Jack Coughlin - Dead Shot

Saladin appeared undisturbed. He had a handsome face with a well-trimmed beard and sharp black eyes that flashed intelligence, and he was dressed in a dark business suit and a subdued pearl gray tie. Actually taller than Juba, he weighed less and was thin. “You look well, and you have done well,” he said as he squeezed Juba affectionately on the shoulder. “I am so proud. Come, please, and meet our host.”

The second man stood. In contrast to Saladin, he wore a cheap suit that could not be buttoned over his stomach, and his belly overlapped the creased belt. The collar tips of his brown shirt flared like dirty wings, and a clump of chest hair had wiggled out above the second button.

“Let me introduce our new friend, Youcef Aseer, a very important leader among our al Qaeda comrades,” said Saladin with some deference. The fat man’s tiny eyes did not leave Juba’s face.

“I am honored,” said Juba and gave a slight bow. He was not about to embrace this unclean fat man who carried the smell of shallots and sweat.

“No, it is I who enjoy meeting you, the famous Juba. Your work in London has left the infidels in panic. God is great! Well done, young man.” The voice was oddly small for such a large man.

They took seats, and Saladin got straight to business. “I know you were surprised by this summons, Juba, but something very important has happened to change our plans. Since the London episode, Youcef Aseer has been designated by al Qaeda to see that we all should henceforth work together. It is a great opportunity for us. Al Qaeda offers a generous sum of money and also manpower-dedicated foot soldiers, street demonstrators, and willing martyrs-that we can use in certain situations. In turn, we supply the formula and our field leadership. They want a strike in France, to subdue this wicked nation like a whipped puppy.”

Youcef Aseer chuckled. “We are closer here than in any other Western nation. One good push is all we need! Imagine an Islamic government in France!”

Saladin clapped his hands. “Exactly, my friend.” He turned to Juba. “Our friend Youcef here is now within our small circle of trust. You are to do as he says, Juba. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Father.” Juba understood very clearly: Al Qaeda was taking over.

“Good. See, Youcef! I told you there would be no difficulty. It will be good to work with al Qaeda again,” said Saladin. “Let Juba see your list.”

The al Qaeda chieftain handed over a small envelope. The small move was peremptory, the sort of wave of a hand that a master gives an underling. This was his home, and his bodyguards were skillful. Unless these two renegades cooperated, he would have them killed.

Juba rose from his chair, and since he could not go between the two because of the table, he circled behind the al Qaeda leader. “Excuse me. The light is better by the window.” He looked out at the fading sunlight playing with shadows on the rooftops and ran his thumb beneath the gummed flap of the envelope, pulled out the paper, and read three names, three addresses, all in the southern part of the country. Of course. The port of Marseille had been the initial arrival point for the first waves of immigrants from North Africa.

Aseer grinned. “The first is a judge who has sentenced our brothers to long terms in prison, the second an undercover detective with a particular skill for infiltrating our group, and the third simply a worthless traitor. Juba, I want you to kill them all to show that our enemies cannot escape the Prophet’s justice.”

“And the attack in France?”

“You leave that to us. We will have our own chemists and physicists construct the weapon under your supervision.”

“It is not yet ready. The London experiment showed the dispersal rate remains too high.”

“Another batch just like that will be more than enough for our purposes,” said Aseer. “We will finish the refining process as time allows.”

Juba nodded and turned to Saladin. “When do you wish me to start, Father?”

“Immediately, my son. The sooner you complete this, the sooner we can move on.”

They both knew that they would not be moving at all if they remained in the grip of al Qaeda.

“Very well.” Juba slid the note into his jacket’s right pocket. The light was dim and purple in the room as he walked back toward his chair. When his hand emerged from the pocket, there was something in it, invisible in the dying, gloomy light. Passing directly behind Aseer, he moved in a blur and looped the strand of piano wire around the neck of the al Qaeda man and yanked hard on the wooden handle in each hand. The wire sliced into the throat like a razor, and the fat man grabbed at the tightening garrote until his eyes bulged and his tongue hung out.

Juba’s hatred of al Qaeda pulsed through his strong biceps and forearms and hands and into the killing wire as he slowly lifted his victim all the way over the back of the chair while the struggling man clawed to hold on to the life draining away from him. He could have finished it quickly but did not want death to come easily to this piece of al Qaeda filth. He tightened the wire more, strangling the man as he twisted the body out of the chair and let it fall onto a burgundy rug that was almost the same color as the blood oozing from the deep neck wound. Aseer urinated in his pants as he died.

Saladin remained calm. What a macabre pleasure it was to watch his son at work. The moves were so clean and economical and perfect, like a ballet dancer’s, and there was a cold passion to his mastery of so many skills. A maestro of death. “Imagine, Juba, this fool actually believed we were frightened.” He spat on the body.

“They will come after us again.”

“No, I think they will simply become a customer. This death signals that the formula still belongs to Unit 999 and no one else. It took us twenty years to develop, and we have repeatedly had to defend our ownership. Now that we are so close to success, no one can be allowed to stop us.”

Juba washed his hands in the kitchen sink. “I will take care of this one, and our men will remove the two guards.”

“Very good, my son.” Saladin refilled his cup of strong coffee. “The London task was flawless, but of course I expected nothing less from you. I assume the announcement is ready for distribution?”

“Yes. I downloaded the pictures I took in London onto discs and posted them, along with your message, by FedEx, to North Korea, China, Brunei, and Tehran. The packages will arrive at any time and someone will have to sign for them, which guarantees delivery.”

“Then it is done. The word will spread from those seeds. Now we wait.”

“You can wait, my father. I have no time to waste. I will relax when it is all done.”

“Would you rather be back in Iraq, taking target practice?” Saladin teased his assassin.

“No. Paris is better. It is too bad that I cannot stay longer. I long for a few days in which I can just be a pure Muslim and sit at your feet again and study the Koran. Physically I am fine, but spiritually I am an empty vessel. My role is difficult.”

“Which is why you are the only one who can do it,” replied Saladin. “I promise plenty of time in the future for you to walk openly as one of the faithful and even go on a hajj to Mecca and Medina. For now, you must remain who you are. The Prophet bestowed special gifts upon you, Juba. I know your inner struggle and intercede with prayers for you every day. Until the right time comes, you must carry on. You know that.”

“Yes. I am but an instrument of the Prophet. Show me the path and I will follow. But tonight I leave for Iran again to observe one final test. The director of our remaining laboratory there thinks the formula will be complete after a final adjustment improves the staying power of the gel. The gas in London still spread too fast.”