Page 61 of Out of Control

“Let me go first,” Spencer breathed. “I’m the expert at infiltration and elimination of hostile threats.”

Drago gestured for him to lead the way.

“I’ll spin right upon entry,” Spencer whispered. “You take the left half of each room.”

Drago nodded in understanding. The CIA and SEALs had different training protocols, but some of the principles of working with armed colleagues were universal. The first order of business was not to shoot one another. Although they were not armed tonight—too many public spaces in Paris now included passive metal detectors for that—the same principles applied. They would each clear part of the space while protecting each other’s backs.

When they reached the top of the fire escape, Spencer peered inside the top-floor apartment for at least two minutes. “No movement,” he finally mouthed.

Drago fished a thin metal strip through the edge of the window frame. He hooked it around the simple window latch inside. It took him a couple of minutes, but he jimmied the lock. He stepped back, watching as Spencer oiled the sides of the window and carefully raised it.

There was no screen, and Spencer stepped through the gap cautiously. Drago watched Spencer carefully test each footstep, easing his weight slowly onto his feet, no doubt to prevent the floor from squeaking. Spencer scanned the whole space and then swung right, away from the window.

It was Drago’s turn to sit on the sill and swing his feet inside. He loved the rush of adrenaline that came with doing stuff like this. When his body felt light and fast, he exhaled slowly, settling his racing thoughts into the calm readiness this sort of work required.

He scanned the left half of the room. Kitchenette tucked in the corner. Rickety, cluttered table in front of that. A door to the left, likely a closet or pantry. He advanced toward it, walking the same way Spencer had, easing into each step to ensure utter silence.

Plastering himself to one side of the door, he reached out and opened it.

No response. He spun into the opening. It was a combo closet-pantry. He quickly cleared the space, making a mental note to come back and have a look at its contents later.

Spencer was setting up beside what was probably the bedroom door to make an entry. Drago moved to the other side of the door and nodded at Spencer, who reached out and turned the knob.

Spencer spun in low and fast, going right. Drago followed suit, going left. Crouching, he scanned the space before him. Bed. Dresser. Closed door. Bathroom, no doubt. He waited while Spencer cleared a closet on his side of the room and peered under the bed. A thumbs-up from Spencer, and Drago slid over beside the bathroom door.

He cleared the tiny bathroom and rejoined Spencer in the bedroom. Drago pulled out his electronics sweeper and commenced walking slowly around the apartment. The space was small, and it didn’t take long for him to declare it clear.

Spencer asked, “Search now?”

“Yes. But let’s be careful about it. If he was part of a terror cell of some kind, who knows what’s here.”

Spencer frowned. “If I were his terror buddy and heard he’d died, I’d plant cameras and watch to see who came poking around.”

“Dude, you really do think like a spy. You sure you don’t want to consider a change of career?”

Spencer just snorted.

They took their time, moving methodically through Khoury’s home, looking for any evidence of terror activity or any information on Jabril Hamza.

An hour later Drago closed the last drawer in the kitchen and straightened. “That’s the last of it.”

“There’s nothing here,” Spencer replied.

“Doesn’t it strike you as odd that he didn’t even have a Qur’an?”

Spencer looked around in surprise. “Maybe he took it with him to Berlin. But there’s no prayer rug either. Did he leave the faith?”

Drago shook his head. “A guy who’s willing to die—and to kill—for his faith doesn’t leave it. We’re missing something.”

Spencer looked around. “Agreed. But what?”

Drago walked through the logic. “We know he was chummy with a bunch of terrorists ten years ago. Which means he probably wasn’t a lone wolf in his later life either. He had friends. Contacts.”

“Right. The guy from this afternoon knew him, so he was at least a little social.”

Drago nodded. “So where is his Qur’an?”

“With him when he died?” Spencer suggested.

---