Fog of War

Chapter Seven

Justin paced in front of the Ambassador Theater on Broadway, searching in the flowing crowd of theater enthusiasts for Anna. He coughed, as the smoke from a rattling van formed a thin, hazy cloud around him. The temperature was in the mid-sixties, and it was a pleasant evening, except for the smog. He glanced at his wristwatch, then took out his cellphone from his inside coat pocket. Anna had not called and she was late for their show. Chicago was starting in twenty-five minutes, and Anna liked to arrive in plenty of time to find their seats and enjoy a drink before the show. She had dashed out of their supper for an urgent call with her office, telling Justin she was going to meet him at the theater. The call was supposed to have taken only a few minutes, but it seemed it might cost them the highlight of their evening.

Justin’s mind wandered back to the documents obtained from NCS. He had started pouring over them as soon as they left the CIA complex. Carrie drove, while Justin analyzed the reports. Before parting ways at Dulles International Airport, Justin made copies of all materials. Carrie took the originals CIS headquarters in Ottawa, to verify their authenticity, confirm the information, and brief McClain on this new development. Justin flew to New York and spent the hour-long flight and most of the night examining the NCS data.

When he finally allowed himself a short sleep, he was convinced al-Shabaab had obtained sensitive intelligence about CIS’s recent operations. Transcripts of calls intercepted by NCS among al-Shabaab militants confirmed they had prior knowledge of at least two CIS missions: the joint operation with the Navy SEALs in Somalia and Justin’s mission in Iran. He was unsure how and when that intelligence had been stolen or leaked, but had logically eliminated a few scenarios that were simply impossible. Together with McClain and Nathan, they were going to track their steps, in order to identify the weakest link in the chain of their secret communications.

Justin had tried to push away these thoughts and plans as he and Anna enjoyed the best of New York during their short vacation. They took a sightseeing helicopter flight that gave them some gorgeous views of Manhattan’s skyscrapers and the Statue of Liberty. The flight lasted only fifteen minutes, but Anna took hundreds of pictures, preserving their fond memories. They enjoyed a walk in Central Park, brunched in a cozy French bistro nearby, then boarded a tour bus for most of the afternoon. After the first hour, the images of city’s landmarks started to become a blur in Justin’s mind. More squares, more shopping centers, more churches. He was able to feign a reasonable amount of attention for Anna’s sake, but his mind inevitably returned to the daunting task waiting for him back at CIS headquarters.

Justin glanced again at his wristwatch. It was now seven forty. He thought about calling Anna. He had tried a few minutes earlier, only to be rebuffed by a busy signal. She’ll call me once she’s free, Justin thought. He felt a bit guilty for not being too upset about missing the show. Anna found true joy in watching musicals. Justin went along to please his fiancée. I hope she has already taken a cab or it might be too late.

He looked at a few taxis driving toward him. One stopped in front of the Ambassador Theater and an elegantly dressed middle-aged couple got out with some difficulty. Then a black stretch Mercedes-Benz slid out of the Crowne Plaza Hotel’s parking garage, across from the theater. The driver forced his way into the busy traffic and cut in front of a city bus, causing a volley of honking from other cars. Then he switched lanes and rolled to a stop in front of the theater.

Justin glanced at the dark-tinted glass of the windows, seeing nothing but the skyscrapers’ reflections in the glass. He noticed the wide tires of the low-riding limousine. It was probably an armored vehicle, the favorite of many New York celebrities and corporate executives. The front passenger stepped out. He was a big, muscled man, perhaps six feet five inches tall. He buttoned his black suit, straightened its collar, and walked toward Justin. Instinctively, Justin took a couple of steps back, putting some distance and a few obstacles — three bystanders and one of the metal traffic barriers along the sidewalk — between him and the passenger, in case the man was looking for a fight.

