“Fair enough. Well, you’re the fast new blood. What do you suggest?”
She watched the man order a bowl of food and grabbed her water bottle. “I’m going for a walk. Hopefully he won’t notice me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“A little water in the gas tank should have him stalled on that deserted stretch of road we were just on. We can stop to help, maybe offer a ride.” She looked down at the car stereo. “Do you have any disks in here?”
He punched the eject button. “Duke Ellington. Jazz.”
“If we can get at the disk, I can swap them. He’ll arrive with the wrong one, and by the time they realize all they’ve got is music, we’ll know what’s on it.”
Uri shook his head. “They’ll know we intercepted it.”
“Do you have any better ideas?”
“Go do your thing. I’ll think about it,” Uri grumbled.
Maya got out of the car and walked slowly to the mosque, invisible in her burka. The courier was engrossed in his meal, spooning the concoction into his mouth as he chatted with his fellow faithful. Maya was back in the car three minutes later, her emerald eyes flashing. “Done.”
“Now we wait.”
“That bowl looks and smells like…never mind.”
“So you don’t want any?” Uri asked, his nose wrinkling as he contemplated the steaming muck.
She tilted her head at the curry stand. “Looks like he’s finishing up.”
“Then it’s showtime.”
“Give him plenty of head start. We want to be out of sight when the bike dies.”
Uri gave her a dark look. “You know I’ve done this before, right?”
“What do we do once he’s stopped?”
“Look in the backseat.”
Maya did. A laptop computer sat on the vinyl. “It has a CD drive?”
“Yes. So we figure out how to get the CD from him; we copy it; we replace it. And hopefully he’s none the wiser.”
“And how do we do all that without him noticing?”
“I was thinking I spill something on him during a bathroom break. Like this goop. He cleans up, you do the download, and presto, we’re in business.”
“And if he doesn’t react as planned? Or takes the CD with him when he cleans up?”
“We move to plan B.”
“Which is?”
“I’ll let you know.”
The rider tore off back down the road toward Dhaka, and Uri let him get five minutes of lead before easing onto the highway. “How long do you figure it will take for him to crap out?” he asked.
“Couple minutes? Maybe less.”
“I see no reason to hurry, do you?”
Maya smiled. “None at all.”
They almost missed the rider, who was pulled over in deep grass, kneeling by the motorcycle. He looked up as Uri slowed and coasted to a stop a dozen meters past him and eyed them suspiciously, Maya could see as they got out of the car. She was going to whisper something to Uri, but he was already in motion, walking toward him.
“Problem?” Uri asked in accented Bengali.
The man nodded. “I think I’ve got it, thanks.”
Uri smiled. “Just died, or are you out of petrol?”
“I’ve still got gas.”
“Oh, bad luck, then. In this heat. And there’s nothing nearby.”
“Like I said, I’ve got it. It does this occasionally.”
“Why don’t you try to start it?”
The rider stood, and Maya hoped Uri wasn’t oblivious to his body language, which was signaling fight or flight to her. The squared shoulders, the sidelong glances, the shallow breathing…he looked like he was preparing to dash away.
The man considered Uri’s suggestion and then gave it a try, but the bike just sputtered. Uri took another step toward him. “Why don’t we give you a ride? We can put your motorcycle in the trunk.” He paused and wiped perspiration from his face. “Get you somewhere you can work on it.”
The rider didn’t turn back toward Uri, and Maya was already reaching into her robe for the SIG Sauer when he bolted for the tree line. Uri tried calling to him, but the man was in full sprint, and Maya’s heart sank when she saw him pull a revolver from beneath his loose shirt as he ran.
Somehow he’d tripped to them. “He’s got a gun,” she cried out to Uri as she moved toward him, her burka flapping around her.
The man turned at the sound of her voice and fired off a couple of shots, but they went badly wide. A flock of birds soared into the sky from the nearby trees, their wings frantically beating the air. Maya’s eyes met Uri’s as she drew even with him. “Want me to take him down?”
