Violence of Action, page 26
Chunk kept his gaze where it was, ten degrees behind the man, careful not to make eye contact. After a reasonable pause, he turned to Watts and whispered in her ear. “I just saw him scout us. Laugh and pretend I made a joke.”
She did as told and looked convincing. “Looks like he’s heading to the restrooms,” she said with a demure grin while rubbing his upper arm affectionately.
“I’m going to make a pit stop in the men’s room,” he announced. “Back in a minute.”
“I’m going to the bar,” she said, after downing the last sip of her drink. “À tout de suite.”
He leaned in to give her a peck on the cheek, but she turned and took it on the lips.
“We’re together, not siblings,” she said with a coy grin, their lips mere centimeters apart.
He inhaled her breath, hot and sweet in his nose. “Unmute your earbud.”
She nodded and he stepped away.
As he fell in behind he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket, unmuted his earbud in the surveillance app, and trailed the new target to the men’s bathroom. When he entered the crowded restroom, he didn’t see the Arab anywhere. Concluding the man had gone into a toilet stall, Chunk capitalized on the opportunity to empty his own pressing bladder into the first available urinal. After finishing, he washed his hands slowly and fastidiously, buying time for the target to emerge. He played that game as long as he could, then pretended to adjust his waistcoat and fix his hair. Finally, the Arab came out of a stall, and Chunk couldn’t help but wonder if the man had truly been defecating or if he’d chosen the stall to use his mobile phone in privacy. The handsome, thirtysomething Middle Easterner stepped up to the sink beside Chunk and began washing his hands.
“Quite the spectacle, this place,” the Arab said in British-accented English while glancing at Chunk in the mirror.
“I’ve partied at better places,” Chunk said, dropping his native Texan tongue for a flat American accent.
“In that case, you must be quite the globe-trotter,” the man said as he turned off the water and took a paper towel to dry his hands.
“You could say that,” Chunk said with a wry smile.
Just not the kind of globe-trotter you’re thinking of, bro. My everyday vest isn’t tweed. It’s made of Kevlar and stuffed with magazines and grenades.
“The woman you’re with—the one in the silver dress—is she your wife?”
The question caught Chunk off guard, and he hesitated a microsecond before responding. “If I say no, are you going to start hitting on her like every other dude in the club?”
“Certainly not, I’m married,” the Arab said with a chuckle. “But like every other man, I can’t help but notice beautiful things, and your woman is very beautiful.”
Watts is not my woman . . . even if we were a couple, Chunk thought and was surprised that the comment kinda pissed him off. Dude, that’s just how these guys think. What do you care?
Chunk gave the standard bro nod, acknowledging the sexist compliment, and met the man’s gaze in the mirror.
“Ilal liqaa’,” the man said with a nod, turned, and walked out of the bathroom.
Chunk’s Arabic was rudimentary, but he understood the difference between this particular farewell and other common Arabic goodbyes.
Until we meet again . . .
Irritated and feeling that this guy had somehow just gotten the better of him, he counted to five and exited the men’s room. Scanning the crowd, he spied his new friend a few seconds later heading for the bar and walking straight toward a lithe figure with her back turned wearing a silver cocktail dress . . .
CHAPTER 31
“Whiskey, you’ve got Tango Two incoming,” Chunk said, using Watts’s call sign for the first time and praying she could hear him over the din of the club.
The Arab was closing in on her position and walking with purpose. Chunk’s heart rate picked up and that old familiar precombat tension crept into his muscles.
What the hell is this guy doing? Are we blown? Is he making a move on Watts? No way he’s targeting her in a crowded club, he thought, his mind a whirlwind of paranoia. Terrorists kill people in public all the time. That’s what they do. Maybe this guy is with al Qadar . . .
He tried to scan the man’s hands for a weapon, but the club was too crowded and there were too many people blocking his line of sight. The only thing he could see clearly was the man’s head moving through the crowd.
“Watch your back, Whiskey,” he said with urgency in his voice. “I can’t see his hands.”
