Dead or Alive

he stepped inside. Chavez took control of the door, then followed, easing it shut behind him and getting nothing worse than another metallic peep.

They were in a kitchen. Wooden countertops, cabinets, and a sink to the left; round dining table in the center. An arched doorway in the right-hand wall led to another room. Chavez checked it and gave a thumbs-up. They moved through into what was clearly a sitting room. To the right, a set of stairs led to the second floor. Ahead, a short hall. This is from where the television sounds were emanating. Each taking a wall, they moved into the hall, stepping and pausing, stepping and pausing, until they were within ten feet of an open door. Inside, Clark could see the blue-gray light of a television flashing off the walls.

Clark closed the remaining distance and took up position beside the doorjamb. He nodded at Ding, who came up the right wall until he had an angled view through the door. He stepped back a couple of feet and gestured: Two men in chairs. One nearest the door armed. Clark signaled back: I’ll take him; you sweep through.

Chavez nodded.

Clark switched his gun to his left hand and drew the cosh from his belt. With a curt nod, he leaned around the corner, picked his target, and wrist-whipped the cosh into the man’s temple. Even as he slumped sideways, Chavez was in the room, gun up. He stopped. His brow furrowed. He crooked his finger at Clark, who stepped through the door.

Their man was asleep.

Chavez woke him up with a light tap of the gun’s barrel across the bridge of his nose. As his eyes flittered open, Chavez said, “English?”

The man pressed himself as far back in his chair as he could.

“English?” Chavez repeated.

“Yes, I speak English.”

Clark said, “Make sure this one and Mr. Lawn Chair are out of action. I’ll take him.” Chavez shoved the guard to the floor, then grabbed his wrist, dragged him down the hall into the sitting room, and headed outside.

“What’s your name?” Clark asked their host.

No reply.

“If you’re not even going to give me your name, we’re in for a long, ugly night. Let’s start with your first name. No harm in that.”

“Abbas.”

Clark pulled the now-empty guard’s chair out, spun it around, and sat down so they were knee to knee.

The screen door opened and banged shut. Chavez came in with the first guard over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He unceremoniously dumped him beside his partner. “Found some duct tape in the van,” he told Clark, then went to work with it. Once done, he joined Clark.

“Let’s make sure we’re getting off on the right foot,” Clark told Abbas. “You know what that means?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think your name is Abbas. I’m going to have my friend look around your house for anything with a name on it. If it doesn’t say Abbas, we’re going to start hurting you.”

“My name is Obaid. Obaid Masood.”

“Good.” Clark nodded at Ding, who went out and started rummaging around. “Do you want to change your answer while there’s still time?”

“My name is Obaid Masood. Who are you?”

“Depends on how you answer my questions. Cooperate and we’re friends. Don’t cooperate… Tell me about your security detail. Why do you think you need them?”

Masood shrugged.

“Listen, if your worry was about the police or the Army, they probably would have already been here, which suggests to me you’ve fallen into some bad company. Somebody you worked for, maybe?”

Chavez reappeared. He nodded: He’s telling the truth.

“Somebody you worked for?” Clark repeated.

“Perhaps.”

“The Umayyad Revolutionary Council?”

“No.”

“Do you watch baseball?”

Masood’s brows furrowed. “I have, yes.”

“We’re going to call your ‘no’ strike two,” Clark said. “One more and I’m going to shoot you in the foot. Have you bothered to ask yourself how we found you?”

“The dead drops?”

“Right. And who do you suppose we got those from?”

“I see.”

“I don’t think you do. We found you. They can find you.”

“You’re American.”

“That’s true. What you need to decide is whether you hate us more than you fear them. Because if we don’t start getting some answers, we’re going to drive you into the Hayatabad and dump you out of the car.”

This got Masood’s attention. “Don’t do that.”

“Convince me.”

“I used to work for ISI. I… moved people. Relocated them.”

“Like a black-market travel agent?” Chavez observed.

“Yes, I suppose. Eight months ago I was approached.”

“By whom?”

“I didn’t know him, and I’ve never seen him again.”

“But URC, correct?”

“I found that out later. He offered me a lot of money to move someone.”

“How much money?”

“Two hundred thousand, U.S.”

“Did you ever meet this person?”

“No.”

“What exactly did you do for them?”

“Passports, documentation, private planes. Making sure the right customs and immigration people are paid. It took me five months to put everything together. They were meticulous in their demands, having me double- and triple-check every arrangement.”

“When did you hand over everything?”

“Two months ago.”

Chavez asked, “Did you give them everything?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you keep copies?”

“Paper copies?”

Clark put a little steel in his voice. “Any kind of copies, Obaid.”

“There is a hard drive.”

“Here?”

Masood nodded. “Taped to the underside of the kitchen sink in a plastic bag.”

Chavez headed out the door. He was back a minute later carrying a Ziploc bag. Inside was a drive about the size of a deck of cards. “Eight gigs,” Chavez said.

“English, Ding.”

“A lot of storage space.” He held the bag up toward Masood. “Everything you did for them is in there?”

“Yes. Digital scans, e-mails… everything. Can you get me out? Out of the country?”

“Might take a little time,” Clark said, “but we’ll get it done. Until then, we’ll get you out of sight. Stand up.”

Masood did so. Clark clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the good guys’ team.” He pushed Masood