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Darwesh Khel clan leader would get there around ten. Bottles of whiskey and cartons of cigarettes had been stashed away in the hideout weeks before.
    Egan rode the taxi down Mohammad Ali Jinnah Street past the MCB Tower. A black sedan was cruising behind, two car lengths’ distant. It turned when Egan’s taxi did. The American exited the cab and walked back to the shopping mall. He entered the lower arcade, took the elevator up one flight, then a staircase down, and then left the building by a different route and flagged another taxi. A few minutes later he stopped and made another switch, using the arcade by the railway station.
    Egan was habituated to the manic ballet of these surveillance detection runs: Back and forth, in and out, never looking behind or over your shoulder, or doing anything that betrayed the reality that you were concerned that someone might be following you. An SDR was like the dust baths taken by desert rodents, who rolled themselves in the sand to blot up the grit. It was getting dirty that made you clean.
    Egan had authority to break off the run if he sensed danger. They always said that: You don’t need proof that something is wrong; someone looks at you cross-eyed, bam, that’s enough. Stop the run and skip the meet. The ops plan always had a fallback, and if you missed that, too, so what?
    Gertz loved to say it: Safety first, brother. If it feels wrong, it is wrong. Bail out. But he didn’t mean it. If you aborted too many meetings, people began to suspect that you were getting the shakes. You were having “operational issues.” Which meant it was time to send out someone younger, who hadn’t lost the protective shell of stupidity that allows you to believe, in a strange city, that you have vanished into thin air.
    Egan tried to will himself into imbecility: Be the taxi. Be the briefcase. But he could hear his pulse in his eardrums, and he was sweating again. His chest was tight, the same way it had been on the last Karachi run. “We need big hearts.” That was another of Gertz’s admonitions. Egan’s heart was ready to bust.
    Gertz was right: He was losing it. He had stopped believing and started thinking. He wasn’t a winner. He had a small heart.
    Egan wasn’t supposed to look behind, but he did. He could feel the surveillance, like a laser on the back of his head. And when he looked, he saw the same black sedan that had been following him earlier, near the MCB Tower. The driver looked different now, different clothes, anyway, but they would do that. He knew he should break off the run right there. He had the authority. And it hadn’t felt right all day: Pieces were out of focus, or in the wrong place.
    Egan’s taxi was an old Toyota Corolla with a Koran on the dashboard and baubles hanging from the rearview mirror to keep away the evil eye. The driver was wearing a knit prayer cap, like everyone else in this Allah-dazed city. The seat cushions were threadbare. The metal springs pressed against his bottom.
    The driver was lighting up a cigarette. Two boys were cursing each other in the street. “Gandu !” said one, using the local slang that means, colloquially, “You faggot!” “ Bahinchod ,” roared back the other. “Sister fucker.”
    Egan was claustrophobic. He told the taxi driver to stop. His forehead was bathed in sweat. He opened the door, then closed it again. The driver was asking for directions. Come on, think: What were his options? He could get out of the car. He could take another taxi back to the hotel, and be on the plane the next morning.
    What address? the driver was demanding again. The little bastard wanted his money.
    What would it be? Egan closed his eyes. There was no quitting this one, not now. It was too late, too many plans, too much momentum. He formed the words, just as he had memorized them: 11-22 Gilani Buildings, Sector 2, Baldia Town. He rasped out the address to the greedy driver, and the cab pulled away.

    Egan never made it to the pickup