The Shadow Protocol (2 page)

Toradze had his own opinions.
What a dump!
The Georgian did not foresee trouble, feeling nothing but confidence—and greed.
They want what I’m selling. They
need
what I’m selling. Make the deal, make the money—then I can leave this craphole
.

They reached the building. Beside the entrance was a bank of doorbells, small signs listing the occupants in a mixture of Urdu, Pashto, and English. Umar thumbed one button. Adam read the sign:
DR. K. R. FARUQUE, DDS
. “So we really are seeing a dentist, hey?” he said with a laugh. “Does Dr. Faruque give you boys a discount?” The crooked-toothed Umar responded with an irritated look.

Holly Jo spoke inside Adam’s ear. “Dr. Faruque, got it. I’ll get Levon to confirm the address.”

Seconds passed, then a click came from an intercom. A man spoke in tinny and hollow Pashto, to which Umar replied tersely with his name. Another pause, then a buzzer rasped. He pushed open the door. “In here.”

Adam stopped in the doorway, shaking water off his umbrella before straining to pull the folding spokes closed. The mechanism finally clicked, the device now reduced
to a foot-long baton. He slipped it into a coat pocket. Marwat made an annoyed sound at being forced to wait outside.

Tony’s voice came through the earwig. “We’ve got the address. Sending John’s team there now.”

Adam didn’t reply, instead following Umar up a narrow flight of stairs to the third floor. A door of scuffed dark wood bore the words
DENTAL PRACTICE
in flaking gold leaf. Umar rapped on it: two quick knocks, a pause, then two slower ones. The door opened a crack, someone peering suspiciously at the three men on the landing, then moving back to let them enter.

The room beyond was a combined reception area and waiting room. Adam immediately saw that none of the five men inside was there for a checkup. The openly displayed guns—some pointed at him—were a giveaway.

This is it. Play the part.
Be
the part.

He let Toradze’s persona come to the fore as he took in the terrorist group, the sum of the Georgian’s past experiences shaping his thoughts. Though there was some fear, it was mostly masked by dismissive arrogance.
God, what a stink. Don’t these pigs use soap? And look at this idiot, holding his pistol sideways like he’s an American gangsta. Amateurs. But as long as they pay …

His eyes moved to the reception desk. An AK-47 assault rifle lay upon it.
Like an icon on the Holy Table
. The gun’s owner sat behind, watching him intently. Older than his companions, though not by much—early thirties, but aged further by the weathering of conflict. A gray-streaked beard reaching down to his chest, dark-rimmed eyes set in a blocky, unsmiling face.

Adam recognized him immediately. Malik Syed, leader of an al-Qaeda terrorist cell. Fanatic. Killer.

Target.

Umar and Marwat quickly frisked him. Wallet, passport, phone, the umbrella. A SIG Sauer P228 handgun and spare magazine. He waited for them to finish their search and return his possessions before speaking to the
man behind the desk. “You must be Syed,” he said almost casually. The arms dealer would have appeared unfazed by the guns; he had to be the same. He switched the heavy case to his left hand, holding out his right. “It is good to meet you.”

Syed made no effort to extend his own hand. “You are Toradze?”

“Giorgi, please! Yes, I am.” Adam cocked an eyebrow. “You were expecting someone else?”

The dark eyes narrowed. “You are younger than I thought.”

“Older than I look. I take care of my appearance.”

One of the other men whispered something in Pashto, which aroused muted chuckles from his companions. “I think he said ‘Just like a woman,’ ” said Holly Jo, affronted.

“It helps me
get
the women,” Adam told the joker, his smile taking on a lecherous tinge. “Especially the virgins, hey? You can have yours in the afterlife; I’ll take mine now!”

The young man seemed both surprised that the visitor had understood him and offended at being mocked, but a stern look from Syed told him to contain his anger. “You have brought the merchandise?” asked the terrorist leader.

Adam turned back to him. “I have. If you still want to see it.”

