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Back The Utopia Experiment Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. Title Page
  2. Welcome
  3. Prologue
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. Epilogue
  81. About the Authors
  82. The Covert-One Novels
  83. Newsletters
  84. Copyright

“We’ll want to get off it as soon as we can. Is the closest branch left or right?”

“Left. Yes, next to a jewelry stall. Twenty meters at the most.”

Smith nodded and glanced at Randi, who took a position by the door. “On three.”

He counted down and shoved the door open. Randi went first, hiding her gun beneath her chador and pulling Eichmann along with her. Smith followed, staying a few paces back as they integrated themselves into the shoppers and tourists jammed into the souk.

They’d made it almost halfway to the jewelry stall Eichmann mentioned when a shot sounded from above. There was no way to identify the impact point because of the crowd’s sudden, violent reaction. Deafening screams rose up as everyone scattered in different directions. A motor scooter hit a cart cooking chestnuts a few meters away and Smith found himself being pushed away from the side street that was their objective. Randi’s disguise was a little too good and he lost sight of her as he fought his way back to the outer wall of Eichmann’s house.

Smith flattened himself against the stone, edging along it in an effort not to be trampled by the people running past. He finally reached the door they’d come through and wedged his fingers into the crack between it and the jamb—there was no outside handle.

Finally, he managed to get it open and slipped inside before slamming the bolt home again. The woman in the kitchen let out a muffled scream as he ran past and started up the winding stairs.

When he broke back out into the blinding sunlight, he immediately spotted a man disassembling a rifle on the north edge of the roof.

“Jesus, Eric,” Smith said, slowing to a walk. “You actually hit him.”

The man shrugged and stuffed the stock of his weapon in a canvas sack. “You said to make it convincing, mate. He looked convinced to me.”

51

51

Marrakech
Morocco

JON SMITH HAD BEEN LOST at least eight times in the last hour—only six of which were on purpose. But now he felt confident enough that he wasn’t being followed to emerge from the maze of souks onto an open road.

Taxi drivers slowed as they drove by but he waved them off and kept moving along the sidewalk, avoiding eye contact with the people he passed. Sirens were still audible as the police and military responded to the shooting, but that was more than three kilometers east now.

He came to an innocuous door on a street dedicated to the sale of scrap metal and gave a complex knock calculated to sound clandestine. A moment later the door swung open and he stepped into the dim interior of an apartment he’d found on the Internet. It looked just like a safe house should: dilapidated and austere with curtains tucked carefully around the lone window.

“Is he all right?”