Black Widow. Cliff Ryder
with noise.
Bookshops and antique dealers butted up against coffeehouses and cinemas, the constant mix of the old and the new that shaped the city. At least this side of it.
When she’d had time on her own, which hadn’t been often, Ajza loved roaming through the bookstores. Spying in the field was lonely work. Reading helped pass the time and occupy the mind so it didn’t constantly dredge up everything that could go wrong.
Besides that, bookstores often held gems of information, lost books and maps that had histories and locations within whatever city she was posted. These had, on rare occasions, helped her keep her cover story intact and saved her life.
“Are you thinking about breakfast?” Nazmi asked.
She didn’t look at him. She’d already given him far too much encouragement. Getting close to someone, especially someone she might have to kill or who might try to kill her, was foolish. She’d already been down that road once and it hadn’t worked out well.
“No,” she answered.
“Then what?” Nazmi demanded. “You’re not worried, are you?”
“Should I be?”
“No.” Nazmi put a hand on the stock of the AK-47 assault rifle he carried. “We’re here for show. Just to keep the honest men honest.” He shrugged. “When you’re dealing with drugs, the people involved aren’t always trustworthy.”
Ajza knew that. Spies working for money or for political conviction proved much easier to work with than drug dealers. The drug dealers lived on paranoia and killed at the drop of a hat. The only reason spies and terrorists dealt with those people was because the commodity they sold translated more readily into influence across international borders than cash or gold. Drugs represented money in any currency.
“I know,” Ajza said. The feeling that something was off haunted her. “We’ve never made an early-morning pickup like this.”
Nazmi shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe these people came in during the night and haven’t been to bed yet.”
That, Ajza decided, seemed even worse. Paranoia and insomnia wasn’t a good combination.
“Here comes Mustafa.” Nazmi nodded at the leader of the group Ajza had infiltrated.
Mustafa was broad and powerful-looking. Early in his life, he’d been a stevedore, one of the young, strong backs that eked out a living shifting freight for the cargo ships. His mustache was fierce. His loose shirt hid the pistol he carried in his waistband. He also carried a briefcase that Ajza knew immediately was going to the drug dealers.
“Out of the van,” Mustafa ordered. He rapped the knuckles of one hand against the glass beside Ajza. “Stay ready.”
Watching the man, Ajza decided he was more ready for the coming encounter than in his previous calls to action. He walked briskly to the designated meeting area. Anyone watching him would think he didn’t have a care in the world.
Nazmi placed the assault rifle into a long duffel bag that he slung over one shoulder as he stood. Although the canvas material was heavy, Nazmi could get to his weapon in record time. Slits in the sides allowed him to reach inside and fire the rifle from within if he needed to.
Ajza shoved her pistol into the holster at the back of her waistband. Then she followed Nazmi and the other men out. All of them trailed Mustafa to a waiting delivery truck.
A group of men stood in front of the truck. They wore loose robes that concealed the weapons Ajza knew they carried. All of them looked hard and dangerous, covered in scars and made distrustful by the dangerous lives they led.
“Mustafa,” one of the men greeted. He was thin and pockmarked.
Ajza’s mental mug file identified the man before Mustafa gave voice to his name.
“Hasan, my good friend,” Mustafa replied.
The two men embraced, then walked together to take shade under the canopy of a jewelry merchant busy laying out his wares. The merchant seemed about to protest the use of his canopy. Then he looked at the men and decided to ignore them.
Ajza’s nerves stayed tight. The problem with meeting in the marketplace was that there were so many bystanders. She adjusted the sunglasses she wore and looked at the rooftops of the nearby buildings. Surely MI-6 had someone there.
But she saw no one.
“You had a safe journey?” Mustafa asked Hasan.
Ajza knew he wasn’t asking just to be polite or to make conversation. If authorities had taken an interest in Hasan, Mustafa wanted to know about it.
“Safe enough,” Hasan replied. “The trip was relatively uneventful.”
“Oh?” Mustafa raised his eyebrows. “Tell me more.”
Hasan shrugged and spat into the sand at their feet. “A thief in my house. Nothing more.” He grinned evilly. “He now sleeps at the bottom of the sea. I am a man of standards, you know.”
And a bloodthirsty one, Ajza remembered. MI-6 kept a thick file on Hasan but had never succeeded in getting close enough to him to take him out.
With snipers on the rooftops today, she thought, it could be done.
“You have the goods?” Mustafa asked.
Hasan spread his arms. “Of course. If you have the money.”
Mustafa gestured. Fikret and another man carried suitcases to Hasan. The drug dealer’s bodyguards stepped forward smoothly to intercept them.
Honor existed among thieves, Ajza thought, but precious little of it. The weight of the pistol at her back felt both comforting and threatening.
The bodyguards opened the suitcases a short distance away. Everyone knew the danger of satchel charges. If anyone died, it would be the bodyguards.
Both men looked relieved when the suitcases didn’t explode in their faces. They carried them back to Hasan to view the contents.
Ajza caught a brief glimpse of the stacks of money inside one of the suitcases. The cash came from the United States, Great Britain and France, perhaps other places, but she didn’t have time to see everything.
“You brought American money.” Hasan didn’t sound pleased.
“I had to,” Mustafa said. “It was all I had. I still do a lot of business with American buyers.”
“I don’t care for American money.” Hasan riffled through a few of the stacks of money. “It is far too easy to counterfeit. The Americans make their bills too much the same. No imagination.”
The merchant spotted the stacks of bills in Hasan’s callused hands. Aware that his life might be forfeit, he retreated to the back of his kiosk. He didn’t want anyone to think he was going to report what he’d seen. He busied himself making silver necklaces.
“None of that money is counterfeit,” Mustafa said. “I checked it myself.”
Hasan tossed the packets of American money back into the suitcase. The bodyguards closed the suitcases and stepped to one side.
“I choose to trust you, my friend,” Hasan said. “But in the future—”
“In the future,” Mustafa said, not to be browbeaten, “perhaps there might exist more time to prepare to take advantage of your good fortune.”
Hasan smiled. “It was good fortune. And now the good fortune is yours.”
“Only after you have taken your cut, my brother.”
“Merely the price of doing business.” Hasan waved Mustafa to the rear of the truck. “Come. I will show you what you have been so fortunate to purchase.”
Mustafa followed the other man to the rear of the truck. His bodyguards, including Ajza, trailed behind.