Chapter 28
Donatello took the Coke that Salim offered him, raised it for a sip, then surveyed the men around him. Jamal and Khalid were both barely in their twenties and looked like they hadn’t been fed in a week. Wearing ratty T-shirts, jeans, and Adidas shower shoes, they didn’t give him much confidence. Especially since they seemed to be more enamored with the video games in Salim’s apartment than the mission itself.
The man known as Khan seemed more competent, if not a little savage. Donatello wasn’t sure of his skill, but was convinced of his propensity for violence.
The leader, Salim, also appeared solid, if a bit effeminate. He was definitely intelligent, and constantly surveying his surroundings, like a wolf afraid something was going to take its meal. Not necessarily jumpy, but wary of anything that entered his domain. Donatello thought that a plus and something he could leverage, even as it had caused the linkup to become overly complicated.
He’d flown into Saudi Arabia’s King Fahd International Airport and had immediately encountered problems. It turned out that the Kingdom didn’t recognize the diplomatic passport of the Knights of Malta. They’d almost turned him away until he’d brought out his actual Croatian passport. He’d already used his cover story about working with a charitable organization in Khobar—a story that the Knights of Malta passport was supposed to backstop.
He knew that if the shifting of passports had raised their suspicions, and they’d done any checking at all on his cover story, he was dead in the water. They did not, more concerned with him purchasing a visa than why he was visiting. They’d taken his picture and fingerprints, then allowed him to go on his way, but he knew he was flagged within the Kingdom now.
Luckily, he wasn’t doing any work inside the country. He’d rented a car and driven to Khobar, then ran into more trouble trying to exit Saudi Arabia via the causeway to Bahrain. The immigration officer ran his passport through the scanner, saw he’d arrived on the same day, and demanded to know why he’d landed in Saudi Arabia if he intended to travel to Bahrain. Donatello told him that the flight was cheaper. The man seemed satisfied until he saw that Donatello had no visa for Bahrain, causing more questions.
Falling back on his Special Forces interrogation training and years of experience in hostile places, Donatello fended off each one expertly, until he was presented with the final hurdle—a negative COVID test. He had one just in case something like this happened, but hadn’t been asked to present it upon arrival in the airport and knew from research that, due to vaccines, a quarantine was no longer in place in either KSA or Bahrain. Apparently, either this man hadn’t been apprised of the updates or he was simply busting Donatello’s balls, but after presenting the negative PCR test he was grudgingly allowed to leave.
He drove across the causeway, reaching what looked like a tollbooth on a turnpike, the overhang spanning all the lanes of the causeway with a sign proclaiming “Immigration.” He waited in a line of cars, inching forward, then finally reached a booth with an immigration officer.
He didn’t even bother to try his Knights passport, instead presenting his Croatian one, telling the officer he was working in Khobar and simply visiting for a few days as a tourist, a common occurrence. He’d been forced to purchase another visa to allow him entry, and was on his way.
As instructed, he’d driven to the first interchange and exited, heading south until he saw a modern gas station called Oil King. He parked and went inside to a counter serving soft-serve ice cream, being careful not to glance around. He knew he was now under surveillance. He ordered a chocolate cone and was told they only had vanilla. Saying he didn’t like vanilla, he thanked the vendor, exited the store, and went to an ATM station that looked like a phone booth on steroids. He entered, closed the door, and pretended to use the machine, killing time.
Eventually, a man approached and stood outside, waiting on him to finish. He feigned frustration, then exited the booth. In English, the man said, “Is it not working?”
Donatello said, “Not for me.”
The elaborate bona fides dance over, the man stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Salim. Come. Leave your rental here. We’ll pick it up after we’re done.”
He’d let Donatello retrieve his overnight bag, then led him to a beat-up white Hyundai, opening the passenger door.
They returned to the expressway and Salim said, “What’s your name?”
“You can call me Donnie.”
Salim nodded, then said, “Did you bring the money, Donnie?”
“Yes. Five prepaid Visa cards with five hundred U.S. dollars each.”
“And why did you need to come to deliver it? Why not just do what we used to?”
Donnie looked at him and said, “Okay, I’m not here to take over the operation, but I have some unique skills that may help.”
They drove in silence for the next twenty minutes, Salim exiting the freeway into a concrete jungle of alleys and apartments, the outsides dotted with clotheslines and TV dishes. He pulled to a stop, exited, and said, “Follow me.”
Salim led him to the second story of a building in need of repairs and entered an apartment. He introduced Donnie to the rest of the men, and then handed him a cold Coke.
Donnie took a sip and Salim said, “The money?”
At that, the two other men took off their headsets and put down their game controllers. Khan leaned forward in his chair.
“I told you, I have it, but first, I need to know the plan.”
“The money is the plan. Khan’s supposed to purchase weapons today, Khalid is paying off a patrol man to avoid an area, Jamal is getting explosives, and I have to pay the secretary in the target’s office for his itinerary.”
“So you don’t have a plan? Is that it?”
“No. We do. I have the itinerary; I just need to pay the woman for it.”
And Salim laid it out, piece by piece, ending with, “This will make a bigger statement, just like that CIA chief in Lebanon who was tortured to death while America could do nothing about it.”
In spite of himself, Donatello was impressed. He saw a few flaws, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed. The main problem was the end state. Capture was always harder than killing, and keeping this guy alive for days while sending out videos of his torture—while perfect for the Turtles’ needs—was exceedingly risky.
He said, “I like it, but you’re not going to be dealing with the United States coming to his rescue. It’ll be the Sunni intelligence apparatus of Bahrain. You won’t last more than a day with him, I promise. Especially if you’re paying off police beforehand. It’s a dead giveaway with a trail right back here.”
“We understand their capabilities, trust me. The policeman is Shia—one of the few. He won’t talk. He hates the monarchy just like we do. And we’re not bringing the target back here.”
“Okay, but still, may I suggest just putting out a single message with him, on the same night, and then killing him? You’ll get nearly the same impact without the enormous risks.”
Khan said, “We’re prepared to die for the cause. Aren’t you?”
“Yes, but not when I don’t have to, any more than I’d jump out that window right now for the cause.”