Jeffery Deaver - The Kill Room

But he’d known from the beginning that LRR drones wouldn’t always work. For Rashid, with no visible target the only option was a missile, with its twenty-pound high-explosive warhead.

Boston’s long face was aimed out the window. He brushed his white hair absently with his fingers and played with a stray thread escaping from a cuff button. Metzger wondered why he always wore a jacket in the office.

“What, Spencer?”

“Is this a good time for another STO? With the Moreno fallout?”

“ This intel’s solid. Rashid is guilty as sin. We have assessments from Langley and the Mossad and the SIS.”

“I just meant we don’t know how much of the queue got leaked. Maybe it was just Moreno’s order; maybe it was more, Rashid’s included. His was next on the list, remember? His death’ll make the news. Maybe that damn prosecutor’ll come after us for this one too. We’re on thin ice here.”

These were all obvious considerations but Metzger had the need inside his gut and, accordingly, was free of the Smoke.

He absolutely didn’t want this relief, this sense of comfort, of freedom, to go away.

“And if we don’t take him out, you know what Rashid’s got planned for Texas or Oklahoma.”

“We could call Langley and arrange a rendition.”

“Kidnap him? And do what? We don’t need information from him, Spencer. All we need from Rashid is no more Rashid.”

Boston yielded. “All right. But what about the collateral damage risk? Firing a Hellfire into a residence with no visual reference?”

Metzger scrolled down the intel assessment until he found the surveillance report. Current as of ten minutes ago. “Safe house is empty, except for Rashid. The place’s been under DEA and Mexican Federales surveillance for a week for suspected mules. Nobody’s gone inside until Rashid this morning. According to the intel, he’ll be meeting the cartel man anytime now. Once that guy leaves, we’ll blow the place to hell.”

CHAPTER 63

AL-BARANI RASHID LOOKED OVER his shoulder a great deal.

Figuratively and literally.

The tall, balding forty-year-old, with a precise goatee, knew he was in danger—from the Mossad, the CIA and that New York–based security outfit, NIOS. Probably some people in China too.

Not to mention more than a few fellow Muslims. He was on record as condemning the fundamentalists of his religion for their intellectual failings by blindly adhering to a medieval philosophy unsustainable in the twenty-first century. (He had also publicly excoriated moderates of the faith for their cowardice in protesting that they were misunderstood, that Islam was basically Presbyterianism with a different holy book. But they simply blogged insults; they weren’t going to fatwa him.)

Rashid wanted a new order, a complete reimagining of faith and society. If he had any model, it wasn’t Zawahiri or Bin Laden. It would be a hybrid of Karl Marx and Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber, who happened to have attended his own school—the University of Michigan.

But as unpopular as he was, Rashid believed in his heart he was right. Remove the cancer and the world will right itself.

The metastasizing cells were, of course, the United States of America. From the subprime crisis, to Iraq, to the insulting carrot of foreign aid, to the racist diatribes of Christian preachers and politicians, to the deification of consumer goods, the country was a sea anchor on the progress of civilization. He’d left the country after a graduate degree in political science, never to return.

Yes, enemies were eager as wolves to get to him because of his views. Even those countries that didn’t like America needed America.

But he felt more or less safe at the moment, presently in a sprawling ranch-style house in Reynosa, Mexico, as he awaited the arrival of an ally.

He couldn’t say “friend,” of course. His relationship with the slick individuals of the Matamoros Cartel was symbiotic but their motives diverged considerably. Rashid’s was ideological, the war against American capitalism and society (and support for Israel, but that went without saying). The cartel’s purpose was, in a way, the opposite, making vast sums of money from that very society. But its goals were basically the same. Get as many drugs as you can into the country. And kill those who want to stop you from doing that.

Sipping strong tea, he looked at his watch. One of the cartel bosses was sending his chief bomb maker to see Rashid within the hour. He would provide what Rashid needed to build a particularly smart device, which would, in two days, kill a DEA regional director in Brownsville, Texas, together with her family and however many others happened to be nearby at the picnic.

Rashid was presently sitting at a coffee table, bent over a pad of yellow paper, and clutching a mechanical pencil as he drew engineering diagrams for the IED.

Although Reynosa was a thoroughly unpleasant town, dusty, dun-colored and filled with small, sagging factories, this house was large and quite pleasant. The cartel had put some good money into maintaining it. It had decent air-conditioning, plenty of food and tea and bottled water, comfortable furniture and thick shades on all the windows. Yes, not a bad house at all.

Though occasionally noisy.

He walked to the back bedroom door and knocked, then opened it. One of the enforcers with the cartel, a heavyset unsmiling man named Norzagaray, nodded a greeting.

Rashid looked over the cartel’s hostages: The husband and wife, both native Mexican and stocky, their teenage son and little girl sat on the floor, in front of a TV. The father’s and wife’s hands were bound with bell wire, loose enough so they could drink water and eat. Not so loose they could attack their kidnappers.

In Rashid’s opinion, they should have bound the wife’s more tightly. She was the danger; she had the rage. It was obvious as she comforted her daughter, a slim child whose head was crowned with dark, curly hair. The husband and boy were more frightened.

Rashid had been told by his contacts here that he could use the house but he would have to share it with these hostages, who’d been here for eight or nine days. The man’s small business had been spending that time struggling to raise the two million dollars in ransom the drug lords had demanded—because of the man’s defiance of the cartel.

Rashid said to Norzagaray, “Could you turn the volume down please?” A nod at the TV, on which a cartoon was playing.

Their guard did so.

“Thank you.” He looked the family over carefully now, taking no pleasure in their terror. This was crime for profit; he didn’t approve. He regarded the teenager and then a soccer ball in the corner. The colors were those of Club América, the pro team in Mexico City.

“You like football?”

“Yes.”

“What do you play?”

“Midfield.”

“I did too when I was your age.” Rashid didn’t smile. He never did but his voice was soft. He looked at them a moment more. Though they did not know it yet, Rashid had been told the negotiations were nearly complete and the family would be released tomorrow. Rashid was pleased at this. These people were not the enemy. The father wasn’t working for an American company that was exploitative and amoral. He was just a small businessman who’d fallen on the wrong side of the cartel. Rashid wanted to reassure them that they would survive the ordeal. But this wasn’t his concern.

He closed the door and returned to the diagrams he was working on. He reviewed them for long moments. And finally concluded: First, no one could possibly survive being in the proximity of the device they described. And second—he allowed himself the immodest thought—the drawings were as elegant as the finest zellige terra-cotta tiles, a cornerstone of Moroccan art.