He considered returning to his hotel room. He could do so fairly easily, threading through the bar area of the Block, getting in and out, but he was sure it had already been targeted, which was why he hadn’t gone there in the first place. Abandoning it wasn’t that big of a deal. Just a loss of clothes.

Then he remembered the computer, and the messages on it. Jacob had emailed him from Venice. He hadn’t responded, but the email was in the system nonetheless. The message was innocuous, stating Jacob was continuing on with the “project,” but nobody who searched that computer would mistake it for an email from a friend. If the Israelis had known to find him at his Albanian contacts, they’d already have ripped through his hotel. They’d have the email from Jacob, something Omar needed to cauterize immediately.

He decided to ignore the taxi stand, taking the risk of entering the streets of the Block. He threaded his way past the bars and pedestrians until he found an Internet café. He surveyed the street, seeing nothing suspicious, then walked down the stairs to the basement.

He paid for thirty minutes and sent a single email telling Jacob to abandon this method of communication. He knew that whatever he put in the email would be compromised, so he simply said they would never use this email again, and he’d see Jacob soon. He hoped Jacob had enough sense to understand it meant destroying anything that had touched that email address.

He left the café, hovering outside the exit and studying the street above the stairwell, wondering if he’d see a van pull up and men spilling out.

After a moment, he jogged up the stairs and hit the street on the run, hoping to throw whatever surveillance was against him into disarray. He drew curious glances, but no action. Nobody matched his pace, which meant they were either really good, or not there. He saw a taxi idling outside a bar and raced to it, ordering the cabbie to take him to the airport. He sagged in the backseat and ignored all attempts at conversation.

Twenty minutes later, he entered the airport, going to a ticket counter for Alitalia and looking at the next departures. He saw one for Istanbul in an hour, then one for Rome in two. He decided the risk of delay was worth it, and purchased a ticket to Rome with cash. Such an exchange would have raised flags in any country in the European Union or in the United States, but here in Tirana, they didn’t care. When asked for luggage, he said he had a carry-on. When informed they needed to place a tag on the carry-on, he said it was outside and he’d bring it in shortly.

The signals he was sending were beyond strange, but nobody questioned him, Tirana still operating in the Cold War of the 1980s. He counted out a stack of Euros and took his ticket, then traversed the small airport to the baggage claim area.

He approached the lost luggage counter, surreptitiously looking at the two customs officers lounging next to a small tourist kiosk. They ignored him.

He had no name or other contact info. All he had was the ticket, and he was sure he was walking into a trap. Could Israel co-opt the Albanian government? Get them to stage a sting operation? He was so paranoid at this point, he would believe anything. But he also had no choice. He put one hand in his jacket, caressing the grip of his pistol, and presented the ticket with the other. A hatchet-faced man behind the counter took it, read the numbers, and disappeared in the back. He was gone for five minutes, time Omar spent wiping the sweat from his neck and stealing glances at the uniformed police.

The curtain parted, and another man appeared. Omar closed his palm around the butt, putting his finger on the trigger, then saw the man also glance at the police officers, a good sign. He said, “You have luggage that needs to go somewhere else?”

Omar said, “Yes. Rome.” He showed his boarding pass. The man read it, looked at Omar, and said, “You have identification?”

“Not that you need to see.”

The man squinted, debating, then nodded. He said, “Okay. You pick it up in Rome. You call Alex when you get to Rome and retrieve the bags. He’d better pay this time.”

Omar said, “Of course. Alex is good for it.”

The man went to a computer and printed out three luggage tags. He slid across the tracking bar codes and Omar glanced back at the police again, seeing them engrossed in conversation. He pulled out the pistol, slid it between the pages of a newspaper, and said, “Pack this in as well.”

The man saw the pistol and showed alarm. Omar realized he had no idea what was in the luggage, probably thinking it was simply contraband. He withdrew a wad of Euros and counted out three one-hundred notes. He laid them on the table and the man quickly hid the newspaper. His eyes slid to the uniformed police and he said, “Okay, okay, but leave now.”

Omar did, walking back through the luggage area to the departure lounge. He got in line with everyone else waiting to pass through security, surprised at how easy his escape had been. His confidence grew. Maybe all the Israelis wanted was their bitch back.

Maybe nobody is tracking me after all.

72

Alexander Palmer said, “So you’re confident it was Omar al-Khatami?”

“Yes. Pike said he had positive identification. With that and the information we’re getting from Rashid, we’ve changed our assessment of the Lost Boys. Rashid hinted at a separate cell passing explosives, but under further interrogation, he’s admitted that the cell was Omar himself. We now believe the Lost Boys are real, and are actively targeting Western interests.”

“Yeah, well, we might have lost our only lead in Venice. Pike played a little fast and loose with the Prairie Fire alert on this one. The Israelis don’t get the same protection as Taskforce members, regardless of what they were doing. I know it sucks, but we have a greater duty. We may have blown our only shot at the Lost Boys. If they aren’t there . . . If they’ve left . . .”

His words drifted off, but his meaning was crystal clear. Kurt said, “Sir, you know where I stand on such things. If the man on the ground calls Prairie Fire, there’s no way on earth I will ever second-guess it. You can blame me for any repercussions, but if I had to do it over again, I’d do the same damn thing.”

The secretary of defense defused the charged atmosphere, asking, “Did the hit on Omar disrupt anything? Did they find explosives?”

“None on-site. If he had them, he’d already sent them on their way.”

“Any granularity as to the Lost Boys’ target?”

“No. Rashid’s talking, but we assess he doesn’t know the target. From what we’ve learned, he was in Tirana to kill Omar. He’s Jabhat al-Nusra, and he has no love for the Islamic State.”

“Then why was al-Nusra transferring explosives? Why were they passing technology developed by the Khorasan group?”

“We don’t know, but our assessment is that it’s personal with Rashid. We think he was operating on his own, or it might have been a double cross with al-Nusra. Maybe he was attempting to co-opt the Lost Boys. Remember, the Khorasan group is his baby. He probably wasn’t too thrilled to be giving away everything that he’d worked for, and the foot soldiers go back and forth between groups all the time.”

President Warren said, “Are we sure he doesn’t know the target, or is there a chance he’s holding out?”

Kurt took a moment to form his words, then said, “There’s always a chance he’s holding out, especially if the attack is imminent. The time frame would represent a goal for him, but we don’t assess that’s what he’s doing. He’s been under . . . umm . . . significant pressure, and he’s talking.”

Easton Beau Clute said, “What exactly does that mean?” Fairly new to the Oversight Council, but an old hand with intelligence oversight—both the good and the bad—he looked at President Warren and said, “What are the rules of engagement for interrogation by Taskforce personnel? Why isn’t he in CIA hands?”