appeared to be mouthing some extravagant courtesy. Caine thought that he looked like a high-class Armenian rug merchant, but in fact Ibn Sallah was the deputy director of the Moukhabarat, the Egyptian secret service.
As Caine looked around for shields, he wondered what Ibn Sallah was doing in Zurich. He grinned to himself as he thought that there must be more than a few men in the bar who would be wondering the same thing. But then why did anyone come to Zurich? There was an OPEC meeting in Geneva and Ibn Sallah probably stopped over in Zurich to do his banking, whether on his own account or somebody elseâs. Whatever else happened, Ibn Sallah wasnât the sort of man who was planning to retire just on a government pension. As for the blonde, Caine dismissed her. She was almost certainly just window dressing.
He had spotted two shields. One very dark skinned, leaning against a wall; the other more Semitic-looking, sitting at the bar. They were both beefy, powerful-looking men, like their master. Neither of them were drinking and Caine knew it wasnât because of anything written in the Koran. He knew them because he was cut from the same cloth. They were professionals. Every few seconds they ran their eyes over the crowd near Ibn Sallahâs table, like cops mentally frisking a suspect.
Caine finished the marc in a quick swallow. Should he try it? he wondered. A mistake could be fatal, but if it worked it could conceivably save him weeks. If he did it, it would have to be fast. He would have to make it a quick in-and-outer, before they had time to react. If he were still working for the Company, he would be signaling his case officer that he was going into the red zone. He got up and walked over to Ibn Sallahâs table.
In a way it was an interesting tactical problem. And one that they had never covered at the Farm, because it wasnât supposed to happen. How do you approach a shielded member of the opposition and let him know that you have nothing more lethal on your mind than setting up a friendly r.d.v., without getting terminated? As he approached the table, Caine staggered slightly, hoping to buy a few seconds by convincing them that he was just a drunk civilian. He timed his approach so that he had to stumble against the table to avoid colliding with a waiter. The drink in his hand sloshed onto the table, startling the blonde.
âExcuse me, Fraulein,â Caine said, slurring his words slightly and smiling his most ingratiating smile. Annoyed, her eyes blazed at him as Ibn Sallah calmly slid his hands out of sight under the table.
â Bitte sehr ,â she responded tartly.
âI hope youâll forgive me,â Caine replied, turning to face the man. He kept his hands out in plain sight, feeling a ripple of fear trickle down his spine like a bead of sweat, anticipating the impact of a silenced slug slamming into his back.
âNot at all,â Ibn Sallah replied, relaxing his shoulders. He was beginning to buy Caineâs drunk act.
âItâs important that we talk, monsieur,â Caine replied. At that moment he felt something hard poke into his ribs and knew that the shields had come up. He was boxed in and there was nothing to do but brazen it out.
âWhy is that?â Ibn Sallah asked quietly, his eyes hard and alert. Caine knew that if he couldnât convince Ibn Sallah now, that they would be sweeping him up with the morning garbage in some back alley off the Münstergasse.
âBecause weâre in the same business and itâs to our mutual advantage,â he replied.
Ibn Sallah paused, sizing Caine up. Then as if reminding himself of the shields, he nodded confidently.
âIt had better be,â he replied. He raised an eyebrow and the dark-skinned Arab bent over. Ibn Sallah whispered something to him briefly.
âItâs been a pleasure meeting you, Fraulein,â Caine responded, bowing slightly to the blonde, his eyebrow raised in a
As Caine looked around for shields, he wondered what Ibn Sallah was doing in Zurich. He grinned to himself as he thought that there must be more than a few men in the bar who would be wondering the same thing. But then why did anyone come to Zurich? There was an OPEC meeting in Geneva and Ibn Sallah probably stopped over in Zurich to do his banking, whether on his own account or somebody elseâs. Whatever else happened, Ibn Sallah wasnât the sort of man who was planning to retire just on a government pension. As for the blonde, Caine dismissed her. She was almost certainly just window dressing.
He had spotted two shields. One very dark skinned, leaning against a wall; the other more Semitic-looking, sitting at the bar. They were both beefy, powerful-looking men, like their master. Neither of them were drinking and Caine knew it wasnât because of anything written in the Koran. He knew them because he was cut from the same cloth. They were professionals. Every few seconds they ran their eyes over the crowd near Ibn Sallahâs table, like cops mentally frisking a suspect.
Caine finished the marc in a quick swallow. Should he try it? he wondered. A mistake could be fatal, but if it worked it could conceivably save him weeks. If he did it, it would have to be fast. He would have to make it a quick in-and-outer, before they had time to react. If he were still working for the Company, he would be signaling his case officer that he was going into the red zone. He got up and walked over to Ibn Sallahâs table.
In a way it was an interesting tactical problem. And one that they had never covered at the Farm, because it wasnât supposed to happen. How do you approach a shielded member of the opposition and let him know that you have nothing more lethal on your mind than setting up a friendly r.d.v., without getting terminated? As he approached the table, Caine staggered slightly, hoping to buy a few seconds by convincing them that he was just a drunk civilian. He timed his approach so that he had to stumble against the table to avoid colliding with a waiter. The drink in his hand sloshed onto the table, startling the blonde.
âExcuse me, Fraulein,â Caine said, slurring his words slightly and smiling his most ingratiating smile. Annoyed, her eyes blazed at him as Ibn Sallah calmly slid his hands out of sight under the table.
â Bitte sehr ,â she responded tartly.
âI hope youâll forgive me,â Caine replied, turning to face the man. He kept his hands out in plain sight, feeling a ripple of fear trickle down his spine like a bead of sweat, anticipating the impact of a silenced slug slamming into his back.
âNot at all,â Ibn Sallah replied, relaxing his shoulders. He was beginning to buy Caineâs drunk act.
âItâs important that we talk, monsieur,â Caine replied. At that moment he felt something hard poke into his ribs and knew that the shields had come up. He was boxed in and there was nothing to do but brazen it out.
âWhy is that?â Ibn Sallah asked quietly, his eyes hard and alert. Caine knew that if he couldnât convince Ibn Sallah now, that they would be sweeping him up with the morning garbage in some back alley off the Münstergasse.
âBecause weâre in the same business and itâs to our mutual advantage,â he replied.
Ibn Sallah paused, sizing Caine up. Then as if reminding himself of the shields, he nodded confidently.
âIt had better be,â he replied. He raised an eyebrow and the dark-skinned Arab bent over. Ibn Sallah whispered something to him briefly.
âItâs been a pleasure meeting you, Fraulein,â Caine responded, bowing slightly to the blonde, his eyebrow raised in a
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