Steve Martini - The Enemy Inside

“Damn.” She quickly capped off the ends of the scope, slipped it back into the pocket of her large shoulder bag, and began to move. There was another footbridge, a wrought-iron one that crossed the river about eighty meters downstream, to the west. She moved as fast as she could toward the bridge and the other side of the river. If she could circle around behind them fast enough she might catch one of them before they disappeared.

As the old man made his way across the bridge it seemed to the Libyan who was waiting for him that his footfalls became less lumbering, more regular and steady. He seemed to pick up his pace.

The Libyan began to wonder if he might have a fight on his hands by the time the old man reached this side. Either way it had to be done. There was no time to waste. He pulled out the coil of four-hundred-pound monofilament fishing line from his pocket and looped one end of it around the post next to the steps leading onto the bridge. He tied it off.

Then he scurried across and did the same on the other side, pulling the line taut about eight inches above the second step. In the bright light from the bridge the white line shimmered like a spider’s web in the morning dew. There was nothing to be done about it. Who could have expected this much light?

He pressed the button on the side of the knife and the six-inch blade snapped open. He cut the line with a single stroke from the razor-sharp blade. Then he unwound another four feet of line and cut it.

He put the unused coil back in his pocket and at the same time fished out two small wooden handles. The handles, each about four inches long, were cut from the branches of an acacia tree. They were harder than oak. He doubled the line and wrapped one end around the center of one of the handles, then took the other end of the line and did the same with the other handle. He crossed his hands, one over the other, then gripped the handles tight in his palms so that the doubled-up line passed between the second and third fingers of each hand.

As he uncrossed his closed fists, the line of monofilament formed a loop about the size of a man’s head. As he pulled the handles farther apart the loop closed until the garrote narrowed to the diameter of a man’s neck. Pulled tight with the full force and leverage of a man’s arms, it would slice through flesh like a cheese cutter, and almost as fast.

The Libyan could hear the shuffling of shoes on the wooden planks of the bridge as the old man drew near. Every once in a while he peeked over the steps leading up to the bridge to see if he could see him coming. But the angled elbow at the tower cut off his view.

Finally the old man cleared the turn. When the Libyan saw him he realized he was moving faster and with more coordination than before. He seemed to have sobered up. And now that he was close, he looked much larger.

The man may have been old but was big and barrel-chested, with shoulders and arms like a blacksmith. The Libyan weighed a hundred and sixty pounds soaking wet. The man coming at him looked as if he might tip the scales at three hundred pounds.

He began to wonder if he could hold him down long enough for the garrote to do the job, and if not, whether the blade on his knife was long enough to penetrate something vital. The Libyan began to have doubts. If only his friend had come to help him. The two of them would have no problem. Alone, he wasn’t sure.

Ana made her way as quickly as she could across the metal bridge. It was a straight shot perpendicular across the water. But she was afraid to run for fear that the rattling footfalls on the bridge would draw attention.

At the far side where the wrought-iron bridge met the quay, the distance between it and the end of the wooden bridge where the man was lurking was only about forty meters. This was the result of the diagonal line taken by the old wooden bridge as it crossed the river.

As she came off the bridge Ana had only two options. In front of her was a building blocking her way. She didn’t dare turn left along the quay. If she did, within seconds she would run right into the man waiting at the end of the wooden bridge, assuming he was still there. Instead she went right and walked as fast as she could away from him.

The second she cleared the large building on her left and saw the cross street, she turned the corner and started running.

She ran a little, then walked briskly, then ran again. She had to work her way east back to the wooden bridge. It was no more than a large city block away but from where she was, she couldn’t see it. Behind the buildings along the waterfront was a labyrinth of small lanes, arcades, and narrow streets. None of them seemed to run in a straight line.

She stopped, reached into her bag, and placed her hand firmly around the composite grip. The streets were deserted. Everything was dark. Ana glanced about to make sure no one was looking before she lifted it from the bag. She pulled it out, then felt around in the bottom of the bag for the small cranking device until she found it. She kept walking, one eye ahead of her into the distance, as she lined up the crank and wound it with the small stem handle, turning it like a coffee grinder.

The Libyan watched from the shadows off to the side of the bridge as the old man reached the steps. When Korff got there, he steadied himself with one hand on the heavy beam that formed the handrail on one side of the stairs and began to step down.

Holding the open-bladed knife in one hand, the handle of the garrote in the other, the Libyan waited for him to tumble. Instead the old man came down the steps slowly, sideways, until his lead foot hung up on the line he never saw. For a second he leaned off balance, looked as if he might go down, then grabbed the heavy timber that formed the banister and pulled himself back. He stood there one-legged on the step, the other foot somehow hooked, hung up on the fishing line as Korff tried to regain his balance.

It was now or never. The Libyan came out of the shadows behind him, stepped gingerly over the taut line and plunged the blade of the knife deep into the lower right side of Korff’s back. He probed with the point, moving the handle, searching for the kidney. The second he did it he realized that the blade was too short. He pulled it out and jammed it in again.

This time he hit a nerve. Like a wounded bull the old man lashed out with his left arm. It caught the Libyan on the side of the head with the force of a wooden log and drove him down onto the stairs. The old man’s foot came down with such force that it snapped the line strung across the steps.

The knife still in his back, the old man thrashed about, turning in circles as he tried to reach behind to grab the handle. But he couldn’t get it. The blade was buried in a blind spot beyond the angle where his elbow simply didn’t bend.

The Libyan lay on the steps nearly paralyzed with fear as he watched the hulking form lashing out madly at the empty air above him.

The old man tried to reach the knife with one hand as he swung blindly overhead with the other, all the while yelling and shouting in a language the Libyan couldn’t understand. He bellowed like a bull, enough noise to wake the dead. He struggled to find the handle of the knife as he bled onto the stairs.

Lights on both sides of the river started coming on. If the old man got a hold of his knife and could pull it out, the Libyan knew he would cut him to pieces. He pulled himself to his knees and grabbed the garrote from the steps where he dropped it.

He came up behind Korff just out of reach of his swinging arm, looped the double strand of monofilament over the old man’s head and dropped it quickly around his neck. With the full force of both arms he pulled, using every ounce of strength in his body. The loop snapped closed. Instantly the yelling stopped, the last German syllable cut in half.