“Hold on!” Lak braked sharply, the Mercedes squealing in complaint as he made the turn. The side street was short, but busy, a few stalls that had overflowed from the main thoroughfare at its far end. He sounded the horn again. Disgruntled shoppers cleared a path.
“Jesus, he’s less than twenty meters away,” Baxter muttered. If Syed decided to take the side road, they would have a tough job turning back around to follow.
But he was on the other side of the street, still moving through the market. “Here he comes,” said the Alabaman. “Go right, go right!” Lak turned again, forcing a taxi to an irate stop as he pulled out across its path and brought the van onto the crowded street. “Okay, we’re in front of him.”
Lak surveyed the street. Although there was strictly speaking only room for one lane of traffic in each direction, in places there were three or even four rows of vehicles as autorickshaws and scooters forced themselves into any available gap. “Which side of the road is he on?”
“The left.”
“Okay. Ready with the distraction?”
Baxter looked to one of his team, a beefy, mustachioed man named Perez, who nodded in reply. The laptop now showed that Syed was twenty-five meters behind the slowly moving van. “Ready, get ready …” The gap opened up slightly. “Okay, go!”
Lak brought the van to a sudden halt, a scooter’s horn providing a shrill rebuke from behind. Perez slid open the side door and hopped out. He rounded the back of the Mercedes and jogged across the street, one hand raised to ward off an autorickshaw coming in the other direction. The van set off again.
Even though his target was now less than fifteen meters away, Perez didn’t turn his head, keeping his gaze ahead as if transfixed by the stacks of cheap plastic goods on one of the stalls. His hand slipped into a pocket, finding a roll of cigarette-sized metal cylinders.
He went to the stall’s side, pretending to examine a set of brightly colored bowls as he took out the roll. The stallholder was haggling with a woman, not looking at him. A flick of his hand, and the cylinders were tossed into a doorway. The woman’s eyes twitched around at the faint clatter as they landed, but Perez had already moved on.
Syed was now level with him on the other side of the street. The American kept pace. The terrorist leader was about fifty meters from the van, which had stopped again beside a telephone pole. Perez crossed diagonally back across the hectic thoroughfare, slotting in behind his target. His hand went into his other jacket pocket. “Just give the word,” he muttered into his Bluetooth headset.
Kyle zoomed in. None of the people in the operations center needed the colored symbols to pick out the players anymore, watching unblinkingly as Syed drew closer to the van.
“Stand by,” Tony told Perez. Ten meters, the distance shrinking by the second.
Baxter and his two other men, Spence and Ware, stood inside the van, poised at the rear doors. The windows were covered with a tinted film to prevent onlookers from seeing in; the view outside was darkened, but still clear enough to reveal Syed approaching.
“Set?” Baxter asked. Both men nodded. One slowly pushed down the door handle, releasing the catch.
Baxter hefted the stubby stun baton in his right hand, thumb poised on its trigger.
“Ready …,” said Tony.
Five meters. Four—
“Go!”
Perez thumbed the button on the radio-control unit in his pocket.
The detonators he had thrown into the doorway exploded one after another, cracking like gunfire. The woman screamed, the stallholder leaping away in fright and knocking his merchandise to the ground.
People spun in shock and fear at the noise. Terrorists, the army, criminals—any of them could send stray bullets into the crowd. Where was the shooter?
For a moment all eyes were looking in the same direction. Including Syed’s.
He was just two meters from the van when the device went off, whirling to find the source of the—gunfire? No, the sound wasn’t right. Just fireworks—
It took his mind only a fraction of a second to reach that conclusion, but by then it was too late.
The van’s rear doors swept open. The first two men jumped out to flank him. Baxter, a step behind, pressed the stun baton against the back of his neck. A harsh buzz—and over a million volts flooded through Syed’s body.