The man kept his brisk pace, a grin forming in his face framed by a buzz cut and a square jaw. When he was about six feet away from Justin, he stopped. His left hand pointed at the Mercedes-Benz, while his right hand casually brushed against the front of his suit. Justin noticed a small bulge where the man was likely wearing a shoulder holster, with the unmistakable shape of a pistol. As Justin’s mind was calculating his next moves, the man spoke in English with a thick Russian accent, “Mr. Romanov would like to talk to you.”

Justin flinched, then looked at the limousine. Yes, Romanov could both afford and thrive in such luxury. But I can’t be sure it’s him. How does he know I’m in New York? What does he want?

“I can’t talk to him right now.” Justin nodded toward the theater. “My show is starting right away.”

“Mr. Romanov said this will only take five minutes. And you will not miss your show.” His words were not a suggestion; they were an order.

A cab driver parked behind the limousine slammed on his horn to express his anger about the vehicle taking up the parking space designated for taxis. The Mercedes-Benz driver jumped out of his seat. He was a perfect copycat of the man talking with Justin, only the look ironed on his face was harsh. He marched to the taxi, his hands tightening into fists. A stream of expletives both in Russian and in English and a couple of swift punches that probably left dents on the hood of the taxi gave the cab driver the incentive to step on the gas pedal and disappear into the fast moving traffic. Justin remembered seeing the driver in Moscow four years ago — the last time he had seen Romanov face to face — but could not recall his name. He was one of Romanov’s trusted bodyguards and was always by his side.

“Mr. Romanov hates waiting,” the man said, impatience clear in his voice. “We should go now.”

Justin nodded. I can still take Anna’s call in the Merc. Let’s get this over with.

He followed the man to the limousine and waited for him to open the back door. He stepped inside and was greeted by a thin cloud of cigarette smoke and Romanov’s loud voice, “Welcome, Mr. Hall. I’m glad you could spare a few moments.”

“Romanov.” Justin sat across from him in the comfortable black leather seat and shook Romanov’s extended hand. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I was in town for a meeting and had some free time.”

Romanov was dressed in a pearl gray suit tailored to fit perfectly on his large body and somewhat hide his round belly. He had a crisp white shirt and a black bow tie. His shiny silver hair was neatly combed back and trimmed at neck length. The skin of his broad face with high cheekbones looked smooth and rosy. A bushy moustache a shade darker than his hair curled under his aquiline nose. A half-smoked cigarette dangled between the thick fingers of his left hand. His gold ring and Rolex glinted in the soft light inside the limousine.

Romanov said, “I thought about watching Chicago before flying back home to Russia. But then something came up. You know I’m a fan of musicals, right?”

“Right,” Justin said in a dubious tone.

“It’s true. I’m a big donor to the theater,” Romanov said with a nod. “It helps when I take business partners and their wives out for an exquisite evening, dinner and a show, like the Americans say.”

The Mercedes-Benz glided forward.

“Yes, and we’ll miss the show. Where are we going?” Justin asked.

Romanov held up his BlackBerry, which was sat on the console separating the large seats. “I’ve asked them to postpone the show for half an hour. I have another meeting after we’ve finished talking, so this will be just a short ride around the block.”

Justin raised an eyebrow. “They’ve postponed the show because you asked them?”

“What did I say? I’m a big donor,” Romanov said with a shrug.

“So, it was a coincidence you ran into me.”

Romanov grinned. “Not exactly. One of my sources checked the theater’s list of guests, and the name of Anna Worthley came up. She and one guest.”

Justin tightened his jaw and dug his fingers deep in the leather console by his seat. The surface was impeccably smooth, with a rich texture and a host of buttons on the top.

“How is she doing?” Romanov asked.

“Fine,” Justin replied in a cold, flat tone.

“And your dad?”

“He’s fine too. Smoking for fifty years gave him lung cancer as a retirement present. It will finally catch up to you as well.”

Romanov smiled, his tiny gray eyes glowing in the semi-darkness. “Ha. My Russian blood kills all nicotine. I don’t have to worry.” He took a puff from his cigarette, then blew the smoke out slowly in small circles.

