Shadow Tag

6

Reilly had no idea how capable his targets would prove to be, but as he took another bite of his chicken shawarma wrap, he was certain of one thing: when it came to Lebanese food, these guys knew where to go.

“Unbelievable,” he said, watching as Malone layered some tabbouleh along the spine of a lettuce leaf.

“I really miss this in Copenhagen,” Malone managed between mouthfuls. “Can’t get decent Lebanese food there. Nothing like this, anyway.”

Reilly dipped a triangle of thin Arabic bread into the plate of humus, then studied the restaurant again as he savored the bite.

It was a long, narrow room. Along one side of it ran a bar made of a slightly garish, richly-veined marble. Behind the bar were the two shawarma stands, huge, fat cylinders of meat — one lamb, the other chicken — that was layered onto a skewer that rotated slowly in front of a gas fire. There was also a wide, narrow horizontal charcoal grill that was used for kebabs, and a wide preparation area where the three chefs added the various condiments and garnishes to the sandwiches or plates. Eight customers, all men, sat on tall stools facing the bar, eating. A couple of them seemed chummy with the chefs and were chatting away with them between bites. A dozen small tables lined the other wall, which was clad with large mirrors. Reilly and Malone occupied the table closest to the door, facing the shawarma stands, where a couple of other men waited for their takeaways. Judging by the uninterrupted flow of such pick-ups, and of diners coming in and out of the place since the two Americans had been seated there, the restaurant was evidently doing a brisk business on all fronts.

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.