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