The cell leader slumped as if his bones had liquefied, eyes rolled up into his head. Ware and Spence caught him, swinging his nerveless body around and hauling it into the van. Baxter was already back inside; Perez followed, slamming the doors behind him.
Lak set the Mercedes moving as the last detonator fired. The entire procedure had taken a fraction under seven seconds. A few people on the street were left vaguely aware that something had happened behind the van—but in the confusion, all attention on the sound of shots, nobody could remember what the man who had been there just moments before even looked like.
The van turned down a side street and sped away.
“We got him!”
Adam could tell from the excitement in Holly Jo’s voice that Syed’s capture had gone exactly to plan. Baxter’s team would now be bringing their prisoner to the operations center.
That was his destination too. But first …
“I’m still being tailed,” he said, ostensibly into his phone. He had used the device’s glass screen as an impromptu mirror, seeing Khattak, Marwat, and Umar about thirty meters behind. “How soon can Kyle get eyes on me?” While his accent was now clearly American, it was still strongly tinged with Toradze’s Georgian tones.
“About four minutes. The drone’s still over the capture point.”
Another quick glance at the screen, as if checking an app. Khattak gestured to one side. Umar angled away, heading for an alley. Marwat split off in the other direction. Ah, the idiot boy is not so stupid after all! Rudimentary spycraft; Khattak was sending the two other men to cover the parallel streets. If Adam changed direction, there would be someone ready to pick up his trail.
“Adam, we need you here fast,” said Tony. “The longer this takes, the more chance Syed will suspect something happened to him.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He pretended to end a call, taking one final look at the dark reflection before pocketing the phone. Khattak was closing, and judging from his determined expression he had decided that his doubts were justified. “Holly Jo, I need an evasion route.” He increased his pace.
“Okay, hold on …” Seconds ticked by as Holly Jo brought up the satellite photo and overlaid his position, the tracker implanted in his body giving his position to the meter. “Okay. Running parallel on your right is a main road. On the left everything’s a bit more, I dunno, slummy. The streets are narrower and more crooked.”
“I’m going left. Give me directions once I’m ’round the corner.” He reached an intersection. The buildings to the left were smaller and lower, jumbled beneath a web of electricity cables. A sidelong glance back at Khattak as he rounded the corner. His pursuer was now talking on his own phone, no doubt warning Marwat that their target was coming his way. Another call would follow to Umar, telling him to leapfrog the streets covered by the other two men so Adam once again had someone following on each side.
Rudimentary spycraft—but effective. The technique had a weak point, though. Khattak was not in real-time contact with his comrades, but would have to keep making phone calls to relay Adam’s movements. That would cost him time, and if the calls could be disrupted …
“Holly Jo,” Adam said, “link Levon in. The guys following me are using cell phones—can he hack into the network and cut them off?”
“One second.” It took slightly longer, the connection to Levon James in Washington affected by the delay of a satellite transmission. “Okay, he’s on.”
“Adam, I heard you,” said the baritone voice. “Even if I bring in NSA, I’m not sure how much I can do—Pakistan’s got six or seven cell companies, and I don’t know which they’re usin
g. I can probably hack in and pin them down, but it’ll take a few minutes.”
When the hefty African American said he could “probably” hack into something, that was a modest way of saying “almost certainly,” Adam knew—but time was the more important issue here. “Do what you can.”
He reached a T-junction. A truck struggling to make the tight turn had forced other vehicles to stop, arousing horns and gesticulating hands. Adam looked left as he crossed the road—spotting Marwat, phone to his ear. The young man hurriedly looked down at the ground in a feeble attempt to hide his face. Adam continued on as if he hadn’t noticed.
A larger, older building among the huddled cinder-block houses. A high archway led inside, the carved words PEEL CLOTH EXCHANGE, EST. 1897 visible in the pollution-blackened stone above. A remnant of British colonial rule—and still doing business, judging by the people coming and going.
“Go straight ahead, then right,” said Holly Jo, but Adam was already veering left toward the archway. He would stand more chance of losing his tails in a crowd.
