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 slower ones. The door opened a crack, someone peering suspiciously at the three men on the landing, then moving back to let them enter.
The room beyond was a combined reception area and waiting room. Adam immediately saw that none of the five men inside were there for a check-up. The openly displayed guns — some pointed at him — were a giveaway.
This is it. Play the part. Be the part.
He let Toradze’s persona come to the fore as he took in the terrorist group, the sum of the Georgian’s past experiences shaping his thoughts. Though there was some fear, it was mostly masked by dismissive arrogance. God, what a stink. Don’t these pigs use soap? And look at this idiot, holding his pistol sideways like he’s an American gangsta. Amateurs. But as long as they pay…
His eyes moved to the reception desk. An AK-47 assault rifle lay upon it. Like an icon on the Holy Table. The gun’s owner sat behind, watching him intently. Older than his companions, though not by much — early thirties, but aged further by the weathering of conflict. A grey-streaked beard reaching down to his chest, dark-rimmed eyes set in a blocky, unsmiling face.
Adam recognised him immediately. Malik Syed, leader of an al-Qaeda terrorist cell. Fanatic. Killer.
Target.
Umar and Marwat quickly frisked him. Wallet, passport, phone, the umbrella. A SIG-Sauer P228 handgun and spare magazine. He waited for them to finish their search and return his possessions before speaking to the man behind the desk. ‘You must be Syed,’ he said almost casually. The arms dealer would have appeared unfazed by the guns; he had to be the same. He switched the heavy case to his left hand, holding out his right. ‘It is good to meet you.’
Syed made no effort to extend his own hand. ‘You are Toradze?’
‘Giorgi, please! Yes, I am.’ Adam cocked an eyebrow. ‘You were expecting someone else?’
The dark eyes narrowed. ‘You are younger than I thought.’
‘Only than I look. I take care of my appearance.’
One of the other men whispered something in Pashto, which aroused muted chuckles from his companions. ‘I think he said “Just like a woman”,’ said Holly Jo, affronted.
‘It helps me get the women,’ Adam told the joker, his smile taking on a lecherous tinge. ‘Especially the virgins, hey? You can have yours in the afterlife; I’ll take mine now!’
The young man seemed both surprised that the visitor had understood him and offended at being mocked, but a stern look from Syed told him to contain his anger. ‘You have brought the merchandise?’ asked the terrorist leader.
Adam turned back to him. ‘I have. If you still want to see it.’
‘I do… Giorgi.’ Syed stood, finally raising his right hand.
‘I knew we would be friends,’ said Adam with a grin as he shook it. ‘Okay! You want to take a look?’
Syed nodded, sliding the AK-47 aside to clear a space on the desk. Adam hoisted the case on to it and clicked the tumblers on the combination lock before opening the lid. His audience instinctively leaned forward for a better view.
The case was filled with impact-resistant foam rubber. Set into it were three squat olive-green cylinders with conical noses, long metal tubes extending from their bases. Adam carefully lifted one out. ‘This is a Russian PG-7VX rocket-propelled grenade,’ he announced, Toradze’s persona automatically launching into a sales pitch. ‘A triple-stage HEAT warhead, so new it is still technically experimental. Not even the Russian army has them yet. It works with a standard RPG-7 launcher — which I think you are all familiar with, hey?’ he added with another grin. ‘But it has almost twice the power of a normal anti-tank round. It will blast through nine hundred and sixty millimetres of armour… even the reactive kind.’
It took a moment for the Pakistanis to absorb the full significance of that, but when they did, they were duly impressed. ‘That is right,’ he went on. ‘One of these can penetrate the side of an American Abrams tank! And it doesn’t matter if it is using slat armour to deflect RPGs.’ He indicated the rocket’s nose. ‘There is a small shaped charge designed to shatter slat armour before the rest of the warhead hits it. It will still get through. You don’t need dozens of rounds to take out a target with these. One hit, one kill.’
He paused, the excited expressions telling him that his pitch had been successful. That was good. That was damn good. Just look at them. They’ll pay whatever I want…
Sudden disgust filled him. Syed and his group wanted to use the warheads to kill Americans and their allies, to spread their extremism through terror and murder. And he was helping them do it…
Calm down. Remember the mission. Play the part. Be the part.
Be Toradze.
I am Toradze.
If his brief crisis of conscience had shown on his face, none of the others noticed. Syed finally tore his gaze from the rocket. ‘How many do you have?’
‘At the moment, only ten. But I will be able to get another fifty in the next two weeks, and maybe as many as three hundred in the month after that.’
Caution tempered the terrorist’s anticipation. ‘If they are still experimental, how can you get so many?’
‘I said they are technically still experimental. But that only means they have not yet been approved for field use by the Russian army. They are in full production ready for export sales — and I have a pipeline into the factory.’
Syed nodded. ‘And… the price?’
Be bold, be firm. They want them. I can tell.
‘Per warhead? Two thousand US dollars.’
The Pakistani visibly flinched. ‘Two thousand dollars?’ he erupted. ‘But we can buy anti-tank rockets for only two hundred dollars!’
Adam had anticipated the objection. ‘Rockets that bounce off tanks. Rockets that cannot even break through the slat armour on a Stryker. Malik, my friend…’ He gave Syed a broad smile. ‘An Abrams tank costs over six million dollars. You can kill that tank for just two thousand. It is a bargain.’ He’s considering it. Keep pushing. ‘And if you want proof that they really work, then the three warheads here? They are yours, for nothing. My free sample.’