Salim said, “We’ll consider it. Now, time is short. The money, please.”
Donnie dug in his pack, then handed over an envelope. Salim passed out the cards to the men. After the three had left, Donnie said, “If they don’t get what they need today, do you have a backup plan for the following day?”
“No. He’s not leaving the base the following day. But the third day he’s out again.”
Donnie nodded and said, “What’s the Wi-Fi password here?”
“Why?”
“I need to call my imam, and I’m not using the cell network to do that.”
Salim gave it to him, Donnie hooked up to the internet, then turned on his Zello app, dialing Garrett. When he answered, Donnie began speaking in Croatian. “It looks like it’s a go here. They have a pretty good plan, and it’s set for tomorrow night. I’ll need to smooth over some rough edges, but I think it’ll work.”
“And do they suspect you in any way?”
“No. As a matter of fact, nobody’s questioned me about my religion or anything about my past. They just assumed I’ve been sent by Iran.”
“Good. Get this done and come home immediately. I now have the final target’s itinerary. Things are speeding up. We need to leave for Lebanon soon, before the Grand Master goes to Israel.”
Donnie glanced at Salim, saying, “Trust me, I’m out of here as soon as the capture is done. These guys are true believers, and I’m pretty sure they’ll all be dead within forty-eight hours. I don’t intend to be in the blast radius.”
Chapter 29
Sitting in a rental car on Shabab Avenue—otherwise known as “American Alley” here in Manama—I was parked right under the smiling face of good ol’ Colonel Sanders, and thinking about getting some fried chicken just to see if it was the same as in the United States. Surely the Colonel’s secret recipe of eleven herbs and spices hadn’t made it over to Bahrain. Unfortunately, it was a mystery that would have to wait. Instead, I clicked on the net and said, “Shoshana, how’s it looking?”
She came back, “I’m walking by now. Pentest is operational in the backpack. Getting some looks, but nothing sharp. I’m good.”
I said, “Roger. Blood, Aaron, you copy?”
Brett came back. “Roger all. We’re staged two minutes out. No issues.”
“Roger. Shoshana, just get the penetration test done. No crazy stuff here.”
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.