Abuse of Power (6 page)

So he was either a
luti
—a homosexual—or something else was going on.

Haddad knew quite well that surveillance was a skill that took cunning as well as patience. But the Turk was trying too hard to appear disinterested in his surroundings, and that was as much a giveaway as not trying hard enough.

That was how Haddad knew he was being watched. And this, unfortunately,
was
a problem.

Moving toward the lobby door, he checked the clock above the front desk. It was nearing eight
P.M.
, and the man who called himself Chilikov would be expecting him soon. If he were late or arrived with an unwanted escort, Chilikov would disappear and that was unacceptable. These arrangements had to be concluded tonight or his schedule would be seriously compromised.

It had taken Haddad a considerable amount of time and money to cultivate a relationship with the Bulgarian, and he couldn’t afford to start over. Normally, he would have sent someone else to handle this task but there was too much at stake.

So he had a choice. Lose the Turk—or kill him.

The meeting place was less than a mile away, a fifteen-minute walk. Haddad knew he could quickly hail a taxi and be there in less than five minutes, but taxi drivers had eyes and ears, and while the chances of anything coming of such a casual encounter were nearly nonexistent, he had always been a cautious man who preferred to travel on foot whenever possible.

After receiving Chilikov’s text message this evening, Haddad had spent nearly an hour checking and rechecking the route to their meeting place using a portable GPS unit he’d picked up in Belgrade. He had found three possible routes to his destination and had memorized them all, certain that he would not be followed but prepared for the possibility.

Now that possibility was quite real.

Haddad stepped through the revolving door onto the sidewalk, paying no attention to the man as he passed but not overtly looking away as the Turk was doing. Because of that, Haddad was able to see, peripherally, what he needed to see.

Haddad moved with deliberation, never rushing. He was a tourist going out for a stroll, nothing more.

The Turk would know this was a lie, of course. But Haddad saw no reason to betray that he was aware of being watched. As he walked away from the hotel, he kept his gaze forward, never glancing back at that revolving lobby door but knowing that the Turk would soon emerge and head in his direction.

Haddad was relatively sure the man was working alone. The best surveillance is done in teams, the larger the better. The subject gets passed along like a baton, giving him less opportunity to make—or lose—a tail. But the modern spy tends to wear iPod earbuds or a Bluetooth, innocuous technology that keeps him plugged in to partners or HQ. Haddad’s cursory look as he passed the Turk revealed neither of these. Besides, he’d been in enough of these situations to trust his instincts and they told him that the Turk was working alone.

The question was, who was he working
for
?

The Americans?

Haddad knew the CIA had a file on him—most of it fiction—and he knew they had followed him on occasion, a bit of information that had come to light when members of his cell tortured and killed one of their agents. But this man was not skilled enough to be CIA. His trade craft did not rise to their level. Nor did it rise to the level of Mossad. Besides, Jew or Druze, Haddad could detect an Israeli the way a rat smells cheese. It was in his DNA, millennia-old and infallible.

So who
was
this man? Could he be working for Chilikov?

No. The Bulgarian’s loyalty had been bought and paid for, and it made no sense that he would jeopardize their arrangement. Chilikov was wise enough to know that should he ever betray Haddad, not only would he lose a large sum of cash but Haddad would slit his windpipe and leave him to die gasping in a river of his own blood.

But then, it didn’t really matter who the Turk worked for. He was simply an annoyance to be dealt with.

Continuing to take his time as he walked, Haddad stopped to look in the store windows that lined the street. A bakery with samples of its baklava and garash. A clothing store full of well-dressed mannequins. A tattoo parlor with a flickering neon light, the quiet buzz of the needle emanating from an open doorway. All the while Haddad felt the Turk behind him, at least smart enough to keep his distance.

A small grocery stood on the opposite corner. Haddad crossed to it and went inside, assaulted by the bright fluorescent lights that hung high overhead, illuminating rows of crowded shelves. Most Bulgarians preferred to buy their fruit from street vendors, but there was a small display on the left side of the store and Haddad went to it, taking his time as he inspected a neatly stacked pile of blue plums.

