The Shadow Patrol

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Marburg.

The trigger for everything.

What really happened.

The cab, a battered blue Nissan, pulled over a hundred meters from the front gate of the headquarters of Jordan’s General Intelligence Directorate — the mukhabarat. The passenger handed over twenty Jordanian dinars and stepped out without waiting for change. He brushed imaginary dust from his tailored blue suit as the Nissan pulled away. The cars and trucks speeding by didn’t bother him. He was a light-skinned Arab, dapper and slim. He wore a thick gold bracelet on his right wrist, a steel Rolex on his left.

The gate guards were more puzzled than alarmed at his approach. His suit fit too well to hide a suicide vest. He didn’t look dangerous. But most Jordanians were wise enough to give the muk a wide berth. Especially ones dressed like him. Before he reached the gatehouse, two guards emerged, AKs at the ready. They put him on his knees and pulled a hood over his head and dragged him inside to explain himself.

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