Chapter 9 Chapter VII
Before dawn, a twin-engine propeller-propelled Beechcraft King Air business jet took off from Stadtford Air Force Base north of Tel Aviv, turned southeast, and began to climb.The plane flew over Beersheva, crossed the no-fly zone over the Dimona nuclear power plant, and left Israeli airspace from Eilat in southern Israel.
The whole body of the plane is white, and the words "United Nations" are written on the fuselage.The huge letters "WFP" on the tail fin stand for "World Food Programme".If one checked its registration number, it would reveal that the plane belonged to a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands and was leased to the World Food Program on a long-term basis.All of these are bogus.
The aircraft actually belonged to the Masada division (special forces) of the Mossad and the hangar was located in Stuttdorf.The black Spitfire of Ezer Weizmann, the founder of the Israeli Air Force, was once parked there.
The route chosen by King Air is south of the Gulf of Aqaba, between the landmass of Saudi Arabia to the east and Egypt and Sudan to the west.The plane had been flying in international airspace along the Red Sea before crossing the coast of Somaliland and entering Somalia.None of these countries have interception agencies.
The silver plane flew north of Mogadishu over the Indian Ocean coast of Somalia again, then turned southwest, and flew parallel to the coastline in an offshore position at an altitude of 5,000 feet.Since it has no external fuel tanks and obviously has limited range, any observer would have assumed it came from a nearby charitable aid base.However, it is impossible for observers to see that inside the aircraft, there are two huge fuel tanks, which occupy most of the internal space of the aircraft.
When flying south of Mogadishu, the photographer prepared his equipment and started filming from Marka.The whole beach, from Marka to fifty miles north of Kismayo, spans a total of two hundred miles.The images captured are very clear.
Then, the photographer turned off the device.The King Air flew away from the coast and returned the same way it had come.The fuel supply was switched from the internal tanks to the main tanks, and the aircraft began its return flight.After 12 hours of flight, the plane entered Eilat Airport, refueled, and continued to fly to Stuttgart.A motorcyclist sends his camera bag to the Mossad photo analysis department for image analysis.
Benny got what he wanted—a definite meeting point along the coast road, unmistakable.There he would meet Agent Opal with the latest instructions and the necessary equipment.He wanted a location that would be unmistakable to motorcyclists on the highway or to people crossing it in inflatable kayaks from the sea.
He found the rendezvous place, and began to prepare to send a message to Opal.
Warden Dougherty was trying to run a desirable prison, so naturally there was this chapel of the prison.But he didn't want his daughter to get married in this church.As the bride's father, he was ready to make his daughter's big day truly memorable, so the wedding was arranged at St. Francis Xavier Catholic Church, with the reception at the Clarendon Hotel downtown. The social diary column of Phoenix Republic mentioned the wedding several times, including when and where.So when the happy couple showed up, it was no surprise that there was a throng of curious or well-wishers outside the church door. Among the crowd was a dark-skinned young man in a white robe, staring into the distance.No one noticed him until he jumped past the onlookers of the media and ran towards the bride's father with something in his right hand, which seemed to be a gift.It wasn't a gift, though, but a Colt 45.He shot Warden Dougherty four times.The warden was knocked backward by the force of the four bullets, paralyzed in a heap. Usually when people don't realize the real horror, they will be silent for two seconds because they haven't figured it out, and then they will react-scream, yell.In this case, there were more shots as two Phoenix police officers on duty drew their guns and fired.The murderer also fell.Mrs. Doherty was in a constant state of hysteria.The weeping bride was taken away.Police cars and ambulances sounded their sirens.The terrified crowd fled in all directions.In the ensuing chaos, others lay the shooter and the killer on the ground. The scene was then taken over by the state machine.The crime scene was taped off.The pistol was recovered and placed in a plastic evidence bag.The identity of the killer was subsequently verified.That night, news broadcasts in Arizona told all Americans that there had been another homicide.Upstairs in the garage where the fanatic worked, the laptop was found in his duplex.After restoration, it was found that there are many online sermons of missionaries.
The U.S. Army Training and Doctrine Command is the unit responsible for the video-related work of the U.S. Army, located in Fort Eustis, Virginia.The agency typically produces instructional films or documentaries that explain and celebrate aspects of the military's work and function.So the headquarters did not hesitate at all, and immediately agreed to Lieutenant Colonel Jamie Jackson's request for a meeting.This Lieutenant Colonel Jamie Jackson serves at the Joint Special Operations Command headquarters in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Even within the military, the tracker saw no reason to reveal that he was actually Lieutenant Colonel Kit Carlson from Technical Operations Support in the same state as US Army Training and Doctrine Command and only a few miles away .This is the so-called "need to know". "I want to make a short film," he said. "It's top-secret, and only a very limited number of people can see it after the short film is made." The commander was a little curious, secretly startled.But he is not worried, he is very proud of his unit's filmmaking talent.He couldn't think of a similarly odd request before, but it made the job a little more interesting.There are photography facilities and recording studios on the base. "The film is small, short, with one scene. There is no location shooting. A crew is required, likely to be shot off base. No cameras are needed other than a camcorder with audio and video. In fact, the short film only It can be seen online. So the crew will be very small, maybe no more than six people, all sworn to secrecy. I want a young cinematographer who is proficient in film,” the “customer” said. The tracker got what he wanted - Captain Damien Mason.The Commander didn't get what he wanted—answers to his countless questions.But he got a call from a lieutenant general telling him he had to obey the man's orders. Damian Mason was a young, cinephile as a teenager in White Plains, New York.When he was in U.S. Army Training and Doctrine Command, he wanted to go West in Hollywood and make real movies, the kind with scripts and stars. "Will this be an instructional film, sir?" he asked. "I hope it's educational, the way it is," replied the lieutenant colonel of the Marine Corps. "Tell me, is there such a directory with pictures of all actors in this country?" "There's a sort of thing. I think you mean the Academy's cast directory. Every scout in the country has one." "Is there a base?" "No, sir. We don't use professional actors." "We're going to use it now, or at least one. Can you find me a copy?" "Of course, Lieutenant Colonel." It took two days for FedEx to arrive. It was a very thick book, and every page was full of headshots of actors and actresses with dreams, ranging from novice to experienced. Police and intelligence agencies all over the world have another skill, which is face comparison.This could help detectives track down criminals who are on the run and want to change their appearance. Codified by computers, this little trick of the police has become a technology.In the United States, the software is called "Formation" and was developed by the FBI's Institute of Electronics in Quantico, Maryland. First of all, it is necessary to collect and store the face sizes of hundreds of thousands of people.Ears do it alone, it's the same as fingerprints - never the same.But because of the long hair, it is not always visible in the photos.The distance between the pupils of the two eyes is measured to the nearest micron, and a comparison sample can be ruled out or confirmed in an instant. "Formation" won't be fooled by felons who've had extensive plastic surgery. Terrorists can be identified within seconds of being captured by a drone's camera as a top-ranked target rather than an ordinary mover.This saves expensive missiles.Soon, the tracker returned to the east and assigned a task to the "formation"-to scan all the male faces in the cast list and find me a substitute for this person.He gave them a picture of the missionary without a beard.Mustaches can be added back. Formation scanned about a thousand male faces and eventually found a Pakistani man named Abu Assam who looked more like anyone else.The man was Hispanic and his name was Tony Suarez.His résumé shows that he's had some small roles, he's had a few extras, he's always in the crowd in movies, and he sometimes has a few lines about buying a barbecue grill. The Tracker returned to his office at Technical Operations Support.There is a report from Ariel.His father found a store that sold foreign foods and bought him a jar of masala pickles and another of mango chutney.Computers show that almost all of the fruit and spices come from farms in the lower Juba Valley. And that's not all.Spicy masala dishes, as well as Indian curries, are doing very well in Pakistan, the Middle East and the UK, according to business databases.The company is wholly owned by its founder, Mustafa Dadari.He has a big house in Karachi and a townhouse in London.Finally, there's a photo of the tycoon smiling, blown up from a photo of a boardroom. The tracker stared at the face.The skin is smooth, the beard is clean-shaven, and the smile is vaguely familiar.From his desk drawer, he pulls out the original photo he took on his iPhone in Islamabad.The half he doesn't need in the photo is folded down the middle.He needs it now.Another boy who was grinning fifteen years ago. Tracker is an only child.He knew that with two best friends from school days like this, the bond between them was sometimes never lost.He remembered Ariel's warning—someone had sent a network message to that warehouse from Kismayo.The cave giant will reply "Thank you" for confirmation after receiving it.The missionary has a friend in the western world.
