Page 14 of The Fourth Option
“Of course,” Naji replied. He ducked behind the counter to fiddle with his stereo.
With the asset out of sight, Walker instinctively reached for the Glock beneath his light cotton jacket. The music lowered and Naji’s head popped up half a second later.
Fisk withdrew his phone from his jacket and swiped the screen. “Can you read English?” he asked Naji.
“I completed my business degree at King’s College, London, before returning to Afghanistan,” Naji replied.
Fisk shot a glance at Walker, a half smile on his face. No doubt about it, Naji could be a true unicorn: access to senior Taliban ranks, Western-educated, and with the perfect cover to travel.
Walker said to Naji, “Lawrence works closely with our headquarters people. He’s here to help you.”
“I see.”
“There are just some things I’m going to need,” Fisk added. “I have a form for you to digitally initial for—” He cut himself off at the sound of an interior door creaking.
A woman in a fawn-colored head scarf looked inquisitively at Walker. He could only see her eyes because the scarf wrapped the lower half of her face. He had met her during the second meeting with Naji.
Walker touched Fisk’s elbow. “Naji’s wife, Rina. They have two daughters. This is their home as well as their shop.”
Fisk instinctively buried his phone in his pocket.
“Mr. Lawrence, I would like you to meet my wife and daughters.”
Fisk shifted uncomfortably on his feet.
“It’s okay,” Walker said to both Naji and Fisk, his voice calm and confident.
With the price of Mansour’s intel being U.S. citizenship, Fisk needed to meet the family.
Rina stepped forward, her daughters following, their maroon dresses clean and carefully pressed. They stood beside their mother, eyes wide with curiosity. “Good afternoon, sir,” they said in practiced English, their voices barely above a whisper.
“This is Fatima and Zahra,” Walker said.
Fatima was around eight with sharp, inquisitive brown eyes, while Zahra was not yet five, her wide eyes full of wonder.
Fisk shook all three of their hands politely as Walker reached into his pocket and offered Tootsie Rolls he had picked up on base.
When they went back to the residence area, Fisk pulled his phone from his pocket.
“Now you have a sense of the future exfil package,” Walker said.
Fisk turned to Naji. “I need something before we go much further.” He reversed his phone so the screen faced Naji. “This is the form. Just click here. That’ll be your signature.”
The rug seller did as asked, and handed the phone back to the CIA case officer.
“Thank you.” Fisk swiped and turned it around again. “Do you recognize this man?”
Naji studied the device. “Yes. He’s Mullah Farj.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
Naji glanced at Walker, who nodded. “This is how we get you out of here. That’s the deal.”
Walker covered the first quarter mile through the dust and blaring horns of Kabul traffic, weaving past cars, trucks, buses, scooters, and the occasional donkey with no sign of a tail.
Fisk was in the passenger seat, his head buried in his phone while Staub scanned for threats from the rear bench seat.
“How’d it go? We have a new asset?” Staub asked.