“Merde!” he heard Watts exclaim on the comms circuit a heartbeat later, followed by, “Je suis désolée— Look what I did. I’m so sorry.”
Even with his view blocked by the crowd, Chunk knew what had happened. Watts had whirled at the last second and collided with the man, spilling her drink on him. It was a heads-up maneuver, taking control of the situation and putting her in a face-to-face position to survey the threat and react accordingly.
“No apology necessary,” he heard the smooth-talking Arab say. “It’s my fault. You were turning and I surprised you.”
“At least it wasn’t red wine,” she said with an apologetic laugh. “You’re going to smell like prosecco, but no stains, thankfully.”
“Indeed. A small price to pay for an opportunity to meet a woman as beautiful as you. I am Asadi Bijan . . .”
“Adrienne,” she said.
“Nice to make your acquaintance, Adrienne,” he said. “Please allow me to buy you a replacement drink? It’s the least I can do.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Chunk said, shoving past the last dude in his way and taking his place at Watts’s side.
“I said we’d meet again, and look . . . here we are,” Bijan said, a superior smile stretching across his face.
“And you also said you weren’t going to hit on my girl, and look . . . here we are,” Chunk fired back.
“Mere coincidence, I assure you. I was walking to the bar to get a drink and Adrienne here was just leaving. Our paths crossed . . .” Making a show of wiping his wet shirt and suit coat, he added, “And I seemed to have paid the price for it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get what I came for—a Vesper.”
“Why don’t we have a drink together?” Watts said, smiling while her eyes sent Chunk an altogether different message. “No reason to part company on bad terms.”
What the hell is she doing? This was not part of the plan . . .
Bijan looked at Chunk. “I would say yes, but I wouldn’t want to upset your friend.”
The operator in Chunk hated the idea of drinking with this guy, but the Tier One officer recognized this sudden twist of events for what it was—an opportunity to interact and photograph someone who was feeling suspiciously and increasingly relevant with each passing minute.
“Sure, why not,” Chunk said and grudgingly stuck out his bear paw. “I’m Charles.”
The Arab clasped his hand and shook it. “Asadi.”
They ordered a fresh round of drinks—which Bijan insisted on buying—and then wandered as a trio to the lounge area along the perimeter. Chunk maneuvered himself to take a chair with his back to the wall, while Watts took the seat that gave her line of sight on Nadar. Bijan seemed none the wiser, taking a seat opposite them while chatting happily about the not-to-miss attractions of Dubai. They talked for an hour, Watts questioning the stranger about his business, which he happily elaborated on. Bijan pitched himself as a financier for urban development projects throughout the Middle East. He went on to speak quite passionately about entrepreneurship, education, and empowering the next generation of Muslim youth with the technology and opportunities necessary to change the Arab world. Bijan said his dream was to create start-up incubators throughout the region modeled after successful incubators in the US, thereby transforming the Middle East into a beacon of hope and prosperity.
“. . . not unlike the city of Dubai itself. But first, I must raise the capital,” the polished conversationalist said. “As they say, my new friends, cash is king.”
Chunk had to hand it to the guy, he had charisma. The longer he listened, the less convinced Chunk became that Asadi Bijan was a terrorist. Terrorists didn’t talk like this. Villains dreamed of vengeance, not entrepreneurship and education. Truth be told, he was beginning to get bored. And annoyed. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could endure watching Watts flirt so shamelessly with the guy.
He ran his tongue between his lower lip and his gums, his nicotine craving presently a throbbing eleven on a ten-point scale.
Beer was a crappy substitute for dip . . . a very, very crappy substitute.
“I’ve been blathering on for a fortnight,” Bijan said with a chuckle. “Tell me about you. Are you vacationing in Dubai together, or are you here on business?”
“To be honest with you, we are simply here for the party,” Watts said, her French accent seeming more and more authentic as the night wore on. “We met in New York City, became lovers, and now we travel. Not as exciting or important as your big dreams, but maintenant we are young, so why not have fun.”
