The logic was unassailable. Alex stalled again.
“You’ve really caught me by surprise, Thomas. May I call you back?”
“Sure, Alex,” Dugan said, “take your time.”
“Fine, Thomas. Talk to you soon.”
Alex Kairouz disconnected and buried his face in his hands.
“Captain Braun, Mr. Kairouz is not to be disturbed,” Mrs. Coutts said.
Braun stood in Alex’s door, hand on the knob as he glared back over his shoulder.
Mrs. Coutts gave Alex a look of helpless apology.
“It’s fine, Mrs. Coutts,” Alex said.
She nodded and retreated to her desk.
Braun shut the door and moved to Alex’s favorite armchair.
“You should sack that old bitch, Kairouz, and get someone easier on the eyes,” he said, pointing to the sofa. “But come sit. I don’t have all day.”
Alex stood, stiff with rage. “I’m cooperating, Braun, so don’t abuse my staff. Clear?”
“That’s Captain Braun, and you’re not cooperating, or that old hag wouldn’t interfere. She’ll have an accident if she isn’t careful. Is that clear? Now sit,” Braun said, pointing again.
Defeated, Alex complied.
“Now,” Braun said, “who is this American?”
“Thomas Dugan, a consultant and friend. I’ll get rid of him.”
“Won’t that arouse curiosity, given his rather logical offer?”
“Perhaps,” conceded Alex, “but I can hold him off. Long enough for you to finish whatever this business is and be gone.”
Braun shook his head. “I think not. I don’t want some curious Yank starting to ask questions. Better to keep him close and watch him. Besides, he may prove useful.”
“I’ll just get rid of him,” Alex repeated.
“On the contrary,” Braun said, his voice hardening, “offer him the job, effective immediately.”
“No. Best keep him away.”
Braun sighed. “How tiresome.”
He rose from the chair to snatch Cassie’s photo from the desk and toss it into Alex’s lap. Alex set the picture on the end table and glared.
“Time for a reminder, Kairouz? Must we review the videos?” Braun paused. “Then again, she does look like your dead wife. Perhaps you’ve already begun her education. Bedding the retard are you, Kairouz? Perhaps I can help. Have her broken in by a dozen big fellows while you watch. Sound appealing?” Braun laughed and awaited the expected response.
Alex charged, but Braun was younger, fit, and well trained. In seconds, Alex was face down, his right arm twisted behind him, as Braun ground his face into the carpet.
“I grow tired of these lessons, Kairouz. The next time you cross me, Farley will rape the retard in front of you as a down payment. Understand?”
Alex nodded and Braun released him. “Good. Now phone Dugan.” He sneered. “After you pull yourself together, of course. You’re pathetic.”
Alex heard Braun leave as he lay unmoving, and tears of impotent rage stained the carpet.
“That’s great, Alex,” Dugan said into the cell phone. “I’ll e-mail Mrs. Coutts my flight information. I assume I can stay at your place as usual until I find a place of my own?”
“Of course, Thomas,” Alex said. “Cassie will be excited when I tell her.”
“I look forward to seeing you all. Bye now,” Dugan said and hung up.
He sat silent for a moment until Ward spoke.
“So what do you make of that, Tom?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Dugan said. “He … he has been acting a bit strange lately, and he definitely seems a bit less enthusiastic than I anticipated.”
“Yeah, something’s up, all right,” Ward said.
Dugan didn’t respond.
“Having second thoughts?” Ward asked.
“I don’t know if I can do this, Jesse. I may have taken a few photos and snooped around for you a bit, but I’m not a spy, and I sure as hell can’t learn to be one in twenty-four hours.”
“Don’t worry. The Brits will backstop you. MI5 is putting together a team now.”
“I sure hope you know what you’re talking about, pal,” Dugan said.
Karl Enrique Braun, freelance “problem solver,” formerly of the East German Ministry for State Security (Stasi), returned to his spacious new office, the former home of three disgruntled ship superintendents now displaced to the cubicle farm. He was sated from an excellent lunch, courtesy of his new Phoenix Shipping credit card, and he smiled at the sign on the door: Captain Braun — Director of Operations. The “captain” was a nice touch and as real as his name, after all. He’d been many people in service to the state. When the end had come, he’d forecast it a bit more clearly than his former colleagues and arrived in Havana hours after the wall fell. The Cuban Ministry of the Interior (MININT) was a Stasi clone and always in need of talent, especially talent with fluent Spanish and Cuban roots. He touched his face. The Cubans had excellent plastic surgeons.
His Nordic good looks and native fluency in a half a dozen languages provided the Cubans an asset of incalculable value, and he parlayed that to his own advantage. He’d become a “consultant” and then a free agent, protected by the Cubans in exchange for sharing intelligence. Capitalist by default now, he worked for anyone with his fee, from drug lords to African dictators. His best clients to date were Latin American demagogues, champions of a failed model, buying the votes of the dispossessed with promises no economy could make real, especially not the bungled economics of the neo-socialism.
Braun smiled again. No client had been as malleable and oblivious to fees as that idiot Rodriguez in Venezuela. It would be a shame to lose the cash flow should it prove necessary to sacrifice him as damage control. Then again, the Iranian had proven to be more than generous and deserved his fire wall. Braun was looking forward to a very comfortable retirement.
He settled in behind his desk and contemplated the latest turn of events. He didn’t like this American lodging with Kairouz, but it was apparently an arrangement of long standing; best to keep to routine. Besides, Kairouz was thoroughly cowed, and this Dugan was one more American he could throw into the mix to make things all the more believable.
Willingly to the slaughter. Braun could hardly believe his good fortune.
Chapter Six
Mohammad Borqei stood, balled fists in his back as he stretched to ease the stiffness of the old shrapnel wound. American shrapnel, for the Great Satan had been generous in aid to Saddam when the madman had been murdering Iranians. Borqei swallowed his anger. He moved from the window to his desk and picked up the message from Tehran.
A wistful smile crossed his bearded face at thoughts of Iran, a home he’d never see again. It had taken years to craft his “legend” as a moderate, advancing viewpoints he despised in mosques across Tehran, enduring the hostility of colleagues, and finally imprisonment for seditious acts. Then he’d “escaped” to the US via Canada, and the foolish Americans had tugged the Trojan horse through the gate.
He’d settled in Dearborn, with its large Muslim community, joining interfaith groups and preaching tolerance. When the Imam of the House of Islamic Knowledge died in a car crash, he was the logical choice to assume leadership of the community’s preeminent mosque. Able to count Islamic voters, the local congressman fast-tracked Borqei’s citizenship application and stood smiling as he took the oath. Indeed, Borqei’s public “assimilation” was so convincing that it undermined his mission. His inner circle of the faithful was small and resistant to all efforts at expansion.