Dead or Alive

mosques within a mile or so, but he would not go near one of those. The local government might permit Muslims to worship Allah in a place of their own, but surely they were all watched, and the entrants photographed. His job was to be invisible.

It’s down,” Clark said, looking at the TV monitor hanging twenty feet away.

“All we know is that he takes a piss standing up,” Dominic reminded them.

Where’s the nearest head? Clark thought. A lot of people made a head call soon after deplaning, after being too nervous to use the one on the airplane. Wouldn’t be a bad idea to camp out on that possibility. Spooks were not robots. Every one had his own peculiarities, and those, once identified, made them vulnerable. It struck him that he’d never been a counterspy. Identifying spooks was something he’d always worked to prevent… but maybe that gave him the resources needed to do the job? He’d see. They were after an Arab, probably late thirties to middle forties, male. Height, weight, hair color, and eye color were all unknowns. He was a trained operator. He’d probably act like a trained operator.

Well, he was being met. They knew that much. Somebody to hand him a ticket for a connecting flight. Probably not as well trained. Probably a stringer. Maybe somebody hoping to earn a promotion in whatever organization he belonged to. Maybe as smart but not as experienced or as well trained. Somebody who knew his inbound asset by sight? Maybe, maybe not. Probably a driver. He’d be looking to make the pickup. Scanning the faces for recognition. Holding a sign? Yeah, maybe THE EMIR SENT ME, Clark thought with a snort. He’d seen some dumb ones in his time, but never that dumb. Might as well eat a gun outside the terminal with TV cameras watching. These guys might not be pros the way he thought of the term, but neither would they be stupid. Somebody had trained them or instructed their organization on how to teach them fieldcraft. It wasn’t that hard. The nuances came with experience, but the basics were things a half-smart guy could figure out on his own. The four of them were standing in line. That wasn’t smart. He shuffled over to Dominic.

“Break into pairs, opposite sides of the railings. Dominic, you and Brian. Jack, you’re with Ding and me.”

Dominic and Brian moved down the escalator and away, curling back to a place opposite Clark and Chavez. John tapped his nose, and the twins repeated the signal.

“What are you thinking, Domingo?” John asked.

“Who, them? Good instincts, a little rough around the edges, but that’s natural. If trouble develops, I think they’ll handle it okay.”

“Fair enough for a ninja,” Clark responded.

“We own the night, baby.” That had been quite a while ago, but it was part of Domingo’s core identity. He was a hard one to spot. Short as he was, people often overlooked him. His eyes could give him away, but only if you took the time to scan his face, and he really wasn’t big enough for any tough guy to worry about, until you were on your back, wondering how the hell you got there. Times had changed since his SEAL days. Third SOG had had a few John Wayne types, but the new ones looked more like marathon runners, short and skinny. They tended to live longer, being harder to hit. But their eyes were different, and that’s where the danger was. If you were smart enough to notice.

“Little nervous,” Jack admitted.

“Nice and casual,” Clark replied. “Don’t try too hard. And never look directly into the subject’s eyes, except maybe to check out the way he was looking around, but only briefly and carefully.”

Who are you, Hadi? Clark thought. Why are you here? Where are you going? Whom do you want to meet? None of which was he likely to ask or have answers for. But the mind did its own thing all the time, the more so for a fairly intelligent and active mind.

49

HADI COULD have been the first in line, but he manufactured a false delay to avoid that possibility. He didn’t have to pretend to be tired. Counting the feeder flight from Marseille and the layover at Milan, he’d been in the air for fifteen hours, and the reduced partial-pressure of oxygen had taken its toll on his body. One more reason to wonder about the flight crew and their miserable jobs.

“Hello, Mr. Klein,” the immigration clerk said with what appeared to be a smile.

“Good day,” Hadi replied, reminding himself again of his false identity. Fortunately, no one had tried to speak with him on the flight, except the flight attendant, who kept his wineglass fully attended. And the food had been tolerable, a pleasant surprise.

“The purpose of your visit?” the clerk asked, studying Hadi’s face.

“Business.” It was even true.

“Duration?”

“Not sure yet, but probably four or five days. Is that important?”

“Only to you, sir.” The clerk scanned the passport, ran the cover through the barcode reader, wondering if the red light would go on-but they almost never did, and it didn’t this time. “Nothing to declare?”

“Nothing at all,” Hadi replied.

“Welcome to Canada. The exit is that way,” the clerk said, pointing.

“Thank you.” Hadi took his passport back and walked to the multiple doors. Western countries were so self- destructively welcoming to their enemies, he noted yet again. He supposed they just wanted the money to be had from tourists. They couldn’t really have such hospitality in their infidel hearts, could they?

Heads up,” John said. The first two people through the doors were women, and Hadi wasn’t one of those… unless the intel was really bad, Clark thought. He’d had that happen to him more than once.

Okay, what are we looking for? Male, thirty-five to forty-five, average height, maybe a little less by American standards. Dark eyes, not looking around very much, feigned relaxation, but still looking around. Curiosity, but controlled curiosity. He’d be a little tired from the journey. Flying usually tired people out. A little wrung-out from the drinks he’d probably had… but he would have slept some, too.

They saw a tan camel-hair coat, mid-thigh in length. It looked Italian. Hadi was supposedly based in Italy-in Rome-right? Five-eight or so, medium build, a little on the skinny side. Dark eyes. Dark as hell, almost black, John thought. Looking studiously forward, not to the side, pushing a wheeled dolly with one large bag and one small one. They didn’t look that heavy, and the big one had wheels on it… lazy or tired? His hair was as black as the eyes were; nondescript haircut. Clean shaven. No beard, perhaps-probably?-deliberately so. Two more people came out behind him, obviously Canadians, fair-skinned and ginger-haired. One waved to somebody to Clark’s right. Wave off. Back to the camel coat. His eyes were moving left and right, but his head remained still. Good fieldcraft, John thought at once, on noting that. Then they locked on something: Clark’s head turned and saw somebody in a black suit, like a chauffeur but without the cap, holding a white cardboard sign with KLEIN written on it in Magic Marker.

“Bingo,” he whispered to himself. To Chavez: “Link up with the brothers and watch the flanks. I’m taking a walk. Jack, you’re with me.”

They headed down the concourse.

“See something I didn’t?” Jack asked.

“His name isn’t Klein. I’d bet the wad on that.”

No trip to the head, Clark saw. So much for that idea. They followed forty yards back. The subject, they saw, didn’t seem to speak with his pickup man. Too disciplined, or did they know each other?

“Got a camera?” John asked.

“Yeah, digital one. Ready to run. I might have a shot of our friend, but I haven’t checked yet.”

“If he gets into a car, let’s make sure-”

“Yep. Make, model, and tag. How’re we doing?”

I don’t think he’s seen us-damned sure didn’t look at where we were, either side. Either he’s one very cool