Captain Mason looked carefully at the photograph of what might be the missionary, Zulfikar Ali Shah before him, Abu Assam before that, and the unsuspecting photograph of Toni Suarez next to it.The sidekick is out of work and living in a vacant house in Malibu. "It's really doable," he concluded, tapping the picture of the missionary. "Put on makeup, hair, outfit, contact lenses, rehearse from a script, and get a teleprompter." "Has this guy ever spoken a line?" "Occasionally." "It doesn't sound like it." "Leave the issue of the sound to me," said the tracker.
Captain Mason dressed as Mr. Mason in civilian clothes and flew to Hollywood with a wad of banknotes.When you come back, take Mr. Suarez with you.He lived in a comfortable suite at a hotel chain twenty miles from Fort Eustis.To make sure he wasn't wandering around, Mason had a very reliable corporal watching over him.The corporal was blond and very pretty.For the sake of her country, all she had to do was prevent the California guest from leaving the hotel or entering her bedroom within forty-eight hours. It doesn't matter whether Mr. Suarez really believes that all of this is due to pre-production on an unreleased film for a wealthy Middle Eastern client.Whether the movie has a plot or not has nothing to do with him.He's perfectly content living in a lavish suite with a champagne bar, enough money to buy grills for years, and the company of a blond, too-beautiful beauty.Captain Mason booked a large conference room in this hotel and told him to audition tomorrow. The U.S. Army Training and Doctrine Command team has arrived.Neither vehicle they were in was marked.Also came a small furniture truck.They moved into the conference room and covered all the windows with black paper and masking tape.After finishing these, they set up the world's crudest film set. Basically, just got a sheet and nailed it to the wall.The sheets were also black and had scriptures written in cursive Arabic script.The sheets were prepared in advance at the Fort Eustis recording studio, a replica of the backdrop that Preacher did all of his shows.A very simple wooden armchair sits in front of the bed sheet. At the other end of the hall, two work areas of "clothing" and "makeup" were made with chairs, tables and lamps.When doing these things, no one has the slightest thought of questioning. The photographer sets up the camera against the chair.A colleague of his sat in the chair and worked with him on distance, focus and sharpness.The sound engineer checks the volume.The teleprompter operator places the screen directly below the camera lens so that the speaker's eyes appear to be looking directly into the camera. Mr. Suarez was ushered in and taken to the clothing section.A middle-aged female senior sergeant was there, waiting for Suarez with the robe and hood that Suarez would wear.She was in civilian clothes like everyone else.These clothes were also selected by the trackers from the vast resources of the US Army Training and Doctrine Command.Later, the photos of the missionaries were carefully observed and modified by the clothing custodians. "I don't have to speak Arabic, do I?" Toni Suarez pleaded. "Nobody told me that." "Absolutely not." "Mr. Mason" gave him reassurance, and he seemed to be a director at the moment, "Uh, there are only a few words. But it doesn't matter how you pronounce it. Here, let's take a look first, as long as you can lip-synch All right." He handed Suárez a piece of paper with some Arabic words written on it. "Bullshit, man. This is too complicated." An older man had been leaning against the wall and waiting.Now he came forward. "Try to imitate me," he said, and spoke a foreign language that sounded like Arabic.Suarez learned to say it again, the donkey's head was completely wrong, but the lip movement was correct.Voice overs can do the rest.Toni Suarez walks to the makeup chair.Makeup took an hour. The makeup artist is experienced.He deepened the tone of his skin, making him look slightly darker.Then he added black sideburns and a mustache on his upper lip.The hair on the head is covered with an Arab turban.Finally contact lenses, which turned his eyes a stunning amber color.He stood up and turned around.The tracker was certain that it was "the missionary" who was facing him. Toni Suarez was led to a chair and sat down.The camera, volume, focus, and teleprompter adjusted slightly to him again.The leading actor sits in a makeup chair and spends an hour reading his lines.A teleprompter will prompt him to read it later.He memorized most of his lines.Although his Arabic pronunciation is not like that of an Arab, he no longer stutters. "Start shooting," Captain Mason said.He dreams that one day he can say that to Brad Pitt and George Clooney.The extras began to speak. The tracker whispered in Mason's ear. "Be more serious, Tony," Mason said. "That's a confession. You're the great Vizier, and you're telling the Sultan that you're totally wrong, and you're sorry. Okay, do it again. Shoot." After eight shots, Suarez had reached his limit and his performance began to decline.The tracker called a halt. "Okay, everyone, shut down," Mason said.He likes to say that.The team members dismantled the things that had been built.Toni Suarez went back into jeans and a shirt and dropped his beard.The smell of cleansing oil is very bad.Clothing and make-up areas put the boxes back on the trucks.The sheets were taken down, rolled up, and taken away.The black paper and tape had been removed from the windows. While everyone was busy, the tracker asked the photographer to pick out the best five videos of his speeches.The tracker picks out the one he wants and deletes the others. The actor's voice is still that pure California accent.But trackers know of a British TV impersonator who makes his audience laugh out loud by imitating the voices of celebrities in a humorous way.Today he will fly over and get paid handsomely.The technician will match the mouth shape to every detail. They returned the rented conference room to the hotel.Toni Suarez returned his suite with great regret and was taken back to Washington International Airport for an evening flight back to Los Angeles.The group at Fort Eustis was much closer to headquarters and was approaching sunset. They had a great time today.But they had never heard of the missionary, and they had no idea what they were doing today.Only the tracker knows what happened.He knew that when he posted what was on the tape in his hand online, the various jihadist groups would be in chaos.