He reached the entrance. A long arcade ran through the building, busy shops and stalls on each side. It had once had a glazed ceiling, but most of the glass panels had been damaged over time, opaque—but cheaper—replacements of wood and corrugated metal taking their place. The effect put him in mind of a sparsely worded crossword puzzle. The electric lights hanging from the roof fell far short of making up for the lost illumination, the interior shadowed and gloomy.
Marwat crossed the street to follow him. The truck finally negotiated the intersection, pulling away to reveal Khattak. No sign of Umar, but Khattak had probably told him to run to the other side of the hall.
Adam entered the building. Chatter in several languages echoed through the tiled space, deals being struck, prices argued over. The hall had maintained its original function even after well over a century, most of the stalls selling clothing or fabrics, everything from sheets of raw cotton to swaths of bright silk.
He picked a path through the arcade. The shoppers were almost exclusively women; he drew a few curious looks. At the far end was a second archway, gray daylight beyond. Run for it. If Umar has made it to the other side of the building, I can take him. He is only one man.
Toradze’s choice of action: Adam ignored it. An arms dealer shaking off a tail could be accepted; such people liked privacy, even from their clients. An arms dealer attacking one of said clients would be harder to dismiss.
Nevertheless, he continued through the crowd. A clothing stall had a large mirror for customers to check potential purchases on themselves. Adam moved toward it, finding the angle that let him look back at the entrance. Marwat was already inside the building. Khattak had just reached the arch.
He slowed, letting his hunters close the gap. Halfway through the arcade. He stayed close to the stalls along one side of the long room. Most were oversized tables, but some were handcarts that could be wheeled back into the shops behind them at the end of the day.
He approached one barrow with a single set of large wheels at its center, propped up at one end on cardboard boxes and at the other by a length of two-by-four. The stall was laden with bolts of fabric, multicolored pashminas hanging down from a rail above them. The stallholder was cheerfully haggling with several women at once.
Adam curved around the little crowd to the cart’s side as if examining the merchandise—then with a sharp kick knocked away the wooden prop, pushing a hand down hard on the corner of the stall as he ducked behind it.
The cart tipped on its end with a crash. Pashminas flapped like frightened birds, the women jumping back with squeals and cries. Ripples ran outward through the crowd as people jostled one another.
Bent low, Adam scurried along the shopfronts back the way he had come.
Khattak and Umar had been unsighted by the disturbance. The latter hopped on his toes, trying to spot Adam over the reeling crowd. Khattak’s head snapped from side to side as he looked between both archways.
Adam lost track of them, head still bowed as he returned to the entrance. He slipped outside, not straightening to his full height until he was out of Khattak’s line of sight.
He ran across the street, following the directions Holly Jo had given him. The turning was just ahead. He looked back as he reached it.
Khattak emerged from the hall—
Adam rounded the corner. He didn’t know if Khattak had seen him or not.
Which meant he had to assume that he had.
He kept running. “What’s the route, Holly Jo?”
“Keep going,” said the voice in his ear. “Take the second street on the left.”
“How long before Baxter reaches you?”
“Two minutes.”
“I’ll be there.” He swept around surprised pedestrians. The heavy umbrella in his coat pocket thumped against his side. Past the first turning. A look back. No sign of Khattak.
Yet.
He angled across the narrow road toward the next intersection. The building on its far corner was a small shop. He made the turn, catching the dimly reflected scene in its window.
Another running figure was behind him.
“I’m still being followed,” he warned. “I’m coming straight to you. Be ready—everyone has to be inside when I arrive.”
“They will be,” Tony assured him. “Have you got enough of a lead on this guy to get out of sight yourself?”
Adam pushed himself harder, feet pounding over the dirty road. “I will soon.”
Baxter listened to Tony, then spoke to Lak. “Our man’s got a hostile following him—we need to get there before he does. Step it up!”
