Scott Matthews - The Assassin's list

Barak accepted his report with a nod of his head, and turned to Roberto.

“Roberto?”

“The men you require are ready. The civilian security guards at the chemical depot are customers of mine. They are black, like your men, and about the same size. They have each given me one of their uniforms in exchange for a month’s supply of my product. They won’t live long enough to use that much, of course.”

“Are you positive we can trust them?”

“As positive as I can be. I have compromising pictures that would cost them their jobs. They have all received pictures of their wives and children to remind them how serious I am. One man I approached refused me. He and his family suffered a most horrible fire in their home that consumed them all. No one else will trouble us. They think I just want to steal from the depot.”

Barak met Roberto’s steady gaze and was satisfied he was telling the truth. He still seemed nervous about something, though. Maybe it was the operation itself that gnawed at the man’s nerves. He would have to talk to Kaamil about it.

“Fine, I am satisfied both of you have done what I asked. Kaamil, is the team assembled in the dormitory or the bunker?” Barak asked.

“They are waiting for you in the bunker.”

“When we finish our meal, I will go and meet them. Now, eat, enjoy the food Miguel fixed for us. It is one of the things I most look forward to when I visit-his steaks and these marvelous mashed potatoes,” he said, as he dug into the small white mountain of them on his plate.

Barak and Kaamil left Roberto with a second tequila and walked down a graveled path to the operations center. The path was lined with pink rhododendrons, and daphne scented the air.

“Roberto is nervous about something. Do you know what it is?” Barak asked.

Kaamil hesitated a moment, deciding whether or not to divulge what he suspected. “There are rumors about young girls disappearing in Hood River. Who knows, Roberto may be involved.”

Barak turned to look at his protege in the soft evening light. There was something that Kaamil knew and wasn’t telling him.

“Are you sure that’s all it is? We have heard those rumors before. We have three days left. If you have any reason to think Roberto may fail us, I need to know. I could get his father to send someone we can trust. There’s still time.”

“He’ll be fine,” Kaamil said as they reached the front door of the operations center. “We had a disagreement. He blasphemed our religion, made fun of kissing the Black Stone of Kaaba. I set him straight.”

“And how did you do that? Did you fight with him?”

“No, I told him if I repeated his words to you, he and his entire family would be killed as infidels.” sacrificing their lives was an honor. The games they played as children mimicked suicide bombers killing Jews. Pictures of shaheeds , hung on the walls of their homes. American jihadists didn’t have that background. Their motivation, for the most part, was not to honor their god or protect their way of life. It was to hit back at the country they blamed for their miserable lives. Hatred was their motivator, and he was not sure hatred was enough.

The Brotherhood had loaned him an Egyptian psychiatrist to oversee their mental conditioning. They had been broken, made to feel guilty about their country, and offered a way to redeem themselves. They had posters in their rooms proclaiming the honor of those willing to die for Allah, sessions of hypnotism and nightly sleep programming. But Barak knew it wasn’t the same as growing up dreaming of dying as a martyr.

Kaamil held the back door in the lab open and let Barak walk ahead to the first classroom where they were waiting for him.

Three men sitting in the first row in the classroom jumped to attention when the door opened. They stood stiffly, staring straight ahead, wearing green camouflage fatigues and combat boots. Aside from their beards, which would be gone before Wednesday, they looked like well-trained and disciplined soldiers. They would easily pass for civilian security personnel at the depot.

“At ease,” Barak said. “You have finished training. I am proud of you. You act and look like the holy warriors you are. Three days from now, you will have the honor of striking fear in the hearts of every man, woman and child in this country. You will be remembered with fear and trembling. That’s something you were never allowed to achieve before. Allah has chosen this for you.”

Barak then stepped in front of each man, looking deep into his eyes. “There is no God but God, and Mohammad is his Prophet. Do His will, as you have been trained, and He will reward you in paradise. Are you ready to do that?”

Each man, in turn, said he was.

“From this moment on, you will remain here to prepare. Tomorrow night you will be allowed to celebrate at a feast we have prepared for you. It is a small taste of the pleasures that await you. Then you will have two days to purify yourself and write letters to family or loved ones, and make your video statement. Wednesday is the day you have been waiting for, and it will be glorious. I envy you and I salute you,” Barak said, holding a salute similar to the Nazi salute, before he turned and left the room.

Back at the ranch house, Barak joined Roberto for another tumbler of tequila in the den.

“Kaamil will be back in a couple of minutes, he’s inspecting the men’s rooms. We have time to talk. I can see you and Kaamil are wary of each other. Will you have a problem working with him these last few days?”

“I don’t have to like a man to work with him,” Roberto said, with a shrug. “There are many men I deal with in my business that I don’t like. Kaamil likes to intimidate people he orders around. I don’t take orders from anyone but my father. He asked me to cooperate with you. I am doing that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a young lady waiting for me. Thank you for the excellent tequila and dinner, Don Malik.”

“Good bye, Roberto. When your men have finished what I have asked them to do, you should take the opportunity to visit your father in Mexico. Can that be arranged?”

“I was thinking of taking a short vacation myself. I’m sure my father will be happy to see me,” Roberto said, and left.

Four more days, Barak thought, and I might take a vacation too. What better time to celebrate than after you have assassinated an American Cabinet member.

Mike Casey drove up Drake’s long driveway at 7:15 a.m. Sunday morning. Drake had just returned from a morning run with Lancer and watched the dust rise behind his friend’s SUV. When it stopped in front of the old farmhouse, Drake gave his friend a friendly salute and went to greet him.

“Thought I’d see you for lunch, not breakfast.”

“I slipped out before the kids were up. Thought it would save me from making excuses for not being home,” Mike said, swinging his long legs out of his white Yukon. “Fix me that breakfast you just mentioned and tell me what’s going on, ’cause I suspect I’m going to need my strength today.”

Drake led the way into his kitchen and started pulling items from his refrigerator.

“Coffee cups are in the cupboard to the right of the sink. Some scrambled eggs and toast enough, or do you want me to pull out a steak to go with your eggs?”

“Scrambled eggs and toast will do for now, but save the steak for lunch,” Mike said.

Drake smiled as he started cracking eggs in a small mixing bowl. Mike’s youth, spent on his folks’ Montana ranch working long days, taught him to eat big meals when there was time.

“Thanks for coming on such short notice, Mike. I seem to have kicked over a hornet’s nest when I started poking around a murder at a client’s place,” Drake said, adding a little milk to the bowl, along with a pinch of fine herbs. “If I don’t get ahead of this thing, I’m going to wind up being sucked into a homicide investigation that could cost me my practice.”