A man steps off a Turkish flight at Mogadishu airport.He knew a thing or two about Somalia.His passport listed his name as Dane Jensen, and other documents in five languages, including Somali, stated that he worked for Save the Children. In fact, his name was not Jensen, but he worked for the Mossad intelligence search department and was responsible for the usual espionage.Yesterday, he flew from Ben Gurion Airport to Larnaca, Cyprus, changed his name and nationality, and continued on to Istanbul. The plane made a stopover in Djibouti.He waited boredly in the business class transit hall for a long time, preparing to continue his southward flight to Somalia.Only Turkish Airlines is the only airline still serving Mogadishu. At eight o'clock in the morning, the asphalt ground was already very hot.Fifty passengers poured into the arrival hall.The Somalis coming out of economy class shoved three business class passengers away with their shoulders.There was nothing urgent about Dane, he waited his turn in line in front of the customs officials. Of course, he doesn't have a visa.He's been here before, and as far as he knows, visas are bought upon arrival.The customs officer looked carefully at his previous entry and exit stamps, and checked a list of prohibited entry and exit, but found no one named Jason. Dane slipped a fifty-dollar bill from under the glass screen. "Visa," he whispered in English.The customs officer took the money and found another fifty-dollar bill inside the passport. "A little treat for your child," Dane whispered. The customs officer nodded, stamped the visa blankly, glanced at the insurance policy for yellow fever, closed the passport, nodded, and handed it back.For his children, of course.A decent gift.It's nice to meet Europeans who know the rules. There are two dilapidated taxis outside.Dane is just a suitcase.He took the first taxi and said, "Peace Hotel, thank you." The driver drove towards the entrance of the airport building.There are Ugandan soldiers standing guard at the gate. The African Union military base is in the interior of the Mogadishu enclave, centered on the airport, surrounded by spiked wire, sandbags and blast walls, and patrolled by Casper armored personnel carriers.Inside the fortress, there is another fortress: Bancroft Barracks is a white area, and there are hundreds of contractors, rescue agencies, media personnel, and some formerly employed as bodyguards for those tycoons. military. Americans live in their own house at the end of the runway, which is home to embassy personnel.There are also several hangars with unknown contents inside, and a school for training young Somalis.One day in the future, these young people will return to that dangerous Somalia as American agents.Those who have disenchanted with Somalia for a long time feel that this is really a very good hope. Through the window of the moving car, you can see another smaller settlement in this shelter, where UN staff, senior African Union military officers, EU staff, and even the old-fashioned British ambassador live. library staff.They insist, either through passion or through lies, that this is not another "ghost center." Dane Jensen dared not live in Bancroft.There, he might run into another Dane or an actual Save the Children worker.He went to a hotel outside the blast wall.White people live there, and their safety is more guaranteed. The taxi goes through the last guarded gate, followed by red and white bars and Ugandan soldiers.After a mile of walking like this, I finally came to the heart of Mogadishu.Although it was not his first visit here, Dane was still very shocked. Twenty years of civil war had reduced this elegant city in Africa to a sea of rubble. The car drove onto a small road.Next to a pile of barbed wire stood a child, hired by the hotel.He stopped the car.The nine-foot steel gate creaked open, unannounced, watched through a small hole in the door. Dane paid for the car, checked in at the hotel, and was taken to his room.The house is small and has only basic functions.The windows are frosted to prevent outsiders from spying on the guests, and curtains are hung to insulate the guests.He took off his clothes, stood under the only slightly warm shower head for a while, soaped himself as clean as he could, then dried himself and changed his clothes. He was dressed like a native Somali—flip-flops, rough canvas jeans, a long cotton button-down shirt, a backpack slung over his shoulder, and wraparound black sunglasses.Both hands had long been sunburned by the Israeli sun.Only his pale face and blond hair made him distinctly European. Dane knows a place to rent motorcycles.He hailed a second taxi through the Peace Hotel and took himself there.In the car, he took the turban commonly used by Arabs from his bag, wrapped it around his blond hair, let the end of the turban cover his face, and tucked the edge of the turban into the fold of his clothes on the other side.This will not arouse any suspicion at all.Those who wear hoods usually do so to protect their noses and mouths from wind and sand. He rented a Piaggio moped that was falling apart.He's been here before, the boss knows him, knows he always puts a lot of dollars in deposits, and the car usually comes back undamaged, so there's absolutely no need for him to go through those stupid procedures, like whether he has a driver's license or not. Category. The Maka Mukalama Highway runs through the center of Mogadishu.Dane looked like a Somali man on errands, driving a moped into the "traffic" of the freeway and driving along—donkey carts, crumbling trucks, pickups, all kinds of things. motorcycles, as well as camels and pedestrians who need to dodge from time to time. Dane drives past the gleaming Juba Valley Mosque.He was impressed that it barely suffered any damage.His eyes flicked across the road and found a not-so-attractive target.Since his last visit to Somalia, the Darasa refugee camp has not been changed, and there has been no improvement.There are endless dirty little houses, in which ten thousand hungry and frightened refugees live.They have no sanitation, no food, no jobs or hope.Their children play in pools of piss on the floor.These people, he felt, were, as Franz Fanon said, the unluckiest people in the world.Darosa is one of the eighteen poorest cities in the enclave.Western aid agencies have tried, but it is an impossible task. Dane glanced at his cheap watch.He was punctual and the meeting was always at twelve noon.The people he came to see today would look the same way.If he is not there, the other person is ninety-nine percent busy with his own affairs.If he is there, they exchange signals with each other. The motorcycle took him to the already destroyed Italian quarter.A white man would be a fool to come here without a large armed guard.The danger is not murder, but kidnapping.European or American can be worth two million dollars.However, wearing Somali slippers, African shirts, and Arab turbans covering their heads and faces, the Israeli agents felt that they were safe if they stayed for a short time. There is a small horseshoe-shaped bay opposite the Uruba Hotel.Every morning, fish come to the shore.The waves of the Indian Ocean pushed the fishing sampans onto the beach.Then, those dark-skinned fishermen who had fished overnight carried their mackerel and totoaba and rushed into the market shed, waiting for customers to patronize. The fair was two hundred yards from the