The Survivor

CHAPTER 15

Kabir Gadai checked the map on his phone as he strolled casually up the sidewalk. The weather was sunny and cool, allowing for a collared coat and bulky sunglasses. Neither provided sufficient anonymity to make him feel comfortable.

Sending him personally to Rome was one of Ahmed Taj’s rare tactical mistakes. There were any number of well-trained ISI operatives who could have successfully completed the mission. It was impossible in the digital era to travel unphotographed, and too risky for someone with Gadai’s high profile to enter an EU country under an alias. So the Italians had a record of his arrival under the rather thin guise of a security review being carried out at Pakistan’s London embassy.

Taj’s obsession with the Rickman files seemed to grow with every passing day. Admittedly, accessing the information they contained would be the greatest intelligence coup in the last seventy years, but Taj seemed to be forgetting that his plan had never required them. His focus was beginning to wander and, for the first time, Gadai could see his insatiable greed for power affecting his judgment.

It was this that made Gadai’s physical presence in Rome even more dangerous. Their preparations were at a critical juncture, and he was very much needed in Islamabad. Someone had to monitor the endless details of Taj’s plot, and he was the only man other than the director himself who had knowledge of all its facets. Further, arrangements for the U.S. secretary of state’s delegation were in motion and were proving to be more time-consuming than he had anticipated.

A former Secret Service executive named Jack Warch was spearheading the American side of the security measures and he seemed almost childlike in his need to question every detail. The state dinner was the key to Taj’s plan and Gadai would not let it be endangered by a single dangerously inquisitive consultant. He had taken to dealing with the man personally and being outside the country was jeopardizing his control over the situation.

Across the lightly traveled street, a turn-of-the-century apartment building gave way to a football pitch. The open field was separated from the sidewalk by a chain-link fence designed less for security than to keep errant balls out of the road. Beyond the well-tended grass was a modern concrete structure that stood in stark contrast to the ancient suburb surrounding it. Behind the rows of reflective windows was the middle school attended by Isabella Accorso’s sixteen-year-old daughter.

No children were visible, which was to be expected at that time of the morning. They would briefly appear between classes at various points during the day, with a somewhat longer break for lunch. In the afternoon, sporting activities that these Westerners happily allowed their daughters to participate in were held.

Gadai dug his hands into his pockets and resisted shaking his head in disgust. They cared nothing for purity or chastity. The women in this country were allowed to do whatever they wished. The very thought of his own daughter running across that field with bare legs and arms filled him with rage. He would beat her to death without a moment’s remorse and the Islamic courts would support his decision wholeheartedly.

Gadai cut across a cobbled courtyard and entered the lobby of the apartment building at the back of it. He ignored the elevator and instead took the stairs, climbing five stories before exiting into an unoccupied corridor. He walked purposefully toward the fourth door on the right, adjusting his collar and letting his eyes sweep the intersection between wall and ceiling to confirm the reported lack of cameras.

He used the key he’d been provided to enter, immediately closing the door behind him and examining the small space. It was typical of the area — plaster walls, a wood floor warped with age, and a small galley kitchen full of cheap appliances. Having been leased only days before, it was devoid of furniture. The only sign of habitation was a few boxes of food on the countertop and a teapot on the stove.

Lateef Dogar appeared in the entrance to the bedroom and nodded respectfully. “Captain Gadai. How was your journey?”

He ignored the question, striding across the living area and brushing past the man. In the bedroom there was a sleeping area consisting of blankets piled on the floor and a wall covered with photos. Each depicted the same young girl. Most were close-ups of her playing football in front of her school, the focus often not on her face but on her young body and obscene shorts.

“Where did you get these?”

“They were left by the surveillance team, Captain. I—”

“Are you so stupid that you need them to recognize your target?”

“No, Captain.”

“Then destroy them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Perhaps Taj hadn’t been so unwise to send him after all. The fact that these photos were ever printed was inexcusable, but hanging them on the wall verged on insubordination. It would be something he would have dealt with quite harshly if Taj hadn’t already arranged for these men to disappear when they returned to Pakistan.

The shades were almost completely closed and Gadai knelt to peer through the three-centimeter crack at the bottom. It offered an unobstructed view of the school at a reported range of 212 meters. The fence would have the potential to deflect a shot, but that wasn’t important. It was the video image he was interested in, and it would be quite — acceptable.

Gadai went to a long metal case resting against the wall and turned the combination dials on it. Inside was a rather unusual item that he held out to Dogar. The assassin took it, turning it over in his hands with a confused expression.

“This… This isn’t a gun.”

He was entirely correct. It was a shortened plastic rifle stock with a handgrip at the front, designed for bird-watchers to hold cameras and spotting scopes steady. It had been far easier to bring into the EU than a firearm and was impervious to both accidents and the stupidity that the Pakistani team had displayed thus far.

Dogar examined the video camera mounted on it, taking inventory of the controls and noting the crosshairs on the zoom lens. “Am I to continue surveillance with this?”

Gadai retrieved the laptop that had been sharing the case and turned it on. “Has the broadband connection been installed?”

“Yes, as you requested. We’ve verified upload speeds of four megabits per second.”

“Turn on the camera and aim it out the window.”

He did as he was told, and the image of the school appeared on the laptop screen.

“Do you see the woman on the sidewalk? Line up on her head.”

Gadai watched as the crosshairs centered on her right temple. It was all but indistinguishable from a rifle scope.

Perfect.