“I’m going as fast as I can,” Lak shot back. He took a turn at speed, crashing down through the gears as the van’s back wheels slid out on the wet surface. One of the men in the rear blurted an obscenity. “We’re nearly there.”
Baxter turned back to his team. “Get ready to move him.” Syed lay on the van’s floor. He was still unconscious, but bound with plastic zip-ties. The stun baton’s effects would soon wear off.
“Two more turns,” Lak called. The Mercedes raced down a narrow lane between closely packed apartment blocks. Traffic was very light; few people in this part of Peshawar could afford a car. “Hold on.”
He braked hard, taking the van around the corner at a slightly more controlled rate. The new street was even narrower, workshops interspersed among the housing. “Okay, we’re almost there! Last turn!”
The final corner was much tighter. The front bumper scraped against concrete in his haste. But he made it through, giving the Mercedes one last burst of speed before skidding to a halt in a small muddy square.
The rear doors burst open, Syed’s limp form carried by three of the men as they hustled out. Baxter followed, looking down the street leading from the square’s far side.
Adam hared around its corner, coat flapping.
“Move, move!” Baxter snapped. A door in the building beside the van opened. Tony hurriedly waved the group inside. Syed was bundled through, Baxter squeezing past the mission leader in the tight hallway.
Adam reached the square proper. Smoke wafted from the van’s open window as Lak hurriedly lit a cigarette and took several drags on it.
Adam shot through the haze, shoes slithering on the dirt as he reached the opening and darted inside. Tony shut the door—
Khattak ran around the corner.
Panting, he rushed into the little square—then stopped in angry confusion. He had been at most twenty seconds behind the other man, but now there was no sign of him, and there was no way he could have reached the square’s only other exit already. He surveyed his surroundings. Light industrial buildings, all closed. A grubby white Ford van was parked in a corner of the square behind him, another vehicle ahead. A man was reading a newspaper in the cab, but he wasn’t Toradze.
There was no obvious escape route the arms dealer could have taken. Khattak checked behind the white van. Nobody there, or in
side it. Frustrated, he hurried toward the Mercedes.
“He’s coming toward me,” Lak reported quietly. He pretended not to have registered the other man’s approach until Khattak rapped on the van’s side. “What?”
“Did a man just run past you? A foreigner?”
Lak took the cigarette from his mouth. “Yes. I didn’t see where he went, though—I wasn’t really looking. That way, I think.” He gestured vaguely over one shoulder.
Khattak scowled, then peered past him to check that his quarry was not hiding in the back of the van before jogging away. Lak watched him in the wing mirror. The terrorist crossed to the other side of the square to investigate the concrete stairs leading up the side of one building, but found the metal gate at their bottom locked. He spun in sheer exasperation, then took out his phone and continued down the narrow street.
“He’s left the square,” said Lak. “But I don’t think he’s going far.”
“Watch him,” Tony ordered. “If everything works here, we’ll be ready to move Syed in a few minutes. We can’t let this guy see us.”
“Roger.” Lak sat back, eyes still fixed on Khattak’s image in the mirror as the terrorist made a call.
Adam and Tony followed Baxter’s team into the makeshift operations center, the high-tech equipment incongruous against the peeling paint of what had once been the owner’s office. The former marine clicked his fingers, and Syed was dumped on the floor.
“Careful,” chided Albion. “We can’t let him get too banged up.”
“The cover story’ll explain away a few bruises,” said Tony with dark humor. “Are you ready?”
Albion nodded toward two metal cases, one large, one small. “I need to calculate the dose.” He took out a notebook bound in black leather. “Mr. Baxter, can you and your men help me weigh our friend, please?”
There was an electronic scale on the floor beside the cases. Baxter’s men hauled Syed to his feet—producing a groggy moan. Holly Jo gave him a worried look. “He’s waking up.”
“Thought he’d be out for longer,” said Tony.
The Shadow Protocol Page 3