“I do … Giorgi.” Syed stood, finally raising his right hand.

“I knew we would be friends,” said Adam with a grin as he shook it. “Okay! You want to take a look?”

Syed nodded, sliding the AK-47 aside to clear a space on the desk. Adam hoisted the case onto it and clicked the tumblers on the combination lock before opening the lid. His audience instinctively leaned forward for a better view.

The case was filled with impact-resistant foam rubber. Set into it were three squat olive-green cylinders with conical
noses, long metal tubes extending from their bases. Adam carefully lifted one out. “This is a Russian PG-7VX rocket-propelled grenade,” he announced, Toradze’s persona automatically launching into a sales pitch. “A triple-stage HEAT warhead, so new it is still technically experimental. Not even the Russian army has them yet. It works with a standard RPG-7 launcher—which I think you are all familiar with, hey?” he added with another grin. “But it has almost twice the power of a normal anti-tank round. It will blast through nine hundred and sixty millimeters of armor … even the reactive kind.”

It took a moment for the Pakistanis to absorb the full significance of that, but when they did, they were duly impressed. “That is right,” he went on. “One of these can penetrate the side of an American Abrams tank! And it doesn’t matter if it is using slat armor to deflect RPGs.” He indicated the rocket’s nose. “There is a small shaped charge designed to shatter slat armor before the rest of the warhead hits it. It will still get through. You don’t need dozens of rounds to take out a target with these. One hit, one kill.”

He paused, the excited expressions telling him that his pitch had been successful.
That was good. That was damn good. Just look at them. They’ll pay whatever I want …

Sudden disgust filled him. Syed and his group wanted to use the warheads to kill Americans and their allies, to spread their extremism through terror and murder. And he was helping them do it …

Calm down. Remember the mission. Play the part. Be the part.

Be Toradze.

I
am
Toradze
.

If his brief crisis of conscience had shown on his face, none of the others noticed. Syed finally tore his gaze from the rocket. “How many do you have?”

“At the moment, only ten. But I will be able to get another fifty in the next two weeks, and maybe as many as three hundred in the month after that.”

Caution tempered the terrorist’s anticipation. “If they are still experimental, how can you get so many?”

“I said they are
technically
still experimental. But that only means they have not yet been approved for field use by the Russian army. They are in full production ready for export sales—and I have a pipeline into the factory.”

Syed nodded. “And … the price?”

Be bold, be firm. They
want
them. I can tell
.

“Per warhead? Two thousand US dollars.”

The Pakistani visibly flinched. “Two
thousand
dollars?” he erupted. “But we can buy anti-tank rockets for only two
hundred
dollars!”

Adam had anticipated the objection. “Rockets that bounce off tanks. Rockets that cannot even break through the slat armor on a Stryker. Malik, my friend …” He gave Syed a broad smile. “An Abrams tank costs over six million dollars. You can kill that tank for just two thousand. It is a bargain.”
He’s considering it. Keep pushing
. “And if you want proof that they really work, then the three warheads here? They are yours, for nothing. My free sample.”

Syed considered the offer. “Will they work?” he said eventually. “Are they as good as you say?”

“I will bet my reputation on it,” Adam said proudly.

The terrorist leader stared at the warhead.
He’s hooked. I’ve got him
. “Okay. I will accept your … gift. If they work, how soon will you be able to deliver—”

The door buzzer sounded.

The other terrorists raised their guns in alarm. Suspicious eyes glared at Adam. But Syed waved a hand for them to remain still. He thumbed the intercom button and spoke in Pashto.

“Muhammad,” came the reply. Syed buzzed him in. His men lowered their guns. The terse response was probably a form of code, Adam decided, remembering that Umar had done the same. Saying anything more than their name would warn those inside that the new arrival was there under duress.

Syed turned back to his visitor. “How soon will you be able to get us more rockets?”

“As I said, I can have fifty in two weeks. I will need a down payment—half the money in advance. Then all I need to know is where and when to deliver them.”