Selecting two firm pieces of the fruit, he moved to the register and glanced casually out at the street as the clerk rang up his purchase. The Turk was nowhere to be seen but Haddad assumed he was out there.

He paid in cash, and after the clerk gave him his change she went to place the fruit in a small paper bag.

He stopped her.

Reaching across the counter, he tore one of the larger plastic grocery bags from its stand and dropped the plums inside.

The clerk didn’t protest.

Thanking her in Bulgarian, Haddad pocketed his change then went outside. Still no sign of the Turk, but across the street was an unlit alleyway and Haddad was certain the man was waiting there.

Countersurveillance was a careful process that involved U-turns and double-backs, taking needlessly complicated routes to your destination. And given enough time, Haddad knew he could lose the Turk with relative ease. But that would only be a temporary solution to his problem. When he returned to the hotel his pursuer would be there again, feigning indifference behind a travel brochure or a magazine or a novel this time.

So Haddad decided to go with his second option.

Death.

Crossing the street, he moved toward the alleyway knowing that the Turk would be on his guard, worried that he’d been spotted. But Haddad gave nothing away, reaching casually into his bag as he passed the alley without a glance and continuing up the sidewalk.

Selecting one of the plums, he bit into it and tasted the sweet, tart nectar. The near sensual delight of it reminded him again of the Gypsy whore and the realm of the flesh. It seemed strange to him that one pleasure should be accepted and the other considered sinful, but that only reminded him of how little time he had spent in religious study. It was something he promised to rectify when this matter was concluded,
inshallah
—if it were the will of Allah.

Continuing at his casual pace, Haddad finished the first plum, flicked the seed into the street, then took the second from the bag and consumed it in three quick bites. He could feel the Turk’s presence now, matching his pace, so he picked up speed, widening the distance between them, then took a right onto an intersecting street.

There was less light here. One of the street lamps was broken, a bit of luck in his favor.

Moving even faster now, Haddad found his own alleyway and stepped inside, pressing his back against the brick wall as he quickly tied a knot in the bottom of the plastic bag.

A moment later the Turk came around the corner, his small form barely visible in the dim light. He stopped short when he saw no sign of his prey, swiveling his head to look up and down the street.

Haddad knew he had only seconds to do what needed to be done.

Stepping forward, he slipped through the shadows and moved in behind the Turk, then brought the knotted grocery bag up and over the smaller man’s head, pulling it taut around his neck.

The Turk gasped as Haddad yanked him backward into the alley. The victim began to scratch at the bag but Haddad held fast. Haddad knew, if the man did not, that it took five seconds of breathing exhaled air to reduce a man’s strength by half. The Turk gave up his attack on the bag and used what strength remained to swing his fists back, hitting and then clutching at Haddad’s shoulders and face, trying desperately to break free. But his blows were weak and as the seconds ticked by the struggling Turk was reduced to long, sucking, guttural breaths. By then, there was no air at all to be had. The plastic of the bag formed an ugly mask that clung to his open mouth and flared nostrils.

It was a death mask. After another moment he slumped to the alley floor—limp, listless.

Dead.

Haddad removed the bag, pressed two fingers against the man’s neck and felt no pulse. But something was wrong, here. The Turk’s skin was surprisingly smooth.

Too smooth.

Moving his hand upward, Haddad felt the jawline. There was no beard and the skin was far too soft.

Feminine.

With growing alarm he reached into the pocket of his own jacket, brought out the penlight he always carried with him. He flicked it on and shone it into the smaller man’s face.

It wasn’t the Turk at all.

In fact, it wasn’t even a man.

To Haddad’s surprise and horror he found himself staring into the glazed, lifeless eyes of the woman he had taken into his bed last night.

The Gypsy whore.

*   *   *

Ten minutes later, Chilikov said in Bulgarian, “You seem a bit out of sorts. Is it something I should be concerned about?”

“Everything is fine,” Haddad assured him. “Let’s get on with this.”

