The 11th Hour
Chapter 30
Vlad held no illusions as to what was to happen when he showed up at the mosque, so he planned accordingly. He would be the only one of his team entering the mosque and would confront the Iranian imposter alone. If he were lucky, it would be someone named Dick Avery who would meet his death by Vlad’s own hand. He detested Americans almost as much as Arabs so this wet-work would be a pleasure. He’d sparred with the bastards during the Cold War years and still couldn’t overcome his loathing of them.
He’d have Ahmed and his men in-place before the appointed hour. He considered the Yemini mujahedeen soldiers among the best in the business and he admired their attention to detail in carrying out terrorist operations on his behalf, despite the fact they were Arabs.
The measures for his protection called for having two of Ahmed’s men positioned in the observation towers built for the tourists near the mosque. From those vantage points, they had a clear line of fire in almost all directions and with their shoulder weapons could easily pin down any unfriendly shooters from below. That would give Vlad enough time to do what was needed to be done. Anyone venturing into the narrow streets and alleyways would be caught in a deadly crossfire. The last man would be located on the ground near the mosque’s rear entrance that led to a myriad of twisting alleys ideal for their escape. He would cover Vlad’s back as they both ran for their lives to their waiting vehicles secreted on the outskirts of the old city.
It was a few minutes before noon when Abdulla entered the mosque and knelt down to perform his religious obligations. It would be an abbreviated exercise because he thought he’d spotted Vlad from a distance, but wasn’t certain. Abdulla briefly raised his rolled newspaper as a signal and the Vlad figure motioned him to the staircase at the back of the mosque and walked up. Abdulla did the same clutching his holstered Glock nine millimeter in his left hand. That turned out to be a mistake that he’d never remember or live to regret.
As soon as he reached the top of the stairs, Abdulla was grabbed from behind and burked. Vlad suffocated him by placing his hand over his mouth while pinching his nose in a method of murder employed by one W. Burke in the early 1800s in Scotland. As Vlad did so, he pressed the button on his makeshift ballpoint pen that released its sharply pointed pick. He deftly inserted it into Abdulla’s right carotid artery and stabbed him again several times in the larynx so he was unable to call out for help. The coup de grace was a strike of the weapon into his nose and up to his brain. Abdulla fell to the floor, quite dead. He’d been badly outmaneuvered, ambushed and dispatched by Vlad the Impaler. He never had a chance to alert his companions he’d met the monster in the flesh.
Vlad made his way out the back of the mosque and he and his colleague briskly walked away into the blazing noontime sun. The body of a uniformed Saudi policeman could be seen in the bushes beside the alley. He been garroted with a piece of piano wire or similar lethal item and blood freely flowed from his throat. The snipers in the observation towers were told to stand-down and proceed to the cars. The wannabe shooters hadn’t fired a shot and the whole operation went smoothly and silently from beginning to end. The two terrorists folded the stocks on their rifles and placed them back into the tennis racket shoulder bags.
Vlad thought the ball was now firmly back in his opponents’ court and the game was 40 Love in his favor. But the grand slam play was yet to come.
It took both Pet and I about 15 long minutes to realize something was very wrong. There’d been no signal from Abdulla and too much time had passed without him walking out of the mosque to our location. The religious service continued as if nothing untoward had occurred and at least that was a good sign, they thought. Yet we both sensed something was amiss. And, of course, our woman’s intuition was right. I didn’t argue the point because I really didn’t have any good intuitions about women in the first place as evident by misreading Pet.
Abdulla’s second in command delivered the tragic news. We couldn’t believe Vlad had escaped right under our noses! The officer said he’d put out a country wide BOLO, but added that all of the government authorities had been on high alert already based on our information that Vlad was likely somewhere in Saudi Arabia and up to no good. Pet and I were having serious self doubts and wondered if others from our respective organizations could do a better job of finding him. Perhaps it was time to change pitchers from both teams, as Jersey might say.
I felt like Nancy Drew at the moment, but a much more childish and inept crime solver. I didn’t know if Pet had drawn a similar analogy to a Russian kid detective. It didn’t matter because we were both screwed blue without getting a henna tattoo. There was no way to go except out or up for us. We both worried about being sent home with our tails tightly tucked between our legs. The humiliation would be excruciating to bear. It would be doubly bad for Pet and wondered if this would be the end of her career with the SVR. She’d been given an especially important assignment and she’d failed to deliver. Following on the heels of the London fiasco, this could be the end of the line for her and her dreams.
We were back at square one and didn’t have the foggiest idea as to how to make our next move. Damn it! Vlad had slyly outfoxed us once again and we both felt like two clucks in a henhouse.