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 toward the door. Ding grabbed Clark’s elbow. “A minute?”
“Go ahead, Obaid. Wait for us in there.”
Chavez said, “You’re thinking about stashing him with Nigel.”
“I was.”
“Fifty-fifty chance somebody will track him down. If they do, that’s it for Nigel and his kid.”
“You got a better idea?”
Chavez paused. “We got the drive. Maybe we cut our losses and—” Chavez tipped his head to the side, looking over Clark’s shoulder. “Shit.”
Footsteps pounded in the other room.
“He heard me! Goddamn it!”
Chavez darted out the door, through the sitting room, and into the kitchen just as the screen door slammed closed. “Ah, fuck me!” He was halfway to the screen when a crack brought him to a halt. In a crouch, he backtracked into the sitting room. Clark was already there, peeking his head above the windowsill. In the driveway a pair of headlights cast stripes in the dirt. Lying in one of the beams was Masood. A figure carrying a pistol walked up to him, knelt down, and fired two rounds into his head, then stood up and walked back into the headlights. A door slammed shut, followed by the crunch of tires on gravel.
Silence.
“What the hell just happened?” Chavez whispered.
“He got the visit he was worried about.”
“And us?”
“They must’ve assumed he was running from them. Let’s get out of here before they think twice.”
48
JACK HEARD his computer chime, indicating a new e-mail message. He scanned it once, then again. “Hello there. ...” He picked up the phone, called Rick Bell, told him what he had, and a few moments later they were on a conference call with Sam Granger.
“Tell him, Jack,” Bell prompted.
“You know the guy we think might be a URC courier?”
“Hadi?”
“Right. Got something on his financials—a credit card. He’s moving—right now. An Alitalia 747 from da Vinci in Rome to Pearson outside Toronto.”
“And from there?”
“Chicago, but nothing beyond that on his credit card yet.”
“It’s either his destination or a dry-cleaning stop,” Bell said, using the old CIA tradecraft term for an SDR, or surveillance detection run. “Chicago’s a hub; he could