Andrew Britton: The Assassin

True, he did not resemble his predecessors. Most of the men sent to Kassem were throwbacks to the Cold War, former field men in their fifties and sixties. They were all the same: fattened on rich food, full of false smiles, soft in semiretirement and eager to please. This one was different.

The man who sat before him was young, lean, and exceptionally fit. His lank black hair was long and unkempt, drifting over his forehead in places, and the lower half of his tanned face was obscured by a matted beard. In many ways, he looked like one of the elite U.S. soldiers so prevalent in the city. At the same time, his clothes, a plain black T-shirt and threadbare utility pants, were decidedly civilian in style. Kassem took note of everything he saw, as was his habit, but it wasn’t these things that bothered him.

It was the eyes. They were dark gray and completely empty. He had seen the same vacant look in men who had suffered a terrible loss, men who had surpassed the pain and found nothing to take its place. Kassem idly wondered what could have happened to this young American, but he was more concerned about what it might mean for him. He was beginning to think that his guest did not understand how the game was played.

“The money,” he replied carefully, “goes to men who, without a way to feed their families, might take up arms. The money goes to trained fighters who, without hope, might offer your country more than petty resistance. It is what we agreed on.”

“I understand the agreement. What I don’t understand is how we’re supposed to measure your progress. What guarantees can you offer us?”

“You have seen the proof,” Kassem boasted. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t hold the arrogance down for long. “How many soldiers have you lost in the last month? Or the month before that?”

“That’s a fair point,” Kealey conceded. “I wonder what happened to those men. The ones who, according to you, have turned away from the insurgency. Maybe some of them have accepted the new government. Perhaps your peers to the east are as successful as you in their efforts to reform those who served under Saddam.”

Kassem nodded solemnly. “Perhaps you are right. It takes time to-”

“On the other hand, maybe they didn’t turn away at all.”

The Iraqi furrowed his brow, clearly annoyed by the interruption. “What do you mean?”

Kealey leaned forward, stabbing his words across the table. “The timing seems very convenient, Arshad. You’ve been on the Agency payroll for nearly two years, but you didn’t seem to care too much about fulfilling your end of the deal until the president decided to start pulling out troops. I can’t help but wonder who else is dumping money into your bank account.”

Kassem did not respond for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his words were slow and measured. “I can see that you are new to this line of work. You are very quick to make accusations.”

Kealey shrugged. “Let me tell you that-”

“No, let me tell you.” Something had changed in the Iraqi’s demeanor. “Have you ever been to Najaf?”

For Kealey, the lie came easily. “No.”

“I know a man who lives there, a friend of mine for many years. We are very much alike, this man and I, in that he commands respect in his district, he is looked to as a leader. His position brought him to the attention of your government, but there was a difference between us. He did not want to take your money, to bow to your authority. I called him a fool, and I was right to do so, but I was also envious, because I admired his strength.

“Of course, it could not last. An American came to see him two months ago. He was young, like you.” There was a brief, meaningful pause. “He offered my friend a hundred thousand U.S. dollars to switch sides, to give the government, your government, his support and the support of his men. My friend refused. His honor was worth more than any amount of money. At least, that is what he believed at the time.”

Kassem watched Kealey for a reaction. When none appeared forthcoming, he continued. “That evening, your country dropped a bomb less than a hundred meters from the house in which he was sleeping. He survived the blast, and the following day, the American returned. This time he offered seventy thousand dollars. My friend accepted.”

Kealey nodded absently. “It sounds like he made a smart decision.”

The offhand comment was the last straw. Kassem’s face twisted into a mask of rage, the hatred suddenly boiling to the surface. “You arrogant fuck,” he hissed. “Where do you think you are? Who are you to judge what is right for my people?”

Kealey didn’t visibly react to the sudden outburst. His right hand, however, inched closer to the slight bulge beneath his shirt as the Iraqi continued, his voice rising with each passing syllable. “You come here with the belief that you are superior. What you cannot buy, you take. You stupidly believe that you are invincible, that you can survive anything…”

Kassem abruptly half-stood, his body shaking in anger, and waved his arms around the tiny room. “This is my country!” he shouted. “Do you honestly believe that we are that weak? That we could not get rid of you if it suited us?”

The man’s tirade confirmed what Kealey already knew: that at some point in his dealings with the Agency, Arshad Kassem had stepped over the line. Way over the line. “I know that we didn’t have to drop a bomb next to your house,” he said quietly. “That tells me more than all of your bullshit.”

Kassem stopped moving. He stared at Kealey, openmouthed, for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he sat back down, and when he spoke, his words were very soft.

“I think I’d like to be paid now.”

FALLUJAH

“What the hell is he doing?” Walland hissed, directing the question to Paul Owen over his MBITR handheld radio. Kealey’s transmission was coming over the SINCGARS unit mounted to the dashboard; he could hear the rapidly deteriorating conversation through the sliding rear window of the Tacoma.

“I have no idea,” was the Delta officer’s strained reply. “It sounds like he’s baiting him.” There was a rush of static, then, “We’re turning around. This looks like it’s going to shit… I want to be able to get out of here in a hurry.”

“I hear that. I’ll cover the guards while you move.”

“Roger that.”

Walland resumed watching the two guards, his M4A1 across his chest, muzzle depressed. He couldn’t point the rifle directly at the guards without starting an unnecessary gunfight. At the same time, his stance allowed him to bring the weapon to bear in an instant if the need arose.

It happened just as Kealey said it would. The guard on the right lifted a radio to his lips the moment Owen’s vehicle started to roll, and it didn’t fall to his side until the Tacoma had completed its three-point turn. The other pickup followed suit so that all three of the trucks were facing north, back toward the train station.

Walland lifted his handset. “Did you see that?”

“Yeah, I saw it. I’m squelching Kealey’s radio. Let’s hope he plays it smart.”

The tension in the room was almost unbearable. For Kealey, the silence amplified everything else: the hatred in the eyes of Arshad Kassem, the particles of dust dancing in the hazy light, the nervous twitch of the one guard in his field of vision. The older man was staring at him expectantly.

“I want my money.”

Kealey shook his head and said, “We’re not through yet.” With the guard watching his every movement, he slowly pulled a thin folder from the pack at his feet. At the same time, he checked to make sure that his radio was still transmitting. He tossed the file onto the table. “These are wire records, Arshad. Your records, traced back to the Allied Bank in Beirut. It looks like you’re doing pretty well these days. Accounts in Luxembourg, Switzerland, and the Central Bank in the Dutch Antilles. What are you looking at, total? Five, six million dollars?”