The Journey by Neil Howarth

Author:Neil Howarth [Howarth, Neil]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-01-06T22:00:00+00:00

This morning, two days after Fagan arrived, was no exception. They had shadowed him the day before, and Fagan had checked off all Pierre’s high points and gone over the plan again, and now they were ready.

A voice in the tiny communicator tucked into his ear told him Al-Faraj was on his way back. It was Jules, someone that Pierre had introduced Fagan to the previous day. He was young but keen. Pierre had assured him he would be fine. Fagan hoped so.

Fagan approached the entrance to the apartment building. Its elegant architecture and sculpted facade reflected beauty from a bygone age. It was hard to believe that two blocks down, during the Second World War, the Counter Intelligence branch of the SS were pulling out the fingernails of suspected spies. He felt the comforting shape of the automatic in his pocket. Maybe things had not changed that much.

But some things had changed. There was no longer a concierge on the front door. The doorman had been replaced by a sophisticated security system complete with cameras, two-way communications, and electronic security locks. Fagan was relying on Pierre to get him in.

Pierre opened the door as he approached, then held it to let him in.

Pierre had struck up a relationship with the woman on the top floor a week before. When her husband left for work, he would ring the doorbell, and she would let him in. He would go up to her apartment, make love to her, then leave. He had done that every day for a week, all so he could be there to let Fagan in on time, today.

Fagan was beginning to like Pierre. He was a man of meticulous detail.

The entrance hall was marble and stone with a grand painted ceiling. It was also deserted. Fagan took the elevator to the first floor. From the look of it, the main workings had been replaced with a modern version, but it still retained the old fashioned, iron trestle gate in keeping with the tone of the building. He jammed it open with his foot and waited. He was dressed smartly as a businessman, someone who would fit in with the surroundings. He carried a leather briefcase in his left hand. His right was in the pocket of his overcoat holding the gun, an Israeli Jericho 941, 9mm. The weapon was quite popular with the Mossad, which was the general idea.

“He is coming in the front door,” Pierre’s voice sounded in his ear.

Fagan slid the gate closed and pressed the button for the lobby and took out the gun.

“He is inside,” Pierre said as the elevator shuddered to a halt.

Fagan could see him through the gate as he slid it open. Al-Faraj was about ten feet away, a slim man of medium height with a neatly trimmed goatee beard and a face some women would find attractive. Fagan held the briefcase in front of him, hiding the hand with the gun. He gave him a polite smile, and Al-Faraj smiled back, but he could see the man was trying to work out who he was.

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