Dead or Alive

portable radios with which Gavin Biery had equipped them; Embling surveying the Kohati Gate location and placing their mark. Forty minutes later, they met back at Chowk Yadgaar.

“Bear in mind,” Embling said, “there’s a police station a couple hundred yards down the square. If you’re stopped-” He paused and laughed. “Listen to me prattling on. I imagine you two have done this sort of thing before.”

“Once or twice,” Clark said. Or a hundred. Working dead drops wasn’t all that common a task, but the universal surveillance/ countersurveillance methods still applied. As they were waiting for their quarry rather than already tailing him, boredom would be their most potent enemy. Get bored, lose focus, miss something. In the back of Clark’s mind was a ticking clock; how long did they stay in Peshawar waiting for someone to service the drops before deciding the network was dead?

“Right, then,” Nigel said. “I’m going to move the car closer to Kohati Gate. I’ll be about with my mobile.”

As the day’s first vendors arrived to lift their awnings and put out their kiosks and carts, Chavez took up the first shift. “In position,” he radioed.

“Roger,” Clark replied into his collar mic. “Let me know when you see Nigel pass by.”

Ten minutes passed. “Got him. Just passed Kohati Gate. Parking now.”

Now we wait, Clark thought.

As the Old City came to life and the tourists and locals began streaming in, Clark, Chavez, and Embling rotated through the Kohati Gate area, smoothly and without so much as a glance, transferring surveillance to the next man, who did his best to loiter without making it obvious: stopping at nearby kiosks to haggle with the owners over a bead necklace or carved wooden camel, taking pictures of the architecture, and chatting with the occasional local who was interested in where he was from and what had brought him to Peshawar-all the while, keeping half his attention focused on the chalk-marked clay brick in the alley wall opposite the gate.

At 11:15, Clark, who had the watch, felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see a cop. “American?” he asked Clark in broken English.

Clark gave him a disarming smile. “No, Canadian.”

“Passport.” Clark handed it over. The cop studied it for thirty seconds, then snapped it closed and handed it back. He nodded to Clark’s digital camera. “What pictures?”

“Pardon?”

“You photograph. What?”

Clark waved his arm at the nearby buildings. “Architecture. I’m with National Geographic. We’re doing a story on Peshawar.”

“You have permit?”

“I didn’t know I needed one.”

“Permit.”

Clark understood. Baksheesh. In the Muslim world, the term could mean either charity to beggars, tipping, or flagrant bribery, which was the case here. “How much is the permit?”

The cop looked Clark up and down, assessing his worth. “Fifteen hundred rupee.”

About twenty dollars. Clark pulled a wad of crinkled bills from his “light” pocket and gave him three five- hundred-rupee bills.

“Only day be here?”

“I might be back tomorrow,” Clark said with a friendly smile. “Can I pay for that permit in advance?”

This offer brought a smile to the cop’s face, which had so far remained stony. “Of course.”

“Is there a discount for paying in advance?” Most commerce-minded Pakistanis were slightly insulted if their marks didn’t haggle a bit.

“Fourteen hundred rupee.”

“Twelve.”

And then, predictably, “Thirteen.” Clark handed over the notes, and the cop nodded and walked off.

“What’d he want, boss?” Chavez radioed from some unseen location.

“Shaking me down. We’re good.”

Embling’s voice: “We have a nibbling fish, John.”

Clark raised his camera to his eye and turned slowly, a tourist looking for a good shot, until the alley and Kohati Gate were in frame. A boy of seven or eight, wearing filthy white canvas trousers and a blue Pepsi T-shirt, was stooped beside the chalked brick. After a moment he spit into his hand and vigorously rubbed the brick clean.

“He bit,” Clark reported. “He’s heading out the gate. White pants, blue Pepsi T-shirt.”

“On my way.” This from Chavez.

“Moving to the car,” Embling reported. “Meet you outside.”

Chavez reached Clark, who had moved just outside the gate, in less than sixty seconds. “He’s walked down the street. Our side, just passing that blue Opel.”

“I see him.”

Embling pulled up in the Honda, and they climbed in. The Brit pulled out, swerved to miss a delivery truck approaching the gate, accelerated hard for five seconds, then coasted back to the speed limit as they drew even with the boy and passed him. Embling took the next right, drove thirty meters down a side street, then did a quick U-turn and pulled back to the intersection, stopping ten feet short. Through the windshield they could see the boy turn left onto his own side street, then trot diagonally across the street and into a tobacco shop.

“I’ll go,” Chavez said from the backseat, and reached for the door handle.

“Wait,” Embling muttered, eyes fixed on the shop.

“Why?”

“Whoever he’s working for probably has a few at his disposal. It’s a practice here, little runners to do one’s trivial errands.”

Sixty seconds later the boy reappeared on the sidewalk. He looked both ways, then called out to a man sitting on a bench two doors down. The man said something back and pointed directly at Embling’s Honda.

“Distressing turn,” Embling said.

Clark replied evenly, “Not if he comes this way. If we’re burned, he’ll go in the opposite direction.”

He didn’t. Running at a sprint now, dodging a stream of honking and swerving cars, the boy crossed the street and ran past them. From the backseat, Chavez said, “One block up. Turned east.”

Nigel put the car in gear and pulled up to the stop sign, waiting for a break in traffic. When it came, he turned right. “This will run parallel to him for two blocks.” At the next stop sign he turned right, then left, then pulled to a stop beside a school playground.

“Got him,” Clark said, eyes fixed on the side mirror.

The boy turned into a doorway covered in a red awning and reemerged a few seconds later with another boy, this one in his early teens, with curly black hair and a leather jacket. As the first boy talked and gesticulated, the teenager walked to a nearby streetlamp and began working a cable lock around a lemon-yellow moped.

“Well played, Nigel,” Clark said.

“We’ll see. Moped kids here think they’re bloody off-road bikers.”

This one, they quickly realized, was no exception. Though his top speed never exceeded twenty-five miles per hour, the teenager weaved through traffic with a seeming irregularity that reminded Clark of a kite on a gusty day. For his part, Nigel did not follow the moped’s every lane change but rather continued straight, always keeping the yellow moped within sight and changing lanes only when necessary.

The teenager headed southeast away from the cantonment, first on Bara Road, then northwest onto the Ring Road Bypass. The street signs, written in Urdu, were indecipherable to Clark and Chavez, but Embling kept a color commentary of their route.

“Crossing Kabul Canal,” he announced.

Chavez asked, “Closing in on the Hayatabad, aren’t we?”

“Good eye. Yes, we are. Another two miles. Coming up on Gul Mohar.”