Adam Yao had asked her to interview Urkesh Beg, a Uyghur man who until recently had been held as an enemy combatant at a CIA black site — off the grid and away from the rules of the U.S. justice system. He was released when a military tribunal determined that although he was likely in Afghanistan, training with known terrorists, he was no longer an enemy combatant against the United States. Due to the rules of engagement, Beg’s association, and proximity to, known terrorists meant that U.S. forces could have put a warhead on his forehead if they’d hit the terrorist training camp with a couple of Hellfire missiles, but after holding him for four and a half years, decided they were not inclined to keep him in custody indefinitely.
Albania had offered Beg refugee status as a favor to the United States. As far as Yao knew, he’d kept his affiliation with the East Turkestan Islamic Movement, technically still on the terrorism watch list. There was a good chance that if he smelled anything remotely CIA or U.S. government about Murphy, he might not be all that pleased to see her.
Joey Shoop got the summoning whistle from Rask the moment the door swung shut behind Murphy. Shoop stood quickly — that’s what you did when the boss called — and tucked the errant tail of his peach oxford button-down into his pants. As much of a slob as the chief was, he liked his troops to look tidy. Vlora cocked her head to one side and looked down her nose at him. She spoke fluent Albanian and lorded it over everyone in the office. She touched her finger to her nose.
“Got a little hanger-on there, Joey.”
Shoop knew she was just messing with him, but he wiped his nose just in case on the way to Rask’s office.
The chief was staring at his computer screen, working on some memo. “Go after her,” he said.
“To her haircut?”
“She’s not getting a haircut,” Rask said. “Go.”
“Right,” Shoop said. “I’ll have her back.”
Now Rask looked up. “I want you to follow her. In your car. Let me know where she goes.”
“You got it,” Shoop said.
Rask raised both hands, palms up. “Unless you got a tracker on her car, you’d better get on after it.”
Shoop grabbed his jacket and left at a trot, hitting the door at the same time Rask called Vlora into his office — probably to keep her from ratting them out.
Murphy turned north out of embassy parking, heading for downtown. It seemed like every other car on the road in Tirana was gray or white, and many of those were Mercedes sedans. Murphy’s little Ford Fiesta melted into the background.
She crossed the Lana like she might be going to the city center, but then turned left, paralleling the river. Maybe she was just running a surveillance-detection route, crossing the river before she worked her way back to Blloku, just ahead on her right. It made sense. There were lots of high-end boutiques and shops there. Under Soviet rule, only Party elite were even allowed in “the Block.” Now it was the place to go to watch the upper crust of Tirana do their thing. The grim influence of the less-than-halcyon days of Soviet rule had long since been painted over with a riot of reds and yellows and blues. The architecture still resembled large boxes that more attractive buildings must have come in, but now, instead of dull gray cubes, multicolored blocks in the shadow of Mount Dajti lined streets named after U.S. presidents and packed with Mercedes-Benz sedans.
But Murphy didn’t turn until she reached the middle ring road, cutting north now, passing the embassies of Greece and Great Britain as she skirted downtown. She arced to her right, continuing east until she reached the Mother Teresa, at which point she turned right again on Rruga Bardhyl, generally going back toward the office.
Shoop pounded the steering wheel of his Taurus. Did she know he was following her? She was stopping at all the lights, wasn’t doubling back on herself, getting on and off a highway, or any of the usual countersurveillance-run maneuvers. She was barely even maintaining the speed limit. Shoop had to ride the brakes to keep from overtaking her. They were doing the same damn route again. When was she going to turn?
He stayed in the shadow of three other cars and a large delivery van with a picture on the side of what looked like the Albanian version of the Three Stooges.
They’d just taken the roundabout past the British consulate, heading east — again — when a silver Mercedes S 500 pulled alongside the Taurus at the same time the delivery van slowed. Boxed in, Shoop tapped his brake. He lost sight of Leigh Murphy for a grand total of six seconds — but when the van pulled forward and gave him enough room to squirt around in front of the Mercedes, the little gray Ford was nowhere to be seen.
Shoop’s stomach fell. He smacked the steering wheel again, cursing, craning his head back and forth, searching a sea of gray sedans for
