Read Online Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) by Ethan Jones - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ethan Jones
Tags: General Fiction
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glanced at the screens on the wall indicating the flights’ arrival and departure times. Carrie’s flight, LH418, had just landed. He figured it was going to take a while for all passengers of the Boeing 777 to clear customs and collect their luggage, especially if the airplane was packed with over two hundred people as it had been during his flight.
He stretched his legs and closed his eyes, albeit for a few seconds. He had spent a restless night in Frankfurt, dissecting Suleyman’s words and the operation in Iran. He was sure there had to be an intelligence leak, but he could not determine how it had happened or the identity of the mole. If there was a mole. Perhaps it was a case of mishandled information. Someone’s eyes or ears saw or heard something they weren’t supposed to, and they gave it to outsiders. Or maybe al-Shabaab was following the scientist, and that’s how they got to us. To me.
He rubbed his temples, then massaged his forehead. He had slept very little on the plane and had developed a grave headache. His forehead was throbbing with a burning pain, and he felt dizzy. He reached for a medicine bottle in his suitcase and swallowed a couple of Tylenol pills. It would take some time before the drug produced its pain-relieving effect. He decided to kill the next few minutes by browsing the newspaper stands by the Starbucks’s entrance.
It was a presidential election year, and all newspapers and magazines had dedicated a large part of their covers to the race to the White House. The popularity of the incumbent President was in decline, according to the polls, because of her perceived soft stance on terrorism. Although unmanned drones were exterminating terrorists from the mountains of Pakistan to the deserts of Yemen, the popular perception was a difficult thing to change. The President had tried to reach out to the Muslim world and had called on the American people to make an effort to understand Islamic religion beliefs. One headline noted the President’s soft stance on terrorism was going to cost her the re-election.
Justin moved on to the other stand, dedicated mostly to entertainment, not that there was not plenty of entertainment from editorials and opinions in the pages of the news media. His eyes caught a glimpse of International Geographic —close to the bottom of the stand—and he picked up a copy and bought it, mostly because of amusement rather than curiosity. It was a little-known magazine that focused on travel, geography, outdoor activities, a sort of international version of National Geographic. It also served as Justin’s cover as a travel journalist, often publishing photographs supposedly taken by him, and, on occasion, an article supposedly written by him. In this way, if someone checked his cover, it would seem legitimate.
He returned to his bench, flipped through the pages, and glanced at the table of contents. He found what he was looking for. Two small photographs of deserts in northern Sudan were buried somewhere close to end of the magazine. Justin smiled. He had not taken those shots and the credited name at the bottom of the caption was not his. Still, he had been close to the area and could talk about that landscape.
A shrill sound dragged him out of the magazine’s pages. A little boy—perhaps not older than three—was toddling next to his mother, struggling to hold on to her hand. Justin followed his unsteady steps until they disappeared in the flow of hasty passengers. Justin wondered whether he would ever have a little boy. What would he look like? Will he have my eyes? My hair? My personality? Or will he look more like Anna?
Justin had a Mediterranean complexion—dark olive skin, raven wavy hair, which he had cut short a couple of weeks ago, big black eyes, and a large thick nose—inherited from his Italian mother. It allowed him to blend in naturally in most of the terrorist hotspots he infiltrated during his missions. His personality with an unpredictable
He stretched his legs and closed his eyes, albeit for a few seconds. He had spent a restless night in Frankfurt, dissecting Suleyman’s words and the operation in Iran. He was sure there had to be an intelligence leak, but he could not determine how it had happened or the identity of the mole. If there was a mole. Perhaps it was a case of mishandled information. Someone’s eyes or ears saw or heard something they weren’t supposed to, and they gave it to outsiders. Or maybe al-Shabaab was following the scientist, and that’s how they got to us. To me.
He rubbed his temples, then massaged his forehead. He had slept very little on the plane and had developed a grave headache. His forehead was throbbing with a burning pain, and he felt dizzy. He reached for a medicine bottle in his suitcase and swallowed a couple of Tylenol pills. It would take some time before the drug produced its pain-relieving effect. He decided to kill the next few minutes by browsing the newspaper stands by the Starbucks’s entrance.
It was a presidential election year, and all newspapers and magazines had dedicated a large part of their covers to the race to the White House. The popularity of the incumbent President was in decline, according to the polls, because of her perceived soft stance on terrorism. Although unmanned drones were exterminating terrorists from the mountains of Pakistan to the deserts of Yemen, the popular perception was a difficult thing to change. The President had tried to reach out to the Muslim world and had called on the American people to make an effort to understand Islamic religion beliefs. One headline noted the President’s soft stance on terrorism was going to cost her the re-election.
Justin moved on to the other stand, dedicated mostly to entertainment, not that there was not plenty of entertainment from editorials and opinions in the pages of the news media. His eyes caught a glimpse of International Geographic —close to the bottom of the stand—and he picked up a copy and bought it, mostly because of amusement rather than curiosity. It was a little-known magazine that focused on travel, geography, outdoor activities, a sort of international version of National Geographic. It also served as Justin’s cover as a travel journalist, often publishing photographs supposedly taken by him, and, on occasion, an article supposedly written by him. In this way, if someone checked his cover, it would seem legitimate.
He returned to his bench, flipped through the pages, and glanced at the table of contents. He found what he was looking for. Two small photographs of deserts in northern Sudan were buried somewhere close to end of the magazine. Justin smiled. He had not taken those shots and the credited name at the bottom of the caption was not his. Still, he had been close to the area and could talk about that landscape.
A shrill sound dragged him out of the magazine’s pages. A little boy—perhaps not older than three—was toddling next to his mother, struggling to hold on to her hand. Justin followed his unsteady steps until they disappeared in the flow of hasty passengers. Justin wondered whether he would ever have a little boy. What would he look like? Will he have my eyes? My hair? My personality? Or will he look more like Anna?
Justin had a Mediterranean complexion—dark olive skin, raven wavy hair, which he had cut short a couple of weeks ago, big black eyes, and a large thick nose—inherited from his Italian mother. It allowed him to blend in naturally in most of the terrorist hotspots he infiltrated during his missions. His personality with an unpredictable
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