Better hope this dude doesn’t know French, Chunk suddenly thought. Or she’s gonna look like an idiot.
As if reading his mind, the Arab rattled off something in French to Watts.
Chunk’s stomach lurched and he looked at her, but to his surprise and relief, she laughed and answered Bijan in French. They conversed for several minutes, but the only word he was able to extract from the soup was Brittany.
“As you can see, I’m not fluent,” Bijan said, finally switching back to English, “but I travel to Paris from time to time and I’ve picked up a little French along the way. I like to learn languages. It makes me feel . . . connected.”
“Non, I think you did quite well. In Paris, sometimes the people are not patient with beginners, that’s why you should visit Brittany. The people there are very nice. Plus, it’s not so expensive, and you can practice your French with everyone,” she said.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Adrienne.” He checked his watch and blew air through his teeth. “It’s late and I have a busy day tomorrow, so I’d best call it a night. It was very nice to meet both of you.”
Bijan stood and they followed suit.
“Before you go, we must get a picture,” she said.
“Maybe next time. I really should be going,” Bijan said, stepping away.
But Watts was on her game and having none of it. “I insist,” she said and hooked her arm around the man’s waist.
Chunk was quick to act, his mobile phone out and snapping pictures before the Arab could protest.
“Perfect,” she said and then exchanged kisses on the cheek with the now frowning Bijan.
When it was Chunk’s turn to say goodbye, he shook the man’s hand. Unable to resist, he put a Texas-sized squeeze on just to let the dude know who the real man was at the table. To his credit, Bijan did not wince, but Chunk thought he saw a flash of malice in the man’s eyes as he released his grip.
“You need to follow him,” she said once Bijan had stepped out of earshot.
“What?”
“Something’s definitely up with that guy. Nadar was eyeing us while we were talking to him the entire time. You need to follow him, Charles,” she said, her gaze insistent. “I’ll stay here and shadow Nadar.”
“I’m not leaving you here alone.”
“I won’t be alone. Riker and Trip are outside. Trust me,” she said, her eyes on fire. “Go, before you lose him.”
“Copy all,” Riker’s voice said in Chunk’s earbud, making his presence known for the first time all evening. “I’m with Whiskey. Bravo Two is bringing our vehicle around front to pick you up.”
The prompt from his senior chief tipped the scales in Watts’s favor.
“Check,” Chunk said, and with a grudging backward glance at his spooky girl in the svelte silver dress, he set off after Asadi Bijan.
CHAPTER 32
Chunk tailed the man calling himself Asadi Bijan toward the Cavalli Club exit while doing his best to maintain a reasonable standoff. The Arab seemed to navigate the crowd with an almost unnatural fluidity, like sand slipping through spread open fingers. Whereas Chunk felt like the steel ball in a pinball machine, colliding with seemingly every patron in his path.
“Just finished running Whiskey’s pic of Tango Two through the facial rec database,” Yi reported in his ear. “I got a hit under the provided name, Asadi Bijan, a financier operating under an Emirates passport. He travels frequently between Dubai and London and shows trips to Cyprus, Riyadh, Paris, Tel Aviv, and Lahore. He’s not on any watch lists and appears to have a clean but truncated history.”
“What do you mean, truncated history?” Chunk asked.
“Well, there’s not much on this guy before eighteen months ago, and he really stepped up his travel recently.”
“How recently?”
“Over the past three months,” Yi said.
Chunk nodded to himself. “All right, sounds like a secondary NOC he might have slipped into full time. Keep digging.”
“Roger that.”
“Bravo Two, sitrep?” Chunk said, checking in with Trip.
“I’m third in the pickup queue out front. Describe your boy,” Trip came back.
“Arab in a black tailored suit, light-purple shirt, no tie. Medium height, lean build, handsome features, short beard.”
“Check, I’ve got eyes on your boy. Just exited the club . . . Now he’s climbing into a black Range Rover.”
