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12

In the safety of his Rawalpindi apartment, Youssef sipped on a mug of hot coffee while he worked up the nerve to get in touch with his shadowy TTP contact. After two days of digging, he had nothing of consequence to report about Khalia Patterson. Except for what he’d learned in the online article he’d read less than an hour ago. Since it was in English and as far as he knew his contact didn’t speak it, Youssef hoped this early information was enough to satisfy him. At any rate, he was out of time. He had to report in tonight.

Setting the mug aside, he typed a message in Pashto and waited for a response. Three minutes later, a sharp ding announced a reply.

Did you get the phone I asked you to? Yes, he answered.

Log off, erase the data and call me at this number immediately.

Pulse thudding in his throat, Youssef did, wondering about the sudden urgency. They must be on to something big. What did they want with him, though? It made no sense for them to keep involving him, unless they had
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