Inching toward the desk in the Dubai immigration line, every step forward built a sense of dread within the Ghost. He had had no trouble leaving Yemen, including obtaining the necessary items for his mission, but then again, not many have particular trouble leaving a country. It’s getting in that’s tricky. Now, he was about to find out if his forged Dubai visa, coupled with his Jordanian passport, would withstand scrutiny.
He glanced again at the picture within the passport, mentally comparing it to his own visage. It should be close enough. They were both clean-shaven, and he’d purchased attire that was suitable for someone from Jordan. He closed the passport and studied the immigration desk, the people drawn toward it as if they were being sucked up by a slow vacuum.
Watching two more travelers go through the routine, he noticed each stiffen during the interview, rigidly facing the official behind the counter. He wondered what they were doing. He watched the next man, and it hit him: They were taking a digital photo and conducting a retinal scan. Of every person in line.
He ripped open the passport again, trying to find if it had some means of digital storage. All he saw was a bar code. Surely the Jordanian’s retinal scan wasn’t in that, was it? The Hashemite Kingdom didn’t include biometrics in their passports, did they? If so, he was doomed, because the scan of his eye wouldn’t match the scan in the passport.
He looked to the rear, contemplating moving back into the terminal and claiming he had gone the wrong way. That he had a connecting flight. But he had no connecting flight. No boarding pass to present. The glaring lack of documents would invite scrutiny. Questions he couldn’t answer.
While moving inexorably forward, he studied the immigration officials’ actions and relaxed a little. It didn’t appear as if they were comparing anything. Simply collating data, like what had happened to him yesterday with the Yemeni police.
The thought brought a bolt of adrenaline, causing his face to flush and sweat to pop on his neck. Did the Yemenis share such data? Was there a database on the Arabian Peninsula that was fed by such sweeps? It wouldn’t matter that he had no reason to be suspected of anything. The scan in Yemen was for a Saudi citizen, not the Jordanian passport he held in his hand. The difference alone would get him arrested. Then, when they gave his bags a much more thorough search than normal, they would find the explosives.
He looked up again and saw there was only one more person ahead of him. Too late to run now. He felt queasy, like he’d eaten something rotten. He should have done more research on Dubai immigration. He had thought using the Jordanian passport was the perfect break from all that Hezbollah knew, especially now that they were hunting him out of misplaced vengeance, but he wished he had stuck with the original forged passport.
The traveler behind him gently tapped his shoulder, causing him to flinch. The man pointed, and he realized he was being waved forward. He walked woodenly to the counter and presented his passport.
The official saw the visa for Dubai, then the missing national identification number.
“You are from Jordan?”
“Yes. Well, the West Bank, but the passport and visa are from Jordan.”
“What is the purpose of your stay?”
“I’m visiting a friend. I hope to find employment in Dubai.”
“Who is your friend?”
He read off the name and address of a man living in the old section of Deira, near the banks of the Dubai Creek. At least this much was backstopped. The man was real, a friend, and knew he was coming. After Yemen, the Ghost would rely only on those he knew he could trust. Knew the purpose of his cause.
“What does your friend do?”
The Ghost felt a trickle of sweat track down his cheek. He wanted to wipe it away, to hide the traitorous reaction of his body, but realized the motion would only draw attention to his nervousness.
“He’s a maintenance worker at the Al Bustan Rotana Hotel. He said I might join him there. They have openings.”
This part was not true. The friend did work at the Rotana Hotel, but the Ghost had no idea about their employment status. All he cared about was the fact that the man’s job would allow him to penetrate hotel security for his mission.
The official pointed to a lens on a stalk behind his chair and said, “Look here until I tell you to stop.”
The Ghost did so, giving a silent prayer.
The man glanced at the screen, apparently satisfied. He stamped the passport and handed it back, already waving the next man forward.
The Ghost snatched up his passport and willed himself to walk casually to the baggage claim area, and his next challenge-getting through customs.
He found his first suitcase already circling on the baggage carousel. Two bags behind it was the large computer box, swathed in cellophane for the journey. It looked no different than a half dozen other boxes on the carousel, but contained the explosives and detonators he’d acquired in Yemen.
He placed both on a luggage cart and passed through the door marked “Nothing to Declare.” He was directed to an X-ray machine, along with four other men, all competing to get out of customs.
He waited for his luggage to be spit out on the far side, surreptitiously watching the official tasked with reviewing the screen. The man barely looked at anything coming through, and in short order, the Ghost was free, feeling the bracing heat of the Dubai afternoon.
He took three deep breaths, glancing left and right to see if anyone had followed, still not believing he had made it into the country. He heard someone shout, “Ash’abah!” and turned to see his friend pull up in a rusty, belching sedan.
“Hamid. It’s good to see you.”
Hamid exited and helped with his bags, then said, “Where to first?”
He gave out the address to his hawaladar, then said, “I need a place to stay. A hotel that won’t be visited by anyone in authority.”
“Nonsense. You will stay with me. I have a flat in the old town. It’s secure, trust me.”
The Ghost smiled and said, “I have one other favor.”
“What? Anything to repay my debt.”
“I need you to get me in to the Al Bustan Rotana as an employee. I have some work to do there before they lock it down for a visit from an American.”
Hamid’s face fell, and the Ghost said, “What? You told me you were being promoted to a leader in the maintenance department. I won’t tie you to the work. You’ll be safe.”
“It’s not that. I would do anything for you, but I no longer work there.”
At first, the Ghost didn’t grasp what Hamid had said, the words too destructive to contemplate. The very idea of using the Rotana Hotel had come from his friendship with Hamid. His entire plan relied on Hamid’s employment. The symmetry of attacking the United States envoy in the same hotel that Mossad had killed the Hamas operative held a poetic justice in his eyes, but it was predicated on gaining access. He’d never thought to ask if Hamid still worked there.
He considered attacking at the hotel anyway, but knew it was futile. He wanted a surgical killing. A statement that vied for publicity precisely because it duplicated the Mossad hit. Now, it would have to be a large, messy attack. And he didn’t have the explosives for a car bomb.
Hamid continued. “Right after they opened the Burj Khalifa, they had a problem with the elevators. Some tourists were trapped for hours. They fired the maintenance crew, and I applied to replace them. I’ve worked there for over a year.”
The comment tickled something in the Ghost’s memory. He reached into his carry-on bag, pulling out the American’s itinerary and saw what had triggered the recollection. The Burj Khalifa was the tallest building in the world, an engineering marvel that rose like a spear out of the desert, towering over every other building in the Dubai skyline. The envoy had left his ambassadorship six months before the building opened in January 2010. He was now scheduled for a royal tour to the observation deck one hundred and twenty-four stories above the earth.
“You work at this building now?”
“Yes.”
“Can you get me in there?”