Alcohol was a vice. His vice. Alcohol and boys, two of his transgressions against the sacred teachings of the Quran. Perhaps it had been fated to end this way.
Asefi took another long draught of the vodka, coughing as the liquor slid down his throat. It was a taste he had acquired in Chechnya, fighting against the Russians.
Fate. The end of every man. What will be, will be. There is no changing the will of Allah.
Perhaps.
He tipped the bottle back once more, his mind turning over the options left to him. There was a possibility…
A man appeared in the door of the cafe garden, moving in without hesitation. Tall, slender, dressed in the garb of a Westerner, there was nothing to attract attention about him.
It was him. Asefi knew it at once. The caller. The man moved with a grace that was at once both beautiful and terrible to look upon. The subtle ease of a killer.
The Heckler & Koch semiautomatic pistol seemed to tremble under his jacket as the stranger approached his table, the man’s movements at the same time purposeful and casual. A mad desire to draw the gun and shoot his antagonist seized him. Shoot and be done with it — but there was no end but death in that action. This man was not acting alone.
“Dobroe utro,” the tall man greeted in perfect Russian, sliding into the seat opposite. Good morning.
“You’re not a Russian,” Asefi observed abruptly, his eyes meeting with the stranger’s in a coolly appraising glance.
The man chuckled. “Is that so?”
“Your speech is that of a Muscovite, but your face betrays you.” He leaned forward on the table, willing his hands to stop their trembling. “What do you want?”
Harry smiled. “It has come to the attention of my friends that your government has come into possession of a deadly toxin. A toxin which may be used in an attack on the West. What do you know of this?”
“I have heard of this — this toxin of which you speak. Rumors. I know very little that I would consider substantive.” The bodyguard spread his hands in a gesture of futility. “Nothing that could be of help to you. I am sorry that you have come so far to hear so little.”
Pushing his chair back, Harry rose to his feet. “As am I,” he replied. “Still, I am sure you can appreciate the delicacy of this situation — we cannot have it known that there were inquiries made.”
“I can assure you of my discretion.”
“I am assured of it,” Harry nodded. “A sniper rifle is aimed at your chest as we speak. Two minutes after I leave, you will die. If you move, you will only die sooner. You see, a man who knows nothing is of no use to my employers.”
“I don’t believe you,” Asefi snorted, contempt in his tones.
Never taking his eyes off the bodyguard, Harry reached up, carelessly smoothing his dark hair with his fingers. The next moment, the red dot of a laser beam sprouted on the collar of Asefi’s shirt.
“Goodbye, Achmed,” he smiled, turning to leave. The sound of Asefi’s voice arrested his footsteps.
“No. Wait!” There was fear in those words, fear mixed with dangerous rage.
Harry looked back. “You’ve wasted a great deal of my time, Achmed. Is there something else you have to offer?”
“Da, da.” The bodyguard’s eyes darted fearfully around the perimeter of the garden, to the high roofs surrounding. Looking for the sniper. “Your employers will protect me?”
“That’s right,” Harry responded, taking his seat once again. “A new home, a new name, in a place where men of your, shall we say, ‘orientation’ are looked upon more kindly. What do you offer us in return?”
“The target, the location of the toxin, everything. I know everything. But I need more than what you have offered.”
“Oh?”
“I need money as a proof of fidelity,” Asefi retorted. “Eight million dollars. Wired into my account in the Caymans. Before I will tell you what I know.”
“For a man who has only heard rumors, Achmed, you claim to know a great deal. Let’s see some proof. When and where does this attack go down?”
The bodyguard held up a finger. “Not when and where. Not yet. But who. Five terrorists, led by an IRGC major, entered the Golan this morning. They will cross into Israel within the hour.”
“I need names.”
“The names of the four soldiers are unknown to me. But they are led by one Major Farshid Hossein.”
“You’ll have to do better than that, Achmed. Hossein is dead, I watched the video of his execution myself.”
“How is that they say in America — reports of his death have been greatly exaggerated?” Asefi gestured toward his suit pocket. “May I?”
Harry nodded and the bodyguard produced a cellphone, flipping it open to reveal a photo on-screen. It was of he and Hossein, standing together near the steps of a mosque. The time-stamp was eighteen hours old.
“All right,” Harry conceded, watching him carefully. “You’ve convinced me. Why is he in Israel?”
“Enough.” Confidence had returned to Asefi’s voice. “This was a gesture of good faith. Now, show me the money.”
Harry nodded slowly. “I’ll need to make a call. Come with me.”
Turning away from the table, his hands flashed the “stand down” signal.
Tex took one last look from the third-story window that had served as his surveillance position and then lowered his binoculars, turning back toward the stairs. As he headed for the door, he looked at the laser pointer in his hand and smiled. It was curiously effective…
Ron Carter looked up from his terminal as Carol Chambers swept into the op-center. “Good morning, Carol.”
She set down her briefcase at the side of her workstation and glared at him. “I was in the shower when you called.”
“No comment,” he smiled.
She rolled her eyes, sweeping her damp hair back over her shoulders. “What’s our situation?”
“We have eight million dollars that needs to be transferred to a class-A oxygen thief. ASAP.”
“Right. Like there’s no one else in this building who could do that?”
“But the transfer’s not to go through,” Ron added, taking another sip from the cup of cold coffee on his desk.
She pulled back her chair and sat down. “So, we’re running a con. Bait and switch.”
“That’s right. The mark needs to think he’s got the money, needs to know he’s got the money — and he can’t find out the truth.”
“Where’s his banker?” Carol asked.
“On your screen presently — an account in the Caymans.”
“This is gonna be cute.”
“What’s the problem?”
“These accounts have been steadily hardened over the last few years. Getting in isn’t as easy as it used to be. I take it we don’t have authorization to actually hand over the cash.”
The analyst made a face. “That’s directorate-level access. Everybody of that pay grade is asleep at this hour.”
“As all God’s children.”
“Who do you work for?”
Harry looked up from the screen of his laptop, into the face of Achmed Asefi. “Does it matter?”
“I like to know whom I am dealing with. The SIS? CIA? Mossad? You cannot be SVR,” he finished, referring to the reconstituted former KGB. “They would not be running this type of bargain.”
The hotel lobby was well-nigh deserted, save for a few early risers among the tourist traffic — and the employees. Harry made out the form of Tex Richards, ensconced near the coffee bar.