Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [19]
No. Of course not. He was much too careful for that. But what might she have observed and reported back? He had paraded around his room, preening like a proud lion, showing off for the girl, eager to prove to her that he was somehow stronger, better, more desirable than any man she had ever been with. He had left her alone, unwatched, when he went to the bathroom. The door had been ajar but a skilled operative could have used that time to check cell phone numbers, examine a passport, look for airplane tickets, perform any number of quick-assessment observations.
For all Haddad knew the entire event may have been recorded. He hadn’t bothered to inspect her bag.
Careless, cocky, stupid! That, Haddad realized too late, was the difference between a woman and a plum.
After leaving the girl in the alleyway, Haddad had doubled back but saw no sign of the Turk. He had searched the pockets of the girl’s jacket and jeans and had removed her shoes, checked the heels, examined her bracelet and watch and belt, but found no transmitters of any kind. She carried only a small-caliber pistol and a disposable cell phone that showed no record of calls.
Their operation was obviously low-tech, even improvised, but that revelation did nothing to ease Haddad’s mind. If these people were to find out about his deal with Chilikov, there would be trouble indeed.
When he arrived at the meeting place—a car dealership seven blocks from the hotel—Haddad was three minutes late and saw no sign of the Bulgarian. But before he could curse himself again, a limousine pulled to the curb and its rear passenger window rolled down.
Chilikov’s smiling face looked out at him. “Traffic,” he apologized. “I’m glad you waited.”
Anton Chilikov was a Cold War veteran who had embraced Bulgaria’s transition from Communism to capitalism with enthusiasm. He had fingers in nearly every construction project in Sofia, and through his Russian friends, had control of an old Communist weapons dump, which was rumored to be a smorgasbord of Cold War–era military-grade artillery, much of it still functioning.
As the limousine idled, Haddad climbed inside and sat next to him. Opaque glass separated the driver from his passengers. Nothing happened for a long moment as the old man took stock of his companion in the near-darkness. Haddad knew that a skilled observer could tell a lot about someone in a seemingly casual encounter. Was he anxious, perspiring? Did he carelessly apply cologne that could be identified? If he was bearded, was it short in the style of a nationalist or full, suggesting a tribal affiliation? Did he look tired enough to make a mistake that could compromise them both, or did he appear well rested and alert?
Seemingly satisfied, the old man gestured to a small packing trunk sitting on the car seat opposite them.
“Ask and you shall receive,” he said.
Shifting in his seat, Haddad leaned toward the trunk, then stopped and turned to Chilikov. In his eagerness he had almost forgot protocol.
“May I?” he asked.
Chilikov smiled. “By all means.”
Haddad carefully flicked the latches, then lifted the trunk’s lid and stared at its contents. His heart was hammering against his chest. He’d had his doubts about the Bulgarian, but, praise Allah, the old man had come through. Brilliantly.
“You understand, of course, that this is merely a duplicate,” Chilikov cautioned.
Haddad regarded him unhappily. “I do not understand.”
“It’s proof that I’m a man of my word. The actual unit is en route.”
Haddad’s frown deepened. “It is the same?”
“Yes, but in order to meet your requirements I initiated shipping several days ago. I took it on faith that you’d make payment in a timely manner.”
“How soon can we expect delivery?” Haddad asked.
“When you go to retrieve it, the item will be waiting for you. I will give you the pertinent information when it is necessary.” He paused. “Now I believe you have something for me?”
Recovering from his disappointment, Haddad reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded