Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [172]
“The purpose of your visit?” the clerk asked, studying Hadi’s face.
“Business.” It was even true.
“Duration?”
“Not sure yet, but probably four or five days. Is that important?”
“Only to you, sir.” The clerk scanned the passport, ran the cover through the barcode reader, wondering if the red light would go on—but they almost never did, and it didn’t this time. “Nothing to declare?”
“Nothing at all,” Hadi replied.
“Welcome to Canada. The exit is that way,” the clerk said, pointing.
“Thank you.” Hadi took his passport back and walked to the multiple doors. Western countries were so self-destructively welcoming to their enemies, he noted yet again. He supposed they just wanted the money to be had from tourists. They couldn’t really have such hospitality in their infidel hearts, could they?
Heads up,” John said. The first two people through the doors were women, and Hadi wasn’t one of those … unless the intel was really bad, Clark thought. He’d had that happen to him more than once.
Okay, what are we looking for? Male, thirty-five to forty-five, average height, maybe a little less by American standards. Dark eyes, not looking around very much, feigned relaxation, but still looking around. Curiosity, but controlled curiosity. He’d be a little tired from the journey. Flying usually tired people out. A little wrung-out from the drinks he’d probably had … but he would have slept some, too.
They saw a tan camel-hair coat, mid-thigh in length. It looked Italian. Hadi was supposedly based in Italy—in Rome—right? Five-eight or so, medium build, a little on the skinny side. Dark eyes. Dark as hell, almost black, John thought. Looking studiously forward, not to the side, pushing a wheeled dolly with one large bag and one small one. They didn’t look that heavy, and the big one had wheels on it … lazy or tired? His hair was as black as the eyes were; nondescript haircut. Clean shaven. No beard, perhaps—probably?—deliberately so. Two more people came out behind him, obviously Canadians, fair-skinned and ginger-haired. One waved to somebody to Clark’s right. Wave off. Back to the camel coat. His eyes were moving left and right, but his head remained still. Good fieldcraft, John thought at once, on noting that. Then they locked on something: Clark’s head turned and saw somebody in a black suit, like a chauffeur but without the cap, holding a white cardboard sign with KLEIN written on it in Magic Marker.
“Bingo,” he whispered to himself. To Chavez: “Link up with the brothers and watch the flanks. I’m taking a walk. Jack, you’re with me.”
They headed down the concourse.
“See something I didn’t?” Jack asked.
“His name isn’t Klein. I’d bet the wad on that.”
No trip to the head, Clark saw. So much for that idea. They followed forty yards back. The subject, they saw, didn’t seem to speak with his pickup man. Too disciplined, or did they know each other?
“Got a camera?” John asked.
“Yeah, digital one. Ready to run. I might have a shot of our friend, but I haven’t checked yet.”
“If he gets into a car, let’s make sure—”
“Yep. Make, model, and tag. How’re we doing?”
I don’t think he’s seen us—damned sure didn’t look at where we were, either side. Either he’s one very cool customer or he’s as pure as the driven snow. Take your pick.”
“Looks kinda Jewish,” Jack said.
“There’s an old joke in Israel. If he looks Jewish, and he’s selling bagels, he’s an Arab. Not always true, but good enough for a joke.”
“Except for the hair, I can see him in a cowboy hat and long black coat, on Forty-seventh Street in New York, handling diamonds. Not a bad disguise. But he’s about as Jewish as I am.”
Past the magazine stands, past the beer bar, past the one-way exit by the metal detectors, out to the main concourse. Not down the escalator to baggage recovery, but he’d already done that, of course. Toward the main door in the glass wall, and out into the cool air of a Canadian autumn. Past the taxi traffic for