Haddad stood close to the tracks at the Westminster Underground Station, listening to the voices of waiting passengers reverberate against the walls, when he caught a glimpse of movement at the far edge of the crowd.
Small. Dark hair. Flash of a beard.
Nothing particularly noteworthy, of course. There were at least half a dozen such people here. But the figure he saw had a way of carrying himself that reminded him of the man he’d spotted on the train from Belgrade and in that hotel lobby.
An instant later the man was gone, swallowed by the crowd, and Haddad wondered if his imagination were getting the better of him. He’d barely seen a face, and what he had seen could be anyone. Anyone at all.
But he didn’t think so.
His instincts may have failed him somewhat in Bulgaria, but he had the same feeling now that he had then: that he was once again being watched.
And he knew who the watcher was.
He didn’t take a second look, however, instead keeping his eyes on the tunnel, waiting for his train to arrive. If the Turk remained in that same general area he’d be entering just three cars down.
Haddad wasn’t foolish enough to make the same mistake twice. He assumed the Turk wasn’t working alone. The Gypsy whore had been replaced by someone new. Someone who would also be on this platform, a rooks-on- king move modeled after the game of chess: one rook could be blocked, lost, or avoided by the king but not without remaining vulnerable to the other.
The woman standing next to him, perhaps? The old man stooped over the water fountain? The curly-headed college student with an e-book reader?
It could be any of them. Or none. The only way to find out was to leave this place and see who followed.
But he didn’t leave immediately. Instead he waited several minutes until his train finally glided up to the platform, its brakes hissing. The doors opened and the crowd began pushing through them, anxious to find seats.
Haddad moved along with the other passengers, then hung back suddenly and turned, heading for the stairs.
He didn’t wait to see if he was followed.
When he reached the street, Haddad immediately ducked into a nearby pub-the Old Town Brewery-and stood near the front window, watching the underground steps less than two hundred yards away.
A moment later a man emerged from the stairwell and bounded to the top of the steps, out of breath, his head swiveling, his eyes frantically searching the crowded sidewalk. There was no question about it now.
It was the Turk.
As the man’s gaze shifted to the pub, Haddad stepped back from the window to avoid being seen. The place was dimly lit and the shadows hid him well.
But the Turk must have had instincts, too. He knew that Haddad couldn’t have disappeared that fast unless he’d taken refuge in one of the nearby stores. And the darkness of the Old Town Brewery was the most likely candidate. Fixing his gaze on the front doorway, the Turk headed straight for it.
That was Haddad’s cue to move.
The pub was sparsely populated with ruddy-faced businessmen and their whorish companions. Haddad weaved his way through them to the back, counting the seconds it took, then ducked through a doorway marked TOILETS and found himself in a dim hallway lined with old black-and-white photographs of London.
The men’s room door was less than two meters away.
Haddad knew that the Turk would check back here. It made sense. He immediately flattened against the wall and waited, mentally calculating the time it would take his pursuer to step inside and cross to the back. It had taken Haddad about twenty seconds, and the Turk was moving as quickly, with purpose.
In less than fifteen seconds the Turk stepped into the hallway, apparently expecting his quarry to be in one of the rooms, behind a locked door, perhaps trying to get out through a window.
He wasn’t. Haddad was facing the hallway door.
As the door swung outward Haddad lunged, grabbing the Turk by the collar. Spinning the smaller man around, he shoved him to the left so that he crashed through the men’s room doorway. The Turk’s eyes went wide in the grimy white light as he stumbled back and slammed against a stall door. Haddad pinned him there with a forearm pressed hard across his exposed throat.
“Who are you?” Haddad demanded in Turkish. “Why are you following me?”
The Turk made a sound in his throat but nothing came out. Haddad released the pressure and the man spat at him. Haddad spun him around again and shoved him hard against the door. The Turk couldn’t get out and now no one-including his partner-could come in. With one fluid motion, Haddad pulled a butterfly knife from his back pocket and flicked it open. The two metal pieces that sheathed the double-edged blade rotated around their pivot pins and snapped together, forming the hilt.
He pressed it to the Turk’s Adam’s apple. “Answer me or you’ll bleed out on a dirty bathroom floor. Who are you working for?”
“N-no one,” the Turk sputtered. “I–I wasn’t following you, I only came here to use the-”
Haddad pushed the knife into the soft flesh of the man’s throat. Blood began to trickle around the steel blade.
“You think I’m a fool?” Haddad hissed. “I saw you in Sofia, sitting in the hotel lobby. And on the train before that. How do you think your whore wound up with a plastic bag over her head?”
“I–I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Stop insulting me with lies!”
Haddad withdrew the knife, grabbed him by the collar again, and jerked him onto his knees. The Turk cried in pain as his kneecaps slammed into the bathroom tile. Haddad again put the knife to his throat.
“I won’t ask again,” Haddad said. “Who are you and why are you following me?”
But the Turk said nothing and that was the wrong strategy to employ. Haddad had no qualms about making good on his threat. The only question was how much of his head would still be attached to his body when Haddad was done.
“You’ve made your choice,” Haddad said under his breath. He put a thumb and index finger into the man’s eyes, pressed back so his head was against the door and his throat was exposed, then pressed the blade to flesh.
The Turk stiffened. “Wait! Wait! ”
Haddad stopped. Waited.
The Turk’s voice trembled. “I was telling the truth. I… I don’t work for anyone. I was following you because I want to join you.”
That surprised Haddad. “What are you talking about?”
“I want to join your cause.”
“Why didn’t you say so back in the hotel? Why did you hesitate with a knife to your throat?”
“I wanted to be sure in Sofia. Here, I wanted you to see I had courage.”
Haddad laughed. “And what about the woman in Sofia? Did she want to join me, as well?”
“She was no one. A simple whore. I saw her go to your room so I hired her to follow you from the hotel.”
“More lies,” Haddad said.
“No… no, I’m telling the truth! I know all about the Hand of Allah. I know all about your operation.”
Haddad hesitated. “And what operation would that be?”
The Turk paused a moment, lowering his voice almost reverentially as he suddenly spoke English. “Roadshow.”
Haddad stared at him for a long moment. He had no idea what the Turk was talking about. He had his orders, but he knew of no operation by that name.
But what startled him was that he’d heard the word before. Spoken by Imam Zuabi during a telephone
