Chapter 24
AT first blush, the travel agency looked like… a travel agency.
A small waiting room was bounded at one end by what appeared to be a receptionist’s desk, complete with a phone that sported multiple lines and a large calendar.
Plastic chairs lined each wall, and a pair of end tables supported lamps.
Travel posters abounded, and brochures filled with beaches, sunsets, and towering mountains fanned across the end tables.
Hurley couldn’t say that he’d spent a lot of time loitering in travel agencies, but nothing jumped out as particularly sinister.
In the waiting room.
The space beyond the receptionist’s desk was a different story.
A conference table in the back half of the room displayed still more brochures, but it was the heavy-gauge steel door along the eastern wall that caught Stan’s eye.
Where the rest of the office gave off a commercialspace vibe, the door, with its metal-reinforcing bands and dangling padlock, had an industrial feel.
As if it had been transported from a warehouse or stolen from a restaurant’s high-capacity freezer.
It was a door that was designed to be closed and locked, but was currently open.
“Entschuldigung,” Hurley said, pitching his voice to carry.
He’d long ago learned the usefulness of passing as a nationality other than American, especially in situations like this one. Terrorists grew concerned when they heard rough-looking men speak English. But German? That was the language of commerce in much of the Arab world.
A man popped out of the room. “How did you get in here?”
Hurley put on his best confused expression. “The door was open.”
As had the man, he spoke in English. German-accented English for him.
Arabic-accented for the man. He moved deeper into the room—a natural reaction for someone who wished to close the distance with his conversation partner.
Coincidentally, it also gave Hurley a view of what lay beyond the imposing door.
“We’re not open,” the man said. “Come back tomorrow.”
“Was?” Hurley said, taking another step closer. “Nein. Tomorrow is too late. I must book my flight today.”
Half a step more and he would be able to see past the door. Unfortunately, the speaker was having none of it. Like a linebacker plugging a hole in the defensive line, he slid around the receptionist’s desk and blocked Hurley.
“We are closed. You can find another travel agency six blocks to the west. Leave. Now.”
The command had been delivered with a finality that brooked no argument. While the travel shop’s proprietor’s stature wasn’t especially imposing, he wasn’t alone. Somewhere beyond that door, the motorcyclist was lurking.
But being outnumbered was only one of Hurley’s concerns.
This entire venture had been predicated on his ability to bluff his way into the travel agency and take a look around.
Was there shady shit happening here? Probably.
But did Hurley’s suspicions rise to the level that would permit him to lay waste to the proprietor and the motorcyclist in good conscience?
Not yet.
Which meant he had a bit of a conundrum.
If he did away with the farce of the German tourist and shoved past the proprietor for a peek beyond the door, everyone would realize he wasn’t a random customer.
Even if the encounter didn’t turn physical, the two men would know they’d been burned and act accordingly.
By the same token, if he allowed himself to be meekly shepherded out of the store, he was done.
He didn’t have a large-enough team to mount a proper surveillance operation, which meant that once the men concluded their business, Hurley would forfeit this thread entirely.
Decisions, decisions.
Hurley was racking his brain for an appropriate response when his wandering eyes found inspiration in a familiar source.
A beautiful woman. A poster featuring a smiling brunette in a bikini loomed above the man’s right shoulder.
Just below was a box featuring brochures presumably extolling the features of whatever remote island she was gracing.
“Perfekt,” Hurley said, lunging past the man. He snatched the brochure from its holder and turned. “Exactly what I was looking for. Danke.”
Hurley forced his lips into a smile even though the view over the man’s shoulder was anything but perfect.
The door had been constructed from reinforced steel for a reason.
Compared to the travel agency’s office proper, the next room was depressingly sterile.
Cold fluorescent lights provided the illumination, metal shelves lined the wall, and a cluster of high-backed chairs circled a scarred wooden workbench.
The motorcyclist occupied one of the chairs and the box he’d brought into the store sat in front of him. The man locked eyes with Hurley, and his expression was less than friendly. His reaction probably had something to do with what was in the box.
Semtex.
Lots and lots of Semtex.
The orange blocks were wrapped in plastic with white plastic labels in which the letters “SEMTEX-H” were helpfully printed in oversized black characters.
The plastic explosive was extremely stable, but incredibly deadly when detonated.
Just twelve ounces had been enough to blow Pan Am 103 out of the sky over Lockerbie, Scotland.
Thirty-five students from Syracuse University had been on that flight, including Rapp’s girlfriend Mary.
Semtex was easy to transport, difficult to detect, and simple to employ.
Though the explosive had legitimate civilian uses in the mining or demolition fields, it had become a favorite for terrorist organizations ranging from the Irish Republican Army to Hezbollah.
It was not normally found in a travel agency.
Neither was the collection of detonators stacked next to explosives.
Or the Tariq pistol lying beside them.
“Khara,” the motorcyclist said, reaching for the pistol.
Squatting behind the proprietor, Hurley drove the man toward the steel door like he was an offensive tackle exploding into the blocking sled. A moment ago, he’d been grateful for the man’s slight stature.
Now he found himself wishing the man was a bit more imposing.
A stream of Arabic erupted from beyond the door.
While Hurley didn’t speak enough to interpret the torrent, he was able to make one disconcerting determination—the motorcyclist’s voice was getting louder.
Grunting, Hurley pistoned into a standing position.
He drove from his legs and hurled the proprietor backward through the open door.
The motorcyclist’s louder voice probably meant the man was running him in order to point his pistol around Hurley’s human shield.
Couldn’t have that.
The proprietor’s foot caught the door’s lip and he fell, buying Hurley another half second. While the pistol secreted at the small of his back was calling his name, he didn’t draw the weapon. Instead he grabbed the heavy door and slammed it closed as the motorcyclist started shooting.
The metal vibrated like a tuning fork as the impacting rounds flattened against the steel.
With a final grunt, Hurley snapped the latch into place.
He was reaching for the dangling padlock when one of the captives crashed into the door.
The collision caused his fingers to overshoot, sending the lock tumbling to the floor.
Hurley grunted with the effort of keeping the door shut as the padlock taunted him from just out of reach.
The door shuddered and the latch jiggled as someone tried to open it from the other side, but Hurley used his body weight to hold it closed.
He wouldn’t be able to bar the door forever, but he thought he was safe for the moment.
Until two words convinced him otherwise.
“Allahu Akbar!”