One Rough Man - Brad Taylor [170]
He told the tram driver he had forgotten something at his hotel, then sat in the back, behind the crush of people boarding. Riding back to the city center, he considered his options. Beyond anything else, he didn’t want to waste the device. Using it here would only kill several hundred, mostly Bosnians or other Eastern Europeans. He’d be lucky to kill a single Zionist. The impact would be minimal. Even so, the thought was growing in his mind. It was an eventuality that had to be considered. The man from Guatemala wasn’t going to stop, and somehow he seemed to know wherever Bakr went.
He left the tram one stop early and proceeded north into the city, pulling out the number Juka had given him. Maybe someone would answer and get him out of here. He listened to the phone ring, then go to voice mail. He hung up without leaving a message.
He reached a walking promenade filled with people, all moving to the west, and remembered the ceremony. A germ of an idea began to form.
“ANY IDEAS?” Knuckles asked.
“Not really. Maybe it’s time to pull in the Bosnian authorities.”
“How the hell are we going to do that? And not give up the Taskforce? What are we going to tell them? ‘Be on the lookout for a swarthy man with a backpack’? We don’t have a picture and we don’t even know his real name.”
We had finished our search of the bus and train station, and Carlos was nowhere to be found. I was certain he hadn’t come here, and now we didn’t have a thread to pull.
Knuckles said, “Maybe he went to the airport after all.”
“Maybe, but once he got there he’d see all of the security for the dignitaries and go away.”
We both stopped and looked at each other, a terrible truth dawning on us.
“Shit—he’s got a perfect target right here. We need to find out about that ceremony.”
Knuckles called the pilots and had them get on the SATCOM to the rear for some answers. Within minutes, his phone rang. When he hung up, I knew it was going to be bad.
“It’s a formal ceremony for the fifteenth anniversary of the Markale mortar attacks. They’re putting up a monument. France, England, and Germany will all have representatives here.”
Great. A perfect target.
Knuckles continued. “Worse than that, the secretary of state is representing the United States. He’s on the ground now.”
“What? How could you guys deploy here and not know that? Jesus.”
“He wasn’t supposed to come here. He’s supposed to be with the president on a goodwill tour. I’ve got that schedule and this isn’t on it. Apparently, it just came up.”
“Is it just him? Is the president here as well?”
“No, it’s an entourage, but the SECSTATE’s the biggest name.”
“If this is someone’s late-breaking good idea, the Secret Service didn’t have a lot of prep time for security. When’s the ceremony?”
“It’s going to happen within the next hour.”
Before I could say anything else, the phone we had taken from the safe house began to ring inside Knuckles’s backpack.
BAKR STOPPED A PASSERBY, asking, “Who’s coming to the ceremony?”
“A lot of people. President Silajdzic is going to speak.”
“So it’s all Bosnians? Why all the security?”
The man looked at Bakr with contempt. “Of course not. France and Britain have representatives here. The American secretary of state is speaking. The world understands the importance of this day.”
All Bakr heard was the guest list, his mind now working in overdrive. He began following the crowds to the west on the Ferhadija promenade, plotting his options. He knew that the odds of crossing into Israel were now slim. They were probably on high alert. Even if he could make it, he had no way to implicate the Iranians. He would