which was unusual, because I was wondering what was behind the blanket approvals. Usually, I had to fight my ass off to get the Oversight Council to approve anything, but now they were doing it every time I asked. It made me wonder if they knew something I did not.
We’d flown out of Switzerland to Bahrain, getting clearance to land and taxi away from the commercial aviation section, to the private, rich man’s land of flying. Once again I was happy to be in a Rock Star bird, but I was sure immigration would be a different story, since we were apparently all Sabra Israelis.
Aaron had made a few calls while we were taxiing, then said, “We’re good.”
I’d said, “How? We’re about to be questioned why we’re here—in a Sunni-dominated country while holding Israeli passports.”
We parked and waited for the interrogation, and then I was surprised. The man who had entered wasn’t Arab. He was Israeli. He asked what we needed in the way of help, and Aaron said, “A couple of rental cars. One sedan and one SUV.”
The man nodded, and I said, “Can we just walk out of here with our luggage? No interference?”
He said, “Yes. The monarchy wants to improve relations with Israel. There will be no repercussions because of your heritage. Let me bring in the immigration officials and get your passports stamped.”
He exited, and I looked at Aaron saying, “What’s going on?”
“We’ve had a secret embassy in Bahrain for years. A front company supposedly doing commercial work. It’s been full of Israeli dual-citizens for over a decade, giving us plausible deniability. When Bahrain signed the peace accords, they meant it, but they understand the pressure that’s going to be brought to bear from the Shiite majority. Because of that, when we arrive, we get special treatment, away from the usual immigration and customs lines.”
I said, “I wonder what Saudi Arabia thinks of that shit.”
He laughed and said, “Everything Bahrain does is with KSA’s approval. They don’t use the bathroom without clearing it through KSA. It was the Kingdom that flooded forces in here to stabilize the Sunni monarchy after the latest uprisings. Trust me, Saudi Arabia knows and approves. We’re hoping to get the Kingdom to come on board soon.”
The Israeli returned with an Arab man in an ill-fitting immigration uniform—like they swapped them out at shift change. He took our passports and gave them the requisite stamps and visas. They both left, and I said, “Mossad?”
Aaron said, “Honestly, I don’t know. Could be. Or could just be a guy working at our secret embassy. Not sure.”
“What about the pilots?”
“As Americans, they’re on their own, but as Americans, they’ll have no trouble.”
I went up to the cockpit and told the pilots the situation, which made them happy. No quarantine, and I promised we weren’t flying for at least two days, so they could get their own jihad on at the Bahrain nightlife.
I returned to Aaron and said, “So we can just unload a bunch of weapons and get out of here?”
“Pretty much. First, we need to get some vehicles.”
He’d sent Jennifer and Shoshana to find them, and then Aaron, Brett, and I had started taking the plane apart, pulling out surveillance gear and weapons we might need, packing them in ordinary suitcases. By the time we were done, Jennifer and Shoshana had returned with a nondescript sedan and another Land Rover.
We’d loaded them up and driven to a hotel, realizing we had little time. The meet was supposed to occur in the next two hours. That, in itself, wasn’t a problem, because the entire island nation could be crossed in forty minutes, but we wanted time to assess the linkup location.
We’d spent about twenty minutes planning an assault, and then traveled out to the linkup point. When we’d arrived, I saw that the man who’d sent the message had been very, very careful. It would be very hard to take down the Bosnian here. The final point was an ATM right out front, in full view of anyone coming into the gas station.
We knew the entire bona fides for the linkup from the messages, and inside the gas station Jennifer had triggered the first—the fake ask for chocolate ice cream. At that point, we knew we were in play, but there was nothing we could do beyond taking pictures. The target walked out, went to the ATM booth, and then was met by a second man. We recorded it all, impotent. I’d seriously thought about just running up and thumping him in the head, but knew that was a nonstarter.
We settled for following them, which had been easy on the expressway. Eventually, they left it and began driving through the concrete jungle of the Sanabis neighborhood of Manama. A hotbed of Shiite folks who didn’t take kindly to strangers.
In the eyes-on position, I saw the vehicle leave the highway and start threading through the narrow streets of the neighborhood. I followed for about three turns, and then pulled off. From studying the driver of the vehicle at the gas station, I knew he was looking for the bad man. He had that wolf scent in everything he did. I’d called Aaron and Shoshana and told them my position, and they picked up the follow, eventually finding the apartment, but there was no way we could maintain surveillance in this place.