Uri had his gun drawn too, and he nodded. “Guess that’s plan B.”
Maya squeezed off three shots, but the man was already entering the tree line. At a good fifty meters, it would have been difficult if he was stationary; but given he was running, she knew the odds of hitting him weren’t good. The only consolation was that his odds of winging one of them while running were worse.
They moved together to the trees, slowly, and Maya held up a hand. She knelt by a red spot on the grass and touched it, and then raised a crimson finger and pointed into the brush. “He’s hit. No telling how badly. But we’re walking into an ambush if we follow him into the underbrush. The advantage is all his now.”
Uri swore and peered into the brush. “You’re right. We should just wait for him to come out.”
“How long do you think it will take for the police to get here from the shots?”
Uri scowled. “We should get going.”
“You want to leave me here to wait?”
Uri appeared to consider it and then shook his head. “No, this is blown. Best case, they think someone tried to rob him and he dies in a rice paddy from blood loss. Worst case, he makes it back to Kahn and they’re tipped. Nothing we can really do about it either way at this point.” He spit to the side. “I knew they were up to something. You don’t carry a gun and start shooting unless the stakes are high.”
“Agreed.”
As they drove away, Uri fumbled with his cell. After eyeing the screen for a few moments, he tossed it aside in disgust. “No service till we get closer to town.”
“Well, that’s a lucky break. Means he can’t call for help.”
“Right.”
Maya picked up the phone and kept hitting redial until, on the outskirts of Bhairab Bazar, the line started ringing. She passed it to Uri, who warned his watcher that their quarry would likely bolt, and then dialed Gil’s number. It went to voice mail after five rings. He tried it again. Same result.
“Damn,” Uri growled. “He had his meeting an hour ago. He always picks up. Always.”
“You think something went wrong?”
Uri didn’t reply, preferring to keep to his own counsel as the tires rumbled over the bridge that spanned the Meghna River’s seep.
He slipped Maya the phone a few minutes later, his tone softer. “Keep trying him.”
They made it all the way back into Dhaka without Gil picking up, and by the time they approached Uri’s building, they were staring glumly at a sea of brake lights before them, the heat rising off the vehicles in shimmering waves.
“We need to do something. He’s in trouble,” Maya said when he shut off the engine.
Uri lit a cigarette and brushed thick fingers across his face. He stepped from the car heavily and gave Maya a hunted stare, the one look saying everything on both their minds.
“I know.”
Chapter 10
Geneva, Switzerland
The conference hall lights beamed brightly down on the unlikely congregation of physicists, bureaucrats, salesmen, and technicians gathered for the twenty-third annual convention of nuclear power plant operators and builders. A buzz of conversation hummed over the hiss of climate control, an occasional musical melody cutting through as a canned presentation bega
n yet another endless loop.
Vahid Madani walked along the lushly carpeted aisles, past the expensive booths with their polished sales staff. Tariq trailed several steps behind him, his eyes watchful for a threat that didn’t exist in the rarefied space. Vahid stopped in front of a hydraulic pump manufacturer’s booth and studied the collection of valves and devices on display. A French company rep approached and began a well-rehearsed presentation in accented English, which Vahid suffered through, his mind elsewhere.
In seven minutes he would have his rendezvous, and his life would change forever. He would walk through a door into another world, leaving behind everything he’d achieved. His name would be reviled among his countrymen, and his only consolation was that his parents were dead and he had no romantic interest to mourn – bittersweet condolences, to be sure.
Tariq had been on edge all day, through the presentations and lectures, as though the reptilian part of his brain could sense something bad approaching. His career would be over after his charge disappeared into thin air, Vahid knew, with weeks of interrogation, or worse, his reward for failure.
“Any questions?” the Frenchman asked, his tone professionally courteous.
