The Shadow Protocol Read Online Free PDF Page A

overlaid his position, the tracker implanted in his body giving his position to the meter. “Okay. Running parallel on your right is a main road. On the left everything’s a bit more, I dunno, slummy. The streets are narrower and more crooked.”
    “I’m going left. Give me directions once I’m ’round the corner.” He reached an intersection. The buildings to the left were smaller and lower, jumbled beneath a web of electricity cables. A sidelong glance back at Khattak as he rounded the corner. His pursuer was now talking on his own phone, no doubt warning Marwat that their target was coming his way. Another call would follow to Umar, telling him to leapfrog the streets covered by the other two men so Adam once again had someone following on each side.
    Rudimentary spycraft—but effective. The technique had a weak point, though. Khattak was not in real-time contact with his comrades, but would have to keep making phone calls to relay Adam’s movements. That would cost him time, and if the calls could be disrupted …
    “Holly Jo,” Adam said, “link Levon in. The guys following me are using cell phones—can he hack into the network and cut them off?”
    “One second.” It took slightly longer, the connection to Levon James in Washington affected by the delay of a satellite transmission. “Okay, he’s on.”
    “Adam, I heard you,” said the baritone voice. “Even if I bring in NSA, I’m not sure how much I can do—Pakistan’s got six or seven cell companies, and I don’t know which they’re using. I can probably hack in and pin them down, but it’ll take a few minutes.”
    When the hefty African American said he could “probably” hack into something, that was a modest way of saying“almost certainly,” Adam knew—but time was the more important issue here. “Do what you can.”
    He reached a T-junction. A truck struggling to make the tight turn had forced other vehicles to stop, arousing horns and gesticulating hands. Adam looked left as he crossed the road—spotting Marwat, phone to his ear. The young man hurriedly looked down at the ground in a feeble attempt to hide his face. Adam continued on as if he hadn’t noticed.
    A larger, older building among the huddled cinder-block houses. A high archway led inside, the carved words PEEL CLOTH EXCHANGE, EST. 1897 visible in the pollution-blackened stone above. A remnant of British colonial rule—and still doing business, judging by the people coming and going.
    “Go straight ahead, then right,” said Holly Jo, but Adam was already veering left toward the archway. He would stand more chance of losing his tails in a crowd.
    He reached the entrance. A long arcade ran through the building, busy shops and stalls on each side. It had once had a glazed ceiling, but most of the glass panels had been damaged over time, opaque—but cheaper—replacements of wood and corrugated metal taking their place. The effect put him in mind of a sparsely worded crossword puzzle. The electric lights hanging from the roof fell far short of making up for the lost illumination, the interior shadowed and gloomy.
    Marwat crossed the street to follow him. The truck finally negotiated the intersection, pulling away to reveal Khattak. No sign of Umar, but Khattak had probably told him to run to the other side of the hall.
    Adam entered the building. Chatter in several languages echoed through the tiled space, deals being struck, prices argued over. The hall had maintained its original function even after well over a century, most of the stalls selling clothing or fabrics, everything from sheets of raw cotton to swaths of bright silk.
    He picked a path through the arcade. The shopperswere almost exclusively women; he drew a few curious looks. At the far end was a second archway, gray daylight beyond.
Run for it. If Umar has made it to the other side of the building, I can take him. He is only one man
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    Toradze’s choice of action: Adam ignored it. An arms dealer shaking