Free Ops Files II--Terror Alert by Russell Blake

and a cell phone. It has your new badge clipped to the lapel. Put it on.”
    Vahid did as instructed. Vladimir studied him and then ferreted in the bag until he withdrew an electric hair trimmer.
    Vahid’s eyes widened when he switched it on, the buzz loud in the confined area. Vladimir raised his chin and offered a frosty smile. “The beard has to go.”
    Two minutes later the pair walked across the floor, the clean-shaven Vahid unrecognizable in his new garb. Vahid resisted the impulse to look back toward the bathroom, where he knew Tariq would be on the radio with the other members of his security squad, advising them to seal the exits. He followed the Russian through the foyer and out into the crisp air. A service van was waiting there in a loading zone, its emergency lights blinking.
    By the time the Iranians had locked down the hall, Vahid was blocks away, watching the city pass by, his heart beating a rapid tattoo in his chest as he realized that his days of dread and waiting were finally over.
    The Russian turned to look him over. “Welcome to the world. You ready to go to work?”
    “That’s what I’m here for.”
    “Good. Our first project is waiting for you. We extracted a source from a generator and have it in Reims. We need you to put the final touches on the device for us.”
    “What’s the isotope?”
    “Strontium-90.”
    Vahid inhaled sharply and nodded once. “A simple task.”
    “I was hoping you’d think so.”

Chapter 11
    Dhaka, Bangladesh, three hours earlier
     
    Gil finished his tea, his eyes roving over the bustling street outside the café window with practiced concentration. His contact was late. Again. He’d grown so accustomed to the sloth of the locals and their lack of punctuality that he would actually be surprised if the man showed up within a half hour of the appointed time.
    Still, it bothered Gil. Another in a long string of annoyances in a country that could slide into the sea, for all Gil cared, the sea getting the worst part of the deal. After two years in the filthy country, he actively hated the place – a steady degradation from the disgust and apathy he’d felt on arrival. But the Mossad in its wisdom had seen fit to partner him with a geriatric head of station whose paranoia had been reaching epic proportions of late, Gil thought; and he, a career officer, would do as his superiors ordered.
    His hope was that he would get transferred at the official two-year mark. He’d served his time in purgatory without complaint, after all. Perhaps he’d be even be assigned somewhere with working plumbing and first world amenities, like Prague. He knew another agent who’d served in Prague.
    The Czechs knew how to party. And they showered. Not to mention that the women were…
    His thoughts moved to the new arrival. Maya. Gorgeous, tough, smart. Real trouble for Gil if he let down his guard. He had a soft spot for beautiful, capable women. Put one in front of him and he was a weak man.
    He shook his head and checked the time on his cell. Twenty minutes late. Bastard. Gil was offering to hand the scumbag a small fortune, and the man couldn’t make it to their meet on time. If the terrorists were as inept as this idiot Farhad, they could all pack up, go home, and leave the cleanup to the drones.
    The café door opened and Farhad stepped in, his jaundiced complexion and ratlike face a study in debauched avarice. Gil knew the man enjoyed the narcotic slumber of opium, which was the wedge he’d used to widen the gap between the reprobate and his beloved imam. Apparently the devout took a dim view to those in the flock partaking of a smoke or a toke now and then, and Gil took it upon himself at every meeting to remind Farhad subtly of his fate should Kahn discover his addiction.
    That anyone could miss it boggled Gil’s mind. The Arab was a classic junkie, right down to the nervous worrying of his lips with his decaying teeth and the constant furtive skittering of his eyes. But