walking down the road, viewed from overhead. The drone he controlled was hovering some eighty metres up, well clear of the surrounding buildings. He adjusted a dial and the view zoomed out to provide a wider view of the street maze. ‘Heading north.’
‘Don’t lose them.’ Tony Carpenter, the team’s field commander, was watching the scene on his own monitor.
‘Wasn’t planning on doing, brah,’ Kyle replied, with a little sarcasm. He nudged a joystick to send the UAV after its targets.
The fair-haired man ignored the mild insubordination. He was used to Kyle, and there were more important concerns. He regarded the aerial view intently, then looked across at another of the room’s occupants. ‘Holly Jo, check his tracker. We might lose line of sight.’
The willowy blonde tapped a command into her computer. A few seconds later, a hollow green square was superimposed on the street scene – directly over the black dodecagon of the umbrella. As Adam moved, so did the vivid symbol. ‘Tracker is on, good signal.’
‘Great.’ Tony spoke into his headset. ‘John, he’s made contact and is on his way to the meet. We’ll give you its location the second we have it.’
John Baxter, a former captain in the US Marines, was waiting in a van a few streets from the rendezvous point with a small team of armed men. ‘Remember, the kill option is still available once we know where these bastards are.’
‘Syed is more valuable to us alive than dead,’ said Tony, reminding Baxter of the mission’s objective – and who was in charge. On the monitor, the three figures were still heading for what might prove a very dangerous destination. ‘If the plan works,’ he added quietly.
‘It’ll work.’ The fourth person in the dirty room was also one of the main reasons it was so cramped. Dr Roger Albion was a hulking bear of a man, college quarterback build still solid despite his last game being forty years earlier. ‘Adam’s not just imitating Toradze – he is Toradze. You of all people should know that. He can do this.’
‘I hope so.’ The umbrella disappeared from sight as the trio turned into a narrow alley, the green square still moving. ‘For his sake.’
Adam followed Umar through the urban labyrinth. The deluge was beginning to ease off, some braver souls emerging from shelter. ‘So, is it much further, hey?’ he said. ‘If I’d known we were going to walk in the rain, I would have paid for a taxi!’
‘It is not far,’ said Umar. He gestured ahead. ‘Up there.’
The building he indicated was a disorderly five-storey block of brick and concrete. Adam assessed it. One door at the front, probably another to an alley at the back. Flat roof, the railings along its edge suggesting it was easily accessible. The building to its left was higher, hard to climb, but to the right was a lower rooftop that could act as an escape route.
Toradze had his own opinions. What a dump! The Georgian did not foresee trouble, feeling nothing but confidence – and greed. They want what I’m selling. They need what I’m selling. Make the deal, make the money – then I can leave this craphole.
They reached the building. Beside the entrance was a bank of doorbells, small signs listing the occupants in a mixture of Urdu, Pashto and English. Umar thumbed one button. Adam read the sign: DR K. R. FARUQUE, DDS. ‘So we really are seeing a dentist, hey?’ he said with a laugh. ‘Does Dr Faruque give you boys a discount?’ The crooked-toothed Umar responded with an irritable look.
Holly Jo spoke inside Adam’s ear. ‘Dr Faruque, got it. I’ll get Levon to confirm the address.’
Seconds passed, then a click came from an intercom. A man spoke in tinny and hollow Pashto, to which Umar replied tersely with his name. Another pause, then a buzzer rasped. He pushed open the door. ‘In here.’
Adam stopped in the doorway, shaking water off his umbrella before straining to pull the folding spokes closed. The mechanism finally clicked, the device now reduced to a foot-long baton. He slipped it into a coat pocket. Marwat made an annoyed sound at being forced to wait outside.
Tony’s voice came through the earwig. ‘We’ve got the address. Sending John’s team there now.’
Adam didn’t reply, instead following Umar up a narrow flight of stairs to the third floor. A door of scuffed dark wood bore the words DENTAL PRACTICE in flaking gold leaf. Umar rapped on it: two quick knocks, a pause, then two