“You’ve been spying on me, Romanov, and I don’t like it.” A dark frown had appeared on Justin’s face, but he was not sure Romanov could see it. He decided to word his feelings, so the Russian oligarch would hear and understand him.

Romanov leaned back in his seat and stretched his legs. “Keeping tabs on old friends and caring about their lives is not spying in my books. But you know, like I know, there are some people who are looking very hard to find you, dead or alive, but preferably dead.”

Justin did not blink. Romanov had eyes and ears in many places, and by now the fatwa and bounty on his head was old news. “It’s true, but unrelated to our conversation. Now that you found me, what do you want?”

Romanov put out his cigarette by stubbing it out in an ashtray, then slid the ashtray back into the console. He took a deep breath and leaned forward. “I want you to take care of something for me. I had something stolen, and I want it back.”

Justin locked eyes with Romanov. “I already have a job and I don’t freelance.”

Romanov waved his right hand in front of him. “It’s a favor.”

He did not say it, but he did not have to. Justin understood what Romanov meant: it was time for Justin to repay an old favor. He knew borrowing Romanov’s Bugatti Veyron for his unauthorized covert operation in Nice earlier that year was going to come back to haunt him. He just did not know where and how. Now he would find out.

Justin nodded. It was sufficient to express his agreement to at least listen to Romanov’s proposal. “Who dares to steal from you?”

Romanov grinned. “Their families have already paid dearly for their sins. They betrayed me. It was a few men whose loyalty to me had a price.”

Higher than the one you were paying them, was Justin’s first thought. He nodded.

“A crew of eight men was aboard a cargo plane headed for Jizan, Saudi Arabia. En route, they changed their flight course, diverting into Sa’dah, in northern Yemen.”

Justin frowned. “The plane wasn’t carrying equipment for the oil refineries of Jizan, was it?”

Romanov shook his head. “No, it wasn’t.”

“Do you care to tell me what the cargo was?”

“I think you already know the answer.”

Justin let out a deep sigh. “Yeah, I was afraid of that. The cargo contained weapons. I didn’t know you’ve branched out into the arms trade.”

He smiled. “A small investment to test the market.”

“What kind of weapons are we talking about?”

It was Romanov’s turn to sigh. “SA-24s.”

“What?” Justin fell back in his seat. “A planeload full of surface-to-air heat-seeking missiles is gone now, probably in the hands of Yemeni terrorists?”

Romanov’s eyes narrowed. “I would have not called you if it was a batch of Makarov pistols.” He scratched his drooping chin, before continuing, “And the cargo is not gone. The crates have trackers, so I can follow the delivery to its destination. My sources tell me they haven’t fallen into terrorists’ hands. Yet.”

Justin weighed on Romanov’s words. SA-24s had the same capacities as the American-made Stinger missiles. One of them — in able hands, and Yemen had plenty of able terrorist hands — was sufficient to bring down a heavy combat helicopter or a low-flying small airplane. These shoulder-launched missiles could destroy targets as high as 11,000 feet, over a distance of three and a half miles. “Where is the cargo now?”

Romanov took a second before replying, “Somewhere north of Sa’dah. I have the exact coordinates.” He tapped his BlackBerry.

“That’s a terrorist stronghold. Houthis insurgents control all the roads in and out of the area. They also have a large number of men and weapons stationed there.”

“Yes, but they haven’t gotten hold of my cargo. The thieves were planning to sell the cargo, but the original deal went bad, so they are looking for a new deal.”

Justin put his hands together, locking his fingers. “And that’s your plan, to send me in as a potential buyer?”

He nodded. “It’s an idea, unless you want to charge into the warehouse and kill them all.”

Justin grinned. “Yeah, that was my first impulse. You don’t have someone else you can trust to take care of this?”

