Bolan his FBI credentials.
“Special agent in charge,” Potts said. “That means I work ninety hours a week instead of seventy like the rest of my people do.”
“You probably have two alimony payments to prove it.”
“Three,” Potts said, holding up as many fingers. “Fortunately, I think this job will kill me before I get a fourth.”
“We all need a bright spot.”
Potts nodded over Bolan’s shoulder at the plane. “You got more gear?”
“The pilot can take care of it,” Bolan said. “You guys get us a rental?”
“Better,” Potts replied. He nodded toward a gleaming black Mercedes parked next to a terminal building. “Just remember to fill the tank and wash the windows before you bring it back.”
“Nice,” Bolan said.
“Just don’t say Carl Potts doesn’t take care of his friends. Or friends of friends. How’s Mr. Brognola doing these days?”
“Works like a dog.”
Potts shook his head. “Some things never change.” He tossed the soldier the keys for the car. Bolan caught them with his free hand.
“We appropriated it,” Potts said. He made air quotes with his fingers when he said appropriated. “Got it from some Russian gunrunner. He forfeited it.”
“I don’t have the greatest track record with cars,” Bolan said.
Potts scowled and shook his head. “Washington always sends me the prizes.”
THE FBI’S DUBAI OFFICE was located on the top floor of the U.S. Embassy. Bolan was in Potts’s office, seated across the desk from him. The Executioner studied the various certificates and awards on the office wall. He noted that Potts had a bachelor’s degree in international studies from Princeton University and a law degree from Harvard University.
“You didn’t strike me as an Ivy Leaguer,” Bolan said.
“You can see how far it’s gotten me,” Potts replied. “The second wife tried to take the law degree and divorce. She offered me a dog in return. Hell of a deal in retrospect. You want some coffee?”
Bolan nodded. Potts picked up a mug that stood next to the coffeemaker, peered inside it, wrinkled his nose as though he had seen something disgusting. Shrugging, he filled it with coffee and handed it to Bolan. The soldier waited while the federal agent rounded his desk and fell into his chair. Leaning forward, Potts reached into a side drawer, grabbed a folder and set it on his desk. He opened it and picked through the contents, his brows furrowed in concentration. From his vantage point, Bolan could see several pictures mixed in with the paperwork.
Finally, Potts stopped rooting through the dossier. He removed a picture and tossed it across the desk at Bolan, who studied it.
The picture depicted three men. The man closest to the lens, his head topped by a thick, gray mane, was scowling. Bolan pegged him in mid-fifties. The other two men looked younger, with full heads of hair, sunglasses covering their eyes. Bolan guessed they were the muscle even before Potts told him as much.
“The silver-haired devil’s the guy you want. That’s Khan. Just how you get to the guy, I can’t say. He moves around a lot both in this city and throughout the Middle East. There’s rumors that he has body doubles, but I have no idea whether that’s true. A lot of these gunrunners have massive egos. They like to lie to one an other, build legends about themselves. Seems pretty damn silly.”
“So what’s the best path to finding Khan?”
“Funny you should ask, my friend,” Potts said. Shuffling through the folder, he found another photo. This one contained three men. With what appeared to be a black permanent marker, someone had circled the face of a thickset bald man. The guy was cradling an FNC assault rifle and grinning from ear to ear.
“It’s a surveillance shot,” Potts said. “The moron in his natural habitat, I call it. Guy’s name is Adnan Shahi. He’s one of Khan’s lieutenants. If Khan passes gas, this guy probably can tell you what the old man’s been eating.”
Potts paused, sipping some coffee while Bolan studied the photo, memorizing the guy’s face.
“He doesn’t look like much,” Potts said. “That’s because he’s not. But he tends to travel very heavily guarded. He knows everything Khan does. If Khan took Lang, Shahi will know about it. He’ll know which doors to kick in.”
“You have a location for him?”
Potts nodded. “We’ve had him under surveillance for the past several hours, ever since I first got the call from Washington. Like I said, though, if the heat’s on, he’s not going to be calling his BFFs and talking about it. He’s going to stay quiet. He’s a bad human being, but he’s not a moron. Once I heard about Lang’s disappearance, and that Khan might be involved, I wanted to go in and shake down Shahi. Hal asked me to stay cool. Goes against my grain, but I did it anyway. He thought it best that you make the first contact.”
“That bothers you.”
Potts smirked. “Past tense, brother. Now that you’re here, I can see why Hal wanted me to wait.”
“Because?”
“Because you’re a spooky bastard. I can lean on them, but you’re going to break them. Every last one of them. And hopefully find Lang in the process.”
“Hopefully,” Bolan replied.
“YOU CAN DO THIS FOR me, can’t you?” Ahmed Haqqani asked.
“I’ll do it,” Nawaz Khan replied. He stood at one of his windows, his hands behind his back, the fingers of his left hand wrapped around his right wrist, and stared at the skyscrapers that surrounded the building.
He heard Haqqani take a step, saw the man’s reflection close in on his own.
“If you can’t do it, I need to know,” Haqqani stated.
Khan spun and faced the other man. “I said I will do it.”
Haqqani nodded. “I just know how hard it will be to get this. Some say it doesn’t even exist.”
“It exists. Trust me. I know for a fact it does.”
Haqqani shot Khan a curious look.
“When I was with the ISI, we had very good information that it existed. I never saw it personally, of course. But the intelligence was solid.”
“How solid?”
Khan ignored the question. “Just make sure you have the money. Leave the rest to me.”
“How soon can you have it?”
“Soon,” Khan replied. “How soon?”
“You ask too many questions, Ahmed. That makes me nervous.”
“I
