Sameer sighed again and stared at the streets full of people. “Have you ever seen so many before, Balil? This will be large.”
Balil laughed. “Of course it will be. Muhammed al-Abadi has paid handsomely for this crowd.” Balil blew out a blue-white stream and leaned against the steps. “Many say he will announce himself for office today.”
Sameer grunted. “Another rich man buying an election. Nothing changes.”
Mamoon stuck his head back into the shop and smiled through stained and crooked teeth. “We are almost out of flags.” He looked expectantly at Sameer. “Is there any more you can print?”
Sameer gave him a disappointing look. “We are out of fabric again, Mamoon. Unless you want us to peel the rest of the wallpaper off, there isn’t much we can do.”
Tariq approached Mamoon and handed him a large wad of money. “They are all gone.” His smile was contagious and Mamoon picked the boy up from the ground.
“This has been a very good day!” Mamoon laughed as he spun Tariq around then set him back on the ground. He quickly snatched the money from the lad’s hand and shoved it into his pocket. “There is no more to do today, my friends.”
Sameer raised a brow at the man. “What are you saying?”
Mamoon laughed and pointed to the crowds. “Go! Have a good time. We have no more fabric, therefore we can make no more flags. Take the rest of the day off.”
Balil smashed his cigarette out on the floor and stood, stretching his back. “I am going home.” He hooked his chin to the growing crowd. “I have no desire to make an ass of myself for Al-Jazeera.”
Sameer grunted a laugh as he pulled himself from the chair. “You make an ass of yourself here every day. You may as well show the rest of the world, too.”
Balil scowled at the man then grabbed his hat from the coat tree near the door. “Do as you like, Sameer. I am going home and I’ll watch you on the television. Maybe you can become famous.”
Sameer watched the man brush past him and walk out into the crowds, fighting the flow as he headed home. He watched as Mamoon sat at his desk and counted the cash they had earned. “About that bonus?” He held a hand out and watched as the smile faded from Mamoon’s face.
“Yes. Of course.” Mamoon rifled through the stacks and pulled out a few small bills. He slapped them into Sameer’s sweaty hand and looked the man in the eye. “I’ll square with you tomorrow. I just need to know what our take is.”
Sameer closed his hand around the pathetic sum and shoved it in his pocket. “Tomorrow then.” He stepped to the doorway and the familiar sting of sweat, body odor and dirty feet rose to greet him. He grumbled something to himself as he stepped out into the crowd and fought the flow of traffic. Like Balil, he had no desire to be a part of the spectacle.
15
Karachi, Pakistan
MUHAMMED AL-ABADI tried to force his eyes open but couldn’t against the bright interrogation lights. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying we saved your life.” Jay stepped to the side and the light he had been blocking suddenly caused the captive to squeeze his eyes shut and turn away.
Bridger slipped in behind the man. “I’d answer him if I were you. Otherwise, we might have to release you and let you take your chances.”
“No. I know nothing. I swear.” al-Abadi strained against the zip ties holding him. “Why would the Americans want me dead? I am nobody. A humble servant of the widow, that is all.”
Jay turned to Gregg, a questioning look on his face. Gregg nodded and began tapping at the keys on his computer.
Bridger gripped the man’s neck from behind and pulled his face around to the lights again. “Maybe the widow sold you out?” He squeezed slightly and heard the man squeak in his throat. “Maybe she wants you dead? It wouldn’t be the first time somebody convinced the American government to kill on their behalf.”
Muhammed shook his head. “No! No! She would not do that. She needs me—”
“You’re a nothing, Abadi.” Jay stepped back in front of the light, allowing the man to squint again without burning his retinas. “I’m sure she would like you removed from the picture. Probably got caught skimming and she decided enough was enough.”
“No!” Muhammed cried as he struggled again. Bobby increased his grip and the man settled. “She would not. Asma needs me. I am her right hand.”
Bridger snorted beside the man’s ear. “A man…subjugating himself to a woman? Maybe she doesn’t consider you a real man if you’re so willing to serve her whims.”
Gregg snapped his fingers and Bridger released al-Abadi’s neck. He and Jay gathered around his computer and Gregg kept his voice low. “I wasn’t certain until he said ‘Asma;’ that’s the widow of Kashif Abu Faqir. He was a high level arms dealer until his death. Then the operation fell from view and the Agency thought that al-Abadi took up the reins. But it was her house that Ryan and Marcus followed him to when they thought he was headed to the airport.” He looked to Bridger. “Looks like the widow picked up where the husband left off and she’s kept it low key.”
Bridger shook his head. “That still doesn’t explain why the CIA and NSA would target this turd. Who does he sell to?”
Gregg shrugged. “Anybody and everybody. Specializes in old Russian armament from their occupation of Afghanistan. They left a lot of shit behind.”
“And this guy knows where it was stockpiled.” Jay stood and stared at the small man baking under the lights. “Still doesn’t explain why they would send a wetwork team for him and try to set up Bobby.”
“Seems to me that any of her clients could be pissed at him.” Bridger stretched his back and
