pass the cattle gate through which Ibrahim and the others had entered. When the guards saw no pickup truck there, how would they react? Ibrahim decided it was best not to find out.
They had twelve minutes. Say four more minutes to set the charges and eight minutes to run the mile back to the cattle gate. It would be very close. Or, he thought, there was another option.
Heart pounding, he slowed his pace. So did the truck, coming to a near halt. Ibrahim waved his arm in greeting and called out in Portuguese, “Boa tarde!” Good evening. He arched his back ever so slightly to check that the Glock was still in place.
After a long five seconds, the driver waved back. “How’s it going?” he asked.
Ibrahim shrugged. “Bem.” Fine. Casually, he began walking toward the truck. How close? he wondered. To kill both men before they had a chance to reach their radio, he would have to get within ten or twelve meters. Would they become suspicious of his face or uniform before then? Charge them and start firing? No, he decided. The truck would race away. Ibrahim stopped walking.
“What’re you up to?” the driver asked.
“Weld checks,” Ibrahim answered. “Our boss decided we needed something to do.”
The driver chuckled. “I know the feeling. See you later.”
The transmission shifted into gear, and the truck rolled forward. Then stopped. The reverse lights popped on, and the truck backed up until it was again even with Ibrahim. “You came in from the cattle gate?” the driver asked.
Heart in his throat, Ibrahim nodded.
“Was there a truck there?”
“Didn’t see one. What’s the problem?”
“Paiva and Cabral aren’t answering their radio.”
Ibrahim jerked his thumb toward the others spread out along the pipeline behind him. “Ours have been acting up tonight, too.”
“Sunspots or something, probably,” the driver said. “Interesting accent you’ve got.”
“Angola. Lived there until about a year ago.”
The driver shrugged. “Okay. Take it easy.”
The truck drove on and disappeared down the road. Ibrahim waited until he could no longer hear its engine, then let out his breath. Almost there. Allah guide me. He crossed the road, picked his way down into the drainage ditch, then back up the other side. The fence was in sight now, a hundred yards away. He passed the final pylon and began counting steps. At the halfway point, he stopped and knelt down. The pipe was directly over his head. He could hear the gurgling rush of fuel through the steel.
The first of his two charges, the largest of the six, weighed eight ounces but still easily fit in the thigh pocket of his cargo pants. The second charge, at two ounces, fit in the palm of his hand. He set the main charge’s digital timer to four minutes, ten seconds; the second charge to five minutes. He squeezed his eyes shut, said a quick prayer, then stood up, affixed the main charge to the pipe’s underside, then started the timer. He watched two seconds click off, then walked into the open, turned around, and scratched his head. He waited long enough to ensure that all three of them had seen his signal, then started the timer on the last charge and stuffed it into its duct tape and Bubble Wrap cocoon.
He heaved the bundle over the fence, then turned around and started walking.
74
HENDLEY, GRANGER, and Rick Bell spent part of the afternoon and early evening debriefing Dominic in the conference room. Jack Junior and John Clark sat in a pair of chairs along the wall and listened; Jack was family and a good friend, and while Dominic seemed to be holding it together, Hendley had thought Jack’s presence might be helpful. As for Clark, Hendley wanted his professional eye.
Jack watched his cousin carefully as he walked Hendley and the others through the Tripoli mission: their initial meeting with Archie, their foray into the Medina to snatch Bari, their trip to Almasi’s house, and finally Brian’s death. At every step, Dominic answered their questions curtly but thoroughly, never losing his patience and never hesitating. And not showing a trace of emotion, Jack realized. His cousin showed no affect in either his face or his body language. He was flat.
“Tell us again about Fakhoury,” Sam Granger said.
“According to Bari, he was low-level, just an enforcer. We decided Almasi was a better target. We didn’t want any witnesses to Bari’s disappearance, so we talked about what to do with him.”