“No, I’m familiar with your line. Thanks for explaining the new products,” Vahid said, noting that the man looked a little green and smelled too much like breath mints – no doubt the victim of an overzealous celebration the night before. The salesman gave him a courtesy nod and moved to the next pigeon as Vahid tried not to check the time every ten seconds. The countdown pounded in his head like a hammer on an anvil, and the seconds crept by like years.
He approached another booth offering design and build services from a British firm that Vahid knew had been designing a reactor for the Chinese for the last six years. He slowed to admire the two stunning blonde models the group had hired to help make an impression, and noted a substantial collection of his peers lingering in the area, no doubt to condemn the long-legged beauties for their provocative miniskirts and come-hither looks.
Vahid turned and caught a knowing smirk on Tariq’s face. Ignoring the man’s expression, Vahid cleared his throat. His time had finally arrived. “Is there a bathroom around here?” he asked Tariq, as though Vahid hadn’t memorized the number of steps from his position to the target restroom when rehearsing his escape in his room with a layout of the exhibit area in hand.
Tariq looked around, and his eyes settled on a glowing sign at the other end of the hall. “Over there, by the coffee station.”
Panic surged in Vahid’s throat, but he choked down the sour tang of bile and shifted his eyes to his right. “Oh. There’s one right over there.”
Tariq hadn’t seen the nearer sign, his vision blocked by a closer slowly rotating one.
Vahid hefted the bag he’d filled with brochures he would never read. “Come on, then.”
The security man trailed him like a large, dangerous mastiff, and stopped at the threshold. Vahid handed him the bag and winced. “Give me a minute, would you?”
Tariq nodded and took the bag, his eyes nervous. Vahid didn’t wait for his response and instead moved into the restroom, which was empty except for a solitary janitor in olive coveralls, who was refilling the paper towel dispenser.
Vahid’s gaze met the cleaning man’s, and he shivered involuntarily. The janitor’s eyes were steel gray, the color of a tombstone, cold and expressionless.
He studied Vahid’s badge for a moment and nodded before leaning into him and whispering, “This way.”
A steel service entrance stood at the far end of the room. Vladimir, his masquerade as a cleaning person over, pushed it open wide. Vahid moved into the dark corridor and Vladimir pulled the door closed and locked it, then brushed past the Iranian to the faintly blinking lights of an electrical panel.
“Where are we going?” Vahid asked, rushing to catch up.
“Silence,” Vladimir hissed, intent on something Vahid couldn’t see.
They reached a set of double doors, and the Russian turned to face him as he shed the overalls. Beneath them he wore an impeccably cut blue suit. He felt around in a rolling trash bin and extracted a garbage bag, and then tossed it to Vahid.
“What’s this?” the physicist asked.
“A jacket and tie. In the inside pocket you’ll find a driver’s license, four hundred euros, and a cell phone. It has your new badge clipped to the lapel. Put it on.”
Vahid did as instructed. Vladimir studied him and then ferreted in the bag until he withdrew an electric hair trimmer.
Vahid’s eyes widened when he switched it on, the buzz loud in the confined area. Vladimir raised his chin and offered a frosty smile. “The beard has to go.”
Two minutes later the pair walked across the floor, the clean-shaven Vahid unrecognizable in his new garb. Vahid resisted the impulse to look back toward the bathroom, where he knew Tariq would be on the radio with the other members of his security squad, advising them to seal the exits. He followed the Russian through the foyer and out into the crisp air. A service van was waiting there in a loading zone, its emergency lights blinking.
By the time the Iranians had locked down the hall, Vahid was blocks away, watching the city pass by, his heart beating a rapid tattoo in his chest as he realized that his days of dread and waiting were finally over.
The Russian turned to look him over. “Welcome to the world. You ready to go to work?”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Good. Our first project is waiting for you. We extracted a source from a generator and have it in Reims. We need you to put the final touches on the device for us.”
