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assignment for Hans.
    “I’ve mounted the transponder inside the
centre high mount stoplight cavity. There’s no way it will be detected unless
they completely dismantle the stoplight and pull out the back reflector. The
display shows the line-of-sight distance to the transponder, but you can reset
the scale of the display with this slider,” he said pointing to a slider widget
on the side of the display. “The GPS will pick it up anywhere, globally.”
    “This area here,” he said pointing to a box
along the bottom of the display marked ‘Transponders’, “gives the GPS
coordinates of the control unit, in blue for the control and in red for the
transponder location.” Bill read the content of the box as “C: 34.527048/69.186187 | T-1: 34.527049/69.186179 |”.
    “Pretty much intuitive,” he concluded.
“There are other administrative functions and features, but nothing you’re
going to need just to track the transponder.” He added, “Any questions?”
    “I have also installed a cloned hot point at
the Internet café Bicep used yesterday. It will pick up any connection
if he uses it again,” Hans noted.
    “Hot point?” Bill
looked blank, trying to cut through this technical services jargon.
    “A wireless network access point. I
installed a clone one next to the Internet café’s one so if he connects into
that Internet café again we will get the same signal and collect whatever we
can of his session. Something might be useful.”
    Closing the control unit and making a point
of handing it to Bill, Hans left.
    -|-
    Bill stood on the corner, his tee-shirt and cargo pants replaced by long
loose fitting partōg pants and knee-length perānor
korta
shirt and waited until he saw Gorbat arrive, sit down and order tea, scanning
the street for anything untoward in his wake.
    Gorbat was approaching forty, a good-looking, bearded ethnic Pashtun,
slight and wiry, wearing a black sleeveless jacket, and the same kind of loose
fitting cotton pants and knee-length shirt as Bill and a round, woollen, earthy
coloured hat, typical of Pashtuns.
    Bill recognised him immediately as he arrived, but paused for some
moments to observe. He was not suspicious of Gorbat, but considered he was
still alive because of being alert and cautious at all times and expecting the
unexpected. After all, his current assignment had come about because of an
unsuspecting courier being tailed by Aminyat .
    Looking left and right one last time he walked over to his friend clasped
his right hand to his heart in the traditional way in greeting then embracing him
warmly first on the right then on the left shoulder. Before sitting he
rearranged their positions so that he could sit opposite Gorbat, facing the
hotel entrance.
    Once his coffee had been brought to the table, he began “I need you to
help me stake-out a westerner.” Gorbat was familiar with the slang term and had
proved to be a very effective watcher in the past.
    “ Assayyid Bill, I am very appreciative that you
think of me for this job. My daughter will wed soon and the expense is a
burden. It is good of you to hire me again,” said Gorbat.
    He showed Gorbat an image of Wood on his phone until he had memorised it.
    “ ’Bicep’ is six foot one,” he translated this for Gorbat as 1
metre 85, “well built, but not bulky like a body builder. He has mousy hair;
coloured like a mouse?” he checked for comprehension. “Blue eyes,” then gave
him a briefing of the subject, his background as a Special Forces soldier and
explained that the objective was to witness anything which might be out of the
ordinary; places he might go, contacts with people, especially locals. Gorbat
would act with Bill as a tag-team, relieving each other and swapping places if
they needed to follow the subject for any length of time. Nothing in the
briefing was surprising or unusual for Gorbat.
    “Are you armed?” Bill checked. Gorbat gripped either side of his square,
black, sleeveless overjacket and