“One hundred thousand American dollars? It is a lot of money.”

Adam shrugged. “It is a lot of firepower. But you can test that for yourself, hey?” He put the rocket back in the case. “If you get three hits, you will get three kills. I guarantee it.”

For the first time, Syed’s expression became something other than grim mistrust, the corners of his mouth crinkling upward with malevolent anticipation. “I look forward to it.”

“I thought you would.”
Got him. I’ve got him! Champagne to celebrate, once I’m out of this backward alcohol-free country!
The part of him that was Toradze reveled in his success … while the rest struggled to conceal his loathing at his actions. Syed’s group now had three devastating anti-tank weapons; while they would never receive any more, no matter how events played out—Toradze’s contact at the weapons factory would soon be arrested—it was still three too many. The men in Washington who had authorized the mission had deemed the risk worth it. Adam didn’t necessarily agree.

But his opinions were irrelevant. He had a job to do. Follow orders. Complete the mission.

Syed picked up one of the rockets, admiring it. “After we test them, what then?”

“I will come back to Pakistan to collect my down payment,” Adam replied. “Then we will arrange delivery.”

Syed nodded, then looked around at a knock on the door. Two quick, a pause, then two slower taps. Guns were raised again. Marwat, nearest the entrance, opened the door slightly to check who was outside, then let him in.

Cold fear surged through Adam’s body as he recognized the newcomer.

The young man’s name was Muhammad Khattak. He had met the arms dealer before. And he would know at a glance that the person standing alone in a room full of terrorists was not the real Giorgi Toradze.

Puzzlement grew on Khattak’s face as he stared at Adam. He had expected to see somebody else, and at any moment would expose the supposed arms dealer as an impostor—

“Ah-ha, Muhammad Khattak!” said Adam with a broad smile. “I did not expect to see you here. I thought you were fighting in Kurram?”

Khattak was baffled. He looked between the American and Syed. “But—who are …”

Adam’s grin widened. “Oh come on, Muhammad. I know it has been a few years since we met in Drosh, but even with the plastic surgery I don’t look
that
different, do I?”

“Plastic surgery?” snapped Syed. He put the rocket back in the case, one hand moving toward the AK-47. “Muhammad, what is going on?”

Khattak’s confusion faded, replaced by worry—and anger. “I don’t … This—this is not Toradze!”

The room exploded into commotion. Two men rushed to the window, checking the street below, while Umar hurried to cover the door to the landing.

Every other man aimed his weapon at the interloper.

“Adam!” said Holly Jo urgently. “Baxter’s team can reach you in less than two minutes. If you need backup, tell us.”

Adam remained silent. Syed picked up his AK, flicking
off the safety with a loud click. He gave the agent a cold stare. “Tell me. Who are you?”

“I am Giorgi Toradze,” Adam replied, tempering defiance with exasperation at being doubted. He looked back at Khattak. “Muhammad, it is me. Really! I had plastic surgery because my face was becoming a little too well known. Look, see?” He brought his hand up, pointing at his neck behind the right side of his jaw.

Khattak moved for a closer look, Syed also leaning forward to see. Below Adam’s ear, down the line of his jawbone, was a thin scar. It was a remnant of the earwig’s implantation, but the terrorists couldn’t possibly suspect that—he hoped.

“It was expensive,” Adam went on, “but it kept me out of prison. I had a nose job, my teeth straightened. I even lost weight! But—you really don’t recognize me? Azim, I can’t believe you don’t know me from my eyes!”

The Pakistani was startled by Adam’s use of the nickname. He looked more closely at the other man’s face. The real Toradze had quite distinctive eyes of an intense blue; the contact lenses were a good simulation.

Doubt appeared in Khattak’s own eyes …

“It really is me, Muhammad,” Adam pressed on. “I will prove it. Ask me anything about when we met.”

Khattak frowned. “If you are a spy, you would have interrogated Toradze to find out what he knew about me.”