DANGEROUS GROUNDS

From tree to tree, the bearded man moved cautiously through the darkness hugging the heavily shrub-covered fence-line of the eighteenth century colonial estate.  Once the residence of the former British colonial ruler, the property had been restored by a wealthy Belgian diamond dealer and converted into a luxury hotel and resort in the seaside Sierra Leonean capital of Freetown.  Known as the Cape Sierra Hotel, the south side of the building overlooked the steel gray waters of the Atlantic Ocean below. 

Having been inserted into the country two days earlier, the man was confirming the surveillance team’s assessment of the target before the principal arrived.  The fully loaded 9mm Glock automatic, equipped with a liquid engineered suppressor, was clutched tightly between his palms as he moved.   With his index finger pressed firmly alongside the trigger and the hammer engaged, the man shortened his paces as he reached the corner of the ten-story cobblestone tower.  Focused and on high alert, the man was on guard against any sentinels his surveillance team may have missed.  Reaching into the left pocket of his Kevlar vest, he pulled out a small mirror, stuck it out approximately two inches from the wall, and tilted it from side to side until his mark was in sight.  Through the smoke gray glass, he could see the doorknob on the emergency exit.  There it was, just as the map had indicated—his insertion point.  Rotating the mirror to acquire an expanded view of the perimeter, the man quickly retracted it and tucked it back into his pocket.  The scene was non-threatening.

With the perimeter clear, he moved swiftly around the corner and scampered towards the door.  Quickly scanning the four corners of the door for tripwires, he gave the knob a hard turn and a firm pull.  The steel door released a subtle squeak as it opened.  Slithering into the shadowy stairwell, the man discretely closed the door and stood in complete silence for ten seconds.  Satisfied that he was alone, he began searching for the packet he had arranged to have waiting for him under the staircase.  Bending to one knee and reaching under the base of the staircase with his outstretched hand, the man let his fingers do the walking.  Clenching his hand into a fist as it latched onto a brown nylon gym bag, he recovered the parcel, unzipped it, and verified the contents.  Quietly acknowledging the due diligence of the housekeeper he had recruited to ensure the door was left unsecured and the parcel delivered, the man zipped the bag, placed the strap over his head, and shifted the bag behind him. 

Reaching for his black paramilitary boots, he peeled back a one-inch piece of black tape he had placed on the left heel of the boot and plastered it along the top left corner of the door.  In the event the door was tampered with, he would need to expand his options.  His years of training and experience in special operations and counter-surveillance with Istikhbarat al Askariya, the intelligence wing of the Libyan military, had taught him how to avoid ambushes and booby-traps.  Clasping his weapon in his right hand and moving it towards the back of his upper thigh to shield it from view, the assassin stayed close to the wall as he made his ascent.