Romanov looked out the dark windows. The glow of outside lights came in filtered and distorted, as if through a thick haze. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m having some trust issues with people around me.” He spoke the words in a hushed tone, as if he did not want to hear his own confession. “But you’ve never given me a reason to doubt your motives or your abilities.”

Justin blinked. He had never heard Romanov use flattery as a currency.

Romanov paused for a moment, then turned his right hand into a fist and slammed it into his left palm. “And I’ve got to get these bastards. I’m not going to let eight bastards put me to shame.”

Justin glanced at Romanov’s face. His eyes had turned black with anger. “There’s more at stake here than this cargo. It’s my reputation. I always deliver on my promises,” Romanov said. “Saudi Arabia is a big arms market. They spent over thirty billion dollars in weapons last year, and the Americans, of course, took the lion’s share. We’ve seen our exports cut in half, and we’re losing ground to the French.”

“So the Saudis don’t know their shipment is missing?”

“It’s not missing, it’s delayed until you,” he pointed his thick finger at Justin’s chest, “you retrieve it.”

Justin began to shake his head, but Romanov raised a dismissive hand. “Your interest and the interest of the Western world are for Yemeni insurgents not to get hold of these missiles. I don’t have to explain you the consequences if al-Shabaab or al-Qaeda add these weapons to their arsenal. It may even tip the scales of their ongoing war against the Yemeni government.”

“My Service will not approve of this operation,” Justin spoke softly, carefully selecting his words. “Even if they do, which is highly unlikely, it will take time to put together a team and execute a well-planned mission. Yemen is a hellhole.”

“Time is a luxury we don’t have. Take my proposal to McClain and explain its urgency. I have the exact location of the cargo, and I’ll know if and when it’s on the move. If your boss wants me to sweeten the deal, that’s open for negotiation.”

Romanov did not openly pull the favor string again, and Justin appreciated his subtlety. He wanted to stop Houthis insurgents and other militant groups in Yemen from using those powerful missiles in terrorist attacks. But the more pressing matter of finding the traitor within his own Service was going to take priority.

“I’ll run this by McClain and give you an answer. But as I said, his approval is unlikely.”

Romanov nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. He pushed a button on his console. “Sergei, take us back to the theater,” he ordered the driver.

Justin felt the stretch Mercedes-Benz make a wide turn. His BlackBerry chirped with a familiar tune. It was Anna. “I’ve got to take this.”

Romanov nodded, then dropped his eyes to his own BlackBerry.

“Hi, where are you?” Justin said on the phone. He listened for a few seconds. “Yeah, OK, OK. I’m just around the block. I’ll be there right away. Yes, yes, I heard the show was delayed. Great. See you in a bit.”

“Unfortunately, I will not be able to watch the show tonight.” Romanov pointed at his BlackBerry. “But I hope you’ll enjoy it.”

“I’ll try,” Justin replied, but he knew there was too much going on. He would not be able to sit back and shut down his mind, even if for just a few hours.

The Mercedes-Benz slowed down, then eased into a smooth stop. “We’re here, sir,” the driver said.

Justin looked at the closed partition separating the driver’s seat from the passengers’ compartment. The driver’s voice was clear even though it came over the limousine’s communication system.

“Take good care of yourself,” Romanov said.

“Yeah, you too,” Justin replied. “I’ll let you know.”

Romanov nodded.

They shook hands, then the back door opened. Justin stepped out and faced the front passenger, the mountain of muscle that had summoned him to this meeting. He closed the door gently, ignored Justin, and strutted back to the front of a car. The driver forced his way into the other lane, amid screeching brakes and honking horns protesting his unsafe moves. Seconds later, the Mercedes-Benz disappeared into traffic, heading toward 8th Avenue.

Justin looked up at the theater’s blinking lights and the flashing screens of advertisement boards covering almost every inch of available space around him. They gave everything a yellow and red glow, blurry and ever-changing as people rushed by on the sidewalk and cars zoomed passed on the street. He saw Anna waving at him. She was standing near the theater’s main entrance, wearing a knee-length V-neck black dress and a Cashmere coat, and a matching purse hanging around her left shoulder. She was saying something to him, but the surrounding street noise was drowning out her words. Justin waved back and hurried his steps.

