What was not immediately obvious was the fact that most of that data either was obsolete or mirrored information that the CIA knew the Syrians already possessed. Some was fabricated, to create the illusion that there was new and therefore useful information on the drive; some would confirm other, earlier fabrications, such as the existence of an Iranian mole inside the Shu'bat al-Mukhabarat al-skariyya, Syria's military intelligence service.
But the real purpose of Operation Stargazer was to get the thumb drive and its hidden memory hooked into the IMJ's computer network in Damascus. Once there, a carefully crafted bit of software would graft itself to the operating system running Syria's military and government computer networks, creating an invisible back door through which the CIA and NSA would have complete and untraceable access.
Back at Langley, Collins was now watching Suleiman check out the thumb drive's visible contents. He would be scrolling through menus and lists of files, perhaps sampling some to satisfy himself that the information was valid.
"Aquarius Two. Scorpio is taking out a cell phone," Taggart reported. 'The laptop's still open in front of him. He's placing a call."
"Echo Whiskey One is taking a cell phone out of his coat pocket," Lia said. "Three guesses who Scorpio is calling."
"Aquarius, Magic Wand," Caravaggio said, addressing both members of the NSA overwatch team. "Recommend you go to shooter mode."
"Roger that. Camera angle okay?"
"Looks good, Lia."
Leaving the camera aimed at Haddid and his immediate surroundings for the benefit of the watchers at Langley and Fort Meade, Lia shifted a bit to the left and picked up the Mk 11, easing its slender barrel with the long, vented sound suppressor over the top of the wall.
The Mk 11 did indeed look much like a standard-issue M16, though with a longer barrel and with a telescopic sight in place of the carry handle. In fact, about 60 percent of the parts were common to both weapons. The internal workings had been extensively modified, however, to create an exceptionally accurate weapon custom-tailored to clandestine operations.
Lia dropped her right eye behind the eyepiece and reacquired Echo Whiskey One. The man was walking across the street, now, coming directly toward Mike Haddid. She could hear Collins talking to Haddid, letting him know what was happening behind his back, but Lia wasn't listening. All of her attention was focused now on Suleiman's henchman as he approached the CIA officer in the cafe. She let the crosshair reticule rest on the man's chest, between throat and heart. The range was just less than two hundred yards.
This sort of thing, she thought, was more Charlie Dean's line of work. Charlie had been a sniper in the Marines and, according to his service jacket, a damned good one. But Charlie had been tapped for another mission, something in England, and Lia had already been in Turkey finishing up another mission. She had the requisite training, so when Stargazer had surfaced, she and Howard Taggart had been dispatched to Lebanon.
Normally, two people were deployed in a sniper team, a shooter and a spotter, and that had been the original plan. Debra Collins had recommended splitting Lia and Howard up, however, as two independent shooters in order to give better coverage of the street, one on each side. There hadn't been time to bring in more people.
With luck, they wouldn't need to shoot. If Suleiman had taken the electronic bait just now, Echo Whiskey was about to deliver to Sagittarius an envelope containing a bank note for 45 million Lebanese pounds — a bit under thirty thousand U. S. dollars.
Lia did not believe in luck. If Syrian intelligence suspected something was wrong, Echo Whiskey might have just been dispatched to eliminate Sagittarius. Hell, even if Suleiman had accepted the thumb drive's contents as genuine, the man was perfectly capable of eliminating Haddid simply to wrap up some untidy loose ends. The hope, of course, was that the IMJ would choose to keep Haddid alive and available as a regular source of intelligence inside the U. S. Embassy, but according to the jacket compiled by the CIA over the years, Colonel Suleiman was a paranoid and psychopathic thug. It was anybody's guess how the next few seconds were going to play out.
Which was why Lia and Taggart were there as over-watch. If Echo Whiskey produced a weapon from inside that overcoat, he was a dead man. If he produced an envelope, he would live. As simple as that.
She watched as he stopped next to Haddid's sidewalk table, exchanging words with the CIA man. Lia could hear words in Arabic but didn't understand them. A moment later, Echo Whiskey walked around to Haddid's right and took a seat, facing the street. One hand reached inside his coat, and Lia's finger tightened ever so slightly on the trigger.
"I've got the shot," she said.
Echo Whiskey's hand emerged from the jacket, holding an envelope, which he casually placed on the table between the two men. They continued to speak for a few moments, and at one point Haddid picked up the envelope, looked inside, then slipped it inside his jacket.
"That's it," Collins said. "Payment received. The fish bit."
"Aquarius, stay on Echo Whiskey," Caravaggio warned. "It's not over yet!"
But a few moments later, Echo Whiskey stood, exchanged a few more words with Haddid, then walked back up the street. Haddid visibly sagged in his seat, rubbed his jaw, then said, "Mission complete. I'm coming in."
Lia continued to cover the man, however, as he stood, paid for his drink, and left the cafe. Only when he was out of sight from her sniper's perch did she lean back from the wall and begin breaking her weapon down.
She worked swiftly and with no wasted motion. The Mk 11 had been designed to disassemble into a small package, and this special modification had several extra steps to make it smaller still. The barrel and sound suppressor unscrewed, then came apart into two pieces. Then the receiver assembly unsnapped from the stock, then clicked apart into two more pieces, until Lia had five parts, not counting the magazine, none more than twelve inches long. After she pulled a tightly bundled roll of cloth and a pair of sandals from her handbag, all of the parts went into the bag, which concealed them easily. Her shoes went into the bag as well, followed by the camera and tripod.
With a final look around to sanitize her rooftop observation post, she pulled on the sandals, then crossed the open roof to the small building sheltering the top of the service stairs. Once inside, with no possibility of being seen, she slung the bag over her neck by its long strap, so that it hung over her torso just below her breasts. Unrolling the dark cloth, she slipped it over her head and tugged it into place — a traditional Muslim woman's burka covering Lia from head to foot and effectively concealing the handbag.
Down the service stairs to the main level, where she stepped out into the building lobby. None of the people there — mostly men — gave her a second glance.
Lebanon was a remarkably progressive and Western nation within a sea of conservative Islam. Women could be seen on the streets in blue jeans, miniskirts, and other Western attire, and could grace the local beaches in almost nonexistent bikinis. There was even one beach a few blocks from here in downtown Beirut, restricted to women only, of course, where they could sunbathe topless.
At the same-time, most Muslim women still preferred more conservative dress, and you could see a range of fashion from colorful scarves over the head to full-length burkas like the one Lia was wearing now. Within Beirut, she was now effectively invisible.