“What’s the isotope?”
“Strontium-90.”
Vahid inhaled sharply and nodded once. “A simple task.”
“I was hoping you’d think so.”
Chapter 11
Dhaka, Bangladesh, three hours earlier
Gil finished his tea, his eyes roving over the bustling street outside the café window with practiced concentration. His contact was late. Again. He’d grown so accustomed to the sloth of the locals and their lack of punctuality that he would actually be surprised if the man showed up within a half hour of the appointed time.
Still, it bothered Gil. Another in a long string of annoyances in a country that could slide into the sea, for all Gil cared, the sea getting the worst part of the deal. After two years in the filthy country, he actively hated the place – a steady degradation from the disgust and apathy he’d felt on arrival. But the Mossad in its wisdom had seen fit to partner him with a geriatric head of station whose paranoia had been reaching epic proportions of late, Gil thought; and he, a career officer, would do as his superiors ordered.
His hope was that he would get transferred at the official two-year mark. He’d served his time in purgatory without complaint, after all. Perhaps he’d be even be assigned somewhere with working plumbing and first world amenities, like Prague. He knew another agent who’d served in Prague.
The Czechs knew how to party. And they showered. Not to mention that the women were…
His thoughts moved to the new arrival. Maya. Gorgeous, tough, smart. Real trouble for Gil if he let down his guard. He had a soft spot for beautiful, capable women. Put one in front of him and he was a weak man.
He shook his head and checked the time on his cell. Twenty minutes late. Bastard. Gil was offering to hand the scumbag a small fortune, and the man couldn’t make it to their meet on time. If the terrorists were as inept as this idiot Farhad, they could all pack up, go home, and leave the cleanup to the drones.
The café door opened and Farhad stepped in, his jaundiced complexion and ratlike face a study in debauched avarice. Gil knew the man enjoyed the narcotic slumber of opium, which was the wedge he’d used to widen the gap between the reprobate and his beloved imam. Apparently the devout took a dim view to those in the flock partaking of a smoke or a toke now and then, and Gil took it upon himself at eve
ry meeting to remind Farhad subtly of his fate should Kahn discover his addiction.
That anyone could miss it boggled Gil’s mind. The Arab was a classic junkie, right down to the nervous worrying of his lips with his decaying teeth and the constant furtive skittering of his eyes. But apparently the imam saw and heard no evil, likely because good help was hard to find, especially when you couldn’t pay market rates and your acolytes were impatient for their promised seventy-two virgins on the other end of their suicide vest detonation.
The wonder was that they’d even succeeded in convincing females to blow themselves up lately, in spite of a dearth of sensual promises in the afterlife. The men were promised eternal delights – but what could be in it for the female martyrs?
Gil dismissed the musing and stood as Farhad approached the table.
“Tea? It’s very good here,” Gil lied, the foul beverage tasting like dishwater to him.
“Please. Very kind of you.”
Gil waited until the tea had been brought and Farhad had sipped half his cup before clearing his throat and leaning forward so only Farhad could hear. “Give me an answer, Farhad. The funds are in place, but my boss is getting anxious. There are others he has his eye on. It’s time to make a decision.”
Farhad looked everywhere but at Gil as he finished his drink, his hands trembling slightly. “I’ve decided to go forward with it, Hassad,” he said, using Gil’s code name. The man had no idea what Gil’s nationality was; he’d told him Turkish when Farhad asked. “But you must promise to keep our dealings confidential. Great misery would befall me if my arrangement were to become known.”
“It shall be so,” Gil intoned. Like all cowards and turncoats, the man was thinking only of his own skin and not the consequences of his betrayal. Perfect as far as Gil was concerned. The last thing he wanted was an attack of conscience at the last minute. Besides, what Gil had asked for – Kahn’s network of quislings and sycophants – would have no value if the imam wasn’t up to no good, which Farhad had gone to great lengths to assure Gil was the case.
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