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Authors: Brad Taylor
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continue on once this visa mess gets sorted out. Kurt probably just wants to pass us instructions to check something out here in Damascus before we head north. More than likely it was just too much data to send using the GPS.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
She handed me the GPS, the smile from earlier long gone.
“The PM’s in Beirut.”
11
T wo days later , Jennifer walked into a café in the Hamra section of western Beirut, just down the street from the American University. She saw a hodgepodge of tourists and students, with the right wall lined by twentysomethings smoking water pipes and discussing political opinions, one of the few areas where such discussion wouldn’t end in gunfire.
She crossed the threshold at precisely twelve minutes past one o’clock, as the GPS message had stipulated. She was wearing a shirt that buttoned in the front and was carrying a map in her right hand, per the instructions.
She knew she was being watched, but made no attempt to look around. Instead, she went to the hostess and asked for a menu, getting redirected to the menu on the wall.
While pretending to look at it, she sensed someone gazing over her shoulder.
A man said, “This place is supposed to have the best breakfast in town, but I don’t know about lunch.”
She turned and saw a fiftysomething executive in a business suit, swarthy, maybe Mediterranean, maybe Latino, with a large gut protruding over his belt.
She said, “Lunch is probably just as good.”
The man smiled at the correct response. “Join me, if you want.”
She followed him to the back of the café, beyond the prying ears ofthe students and tourists, sitting at the last small table in the restaurant.
He immediately began giving her instructions, a mad minute of information on why they were meeting and what they were discussing, should she be asked later. A facade to cover the conversation and protect both of them.
She said nothing, memorizing everything that came out of his mouth. When he stopped, his serious demeanor left, replaced by a cocky smile.
“My name is Louis Britt, and I guess I’m supposed to help you out.”
“Louis Britt? You’re kidding. Not ‘Abdullah Mohammed’?”
“Unfortunately, no. Trust me, this damn name has caused nothing but trouble over here. I’m sure the idiot who gave me my documents is laughing.”
He picked up the menu and said, “I thought they would be sending me an operator. No offense.”
She smiled back, taking a liking to him for some reason. “They did.”
“No, I don’t mean another case officer, I mean a Taskforce operator. Someone who can act on my information. Kurt contacted me and gave me a dump on a hit in Tunisia, then directed this meeting. I’ve been deep so long, I was shocked when it happened. I thought the world was ending. And now I’m meeting you. You CIA? DIA?”
“Look, I’m just an overeager anthropologist with a liking for Middle Eastern historical sights. I’m supposed to be in Syria on a dig. Unfortunately for me, I also have some other unique skills. So does the man who watched you enter the restaurant. I don’t know what a true ‘operator’ is, since I’ve never been in the military, and it seems like everyone who’s ever held a gun says that’s what they are nowadays, but I do know I’m the one they sent for this meeting. What do you have?”
He leaned back. “Wow. I
have
been gone too long. The world is justnot right.” He said it with a smile, breaking off when the waitress approached to take their order. Watching her walk back to the kitchen, he said, “Man, to be young again. These Lebanese women are friggin’
hot
.” He winked. “Not that my age has stopped me any.”
Jennifer gave a tentative smile, wondering where this was going.
Is he coming on to me? Really?
She’d never done an operational link-up with a deep asset and was unsure what to make of the guy. On the one hand, when they’d met, he was as professional as anyone in the
“I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
She handed me the GPS, the smile from earlier long gone.
“The PM’s in Beirut.”
11
T wo days later , Jennifer walked into a café in the Hamra section of western Beirut, just down the street from the American University. She saw a hodgepodge of tourists and students, with the right wall lined by twentysomethings smoking water pipes and discussing political opinions, one of the few areas where such discussion wouldn’t end in gunfire.
She crossed the threshold at precisely twelve minutes past one o’clock, as the GPS message had stipulated. She was wearing a shirt that buttoned in the front and was carrying a map in her right hand, per the instructions.
She knew she was being watched, but made no attempt to look around. Instead, she went to the hostess and asked for a menu, getting redirected to the menu on the wall.
While pretending to look at it, she sensed someone gazing over her shoulder.
A man said, “This place is supposed to have the best breakfast in town, but I don’t know about lunch.”
She turned and saw a fiftysomething executive in a business suit, swarthy, maybe Mediterranean, maybe Latino, with a large gut protruding over his belt.
She said, “Lunch is probably just as good.”
The man smiled at the correct response. “Join me, if you want.”
She followed him to the back of the café, beyond the prying ears ofthe students and tourists, sitting at the last small table in the restaurant.
He immediately began giving her instructions, a mad minute of information on why they were meeting and what they were discussing, should she be asked later. A facade to cover the conversation and protect both of them.
She said nothing, memorizing everything that came out of his mouth. When he stopped, his serious demeanor left, replaced by a cocky smile.
“My name is Louis Britt, and I guess I’m supposed to help you out.”
“Louis Britt? You’re kidding. Not ‘Abdullah Mohammed’?”
“Unfortunately, no. Trust me, this damn name has caused nothing but trouble over here. I’m sure the idiot who gave me my documents is laughing.”
He picked up the menu and said, “I thought they would be sending me an operator. No offense.”
She smiled back, taking a liking to him for some reason. “They did.”
“No, I don’t mean another case officer, I mean a Taskforce operator. Someone who can act on my information. Kurt contacted me and gave me a dump on a hit in Tunisia, then directed this meeting. I’ve been deep so long, I was shocked when it happened. I thought the world was ending. And now I’m meeting you. You CIA? DIA?”
“Look, I’m just an overeager anthropologist with a liking for Middle Eastern historical sights. I’m supposed to be in Syria on a dig. Unfortunately for me, I also have some other unique skills. So does the man who watched you enter the restaurant. I don’t know what a true ‘operator’ is, since I’ve never been in the military, and it seems like everyone who’s ever held a gun says that’s what they are nowadays, but I do know I’m the one they sent for this meeting. What do you have?”
He leaned back. “Wow. I
have
been gone too long. The world is justnot right.” He said it with a smile, breaking off when the waitress approached to take their order. Watching her walk back to the kitchen, he said, “Man, to be young again. These Lebanese women are friggin’
hot
.” He winked. “Not that my age has stopped me any.”
Jennifer gave a tentative smile, wondering where this was going.
Is he coming on to me? Really?
She’d never done an operational link-up with a deep asset and was unsure what to make of the guy. On the one hand, when they’d met, he was as professional as anyone in the
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