bay, and was a shed ninety feet long.There were lights in the shed, and the smell of fish, some fresh, some not.Dane's agent is the manager of the bazaar.Every day at noon, Mr. Kamal Duale would come out of his office and watch the crowd staring at the bazaar. Most people come to buy fish, but it's not time yet.Those with money will buy fresh fish.At forty degrees Celsius, without any form of refrigeration, the fish quickly develops an off-flavor.Then the haggling begins. If Mr. Duale was surprised to see his superior in the crowd, he didn't show it.He just stared and nodded.The man straddling Piaggio nodded in response, then raised his right hand across his chest, his five fingers opened and then closed, and then opened again.The two nodded slightly again, and the motorcyclist pushed the car away.The meeting place is fixed: the old place, at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. The next day Dane came down to breakfast at eight o'clock.He was lucky enough to have eggs to eat.He took two fried eggs and ordered some bread and tea.He doesn't want to eat too much because he's trying to avoid using the toilet. His motorcycle was parked next to the hotel wall.At nine-thirty, he started the car and waited for the steel gate to open and let himself out.He headed for the gate of the African Union barracks.As he approached the watchtower in the steel-and-concrete area, he reached out and removed his turban.The blond hair immediately allowed him to pass. A Ugandan soldier emerges from the bunker, gun in hand.But because there was no obstacle pole, the blond rider rushed over in one go.He raised a hand and called out to the guard, "Jambo." The Ugandan soldier lowered his gun on hearing his native language.Another white maniac.He wanted to go home himself, but the job paid well, and soon he would have enough money to buy a cow and a wife.The white man rushed into the village cafe car park next to the gate entrance, parked his car, and went in. The manager of the fish market is drinking coffee at a table.Dane walked to the bar and asked for a drink like his.As he ordered coffee, he couldn't help but think of the rich, fragrant coffee he drank in his Tel Aviv office. They traded, as usual, in the men's room of the country café.Dane gave him dollars.It is the most liquid currency in the world, even in hostile lands.The Somali counted the money with satisfaction in their eyes. In the morning a part of the money had to be paid to the fisherman who carried the news south to Kismayo.But what he paid the man was Somali shillings, which were worthless.Duale is going to save all the dollars so that he can save enough for immigrants in the future. Then there was the consignment—a short aluminum tube shaped like the wrappings for fine cigars.But this one is custom-made, much heavier and stronger than that one.Duale tucked it into his belt. In his office, there was a small but strong generator that the Israeli had secretly provided.It burned the worst kind of kerosene, but it produced electricity to power his air conditioner and refrigerator.He was the only one in that fish market who always had fresh fish. In the freezer was a totoaba about a yard long.He bought it yesterday morning, and it's as hard as a rock now.The aluminum tube will be stuffed into the body of the fish, and his fishermen will take it to sail south at night, fishing all the way, and dock at the fishing port pier in Kismayo two days later. There the fisherman would sell the fish to a tallyman at a market, telling him it was from his friend.The fish must not be very fresh by then.The fishermen don't know why and don't care.He's just another poor Somali trying to provide for his four sons, waiting for the day when they'll be ready to take over his little fishing boat. The two men in the country cafe came out of the bathroom, finished their coffees, and went their separate ways.Mr. Duale came home with the aluminum tube and slammed it deep into the belly of the frozen totoaba.The blond man put on the Arab turban again, covered his head and face, and rode his motorcycle back to the car rental lot.He returned Piaggio and got most of the security deposit back.The rental car owner drove him to the hotel.There are no taxis around, and he doesn't want to lose a quality customer, if he can come here more often. Dane had to wait until the next morning to take the eight o'clock Turkish Airlines flight.He read English novels in his room to pass the time, then fell asleep after eating a bowl of camel stew. At dawn the fisherman wrapped the totoaba in wet canvas and put it in the fish locker of his small fishing boat.He made a mark on the tail so that he could tell the other fish apart when he hit them.Then he set out to sea and went south, casting his nets all the way. At nine o'clock the next morning, the gate was as chaotic as ever.After this, the Turkish flight took off.Dane watched the buildings and bunkers of the Bancroft Barracks moving away behind him.Far to the south, a small fishing boat sailed slowly past Marka with its jib sails full to the wind.The plane turned north, refueled in Djibouti, and landed in Istanbul around three or four in the afternoon. Dane of Save the Children made a stop at the airport's aviation area, rushed through all the connecting procedures, and boarded the last flight to Larnaca.He changed his name, passport and ticket in his hotel room, and took the first flight back to Tel Aviv the next day. "Any questions?" asked Major Benny.It was he who sent "Dane" to Mogadishu with the latest instructions to Opal. "No. Everything is fine," Dane said.Now he was Moses again. Simon Jordan, head of the Washington intelligence station, sent an encrypted email.He had met the American called the Tracker.He hopes to have a second meeting in the hotel bar, but the hotel is not the same as the first one.The second meeting took place at the Four Seasons Hotel in the Georgetown area. It was high summer and they met under the pergola of the garden bar.There are several other middle-aged men here, without jackets, drinking cocktails.They both looked fatter than the two sitting in the back, though. "I've been told that your friend in the South is now in contact," said Simon Jordan, "so I must ask you: what exactly do you want him to do?" Simon listened intently as the tracker explained to him what was going on in his head, stirring his soda thoughtfully.He had no doubts about the missionary's fate in the mind of the ex-Marine next to him.That certainly wasn't a vacation to Cuba. "If our people can help you in this way," Simon said slowly, "but you let him be terminated by a missile attack while collecting intelligence, then for a long time after that, after cooperating with your On the issue, we will sternly reject it.” "I never thought about a missile attack," the tracker said. "I just wish we knew better about this, Tracker. Are we clear enough?" "As clear as those ice cubes in your glass. No missiles unless Opal runs miles away." "Very well. Then I will consider your instructions."
"Where do you want to go?" asked Gray Fox. "Just to London. They want the preacher to shut up as much as we do. His outliers live there. I want to be closer to the heart of the matter. I think we can get closer to the missionary. Me and Conrad Armitage said it. He said I was more than welcome and his people would try to help me. I just made a phone call." "Keep in touch, Tracker. I must report this to the Admiral."
