I said, “Roger. Loose follow. Just confirm the same route and residence.”

Amman, Jordan, is a unique city in that the entire place is split right down the middle, with the haves and have-nots clearly separated, much like all of the small towns you read about in old stories of America, with a “right side of the tracks” and a “wrong side of the tracks.” In this case, the entire section of west Amman was the right side, with high-end shopping, expensive cars, leafy parks, and spas. The east was the wrong side, with claustrophobically close stone buildings, dripping pipes, and refugee camps from the spillover of wars from the formation of Israel to the invasion of Iraq and the current Syrian fight.

The Grand Hyatt hotel, where Hussein’s father worked, was right in the center, and from it, Hussein had routinely walked the four kilometers home, winding his way through the narrow streets until he reached the famed Citadel, an old Roman ruin in the heart of the city. From there, he entered the packed confines of the east, leaving the glow of west Amman behind and slinking his way past the cloistered buildings, scattered clotheslines, and open markets to a concrete apartment complex of the kind that was ubiquitous in east Amman. Really, the same type of thing you saw all over the Middle East.

Parked within view of the hotel entrance, I saw the target exit with a smile on his face, and I wondered how long he’d hold it.

I said, “I got him. Retro, he’s on the same track. You ready?”

“Roger.”

From there it was a boring leapfrog, with me manipulating teams. Something I could have done in my sleep. The only hard part had been following his route on day one, since it appeared that every street in Jordan had multiple names, depending on who was doing the talking or who had made the street sign. We’d created our own surveillance maps, with our own codes for the major arteries, so everyone was on the same sheet of music, and if he followed his pattern we’d be set on that piece of the puzzle. What I really wanted to know was where he actually stayed at night. We had the building, but we might want to take him down right in his room, and so, after triggering, Jennifer got the job of rushing ahead to pick him up at the endgame while everyone else continued to confirm his route.

Jennifer and I had scoped out the area beforehand and had found a coffee shop that afforded her a view of his apartment complex. While east Amman was rustic, to say the least, the city had tourists traveling all over, with many wanting to see the old-world charms of the east, so she would blend in just fine. Actually, better than fine. She’d gone in for tea earlier, just to check it out, and they’d fawned all over her, amazed that a Westerner would want to see them.

Of course, true to form, she’d had her head covered in a scarf, learned enough Arabic to say hello, and had done research to be able tell the servers the history of the area. She was perfect that way. I’m sure if I’d gone in, they would have spit in my cup, mainly because I would have ordered a beer.

The apartment building had two entrances, and her sole function today was to see which door he used, then trigger Brett to penetrate so he could get atmospherics inside. Possible stairwells, mailboxes, or anything else we could use to neck down the location of his apartment. Building a pattern of life was like LEGO blocks. One brick at a time. Since there was no rush on this, and we had a handle on him, I would take all the time necessary to get it perfect.

I got all the calls saying he was continuing on his route, plotting each one on my computer for historical reference and growing bored. Wishing we had a more interesting target.

I realized I hadn’t heard from Jennifer after her jump from the hotel to the coffee shop. I broke squelch. “Koko, Koko, this is Pike. Status?”

I heard nothing.

I sat up, now more alert. Not concerned, but anticipating.

I got a call from Retro, “Hipster is one block out. I’m off. Koko, you set?”

Nothing.

I waited, then came on again, “Koko, I’m about to call an abort and redirect to your location with all assets. Answer if you’re on the net.”

She did.

“Pike, Pike, standby.”

What the hell? I broke in again, something I hated doing as surveillance chief. In my mind, the more the SC talked, the more screwed up he was. The team should be running the show, as had happened up until this point.

“Koko, the target is a block out. Are you set or not?”

“No. I’m not set. Pike, there’s someone in the coffee shop. I can’t get in without compromise.”

Now things were getting downright strange.

“What do you mean? Someone in the coffee shop how? Someone you know?”

Which would be impossible.

“Yes. She’s dressed like an Arab, but I recognize her. She’s focused on our target building. She’s conducting surveillance.”

The words ran through my head, but even after review they made no sense.

I said, “She who?”

“Shoshana. Shoshana is operating on our target set.”

25

Hussein bounded up the steps to his apartment, running through all of the things he needed to do before his first day of work tomorrow. He wanted to make a good first impression, showing the hotel he was his father’s son. Forgetting, for the moment, the reason he’d really come.

He opened the door to his small two-room apartment, and that purpose came crashing back, slamming into his conscious brain like a wave tossing him onto the rocks.

Ringo was sitting at his makeshift kitchen table, typing on a laptop.

Hussein kicked the door closed, then stood silently.

Ringo said, “Lost Boy. You’re home. And I see you have a uniform. So we are ready. Good little man.”

Hussein said, “How did you get in here?”

Ringo’s condescending grin leaked out, and he said, “Did you think Omar would let you loose on your own? I’m on the lease documents. I only had to pick up a key.”

Dumbly, Hussein remained at the door. Ringo said, “Come inside. Cook me some food. I saw you’ve been shopping, and I’m hungry. It was a long trip.”

Hussein thought about his past, then his future. He remembered his father’s touch, and realized he could get out right now. Kill Ringo and flee.

Ringo saw the slice of emotion on his face and stood up, pulling out a thick knife with a blackened blade. Menacing.

He said, “I’m staying here, with you, Lost Boy. Unless you have a problem with that.”

Hussein said, “No, no. Of course not. Where are the others? The team? I don’t have room for them all.”

“Don’t worry about them. They’re here, and they’re ready. We’re all waiting on you. Did you meet your father? Get the key?”

Hussein circled around him, entering the small kitchen area. He said, “Yes. Yes, I did. But I don’t start work until tomorrow.”

“That’s no problem. We aren’t attacking for forty-eight hours. You’ll have a full day of work to figure things out. Just don’t give any indication of what’s going to happen.”

Now within view of the laptop’s computer screen, Hussein saw Ringo was on Twitter, going back and forth with direct messaging. The sight provided something to knock Ringo back and gain the initiative.

He said, “Why are you on Twitter? Why are you still using social media after we were told not to?”

Ringo abruptly sat down, putting the knife on the table and closing the web browser, his fear of disobeying the Chechen clearly evident. He said, “I’m not. All I did was check my Twitter feed.”

“No, that’s not all you did. I saw the feed. I saw the direct message app. Who were you talking to?”

“None of your damn business. I’m in charge here.” He picked up the knife, tapped the table with the blade, then used it to point at Hussein. He said, “You need to remember that.”