No one in the place stood out though, but then again, Reilly and Malone didn’t have an ID on any of the bad guys. All they could do for now was sit there and wait in the hope that one of the phones would go live again and that GCHQ would pick up its trail, a trail that, with a bit of luck, would lead to a target walking into that very restaurant. Until then, they could only wait — and enjoy the food.
Reilly took another sip of his Coke, then checked his phone again. He had a strong 4G signal, but nothing had come in yet from GCHQ.
He was reaching over for another dip at the humus bowl when a new customer walked in. He was dressed in a dark, loose-fitting suit — nothing expensive — and no tie. He hadn’t shaved for a few days and had dark circles under his eyes. Something about this guy attracted Reilly’s attention. He glanced discreetly at Malone. He, too, had sensed something. Agents — good agents — noticed the most minuscule details. Sometimes, it was something you could actually pinpoint: the way a person’s attention flits around a room when they walk in; the tension in their shoulders, in their gait. Other times, it’s a subconscious awareness. Nothing tangible they can point out, just a combination of tiny observations coupled with an instinct that’s been honed through years on the job.
This was one such moment.
The two agents carried on eating as the man walked up to the cashier at the far end of the bar and placed his order. He was too far for them to hear, but judging by the time it took and the cash he forked out, he was ordering more than just for himself. The cashier handed him a small printout slip, then the man walked back towards the front door and gave the slip to one of the chefs.
Reilly and Malone observed the man start chatting with the chef. The man was clearly a regular. He and the chef were enjoying a good chat while the chef shaved pieces of chicken and lamb off the fat, cylindrical skewers onto a small steel tray. While still chatting, the chef then tipped bits of meat onto a row of wraps that were laid out in line. From where they were sitting, Reilly and Malone couldn’t see exactly how many sandwiches the man had ordered, but the chef’s arm movements indicated there were ten of them. The chef then put the tray down and started adding the garnishes to the sandwiches: sliced tomatoes, onions, pickled cucumber and beetroot for both lamb and chicken sandwiches, then garlic for the chicken and tahini — a sesame seed-based sauce — for the lamb.
As he was doing it, the chef asked the man something. Reilly’s basic knowledge of Arabic was enough to understand what he was saying: the chef was asking the man if he wanted garlic on all the chicken sandwiches. Reilly knew this was a typical question: not everyone wanted to reek of garlic, which, in these sandwiches, was potent.
The man Reilly and Malone were watching said yes at first. Then he had second thoughts and said something that caused Reilly’s pulse to spike. Malone saw it reflected in the tiny reaction in Reilly’s eyes. Reilly gave him an almost imperceptible confirmation nod.
The man said, “Hott ketchup ala arba’a minon. Hadol Amerkan, ma byifhamo shi.”
As in, Put ketchup on four of them. They’re Americans, they don’t know these things.
The man said it with evident mockery, causing the chef to laugh. The chef then asked if he should add some mustard too, which the target laughed at before building on it with another comment that Reilly didn’t quite catch but that caused more merriment.
It didn’t matter. Reilly had heard enough.
The sandwiches were for Americans. And the chatter had mentioned targeting some “American specialists.” Added to the fact that the man had lit up both agents’ internal goondars, this suddenly looked promising.
Then the man turned, and his gaze lasered onto Reilly, then Malone — and something effervesced in his own eyes. Just for a second, two at most.
Then he bolted out of the restaurant.
“Go, go, go,” Reilly said, as he and Malone catapulted out of their seats and charged after him.
7
Khoury was slumped on the damaged mattress, his back against the wall. His fingers twirled around bits of cotton that the lead goon’s gunshots had kicked up. “You think anyone’s looking for us?”
“I don’t know,” Berry replied. He was laid out similarly, on the opposite wall. “Elizabeth is in southern France with a couple of her girl friends. What about Suellen?”
“She’s on a canal barge with her dad in the middle of nowhere.”
“So they might not notice we’re gone for another day or two?”
“It’s possible.”
Berry nodded, to himself. This was looking bleak. “You know we can’t do this.”
“Of course, we can’t. But we have to figure a way out of this. That’s the brilliant plot we need to come up with.”
“And it needs to be something that involves us being part of the master plan. That way, they don’t kill us off after we give it to them.”
“Not an easy job.”
“No choice. In the meantime, we have to give them something to buy ourselves some time.”
“The guy didn’t know about Dr. Evil or about Nelson DeMille’s books,” Khoury said, an idea blooming. “He doesn’t seem too well versed in popular culture. We can use that. Why don’t we just give him something that’s been done before.”
“Dangerous. They might catch us — or they might actually go out and do it.”
“If they catch us, we can just claim we never read it or saw it. And as for them going and doing it — what are the odds of these morons actually pulling off something that big?”
“They just might,” Berry said. “Remember Debt of Honor? Tom Clancy had a pissed off Japanese Air Lines pilot crash his jumbo jet into the Capitol building during a special joint session of Congress killing the President and everyone else, and that was seven years before 9/11.”
“You think Bin Laden read Clancy?”
“Maybe. He was a jet-setting Saudi millionaire before he turned into an asshole.”
“Okay, let’s get back to our asshole,” Khoury said. “What bone can we throw him to buy some time?”
“He wants big. Epic. And no bombs or viruses.”
“Something from a Bond movie?”
“Risky. Too popular.”
“Maybe you’re right. If he hasn’t seen them, one of his goons probably has.”
“Okay, so let me ask you this,” Berry asked, “what’s the best plot you ever read? Or saw? What’s the one you wish you’d come up with?”
“In terms of a brilliant plan, I’ve got to go with the first Die Hard—”
“Genius—”
“Totally. But our guy is no Hans Gruber. And there’s another problem. Like a lot of these stories, it’s about personal gain, not destruction. The fireworks, like Goldfinger’s nuke, are just a sideshow to the real motive: money.”
“This guy didn’t give us much to work with.”
They both mulled over the question.
“Okay,” Berry offered. “What about the second Die Hard? Bringing down airliners by hacking into air traffic control.”
“Nasty. But scarily doable, don’t you think?”
“Nah, come on. We both know there are all kinds of firewalls built into these things. It’s virtually impossible to pull off — if you’ll pardon the pun.”
“But what if it wasn’t?”