On the pier in Kismayo, a dark-skinned young man held a clipboard with paper clips, scanning the fishermen coming from the sea. 2012年，经过之前的一年血战，基斯马尤被青年军收复，脱离了政府军的控制。狂热分子们依然十分警觉。他们的宗教警察遍布四处，以确保人们保持绝对忠诚。怀疑从北方来的人是间谍是非常普遍的。甚至那些通常生龙活虎卸下自己收获的渔民，也会因为恐惧而默不作声。 皮肤黝黑的年轻人发现一张他认识的脸。他已经有好几周没见过他了。他用板上拴着的笔在笔记板上记下卸到岸上的货物尺寸，走向他认识的那个渔民。 “真主至大，”他吟诵道，“你都打到些什么？” “有些鲭鱼，还有三条石首鱼。印沙安拉。”渔民说道。他指了指其中一条石首鱼。那条鱼已经失去了鲜鱼才有的银色光泽，尾巴还被划了一道。“你的朋友给的。”他低声说道。 奥珀尔示意这些全都可以买。渔民把鱼卸到石板上。奥珀尔把那条有记号的鱼装进一个粗麻布的布袋里。即使是在基斯马尤，也是允许理货员拿条鱼做晚餐的。 他独自一人在自己城外岸边的小屋里，把那根铝管掏出来，拧下盖子。里面有两卷东西，一卷是美元，一卷是指令。后者必须记下来，然后烧掉。美元被埋到了地下。 这卷美元是十张一百美元。指令很简单。 “首先，用这笔钱买一辆性能可靠的摩托车，越野摩托车或者机动脚踏两用车，再买几罐燃料放到后座里。需要骑摩托远行。 “其次，买一台好一点的收音机，要能收得到《以色列之声》的。周日、周一、周三和周四在第八频道有子夜脱口秀节目，名叫《夜猫子》，晚上十一点半开始。 “节目开始一般都是天气预告。在沿着去往马尔卡的高速路上，标注了一个新的当面接头地点。你可以在这次送去的地图上找到。不可以弄错。 “当你听到密码指令，等到第二天黄昏再出发，骑摩托去往那个接头地点，拂晓时抵达。你的联系人会在那里，给你最新的指示、装备和经费。 “天气预报里，你要听的内容是：'明天在阿什凯隆有小雨。'好运，奥珀尔。”
Notes:
Warden Dougherty was trying to run a desirable prison, so naturally there was this chapel of the prison.But he didn't want his daughter to get married in this church.As the bride's father, he was ready to make his daughter's big day truly memorable, so the wedding was arranged at St. Francis Xavier Catholic Church, with the reception at the Clarendon Hotel downtown. The social diary column of Phoenix Republic mentioned the wedding several times, including when and where.So when the happy couple showed up, it was no surprise that there was a throng of curious or well-wishers outside the church door. Among the crowd was a dark-skinned young man in a white robe, staring into the distance.No one noticed him until he jumped past the onlookers of the media and ran towards the bride's father with something in his right hand, which seemed to be a gift.It wasn't a gift, though, but a Colt 45.He shot Warden Dougherty four times.The warden was knocked backward by the force of the four bullets, paralyzed in a heap. Usually when people don't realize the real horror, they will be silent for two seconds because they haven't figured it out, and then they will react-scream, yell.In this case, there were more shots as two Phoenix police officers on duty drew their guns and fired.The murderer also fell.Mrs. Doherty was in a constant state of hysteria.The weeping bride was taken away.Police cars and ambulances sounded their sirens.The terrified crowd fled in all directions.In the ensuing chaos, others lay the shooter and the killer on the ground. The scene was then taken over by the state machine.The crime scene was taped off.The pistol was recovered and placed in a plastic evidence bag.The identity of the killer was subsequently verified.That night, news broadcasts in Arizona told all Americans that there had been another homicide.Upstairs in the garage where the fanatic worked, the laptop was found in his duplex.After restoration, it was found that there are many online sermons of missionaries.
The U.S. Army Training and Doctrine Command is the unit responsible for the video-related work of the U.S. Army, located in Fort Eustis, Virginia.The agency typically produces instructional films or documentaries that explain and celebrate aspects of the military's work and function.So the headquarters did not hesitate at all, and immediately agreed to Lieutenant Colonel Jamie Jackson's request for a meeting.This Lieutenant Colonel Jamie Jackson serves at the Joint Special Operations Command headquarters in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Even within the military, the tracker saw no reason to reveal that he was actually Lieutenant Colonel Kit Carlson from Technical Operations Support in the same state as US Army Training and Doctrine Command and only a few miles away .This is the so-called "need to know". "I want to make a short film," he said. "It's top-secret, and only a very limited number of people can see it after the short film is made." The commander was a little curious, secretly startled.But he is not worried, he is very proud of his unit's filmmaking talent.He couldn't think of a similarly odd request before, but it made the job a little more interesting.There are photography facilities and recording studios on the base. "The film is small, short, with one scene. There is no location shooting. A crew is required, likely to be shot off base. No cameras are needed other than a camcorder with audio and video. In fact, the short film only It can be seen online. So the crew will be very small, maybe no more than six people, all sworn to secrecy. I want a young cinematographer who is proficient in film,” the “customer” said. The tracker got what he wanted - Captain Damien Mason.The Commander didn't get what he wanted—answers to his countless questions.But he got a call from a lieutenant general telling him he had to obey the man's orders. Damian Mason was a young, cinephile as a teenager in White Plains, New York.When he was in U.S. Army Training and Doctrine Command, he wanted to go West in Hollywood and make real movies, the kind with scripts and stars. "Will this be an instructional film, sir?" he asked. "I hope it's educational, the way it is," replied the lieutenant colonel of the Marine Corps. "Tell me, is there such a directory with pictures of all actors in this country?" "There's a sort of thing. I think you mean the Academy's cast directory. Every scout in the country has one." "Is there a base?" "No, sir. We don't use professional actors." "We're going to use it now, or at least one. Can you find me a copy?" "Of course, Lieutenant Colonel." It took two days for FedEx to arrive. It was a very thick book, and every page was full of headshots of actors and actresses with dreams, ranging from novice to experienced. Police and intelligence agencies all over the world have another skill, which is face comparison.This could help detectives track down criminals who are on the run and want to change their appearance. Codified by computers, this little trick of the police has become a technology.In the United States, the software is called "Formation" and was developed by the FBI's Institute of Electronics in Quantico, Maryland. First of all, it is necessary to collect and store the face sizes of hundreds of thousands of people.Ears do it alone, it's the same as fingerprints - never the same.But because of the long hair, it is not always visible in the photos.The distance between the pupils of the two eyes is measured to the nearest micron, and a comparison sample can be ruled out or confirmed in an instant. "Formation" won't be fooled by felons who've had extensive plastic surgery. Terrorists can be identified within seconds of being captured by a drone's camera as a top-ranked target rather than an ordinary mover.This saves expensive missiles.Soon, the tracker returned to the east and assigned a task to the "formation"-to scan all the male faces in the cast list and find me a substitute for this person.He gave them a picture of the missionary without a beard.Mustaches can be added back. Formation scanned about a thousand male faces and eventually found a Pakistani man named Abu Assam who looked more like anyone else.The man was Hispanic and his name was Tony Suarez.His résumé shows that he's had some small roles, he's had a few extras, he's always in the crowd in movies, and he sometimes has a few lines about buying a barbecue grill. The Tracker returned to his office at Technical Operations Support.There is a report from Ariel.His father found a store that sold foreign foods and bought him a jar of masala pickles and another of mango chutney.Computers show that almost all of the fruit and spices come from farms in the lower Juba Valley. And that's not all.Spicy masala dishes, as well as Indian curries, are doing very well in Pakistan, the Middle East and the UK, according to business databases.The company is wholly owned by its founder, Mustafa Dadari.He has a big house in Karachi and a townhouse in London.Finally, there's a photo of the tycoon smiling, blown up from a photo of a boardroom. The tracker stared at the face.The skin is smooth, the beard is clean-shaven, and the smile is vaguely familiar.From his desk drawer, he pulls out the original photo he took on his iPhone in Islamabad.The half he doesn't need in the photo is folded down the middle.He needs it now.Another boy who was grinning fifteen years ago. Tracker is an only child.He knew that with two best friends from school days like this, the bond between them was sometimes never lost.He remembered Ariel's warning—someone had sent a network message to that warehouse from Kismayo.The cave giant will reply "Thank you" for confirmation after receiving it.The missionary has a friend in the western world.
