Excerpt

April, 2002 Kandahar, Afghanistan

Kurt Valdez felt the hair on the back of his neck stand. He lifted his gaze from the cameras and watches and scanned from left to right, barely twisting his neck. His first thought was there was a suicide bomber nearby.

Afghanis filled the old marketplace, a noisy chatter of poor people
bargaining. Subsistence farmers hawked food grains. A pregnant lady in a burka haggled for a goat's head in front of three fresh carcasses. Displays of colored glassware sat on shelves in the next stall.

Kurt searched the area to try to ascertain what had caused his unusual reaction. For a split second, he traded glances with a man then continued as if there had been no conscious connection. He looked into the display case and asked the vendor about a Japanese camera in Farsi, the local dialect.

As he asked the question, he peered over the vendor's shoulder. The man in the black turban glared at him.

Twisting around to face the radios, he rubbed his forehead to bring his wrist mike close to his mouth. In Arabic, he whispered, "You got a copy, saddique?"

After a few moments, he heard Hassan answer, "Yes."
"There's a big man staring at me from the street. The guy in the black turban and thick black shalwar kameez."

Kurt waited a few moments and picked up a watch similar to a Rolex. He asked the vendor where it was made.

"China," was the answer.

In Kurt's earphone, Hassan said, "Got him. Black turban." There was a long pause. "Got a quick dozen photos. It's Rhino."

Kurt's stomach muscles tightened. He swallowed. Reaching under the fold in his shirt he slipped the safety off his Walther PPK.