Shadow Tag Read Online Free Page A

with an instinct that’s been honed through years on the job.
    This was one such moment.
    The two agents carried on eating as the man walked up to the cashier at the far end of the bar and placed his order. He was too far for them to hear, but judging by the time it took and the cash he forked out, he was ordering more than just for himself. The cashier handed him a small printout slip, then the man walked back towards the front door and gave the slip to one of the chefs.
    Reilly and Malone observed the man start chatting with the chef. The man was clearly a regular. He and the chef were enjoying a good chat while the chef shaved pieces of chicken and lamb off the fat, cylindrical skewers onto a small steel tray. While still chatting, the chef then tipped bits of meat onto a row of wraps that were laid out in line. From where they were sitting, Reilly and Malone couldn’t see exactly how many sandwiches the man had ordered, but the chef’s arm movements indicated there were ten of them. The chef then put the tray down and started adding the garnishes to the sandwiches: sliced tomatoes, onions, pickled cucumber and beetroot for both lamb and chicken sandwiches, then garlic for the chicken and tahini—a sesame seed-based sauce—for the lamb.
    As he was doing it, the chef asked the man something. Reilly’s basic knowledge of Arabic was enough to understand what he was saying: the chef was asking the man if he wanted garlic on all the chicken sandwiches. Reilly knew this was a typical question: not everyone wanted to reek of garlic, which, in these sandwiches, was potent.
    The man Reilly and Malone were watching said yes at first. Then he had second thoughts and said something that caused Reilly’s pulse to spike. Malone saw it reflected in the tiny reaction in Reilly’s eyes. Reilly gave him an almost imperceptible confirmation nod.
    The man said, “ Hott ketchup ala arba’a minon. Hadol Amerkan, ma byifhamo shi .”
    As in, Put ketchup on four of them. They’re Americans, they don’t know these things.
    The man said it with evident mockery, causing the chef to laugh. The chef then asked if he should add some mustard too, which the target laughed at before building on it with another comment that Reilly didn’t quite catch but that caused more merriment.
    It didn’t matter. Reilly had heard enough.
    The sandwiches were for Americans. And the chatter had mentioned targeting some “American specialists.” Added to the fact that the man had lit up both agents’ internal goondars, this suddenly looked promising.
    Then the man turned, and his gaze lasered onto Reilly, then Malone—and something effervesced in his own eyes. Just for a second, two at most.
    Then he bolted out of the restaurant.
    “Go, go, go,” Reilly said, as he and Malone catapulted out of their seats and charged after him.

7
    Khoury was slumped on the damaged mattress, his back against the wall. His fingers twirled around bits of cotton that the lead goon’s gunshots had kicked up. “You think anyone’s looking for us?”
    “I don’t know,” Berry replied. He was laid out similarly, on the opposite wall. “Elizabeth is in southern France with a couple of her girl friends. What about Suellen?”
    “She’s on a canal barge with her dad in the middle of nowhere.”
    “So they might not notice we’re gone for another day or two?”
    “It’s possible.”
    Berry nodded, to himself. This was looking bleak. “You know we can’t do this.”
    “Of course, we can’t. But we have to figure a way out of this. That’s the brilliant plot we need to come up with.”
    “And it needs to be something that involves us being part of the master plan. That way, they don’t kill us off after we give it to them.”
    “Not an easy job.”
    “No choice. In the meantime, we have to give them something to buy ourselves some time.”
    “The guy didn’t know about Dr. Evil or about Nelson DeMille’s books,” Khoury said, an idea blooming. “He