Captain Mason looked carefully at the photograph of what might be the missionary, Zulfikar Ali Shah before him, Abu Assam before that, and the unsuspecting photograph of Toni Suarez next to it.The sidekick is out of work and living in a vacant house in Malibu. "It's really doable," he concluded, tapping the picture of the missionary. "Put on makeup, hair, outfit, contact lenses, rehearse from a script, and get a teleprompter." "Has this guy ever spoken a line?" "Occasionally." "It doesn't sound like it." "Leave the issue of the sound to me," said the tracker.
Captain Mason dressed as Mr. Mason in civilian clothes and flew to Hollywood with a wad of banknotes.When you come back, take Mr. Suarez with you.He lived in a comfortable suite at a hotel chain twenty miles from Fort Eustis.To make sure he wasn't wandering around, Mason had a very reliable corporal watching over him.The corporal was blond and very pretty.For the sake of her country, all she had to do was prevent the California guest from leaving the hotel or entering her bedroom within forty-eight hours. It doesn't matter whether Mr. Suarez really believes that all of this is due to pre-production on an unreleased film for a wealthy Middle Eastern client.Whether the movie has a plot or not has nothing to do with him.He's perfectly content living in a lavish suite with a champagne bar, enough money to buy grills for years, and the company of a blond, too-beautiful beauty.Captain Mason booked a large conference room in this hotel and told him to audition tomorrow. The U.S. Army Training and Doctrine Command team has arrived.Neither vehicle they were in was marked.Also came a small furniture truck.They moved into the conference room and covered all the windows with black paper and masking tape.After finishing these, they set up the world's crudest film set. Basically, just got a sheet and nailed it to the wall.The sheets were also black and had scriptures written in cursive Arabic script.The sheets were prepared in advance at the Fort Eustis recording studio, a replica of the backdrop that Preacher did all of his shows.A very simple wooden armchair sits in front of the bed sheet. At the other end of the hall, two work areas of "clothing" and "makeup" were made with chairs, tables and lamps.When doing these things, no one has the slightest thought of questioning. The photographer sets up the camera against the chair.A colleague of his sat in the chair and worked with him on distance, focus and sharpness.The sound engineer checks the volume.The teleprompter operator places the screen directly below the camera lens so that the speaker's eyes appear to be looking directly into the camera. Mr. Suarez was ushered in and taken to the clothing section.A middle-aged female senior sergeant was there, waiting for Suarez with the robe and hood that Suarez would wear.She was in civilian clothes like everyone else.These clothes were also selected by the trackers from the vast resources of the US Army Training and Doctrine Command.Later, the photos of the missionaries were carefully observed and modified by the clothing custodians. "I don't have to speak Arabic, do I?" Toni Suarez pleaded. "Nobody told me that." "Absolutely not." "Mr. Mason" gave him reassurance, and he seemed to be a director at the moment, "Uh, there are only a few words. But it doesn't matter how you pronounce it. Here, let's take a look first, as long as you can lip-synch All right." He handed Suárez a piece of paper with some Arabic words written on it. "Bullshit, man. This is too complicated." An older man had been leaning against the wall and waiting.Now he came forward. "Try to imitate me," he said, and spoke a foreign language that sounded like Arabic.Suarez learned to say it again, the donkey's head was completely wrong, but the lip movement was correct.Voice overs can do the rest.Toni Suarez walks to the makeup chair.Makeup took an hour. The makeup artist is experienced.He deepened the tone of his skin, making him look slightly darker.Then he added black sideburns and a mustache on his upper lip.The hair on the head is covered with an Arab turban.Finally contact lenses, which turned his eyes a stunning amber color.He stood up and turned around.The tracker was certain that it was "the missionary" who was facing him. Toni Suarez was led to a chair and sat down.The camera, volume, focus, and teleprompter adjusted slightly to him again.The leading actor sits in a makeup chair and spends an hour reading his lines.A teleprompter will prompt him to read it later.He memorized most of his lines.Although his Arabic pronunciation is not like that of an Arab, he no longer stutters. "Start shooting," Captain Mason said.He dreams that one day he can say that to Brad Pitt and George Clooney.The extras began to speak. The tracker whispered in Mason's ear. "Be more serious, Tony," Mason said. "That's a confession. You're the great Vizier, and you're telling the Sultan that you're totally wrong, and you're sorry. Okay, do it again. Shoot." After eight shots, Suarez had reached his limit and his performance began to decline.The tracker called a halt. "Okay, everyone, shut down," Mason said.He likes to say that.The team members dismantled the things that had been built.Toni Suarez went back into jeans and a shirt and dropped his beard.The smell of cleansing oil is very bad.Clothing and make-up areas put the boxes back on the trucks.The sheets were taken down, rolled up, and taken away.The black paper and tape had been removed from the windows. While everyone was busy, the tracker asked the photographer to pick out the best five videos of his speeches.The tracker picks out the one he wants and deletes the others. The actor's voice is still that pure California accent.But trackers know of a British TV impersonator who makes his audience laugh out loud by imitating the voices of celebrities in a humorous way.Today he will fly over and get paid handsomely.The technician will match the mouth shape to every detail. They returned the rented conference room to the hotel.Toni Suarez returned his suite with great regret and was taken back to Washington International Airport for an evening flight back to Los Angeles.The group at Fort Eustis was much closer to headquarters and was approaching sunset. They had a great time today.But they had never heard of the missionary, and they had no idea what they were doing today.Only the tracker knows what happened.He knew that when he posted what was on the tape in his hand online, the various jihadist groups would be in chaos.
