Page 13 of The Fourth Option
“I’m running low on cash.”
“The hell you are. And you owe me a favor for finding this guy in the first place. Use some of Fisk’s contingency account. Have to spend it on something.”
“Problem?” Fisk asked as he checked out a leather passport cover with a blotchy Coach stamp.
“Group of women in burkas around the corner,” Walker said quietly. “That’s how they hide bombs or disguise Taliban fighters.”
“Got it. Should we have that MRAP circle back?”
“No. That would disrupt the natural rhythm and possibly raise suspicions.”
Fisk nodded.
A minute later Staub came back over comms. “Okay, we’re good. All clear. You see a good wallet?”
“Negative on Gucci. We’re going in.”
“Good copy. Monitoring the alleys.”
A bell jingled when Walker opened the door. He stepped inside andwaited for his eyes to adjust. Oriental rugs blocked the light from the windows. The cozy shop smelled of incense, camphor, and musty wool. Boshret Kheir played through decades-old speakers on either side of the cash register.
Fisk tapped his ear. “That shit drives me crazy.”
Walker listened to the music while they waited for Naji to come out from the residential part of the shop. “Good tempo,” he said. “Think of it as cover.”
Lifting a maroon rug with dark blue geometric shapes from a pile, Fisk examined the label. “Tabriz,” he said. “Iranian carpet.”
“Mongoose gets around. That’s one of the reasons you’re going to like him.”
A man emerged from the back, his smile genuine, his eyes tired but kind.
“Ah! Mr. Chris, you brought a friend!” Naji Mansour looked to be in his late thirties, his dark hair streaked with premature gray. He wore a pressed tunic and moved with quiet dignity.
“Hello, Naji. Great to see you again.” Walker turned to Fisk. “This is the man I wanted you to meet. His name is Lawrence.”
Fisk placed his hand over his heart, leaned forward in a slight bow, and shook Naji’s hand.
“Mr. Mansour, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I have heard many wonderful things about you and your business.”
Walker retreated to a corner and keyed his transmitter while Fisk made small talk about rugs.
“How we looking?” he asked Staub.
“NSTR, brother,”Staub responded, using the acronym for nothing significant to report.
“ISR?”
“Clear. No electronic emanations from the target area.”
Staub and a Ground Branch technical specialist had swept Naji’s shop three weeks ago as part of their surveillance package. All indications since then showed that Naji was clean, a genuine asset who wanted to turn things around for his country.
Over tea and a labored negotiation, Naji had dropped certain hints—namely that he got around, which allowed him to learn things about certain Taliban leaders. He was willing to trade information for U.S. citizenshipand relocation to Fremont, California, home to such a large Afghan community that it was known as Little Kabul.
After sending his report on Mansour through Agency channels, Walker was cleared to proceed with an approach. However, as a blue-badge officer in the CIA’s Special Activities Center’s Ground Branch, Walker’s primary role was tactical operations. Fisk, meanwhile, was a case officer responsible for managing confidential informants, whom the Agency referred to as assets. Consequently, this meeting was Fisk’s show.
Walker leaned into Fisk and whispered while the music bounced along. “We’re clear.”
Fisk nodded and turned to Naji. “You mind if we turn that down a little?”