Haddad spoke in Bulgarian as well—he knew six languages fluently—and had he spoken the truth, he would have admitted to being rattled by the night’s events. The Turk had not been working alone as he had thought. The Gypsy whore had been his accomplice. They had obviously tag-teamed him, and because of the Turk’s smaller stature Haddad had mistaken the woman for him.

It was the kind of mistake he shouldn’t make.

But worse, it also meant the Turk was still out there somewhere. And worse than that, it meant Haddad’s instincts had betrayed him. Whoever these people were, he had allowed himself to be fooled by them. He wondered if he had made any more mistakes.

Had he said anything to the girl last night? Had he shared any secrets with her?

No. Of course not. He was much too careful for that. But what might she have observed and reported back? He
had
paraded around his room, preening like a proud lion, showing off for the girl, eager to prove to her that he was somehow stronger, better, more desirable than any man she had ever been with. He had left her alone, unwatched, when he went to the bathroom. The door had been ajar but a skilled operative could have used that time to check cell phone numbers, examine a passport, look for airplane tickets, perform any number of quick-assessment observations.

For all Haddad knew the entire event may have been recorded. He hadn’t bothered to inspect her bag.

Careless, cocky,
stupid
! That, Haddad realized too late, was the difference between a woman and a plum.

After leaving the girl in the alleyway, Haddad had doubled back but saw no sign of the Turk. He had searched the pockets of the girl’s jacket and jeans and had removed her shoes, checked the heels, examined her bracelet and watch and belt, but found no transmitters of any kind. She carried only a small-caliber pistol and a disposable cell phone that showed no record of calls.

Their operation was obviously low-tech, even improvised, but that revelation did nothing to ease Haddad’s mind. If these people were to find out about his deal with Chilikov, there would be trouble indeed.

When he arrived at the meeting place—a car dealership seven blocks from the hotel—Haddad was three minutes late and saw no sign of the Bulgarian. But before he could curse himself again, a limousine pulled to the curb and its rear passenger window rolled down.

Chilikov’s smiling face looked out at him. “Traffic,” he apologized. “I’m glad you waited.”

Anton Chilikov was a Cold War veteran who had embraced Bulgaria’s transition from Communism to capitalism with enthusiasm. He had fingers in nearly every construction project in Sofia, and through his Russian friends, had control of an old Communist weapons dump, which was rumored to be a smorgasbord of Cold War–era military-grade artillery, much of it still functioning.

As the limousine idled, Haddad climbed inside and sat next to him. Opaque glass separated the driver from his passengers. Nothing happened for a long moment as the old man took stock of his companion in the near-darkness. Haddad knew that a skilled observer could tell a lot about someone in a seemingly casual encounter. Was he anxious, perspiring? Did he carelessly apply cologne that could be identified? If he was bearded, was it short in the style of a nationalist or full, suggesting a tribal affiliation? Did he look tired enough to make a mistake that could compromise them both, or did he appear well rested and alert?

Seemingly satisfied, the old man gestured to a small packing trunk sitting on the car seat opposite them.

“Ask and you shall receive,” he said.

Shifting in his seat, Haddad leaned toward the trunk, then stopped and turned to Chilikov. In his eagerness he had almost forgot protocol.

“May I?” he asked.

Chilikov smiled. “By all means.”

Haddad carefully flicked the latches, then lifted the trunk’s lid and stared at its contents. His heart was hammering against his chest. He’d had his doubts about the Bulgarian, but, praise Allah, the old man had come through. Brilliantly.

“You understand, of course, that this is merely a duplicate,” Chilikov cautioned.

Haddad regarded him unhappily. “I do not understand.”

“It’s proof that I’m a man of my word. The actual unit is en route.”

Haddad’s frown deepened. “It is the same?”

“Yes, but in order to meet your requirements I initiated shipping several days ago. I took it on faith that you’d make payment in a timely manner.”

“How soon can we expect delivery?” Haddad asked.

“When you go to retrieve it, the item will be waiting for you. I will give you the pertinent information when it is necessary.” He paused. “Now I believe you have something for me?”