A man steps off a Turkish flight at Mogadishu airport.He knew a thing or two about Somalia.His passport listed his name as Dane Jensen, and other documents in five languages, including Somali, stated that he worked for Save the Children. In fact, his name was not Jensen, but he worked for the Mossad intelligence search department and was responsible for the usual espionage.Yesterday, he flew from Ben Gurion Airport to Larnaca, Cyprus, changed his name and nationality, and continued on to Istanbul. The plane made a stopover in Djibouti.He waited boredly in the business class transit hall for a long time, preparing to continue his southward flight to Somalia.Only Turkish Airlines is the only airline still serving Mogadishu. At eight o'clock in the morning, the asphalt ground was already very hot.Fifty passengers poured into the arrival hall.The Somalis coming out of economy class shoved three business class passengers away with their shoulders.There was nothing urgent about Dane, he waited his turn in line in front of the customs officials. Of course, he doesn't have a visa.He's been here before, and as far as he knows, visas are bought upon arrival.The customs officer looked carefully at his previous entry and exit stamps, and checked a list of prohibited entry and exit, but found no one named Jason. Dane slipped a fifty-dollar bill from under the glass screen. "Visa," he whispered in English.The customs officer took the money and found another fifty-dollar bill inside the passport. "A little treat for your child," Dane whispered. The customs officer nodded, stamped the visa blankly, glanced at the insurance policy for yellow fever, closed the passport, nodded, and handed it back.For his children, of course.A decent gift.It's nice to meet Europeans who know the rules. There are two dilapidated taxis outside.Dane is just a suitcase.He took the first taxi and said, "Peace Hotel, thank you." The driver drove towards the entrance of the airport building.There are Ugandan soldiers standing guard at the gate. The African Union military base is in the interior of the Mogadishu enclave, centered on the airport, surrounded by spiked wire, sandbags and blast walls, and patrolled by Casper armored personnel carriers.Inside the fortress, there is another fortress: Bancroft Barracks is a white area, and there are hundreds of contractors, rescue agencies, media personnel, and some formerly employed as bodyguards for those tycoons. military. Americans live in their own house at the end of the runway, which is home to embassy personnel.There are also several hangars with unknown contents inside, and a school for training young Somalis.One day in the future, these young people will return to that dangerous Somalia as American agents.Those who have disenchanted with Somalia for a long time feel that this is really a very good hope. Through the window of the moving car, you can see another smaller settlement in this shelter, where UN staff, senior African Union military officers, EU staff, and even the old-fashioned British ambassador live. library staff.They insist, either through passion or through lies, that this is not another "ghost center." Dane Jensen dared not live in Bancroft.There, he might run into another Dane or an actual Save the Children worker.He went to a hotel outside the blast wall.White people live there, and their safety is more guaranteed. The taxi goes through the last guarded gate, followed by red and white bars and Ugandan soldiers.After a mile of walking like this, I finally came to the heart of Mogadishu.Although it was not his first visit here, Dane was still very shocked. Twenty years of civil war had reduced this elegant city in Africa to a sea of rubble. The car drove onto a small road.Next to a pile of barbed wire stood a child, hired by the hotel.He stopped the car.The nine-foot steel gate creaked open, unannounced, watched through a small hole in the door. Dane paid for the car, checked in at the hotel, and was taken to his room.The house is small and has only basic functions.The windows are frosted to prevent outsiders from spying on the guests, and curtains are hung to insulate the guests.He took off his clothes, stood under the only slightly warm shower head for a while, soaped himself as clean as he could, then dried himself and changed his clothes. He was dressed like a native Somali—flip-flops, rough canvas jeans, a long cotton button-down shirt, a backpack slung over his shoulder, and wraparound black sunglasses.Both hands had long been sunburned by the Israeli sun.Only his pale face and blond hair made him distinctly European. Dane knows a place to rent motorcycles.He hailed a second taxi through the Peace Hotel and took himself there.In the car, he took the turban commonly used by Arabs from his bag, wrapped it around his blond hair, let the end of the turban cover his face, and tucked the edge of the turban into the fold of his clothes on the other side.This will not arouse any suspicion at all.Those who wear hoods usually do so to protect their noses and mouths from wind and sand. He rented a Piaggio moped that was falling apart.He's been here before, the boss knows him, knows he always puts a lot of dollars in deposits, and the car usually comes back undamaged, so there's absolutely no need for him to go through those stupid procedures, like whether he has a driver's license or not. Category. The Maka Mukalama Highway runs through the center of Mogadishu.Dane looked like a Somali man on errands, driving a moped into the "traffic" of the freeway and driving along—donkey carts, crumbling trucks, pickups, all kinds of things. motorcycles, as well as camels and pedestrians who need to dodge from time to time. Dane drives past the gleaming Juba Valley Mosque.He was impressed that it barely suffered any damage.His eyes flicked across the road and found a not-so-attractive target.Since his last visit to Somalia, the Darasa refugee camp has not been changed, and there has been no improvement.There are endless dirty little houses, in which ten thousand hungry and frightened refugees live.They have no sanitation, no food, no jobs or hope.Their children play in pools of piss on the floor.These people, he felt, were, as Franz Fanon said, the unluckiest people in the world.Darosa is one of the eighteen poorest cities in the enclave.Western aid agencies have tried, but it is an impossible task. Dane glanced at his cheap watch.He was punctual and the meeting was always at twelve noon.The people he came to see today would look the same way.If he is not there, the other person is ninety-nine percent busy with his own affairs.If he is there, they exchange signals with each other. The motorcycle took him to the already destroyed Italian quarter.A white man would be a fool to come here without a large armed guard.The danger is not murder, but kidnapping.European or American can be worth two million dollars.However, wearing Somali slippers, African shirts, and Arab turbans covering their heads and faces, the Israeli agents felt that they were safe if they stayed for a short time. There is a small horseshoe-shaped bay opposite the Uruba Hotel.Every morning, fish come to the shore.The waves of the Indian Ocean pushed the fishing sampans onto the beach.Then, those dark-skinned fishermen who had fished overnight carried their mackerel and totoaba and rushed into the market shed, waiting for customers to patronize. The fair was two hundred yards from the bay, and was a shed ninety feet long.There were lights in the shed, and the smell of fish, some fresh, some not.Dane's agent is the manager of the bazaar.Every day at noon, Mr. Kamal Duale would come out of his office and watch the crowd staring at the bazaar. Most people come to buy fish, but it's not time yet.Those with money will buy fresh fish.At forty degrees Celsius, without any form of refrigeration, the fish quickly develops an off-flavor.Then the haggling