“Copy,” Chunk said, picking up his pace and pushing out of the exit instead of waiting for the attendant to open the door for him.
“Hurry,” Trip said. “They’re getting away.”
Chunk jogged to the Suburban and climbed into the front passenger seat. The vehicle in the queue in front of them, a Mercedes G-Wagon SUV, was still loading passengers. “Go around them,” Chunk said.
Trip did as instructed, and as he did, the driver of the Benz tried to pull out only to slam on his brakes and honk as the big American SUV zipped in front and cut him off.
“Yankee, do we have eyes in the sky?” Chunk queried.
“Negative,” Yi came back.
“Damn it,” Chunk murmured, scanning the road ahead as Trip whipped around the side of the Fairmont hotel via an access road and onto the one-way two-lane frontage road that ran parallel to the E11, which bisected the heart of Dubai.
“I don’t see him,” Trip said. “Do you think he already turned?”
“There he is! Three cars ahead, in front of that Maserati,” Chunk said, spying the Rover.
Trip pressed the accelerator and the Z71’s V8 roared under the hood, propelling the four-ton behemoth down the road. When they’d closed to within two vehicles, Trip eased off the gas and fell into a standard trail.
“Dude, tell me you brought weapons,” Chunk said, feeling suddenly quite naked. He’d managed to effectively suppress his angst at being unarmed while immersed in his NOC at the Cavalli Club, but now that he’d put both physical and mental distance between then and now, that vulnerability felt tangible.
“Puh-lease,” Trip said in mock offense. “There’s a vest behind your seat on the floor and a Sig underneath it.”
Chunk nodded and grabbed the oh-shit handle on the A pillar, fighting the urge to pull the Sig right now. Technically, Asadi Bijan had done nothing wrong, and getting pulled over in Dubai packing heat would land them in jail and trash their NOCs.
“Chunk, dude, relax. Why are you so jumpy?” Trip said.
Chunk ignored the comment. “They’re turning west at that KFC a block ahead.”
“Yeah, I see it . . .”
Chunk ran his tongue back and forth between his lower lip and gums. “I need a dip.”
“There’s a tin in the cup holder,” Trip said, turning right without signaling at the intersection where the Range Rover had gone. He accelerated to close the distance to the taillights ahead.
“Yankee, this is Charlie,” Chunk said. “You tracking us?”
“Roger, Charlie,” Yi said. “I hold you heading northwest on Fifty-Seventh Street.”
“What are we heading into?” Chunk asked as he packed his lower lip with snuff. “We appear to be leaving the fancy part of town.”
“Looks like mixed-use zoning on the satellite imagery—residential and light commercial,” Yi said.
“Check,” Chunk said, scanning out the windshield and side windows. The towering hotels and office buildings were now in the rearview mirror and they were entering a section of Dubai dominated by townhomes and duplexes, intermixed with one- and two-story storefronts along the road. In keeping with the rest of Dubai, everything was clean and well-kept. The neighborhood seemed far from a slum—solidly middle-class by UAE standards, Chunk imagined—but possessed none of the opulence or self-importance on display in the business and shopping districts.
The Range Rover continued straight for two more blocks then turned north. Three blocks later it turned left, off the four-lane Al Wasl Road, and onto a two-lane spur leading into a neighborhood of single-family homes, each surrounded by a stucco wall or an iron fence.
“If I turn here, he’s going to notice,” Trip said.
“And if you don’t, we’ll probably lose him. We don’t have eyes, remember. Yi’s on a GPS app, that’s all.”
Trip slowed, giving a little distance, and then made the turn just in time to see the Range Rover turning into the neighborhood.
“Perfect,” Chunk said. “Before you make the next turn, kill the headlights.”
Trip nodded and did as instructed. They turned north, following the path the Rover had taken. A block later, Bijan’s luxury ute turned right and disappeared behind a wall. Just beyond stood a white stucco four-story tower with arched windows, a domed roof, and a balcony. It was taller than the surrounding buildings. Chunk recognized the structure instantly as a minaret.
