The Shadow Protocol (5 page)

Khattak ran around 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 was no obvious escape route the arms dealer could have taken. Khattak checked behind the white van. Nobody there, or inside it. Frustrated, he hurried toward the Mercedes.

“He’s coming toward me,” Lak reported quietly. He pretended not to have registered the other man’s approach until Khattak rapped on the van’s side. “What?”

“Did a man just run past you? A foreigner?”

Lak took the cigarette from his mouth. “Yes. I didn’t see where he went, though—I wasn’t really looking. That way, I think.” He gestured vaguely over one shoulder.

Khattak scowled, then peered past him to check that his quarry was not hiding in the back of the van before jogging away. Lak watched him in the wing mirror. The terrorist crossed to the other side of the square to investigate the concrete stairs leading up the side of one building, but found the metal gate at their bottom locked. He spun in sheer exasperation, then took out his phone and continued down the narrow street.

“He’s left the square,” said Lak. “But I don’t think he’s going far.”

“Watch him,” Tony ordered. “If everything works here, we’ll be ready to move Syed in a few minutes. We can’t let this guy see us.”

“Roger.” Lak sat back, eyes still fixed on Khattak’s image in the mirror as the terrorist made a call.

Adam and Tony followed Baxter’s team into the makeshift operations center, the high-tech equipment incongruous against the peeling paint of what had once been the owner’s office. The former marine clicked his fingers, and Syed was dumped on the floor.

“Careful,” chided Albion. “We can’t let him get
too
banged up.”

“The cover story’ll explain away a few bruises,” said Tony with dark humor. “Are you ready?”

Albion nodded toward two metal cases, one large, one small. “I need to calculate the dose.” He took out a notebook bound in black leather. “Mr. Baxter, can you and your men help me weigh our friend, please?”

There was an electronic scale on the floor beside the cases. Baxter’s men hauled Syed to his feet—producing a groggy moan. Holly Jo gave him a worried look. “He’s waking up.”

“Thought he’d be out for longer,” said Tony.

Albion shook his head. “It won’t make any difference.” Syed was maneuvered onto the scale. He mumbled something, trying to move, only to find his limbs restrained. “Okay, let go for a moment, see if he can stand up on his own … excellent. One hundred seventy-four pounds.” Albion noted the figure, then produced a tape measure and quickly ran it up Syed’s body. “And five feet nine inches. Just one more to get …”

He wound the tape around Syed’s head at forehead
height, pulling it tight. The Pakistani’s eyes opened. Alarmed—and angry—he struggled against the ties, almost falling off the scales in the process.

Two of Baxter’s men grabbed him. “Okay, put him back down, please,” said Albion. “Faceup, and hold him in place. I need to check his overall condition.”

Syed was lowered back to the floor, far from gently. “Americans!” he croaked. “You—you bastards!” A string of curses followed.

“Yes, yes,” said Albion, unconcerned. He knelt and shone a penlight torch over the prisoner’s face. “A bit scrambled from the shock, obviously, but the eyes look fairly clear, no broken blood vessels. Dark rims around them, but coloration looks healthy, so …” He made more notes, muttering to himself. “Now, if I can just see your gums?”

“I won’t give you anything, you shit-eating dog!” Syed snarled.

Albion swept the spot of light over his mouth. “Thank you. I’d suggest a breath mint, but otherwise …” More writing, then he stood. “All right, gentlemen, hold him there, please.”

Lak’s voice came through the team’s headsets. “Two more men are approaching me.”

Kyle looked up from his console. “Tony! The drone’s back. I’ve got eyes outside.”

Tony and Adam regarded the screens. “There’s Khattak,” said Adam, spying a figure at the intersection. “And those are Umar and Marwat.” The other two men jogged through the square. They passed Lak’s van to meet their comrade.

Tony’s face tightened. “We can’t move Syed if they’re hanging around.”

Albion snapped his notebook shut. “Okay, I’ve got the dosage.”

“Do it,” said Tony. “Adam?”

Adam found room alongside Syed in the limited floor space, lying down. The Pakistani glared at him. “Muhammad
was right! You are not Toradze! You bastard, you shit! You son of a
whore
! I will cut off your balls and feed them to you!”

Baxter raised a booted foot as if to stamp on Syed’s head. “Can I shut this clown up?”

“He’ll be quiet enough in a minute,” said Albion amiably as he opened the larger case. Inside was a piece of equipment resembling a laptop computer, but with a much bulkier base. He raised the screen. The machine came to life, fans whining as the display lit up. Diagnostic tests flashed on it, replaced after several seconds by a simple statement:
PERSONA READY
.

Albion took something from a pocket in the case’s lid: a skullcap, a mesh of thick black nylon dotted with dozens of coin-sized gray electrodes. Wires ran from each one, joining up at the cap’s back to form a thick umbilicus.

Syed stared at it. “What is this? What are you doing?” He tried in vain to break free.
“What are you doing?”

“Just stay calm,” said Albion as he pulled the cap down over Syed’s skull. The terrorist resisted, but one of the men forced his head up so the doctor could tug it into place. A strap was fastened under his chin and secured tightly with Velcro. Albion fussed with the electrodes, nudging them into alignment, then took a second skullcap from the case.