begins. If Mr. Duale was surprised to see his superior in the crowd, he didn't show it.He just stared and nodded.The man straddling Piaggio nodded in response, then raised his right hand across his chest, his five fingers opened and then closed, and then opened again.The two nodded slightly again, and the motorcyclist pushed the car away.The meeting place is fixed: the old place, at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. The next day Dane came down to breakfast at eight o'clock.He was lucky enough to have eggs to eat.He took two fried eggs and ordered some bread and tea.He doesn't want to eat too much because he's trying to avoid using the toilet. His motorcycle was parked next to the hotel wall.At nine-thirty, he started the car and waited for the steel gate to open and let himself out.He headed for the gate of the African Union barracks.As he approached the watchtower in the steel-and-concrete area, he reached out and removed his turban.The blond hair immediately allowed him to pass. A Ugandan soldier emerges from the bunker, gun in hand.But because there was no obstacle pole, the blond rider rushed over in one go.He raised a hand and called out to the guard, "Jambo." The Ugandan soldier lowered his gun on hearing his native language.Another white maniac.He wanted to go home himself, but the job paid well, and soon he would have enough money to buy a cow and a wife.The white man rushed into the village cafe car park next to the gate entrance, parked his car, and went in. The manager of the fish market is drinking coffee at a table.Dane walked to the bar and asked for a drink like his.As he ordered coffee, he couldn't help but think of the rich, fragrant coffee he drank in his Tel Aviv office. They traded, as usual, in the men's room of the country café.Dane gave him dollars.It is the most liquid currency in the world, even in hostile lands.The Somali counted the money with satisfaction in their eyes. In the morning a part of the money had to be paid to the fisherman who carried the news south to Kismayo.But what he paid the man was Somali shillings, which were worthless.Duale is going to save all the dollars so that he can save enough for immigrants in the future. Then there was the consignment—a short aluminum tube shaped like the wrappings for fine cigars.But this one is custom-made, much heavier and stronger than that one.Duale tucked it into his belt. In his office, there was a small but strong generator that the Israeli had secretly provided.It burned the worst kind of kerosene, but it produced electricity to power his air conditioner and refrigerator.He was the only one in that fish market who always had fresh fish. In the freezer was a totoaba about a yard long.He bought it yesterday morning, and it's as hard as a rock now.The aluminum tube will be stuffed into the body of the fish, and his fishermen will take it to sail south at night, fishing all the way, and dock at the fishing port pier in Kismayo two days later. There the fisherman would sell the fish to a tallyman at a market, telling him it was from his friend.The fish must not be very fresh by then.The fishermen don't know why and don't care.He's just another poor Somali trying to provide for his four sons, waiting for the day when they'll be ready to take over his little fishing boat. The two men in the country cafe came out of the bathroom, finished their coffees, and went their separate ways.Mr. Duale came home with the aluminum tube and slammed it deep into the belly of the frozen totoaba.The blond man put on the Arab turban again, covered his head and face, and rode his motorcycle back to the car rental lot.He returned Piaggio and got most of the security deposit back.The rental car owner drove him to the hotel.There are no taxis around, and he doesn't want to lose a quality customer, if he can come here more often. Dane had to wait until the next morning to take the eight o'clock Turkish Airlines flight.He read English novels in his room to pass the time, then fell asleep after eating a bowl of camel stew. At dawn the fisherman wrapped the totoaba in wet canvas and put it in the fish locker of his small fishing boat.He made a mark on the tail so that he could tell the other fish apart when he hit them.Then he set out to sea and went south, casting his nets all the way. At nine o'clock the next morning, the gate was as chaotic as ever.After this, the Turkish flight took off.Dane watched the buildings and bunkers of the Bancroft Barracks moving away behind him.Far to the south, a small fishing boat sailed slowly past Marka with its jib sails full to the wind.The plane turned north, refueled in Djibouti, and landed in Istanbul around three or four in the afternoon. Dane of Save the Children made a stop at the airport's aviation area, rushed through all the connecting procedures, and boarded the last flight to Larnaca.He changed his name, passport and ticket in his hotel room, and took the first flight back to Tel Aviv the next day. "Any questions?" asked Major Benny.It was he who sent "Dane" to Mogadishu with the latest instructions to Opal. "No. Everything is fine," Dane said.Now he was Moses again. Simon Jordan, head of the Washington intelligence station, sent an encrypted email.He had met the American called the Tracker.He hopes to have a second meeting in the hotel bar, but the hotel is not the same as the first one.The second meeting took place at the Four Seasons Hotel in the Georgetown area. It was high summer and they met under the pergola of the garden bar.There are several other middle-aged men here, without jackets, drinking cocktails.They both looked fatter than the two sitting in the back, though. "I've been told that your friend in the South is now in contact," said Simon Jordan, "so I must ask you: what exactly do you want him to do?" Simon listened intently as the tracker explained to him what was going on in his head, stirring his soda thoughtfully.He had no doubts about the missionary's fate in the mind of the ex-Marine next to him.That certainly wasn't a vacation to Cuba. "If our people can help you in this way," Simon said slowly, "but you let him be terminated by a missile attack while collecting intelligence, then for a long time after that, after cooperating with your On the issue, we will sternly reject it.” "I never thought about a missile attack," the tracker said. "I just wish we knew better about this, Tracker. Are we clear enough?" "As clear as those ice cubes in your glass. No missiles unless Opal runs miles away." "Very well. Then I will consider your instructions."
"Where do you want to go?" asked Gray Fox. "Just to London. They want the preacher to shut up as much as we do. His outliers live there. I want to be closer to the heart of the matter. I think we can get closer to the missionary. Me and Conrad Armitage said it. He said I was more than welcome and his people would try to help me. I just made a phone call." "Keep in touch, Tracker. I must report this to the Admiral."
On the pier in Kismayo, a dark-skinned young man held a clipboard with paper clips, scanning the fishermen coming from the sea. 2012年，经过之前的一年血战，基斯马尤被青年军收复，脱离了政府军的控制。狂热分子们依然十分警觉。他们的宗教警察遍布四处，以确保人们保持绝对忠诚。怀疑从北方来的人是间谍是非常普遍的。甚至那些通常生龙活虎卸下自己收获的渔民，也会因为恐惧而默不作声。 皮肤黝黑的年轻人发现一张他认识的脸。他已经有好几周没见过他了。他用板上拴着的笔在笔记板上记下卸到岸上的货物尺寸，走向他认识的那个渔民。 “真主至大，”他吟诵道，“你都打到些什么？” “有些鲭鱼，还有三条石首鱼。印沙安拉。”渔民说道。他指了指其中一条石首鱼。那条鱼已经失去了鲜鱼才有的银色光泽，尾巴还被划了一道。“你的朋友给的。”他低声说道。 奥珀尔示意这些全都可以买。渔民把鱼卸到石板上。奥珀尔把那条有记号的鱼装进一个粗麻布的布袋里。即使是在基斯马尤，也是允许理货员拿条鱼做晚餐的。 他独自一人在自己城外岸边的小屋里，把那根铝管掏出来，拧下盖子。里面有两卷东西，一卷是美元，一卷是指令。后者必须记下来，然后烧掉。美元被埋到了地下。 这卷美元是十张一百美元。指令很简单。 “首先，用这笔钱买一辆性能可靠的摩托车，越野摩托车或者机动脚踏两用车，再买几罐燃料放到后座里。需要骑摩托远行。 “其次，买一台好一点的收音机，要能收得到《以色列之声》的。周日、周一、周三和周四在第八频道有子夜脱口秀节目，名叫《夜猫子》，晚上十一点半开始。 “节目开始一般都是天气预告。在沿着去往马尔卡的高速路上，标注了一个新的当面接头地点。你可以在这次送去的地图上找到。不可以弄错。 “当你听到密码指令，等到第二天黄昏再出发，骑摩托去往那个接头地点，拂晓时抵达。你的联系人会在那里，给你最新的指示、装备和经费。 “天气预报里，你要听的内容是：'明天在阿什凯隆有小雨。'好运，奥珀尔。”
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