The Villa in Marshan sat atop a hill overlooking the strait. It was a modern monstrosity of glass and white concrete, surrounded by manicured gardens and high walls.
Adam approached from the steep, rocky coastline below. The sea crashed against the cliffs, masking the sound of his approach.
He reached the perimeter wall. It was ten feet high, topped with razor wire.
Flashback: The Border of Laos. Year 6.Scaling a sheer cliff face to escape a pursuer. Rain makes the rocks slippery. "Trust your fingers," his guide says. "Find the imperfections." Adam hangs by his fingertips, hundreds of feet above the jungle floor. He breathes. He moves. He ascends.
Adam found the imperfections in the mortar. He climbed the wall, vaulting over the razor wire with a silent roll on the manicured grass on the other side.
Two Dobermans charged him from the darkness of the garden.
Adam didn't run. He knelt and opened the jar of paste, smearing it on a rock and tossing it toward the guard house. The dogs skidded to a halt, sniffing the air, confused by the overwhelming scent of decay. They began to fight over the rock.
Adam slipped past them.
He reached the terrace. The safe was in Karim's study, according to the blueprints he had stolen.
The glass door was locked. Adam pulled out a glass cutter and a suction cup.
Flashback: Shanghai, Year 10.A high-end theft training. The target is a diamond necklace in a laser-grid room. "Steady hands," the instructor says. "Precision over speed." Adam holds his breath. He makes the cut. Not a sound.
Adam cut a perfect circle in the glass. He removed it, unlocked the door from the inside, and stepped into the study.
The room smelled of expensive cigars and leather. On the desk, a photograph of Karim shaking hands with a government minister.
Adam went to the painting behind the desk. He swung it open. The safe was there.
He punched in the code Hamid had given him with his dying breath: 8-8-2-1.
The heavy door clicked open.
Inside sat a black leather book. The Ledger.
Adam opened it. Names. Dates. Bribes to Benali. Payoffs to judges. Shipping manifests for human cargo. And on the last page, a note in his father's handwriting: If you are reading this, I am dead. Expose them.
Adam closed the book. He tucked it into his jacket.
Suddenly, the lights in the room flipped on.
"You have a heavy tread for a ghost," a voice said from the doorway.
Adam spun around.
Standing there was not Karim. It was a young woman, stunning, holding a small pistol. But her hand was shaking.
It was Leila Rahmani, the journalist. She looked at Adam, then at the open safe.
"Adam?" she whispered, lowering the gun slightly. "Adam El Kader? You're supposed to be dead."