Page 30 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
“How? The Americans monitor everything flying in and out of here.”
“We have a source.”
“What source? Who?”
“That is our secret.”
“How can I trust this ‘source’ of yours? What if he is working for the CIA? I must know his name or the deal is off.”
The threat of the loss of so much money nearly snatched away the Pashtun’s breath. His eyebrows furrowed as he weighed his options.
“I tell you the truth, I don’t know his name. I have never met the man. But he has never failed us. Not once.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“He accepts our payments. He makes our deliveries.”
“You pay him?”
“No. Someone higher up in my clan does the transfer.” The Taliban darkened, growing more suspicious. He leaned over and lowered his voice.
“The man is a genius, or perhaps even a devil. But I trust him—more than I trust you, Ivan.”
Who is this “devil”?
Overholt was right. Discovering how this gear was being transported without detection was more important than locating the weapons themselves. Juan needed to find this character.
Cabrillo knew he had one last chance to set the hook—or lose the biggest fish of all.
“My superiors will not accept this. You said it yourself. Without trust we cannot do business. If you can’t trust me with the name, you don’t have trust in me. I will find another source of weapons for my unit.”
Cabrillo turned on his heel, but the Pashtun’s frying pan–sized hand seized him by the bicep.
“He calls himself the ‘Vendor.’ ”
“Is he European? Chinese? Mafia?”
“I don’t know what he is. Like I said, I never met him. Never spoke to him. All text.”
“How did you find him?”
The giant Pashtun shook his head. “He found us.”
The “Vendor” isn’t much to go on, Juan told himself. At least it was a start. But he needed more.
“So this Vendor. He has the same problem transporting all of this equipment. How doesheavoid American detection?”
Yaqoob flashed his big white teeth.
“I will show you.”
?
Yaqoob commandeered an open-cab baggage cart and drove Juan over to a large hangar complex several hundred yards away. The wide doors were open. The baggage cart tires squealed on the slick hangar floor when he hit the brakes.
“There.” The Pashtun pointed from the seat of the vehicle.
An Airbus A320 passenger airliner bearing the blue and white paint scheme and logo of Somali Airlines stood in the center of the building.