This one he placed on Adam. It took him longer to secure it, positioning the electrodes with more care. Finally he opened the smaller case. He took out a jet injector and a glass vial containing a colorless liquid already loaded, then gently pushed the blunt stainless-steel nozzle against Adam’s neck. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Albion’s finger tightened on the trigger. There was a sharp
phut
. He withdrew the injector, leaving a faint pink mark.

Adam flinched at the sharp pain as the drug was blasted
through the pores of his skin. But the discomfort that had briefly registered on his face quickly faded …

Followed by all other expression, leaving him blank as a mask. His eyes defocused. Albion watched him closely, every few seconds glancing at the sweeping hand of his watch.

Even with his head restrained, Syed observed what was happening with a mix of fascination and fear. “What are you doing to him?” he said, with more trepidation than before. “What are you going to do to
me
?”

Albion ignored him, still counting off time. Thirty seconds. He held a hand above Adam’s face, waving his fingers from side to side. Adam blinked, eyes tracking the movement.

Albion leaned closer. “Adam, can you hear me?”

“Yes, I hear you.”

“I’m going to do a memory check. I want you to tell me … the name of Giorgi Toradze’s best friend when he was a child.”

For a moment there was no reaction; then a slight frown creased Adam’s brow. “I … I don’t remember.” His accent was now a neutral American, all traces of the Georgian’s inflection gone.

“What about the name of the first girl Toradze fell in love with?”

Another frown. “I don’t remember.”

Albion gave him a reassuring smile. “Okay, that’s good. Toradze’s persona has been wiped. I’ll give Syed the Hyperthymexine.”

The terrorist thrashed and screamed but could not get free, his captors pushing down with painful force. Albion took out a second jet injector, this one with a red stripe around its body. He inserted a vial of a faintly amber liquid and turned a dial marked in milliliters to a particular number.

“What is that?” Syed shrieked, staring at it in horror. “What are you doing?”

“Just relax,” said Albion, bringing the injector to the
terrorist’s neck. The Pakistani tried to twist away but had nowhere to go. “You’re going to have a brainstorm.”

He pulled the trigger.

Syed screamed, face contorting as if he had been burned—then the sound faded to a gurgle in his throat as every muscle in his body tensed, tendons straining under his skin.

Albion tapped a key on the black-cased machine. The words on the display changed.
ACTIVE: PERSONA TRANSFER IN PROGRESS
. Columns of rapidly changing numbers scrolled up a window on one side of the screen. An oval object appeared beside it: a stylized graphic of a human brain, seen from above. It shimmered, each pixel subtly shifting in hue.

The changes suddenly became anything but subtle.

Syed’s eyes went wide, pupils constricting and flicking from side to side with unnatural speed. Adam also reacted, fingers clenching. His eyes began to flicker just like Syed’s—as if in time to their movements.

Albion watched the screen. The graphic was now flaring, swaths of color sweeping across it. The scrolling numbers moved ever faster, barely legible, but he took in enough from them to nod in satisfaction. “The transfer looks good,” he announced.

“How much longer?” Tony asked.

“The usual amount of time. Two or three minutes.”

Tony turned to Kyle. “What are our friends outside doing?”

“They’re checking the next street,” Kyle answered. The three men being watched by the hovering drone had split up, a blue symbol generated by the automatic tracking software highlighting each. Khattak was still at the intersection looking back at the square, seeming unwilling to accept that his quarry had left it. One of his companions was heading right along the road, while the other skirted the buildings to the left, checking for unlocked doors.

Tony jabbed a finger at Khattak. “As long as this guy’s still watching, we can’t take Syed out of here.”

“What’s he gonna do, just stand there staring at the van?” said Baxter. “He’ll move.”

“He’ll have to, otherwise—” Tony broke off, finger moving to the leftmost blue symbol as the man within it moved out of sight behind a building. “Where’s this guy going? Kyle, get him back in view.”

Kyle was already working the controls. “I can’t get an angle on him. I think he’s gone inside.”

“Damn. Keep watching, we need to find him—but zoom back out. We can’t lose track of the other guys either.”

Kyle did so. The computer reacquired the other man. Khattak had not moved from the intersection—but he had at least turned away from the square. “He looks pissed. I think he’s gonna leave soon.”

“Let’s hope so.” Tony turned back to the strange tableau on the floor. “Roger?”

“Not long now,” Albion replied. He checked the screen again. The color changes on the graphic gradually slowed. He watched the scrolling figures as they too reduced in speed, then tapped commands on the keyboard.
CALCULATING LATENCY ESTIMATES
. A new set of numbers appeared.

They were to Albion’s satisfaction. “That should do it,” he announced, turning back to Adam and unfastening the skullcap’s strap. “Can you hear me?”

Adam blinked several times, then sat up sharply. “Roger! Did it …” His voice had changed again, a new and different accent discernible even in a mere three words.

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Albion looked the younger man straight in the eye. “What is your name?”

The reply was immediate. “Malik Syed.”

The others watched in fascination as Albion continued to ask questions. “Your date of birth?”

“The eighth of March, 1982.”

“Place of birth?”

“Mushtarzi.”

“Where is that?”

“It is a small town about ten kilometers southwest of Peshawar.”

“Okay. Your mother’s name?”