The Persona Protocol - By Andy McDermott Page 0,10

round the little crowd to the cart’s side as if examining the merchandise – then with a sharp kick knocked away the wooden prop, pushing a hand down hard on the corner of the stall as he ducked behind it.

The cart tipped on its end with a crash. Pashminas flapped like frightened birds, the women jumping back with squeals and cries. Ripples ran outwards through the crowd as people jostled each other.

Bent low, Adam scurried along the shopfronts back the way he had come.

Khattak and Umar had been unsighted by the disturbance. The latter hopped on his toes, trying to spot Adam over the reeling crowd. Khattak’s head snapped from side to side as he looked between both archways.

Adam lost track of them, head still bowed as he returned to the entrance. He slipped outside, not straightening to his full height until he was out of Khattak’s line of sight.

He ran across the street, following the directions Holly Jo had given him. The turning was just ahead. He looked back as he reached it.

Khattak emerged from the hall—

Adam rounded the corner. He didn’t know if Khattak had seen him or not.

Which meant he had to assume that he had.

He kept running. ‘What’s the route, Holly Jo?’

‘Keep going,’ said the voice in his ear. ‘Take the second street on the left.’

‘How long before Baxter reaches you?’

‘Two minutes.’

‘I’ll be there.’ He swept around surprised pedestrians. The heavy umbrella in his coat pocket thumped against his side. Past the first turning. A look back. No sign of Khattak.

Yet.

He angled across the narrow road towards the next intersection. The building on its far corner was a small shop. He made the turn, catching the dimly reflected scene in its window.

Another running figure was behind him.

‘I’m still being followed,’ he warned. ‘I’m coming straight to you. Be ready – everyone has to be inside when I arrive.’

‘They will be,’ Tony assured him. ‘Have you got enough of a lead on this guy to get out of sight yourself?’

Adam pushed himself harder, feet pounding over the dirty road. ‘I will soon.’

Baxter listened to Tony, then spoke to Lak. ‘Our man’s got a hostile following him – we need to get there before he does. Step it up!’

‘I’m going as fast as I can,’ Lak shot back. He took a turn at speed, crashing down through the gears as the van’s back wheels slid out on the wet surface. One of the men in the rear blurted an obscenity. ‘We’re nearly there.’

Baxter turned back to his team. ‘Get ready to move him.’ Syed lay on the van’s floor. He was still unconscious, but bound with plastic zip-ties. The stun baton’s effects would soon wear off.

‘Two more turns,’ Lak called. The Mercedes raced down a narrow lane between closely packed apartment blocks. Traffic was very light; few people in this part of Peshawar could afford a car. ‘Hold on.’

He braked hard, taking the van around the corner at a slightly more controlled rate. The new street was even narrower, workshops interspersed amongst the housing. ‘Okay, we’re almost there! Last turn!’

The final corner was much tighter. The front bumper scraped against concrete in his haste. But he made it through, giving the Mercedes one last burst of speed before skidding to a halt in a small muddy square.

The rear doors burst open, Syed’s limp form carried by three of the men as they hustled out. Baxter followed, looking down the street leading from the square’s far side.

Adam hared around its corner, coat flapping.

‘Move, move!’ Baxter snapped. A door in the building beside the van opened. Tony hurriedly waved the group inside. Syed was bundled through, Baxter squeezing past the mission leader in the tight hallway.

Adam reached the square proper. Smoke wafted from the van’s open window as Lak hurriedly lit a cigarette and took several drags on it.

Adam shot through the haze, shoes slithering on the dirt as he reached the opening and darted inside. Tony shut the door—

Khattak ran round the corner.

Panting, he rushed into the little square – then stopped in angry confusion. He had been at most twenty seconds behind the other man, but now there was no sign of him, and there was no way he could have reached the square’s only other exit already. He surveyed his surroundings. Light industrial buildings, all closed. A grubby white Ford van was parked in a corner of the square behind him, another vehicle ahead. A man was reading a newspaper in the cab, but he wasn’t Toradze.

There