As soon as the wheels hit the ground, Lucas turned on his new cell phone and dialed the porter. If he wanted the remainder of his money, he’d be waiting outside. The phone began ringing, and he noticed the unknown two rows up dialing as well. That, in itself, wasn’t suspicious, but Lucas really wished he could hear what the man was saying.
He hadn’t shown Lucas any interest whatsoever on the entire six-hour flight, making him feel a little bit better about his paranoia, but Lucas had lived a long, long time precisely because he assumed everybody was out to get him, and he wasn’t about to relax now.
The plane reached its designated parking area, and everyone stood up to retrieve their carry-ons. Lucas ignored the men behind him, knowing they would all be in the same bus in a matter of minutes. Better not to show any interest whatsoever.
They reached immigration and, as first class passengers, were all shuffled into the diplomatic line, with the two CIA men let through before anyone else. Lucas didn’t mind that, since they still had to retrieve their luggage from baggage claim. Lucas was going to let his luggage spin around the carousel until someone picked it up and put it in storage. If all went as planned, he’d be back at the airport in under an hour. He’d retrieve his baggage and return to Europe, leaving while the officials here were still trying to sort out the disaster. He hadn’t planned anything further than that. It all depended on what the dip-pouch contained.
He parted ways with the fake State Department escorts, heading straight for the exit and the porter he’d paid to pick him up. He saw the original person of interest from his flight was doing the same. No luggage. Another spike.
He decided to test it, swerving toward the bathroom. Inside, he dialed his contact, telling him he was on the ground. He exited the bathroom, looking to see if the unknown was waiting, knowing he would be if he was surveillance.
A quick survey told him the man was not in the immediate vicinity. He relaxed, then caught another guy from his flight. A black man who had been in first class with him. He was now hanging out next to the baggage carousel, the belt no longer moving, the only luggage on it Lucas’s own. The man was leaning against the wall doing nothing, the crowd swirling around him.
No bags at his feet, no apparent reason to stay, but there he was. Another person to watch.
Lucas ignored him and went through the exit, seeing his porter, smiling like the Cheshire cat.
“Hello, sir. Luggage?”
“It’s coming later. Just get me to my hotel.”
They exited the airport, heading north on Ras Abu Abboud Street. Reaching the Doha port, the driver drove along the Corniche, passing by the Emiri Diwan presidential palace where the peace talks would be held. Lucas wondered how many of the Diplomatic Quartet, as the Palestinian/Israeli diplomacy group was known, were staying in the same hotel as the envoy. He hoped all of them, because his strike would generate that much more confusion as they tried to assess the political purposes behind it.
The porter continued north along the Corniche, heading toward the diplomatic quarter. When they stopped at a traffic light Lucas flipped his visor down, lowering the makeup mirror. And felt the adrenaline flow. The black man from the airport was directly behind him in a rented SUV.
He said, “Don’t take me straight to the hotel. Take a left at the roundabout by the Sheraton and stop at the City Center mall. Drop me off quickly, then keep going.”
“Why? It is too hot to walk.”
“I need to buy phone minutes. I’ll be okay. Once you drop me off, I need you to go back the way we came. Park at the Souk Waqif, then do some shopping.”
He held out a wad of Qatari rials. The porter looked at the money with suspicion.
“Why? Why do you want me to do this?”
“Look, I’m a businessman from America. I told you that. People over here don’t like Americans, and I just want to make sure nobody is out to get me.”
The porter smiled, like he’d heard a child telling a ghost story, and said, “You have nothing to worry about here. This isn’t Iraq.”
“Well, it’s worth money to you if you’ll do it.”
Lucas saw him shrug. “Okay. Your money is fine with me. I tried to tell you it wasn’t necessary.”
They made the turn at the roundabout, and Lucas surprised the porter by bailing out of the door the minute the vehicle slowed to a safe speed. Lucas watched him continue on, then backed up into a pile of construction debris, squatting down and looking for the black man. What he saw was the Caucasian pass by, the one who’d glanced away in the airport hours ago. And he was following the porter.
Not paranoid after all. All he needed was the time it took the CIA men to reach his hotel. Forty minutes max. He hoped the porter could pull off a goose chase that long.
He took off at a sprint back toward the roundabout.