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.