Corsair

Seng was not noted for his sense of humor. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy a good joke but that he was rarely the source, so Hali’s laugh was disproportionately loud and long. Telling it had been Eddie’s way of reassuring Hali that he knew what he was doing.

“Don’t worry. Our last report puts Assad at the house of girlfriend number three. The Libyan authorities are nowhere near there. By now, he has to know he’s a wanted man, so anyone offering him a lifeline is going to seem like a godsend. We’re just going to stroll up, explain to him he’s out of options, and bring him back here. Piece of cake.”

Assad’s third mistress, the Rubenesque wife of a judge, lived with her husband in a neighborhood of four- and five-story buildings built of stone covered with stucco and dating back more than a hundred years. The windows and balconies were protected by wrought-iron grilles, and the flat roofs were seas of satellite dishes. The ground floors of most of the buildings were shops and boutiques that catered to the upscale residents.

The sidewalks were wide and generous, while the roads were narrow and twisting, a leftover from when the neighborhood was serviced by horses rather than cars. The meandering nature of the streets gave the neighborhood a feeling of exclusivity, a quiet little enclave in the otherwise bustling city.

The Chinese gang members they had hired to track Tariq Assad hid in plain sight with a broken-down delivery van. They were parked opposite the mistress’s building, with the hood up and engine parts spread across a tarp on the nearby sidewalk. Men and women, some dressed in robes, others in Western fashion, moved around them without a glance.

Eddie found a spot for their rental car in front of a small grocery store down the street from the van. The smell of oranges from bins flanking the door filled the air.

He fumbled in the glove compartment while focusing on the street, searching for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing seemed out of place, and his instincts, which had served him well over the years, told him the area was clear. The two old men playing backgammon at an outdoor café were what they appeared to be. The stock boy dusting a table in the front window of a furniture store kept his eyes on his job and not on passing traffic. No one was just sitting in his car as the afternoon sun beat down mercilessly. Other than the gang members, there were no vans for an observation team to use as a base.

At the end of the block was a large construction site with a crawler crane, hoisting material up the ten-story, steel-and-concrete framework of what would soon be luxury condominiums. Again, Eddie saw nothing suspicious about the parade of cement mixers and trucks moving through the gates.

“Ready?” he asked Hali.

Kasim blew out a breath so his cheeks puffed like a horn player’s. “How do you and Juan and the others keep so calm?”

“Juan, for one, thinks out every possible scenario and makes sure he has a contingency plan for whatever crops up. Me? I don’t think about it at all. I just clear my mind and react as needed. Don’t worry, Hali. We’ll be fine.”

“Let’s do this, then.”

They opened their doors. Eddie adjusted his hat and dark glasses, the only form of disguise he was using to hide his Asian features. Both men wore baggy tan slacks and open-necked shirts, which was about as anonymous as one could get in many quarters of the Middle East.

As they strolled past the van, Eddie palmed a disposable cell phone off on one of the gang members. He whispered, “Push back your perimeter, and watch that red Fiat we drove here. Speed-dial one is my phone.”

The Chinese youth gave no indication he heard anything other than the slam of the van’s hood. Eddie and Hali walked on without breaking stride.

The front door to their target building wasn’t locked, but there was a watchman in a dark uniform sitting on a sofa in the lobby, reading a newspaper. The pair had walked in as if one of them had just told a joke. Both were laughing, and they ignored the guard when he set aside his paper and asked something in Arabic that neither man understood.

Hali never saw the move. He didn’t believe they were even close enough.

Eddie had lunged like a fencer, the fingers of his right hand held stiff and ridged. He co

Seng glanced out the glass door to see if anyone was paying attention, and then with Hali’s help he dragged the unconscious watchman into a back room, where one wall was lined with mail cubbies.

“How long will he be out?”

“An hour or so.” Eddie rifled the man’s pocket, looking for ID. It said the guard’s name was Ali. “Come on. Assad’s on the fourth floor, front-side corner.”

Both men drew their pistols as they climbed an interior stairwell. They weren’t concerned about ru

Eddie cautiously opened the door on the fourth-floor landing. The hallway beyond was carpeted and lit with wall sconces. The six apartment doors were solid, made of heavy carved wood—left over from a time of superior craftsmanship. He was relieved the doors didn’t have peepholes.

He approached the door to the mistress’s apartment and rapped respectfully. A moment later, he heard a muffled woman’s voice. He assumed she was asking who it was, so he said, “Ali, sayyidah.”

She spoke again, most likely asking what he wanted, so Eddie said the first thing that popped into his head, and prayed his pronunciation was close. “Al-Zajal, sayyidah.” Federal Express, ma’am. He’d seen their distinctively colored trucks all over the city.

Eddie mouthed “Stay back” to Hali, while inside the apartment a chain rattled and a pair of locks disengaged. He slammed his shoulder into the door, meeting more resistance than he’d expected but managing to shove the woman aside. He dove low, and a bullet from a silenced pistol cut the air inches over his shoulder.

The woman screamed. Seng rolled once, coming to his knees behind a couch. “Tariq, don’t shoot.” He kept his voice as calm as the adrenaline dose would allow. “Please. We’re here to help.”

The woman’s cry turned into slow blubbering, as a few seconds ticked away on the grandfather clock pressed up against one plaster wall.

“Who are you?” Tariq Assad asked.

“A couple of nights ago, you made arrangements for us to unload a large truck in the harbor.”

“The Canadians?”

“Yes.”

“Who was I contacted through?”

“L’Enfant.”

“You may stand,” Assad said.

Eddie got to his feet slowly, making certain Assad could see his finger was nowhere near his pistol’s trigger. “We’re here to help you get out.”

Hali entered the room cautiously. Assad watched him for a moment, then turned his attention back to Eddie. Seng had removed his hat and glasses so the harbor pilot could see his features. “I recognize you from that night. You acted as helmsman. You know, since then I thought I was going insane. I’ve had the feeling of being watched, and everywhere I turn I see young Chinamen acting strangely. I guess you are the explanation.”

“I hired some local boys to keep tabs on you,” Eddie said, slipping his pistol into the waistband of his pants.

Assad crossed to the crying woman, helping her up onto her piano legs. She wiped at her nose with the back of her hand, smearing a wet trail through her fine mustache. Eddie guessed she tipped the scales above two hundred, and standing at a little over five feet she looked like a basketball in her burnt orange robe.