A silver Escalade SUV parked in front of Da Marino — an Italian restaurant across from the Ambassador Theatre — caught Justin’s eye. Two black men dressed in orange leather jackets — which Justin noticed were two sizes too big for their thin bodies — and blue baggy jeans were arguing with a third man, who was in brown khaki pants, a white shirt, and a brown cap. He looked like a parking attendant. The back of the SUV stretched over the entrance to the Crowne Plaza Hotel parking garage. The parking attendant was shouting and pointing at the Escalade, but the two men were largely ignoring him, throwing furtive glances down the street and toward the theater.

Justin was now a few steps away from Anna. He moved out of the way of a man running in the opposite direction, then walked around a young woman carrying large shopping bags. A second later, he noticed flashing lights coming from behind him. He turned his head and saw a white-and-blue NYPD police cruiser driving toward the theater. Justin glanced across the street. The arguing by the Escalade stopped at the sight of the police. One of the black men broke into a fast sprint through the parking garage. The other man just stood there, frozen in place, his hands deep into his jacket pockets.

Justin’s eyes caught his look — a blank, distant look — and he recognized the man’s face. He was a known member of al-Shabaab believed to be hiding in New York. Justin realized what the man was holding in his pocket. He also realized the purpose of the illegally parked Escalade.

“Anna, get down, get down! Everybody down, down!” Justin shouted, darting forward toward Anna.

“Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!” the man screamed his battle cry.

The noise from the ensuing explosion covered his cries and all other sounds. An orange glow and black smoke appeared as the SUV turned into a firebomb. A city bus — which happened to drive by at the unlucky moment of the explosion — was torn to pieces. Other cars next to the SUV bomb were thrown around like toys. The bus saved Justin’s life, but he was still tossed through the glass windows of the Colony Records store close to the theater as the blast wave washed over him. Glass slivers and debris covered his face and his body. Dead bodies littered the sidewalk, while severely wounded people struggled to get back to their feet and move away from the explosion.

Justin felt a pair of hands lifting up his head. A soft voice said, “Justin, Justin. Can you hear me?”

He recognized the voice, even though it sounded worried, weak, and distant. “Justin, can you… can you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, Anna, I can…” He stopped to clean his mouth with his hand. It was covered with white powder. “I just can’t move.”

“Oh, thank God.” She sighed. “I thought you were…” Her voice trailed off, and she didn’t finish her words.

“No, I’m not dead. I’m not that easy to kill.”

Anna frowned. “Not funny. Stay still. A couple of shelves have fallen over your legs. Let me see if I can move them. How’re you feeling?”

“OK, I guess. I’m finding it hard to breathe.”

He coughed and spat out dirt and blood. He raised his head and saw dust and smoke. Sharp sirens echoed in the distance.

“There’s smoke and dust everywhere. The ambulances will be here shortly,” Anna said.

She grunted as she lifted and pushed away two plastic shelves and a few boxes.

Justin lifted his back slowly, his bruised hands seeking purchase against the debris next to him. He moved his right leg, then his left. “Nothing seems to be broken.”

“Your face is full of cuts and bruises,” Anna said, sitting next to him. She leaned over him in a tight embrace.

“What about you?”

“I’m fine. Your shouting saved my life. I slipped in just inside the theater. Its walls and the bus took most of the blast.”

Justin looked at Anna’s face. Her eyes were watery, and her hair was covered in dirt and grime. A few black and brown stains covered her neck and arms.

“What happened here, Justin? Why?”

He studied her eyes for a moment. “People who have no regard for innocents, determined to destroy our lives. There were two of them. One, the suicide bomber. The other is gone. But I know who he is. And I know where to find him and his friends who planned this massacre.”