Chapter 24
The Ghost felt the aircraft wheels touch down and strained to look over the shoulder of the man in the window seat, finding
it too dark to make anything out beyond the runway lights. He saw everyone else bring out their cell phones and realized he
would have to finally turn on the one he’d been given.
It was well past midnight, but the final leg of his flight to Puerto Iguazú was only a couple of hours from Buenos Aires.
Unlike him, most of the passengers were awake and alert. After more than eighteen hours of traveling, all the Ghost wanted
was a bed. Even so, the closer the plane traveled to its designated gate, the more the Ghost felt the adrenaline rise. The
constant fight-or-flight response every time he traversed an airport was not helping his exhaustion.
He knew that Mexico could really care less about him leaving the country—only checking that he had a passport so he wouldn’t
be turned around—but Argentina was a different story. They would want to know why a single man was entering the country.
Upon landing in Buenos Aires hours earlier, he’d answered the immigration officials’ questions, but then remained silent,
watching the official run the passport through a scanner. He felt the sweat grow on his back, the time seeming to drag, and
then the man had looked up and handed the passport back. He’d prepared to leave the station when the man told him to take
a step back and look at a camera on a stalk.
That accomplished, he waited expectantly, hoping he would be let into the country. The man stated he needed to place both index fingers on a biometric reader, causing yet another burst of adrenaline.
The world had changed remarkably since he’d been taken prisoner by the Americans, with new technology prevalent at every step
of his journey, and he’d prayed that the fingerprint reader was just like the photo—namely, that it would simply tie him to
his passport and not be leveraged for research into any databases.
The only one he had to fear was a set of prints obtained by Lebanese intelligence years ago, when he’d been captured in the
demilitarized zone next to Israel. He’d never been charged with anything, and had been let go, and while he was sure they’d
kept his fingerprints for the future, he was also positive Lebanon hadn’t kept pace with the technology he’d seen on his flight.
They wouldn’t be digitized.
Then he’d remembered the fingerprint he’d given at the border crossing. It was most definitely digitized into a data set,
but he had no idea how accessible it was. While that database, too, would be tied to the name on his passport, and ostensibly
wouldn’t prove he was traveling with an alias, he was sure it would raise questions as to why he’d walked across the border
in America to fly out of Mexico to visit relatives.
All of this had flashed through his mind while he placed both index fingers on the reader. It beeped, he’d looked up, and
the man waved him through. He’d exhaled and walked into the airport looking for domestic departures, headed to Puerto Iguazú.
Now, as the plane jockeyed into the gate, he felt the adrenaline rise once again. It was only a domestic flight, and he should
have no other interactions with Argentinian authorities, but this time, he’d be meeting his sponsors.
He pulled out the cell phone he’d been given in Mexico, knowing full well the risks of using it. He’d been out of the game
for close to a decade, but he’d kept up with technological advancements virtually. He’d seen news stories of how Israel and
other countries had the ability to turn smartphones into full-service collection devices, from recording voice and texts to
geolocation within feet.
He had no other option. He initiated the device, watched the home screen load, and found an app called Signal—something not available when he’d left the free world. He hoped it was secure. Inside the app was a single contact under the username Hadi, the relative he was supposedly visiting.
He initiated a chat and typed one word: Here.
He waited, then saw a string of dots undulating up and down. He presumed that meant someone was on the other end. A text appeared:
Follow the signs for ground transportation. Exit the airport and look for the driver waiting area. I’ll be holding a paper
with Sardar on it.
He wanted to ask about customs or further immigration controls, but didn’t. He simply typed back, Okay. Coming now.
He waited until the passengers ahead of him exited, retrieved his carry-on, and followed the signs to baggage claim. From
there, he saw an arrow pointing to ground transportation, took a left, and exited the airport, the cloying, humid air causing
his glasses to fog.
He took the opportunity to clean them, pretending to look through the lenses after wiping the glass, but really surveying
the area. He saw about a dozen men, all holding signs with names, some on electronic tablets, some with official tourist placards,
and some just scribbled on pieces of paper.
A swarthy man with a sign proclaiming “Sardar” was staring at him intently. Of average height, with a well-groomed goatee,
he nodded, and the Ghost walked to him, unsure of whether he was supposed to act like his name was Sardar or pretend they
actually knew each other.
The man took the initiative, dropping the sign and embracing him in a hug, saying, “You made it! Hadi will be so happy. Come,
come, I’m parked over here.”
Surprised, the Ghost returned the embrace, saying nothing. He let the man take his carry-on and they walked a short distance
to a small two-door Renault hatchback.
The man started the vehicle and they exited the airport, leaving on a two-way road winding through a jungle, the forest dark
and close on each side.
The man said, “The airport is right in the middle of a national forest, but our hotel is not far. Ten minutes, maybe.”
The Ghost said, “What do I call you?”
The man laughed and said, “Sardar. That’s my name. The harder question is what do I call you?”
“Tarek Navarro. That’s the name on the passport.”
Sardar flicked a glance to him and said, “Lebanese passport, right?”
The Ghost answered, but with a rising voice, like a question. “Yes?”
Sardar said, “Pretty strange name for a Lebanese.”
“We had to pick a name that sounded both American Indian and Lebanese. Something that would pass for both nationalities for
people who are neither. Didn’t you know this?”
“No. My people funded it, and I provided the blank passport, but the details were left to the men I used. For good reason,
it turns out. I most certainly wouldn’t have picked a name that sounded like an American Indian.”
The Ghost took that in, then said, “Who are you, really?”
“I’m sure you have many questions. Let’s wait until we get to the hotel to discuss.”
“At least tell me who your ‘people’ are. While I greatly appreciate all you have done, I have no idea.”
Sardar glanced at him in surprise and said, “Who do you think I am?”
“Party of God?”
Sardar chuckled and said, “Hezbollah is powerful and righteous, but not powerful enough to do what I have done. They don’t
have the reach to bring you here from a secret American prison located in the heart of the Great Satan.”
Sardar glanced at him, and the Ghost saw pride leaking out.
He said, “I’m Pasdaran.”