54

MEXICO CITY

Zaid Farooq finally landed.

The plane’s departure from Paris had been delayed an hour, and by the time the Boeing 777 had taxied and parked at the gate, it was nearly 6 p.m. in the Mexican capital.

Farooq and his fellow first-class passengers were the first people off the plane. As he had not checked any luggage, he texted his contact and headed straight for the curb. Soon he saw the blue Mercedes sedan approaching. The license plate matched the one he had been given, so when the car stopped, he leaned into the open window of the passenger door and spoke several lines in flawless Spanish. When the driver replied with the precise agreed-upon phrase, Farooq climbed in, and they were on their way.

The two men said nothing for about twenty minutes until they had cleared out of the capital and were speeding north along Highway 57D.

“How was your flight?” Tariq finally said in Arabic.

“I’m here, that’s all I’ll say, praise Allah.”

“And you were so worried.”

“And you fault me for this?” Farooq asked. “When was the last time you traveled on your real papers?”

Youssef chuckled. “I cannot even remember.”

“So is everything in place?” Farooq asked.

“Nearly so. We have secured a large villa in the mountains, just north of the city. The men have all been arriving on schedule.”

“And the weapons?”

“Arranged.”

“For the price we asked?”

“Not quite, but close.”

“Including the SA-7s?” Farooq asked, referring to the shoulder-mounted surface-to-air missiles that Abu Nakba had been so eager to acquire.

Youssef smiled. “Yes,” he said. “Including the 7s.”