“No,” the man barked angrily. “No dirty bombs, no suitcase nukes, no viruses. I want something original. Something… unique.” His eyes tightened, along with his jaw muscles. “Something that will make me even bigger than Bin Laden.”
Khoury thought for a second, then said, “Have you considered Dan Brown?”
“Or Lee Child,” Berry suggested. “He’s really twisted, and he’s in town. The stories I could tell you.”
The man’s face broke into a narrow, sadistic smile as he shook his head slowly. “Sorry, my friends. You’re it.”
“Look, this is nuts,” Berry protested. “You can’t seriously expect us to come up with a way for you to kill people.”
“Oh, I do expect you to, believe me,” the man countered. “Right now, it’s only the two of you. But it wouldn’t be hard for us to grab your families. If you need more… inspiration.”
Berry looked over to Khoury, whose expression now mirrored his own growing sense of doom.
Khoury asked, “This is insane. Whose brilliant idea was this anyway? Yours?”
The man smiled. “Actually, your government thought of it first.”
Both authors’ jaws dropped. “What?”
“I was reading up about Bin Laden, trying to inspire myself into greatness like his, and I found out that just after 9/11, your government brought together a bunch of top producers and writers from Hollywood and asked them to brainstorm how someone might try to attack America. And it got me thinking that I should do the same thing.”
“Brainstorming ways to save people’s lives over a weekend in some nice Malibu beach house is a bit different from… this,” Khoury protested.
The man gave them a sheepish shrug. “Sorry. Best I can do.” Then he clapped his hand, hard. “Okay. Enough wasting time. You have your assignment.”
He snapped his fingers.
The goon in the leather jacket reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a couple of small black notebooks and two pens. He tossed them onto the mattress closest to Berry.
“Let me know when you have something,” the lead goon said.
He turned to go when Berry blurted, “Wait, hang on a second.”
The man turned.
Berry asked, “You seriously expect us to come up with a brilliant plan for you, just like that?”
“Your lives and those of the ones you love most depend on it.”
“How do we even know you’ll let us go if we do this,” Khoury asked.
“I have no use for you once it’s done,” the man said. “And letting you go will only help fuel my legend. Besides, it’s not all bad. Think about it. After this, you’ll become global celebrities. Anything you write will sell a zillion copies.”
“We’ll be the most despised people on the planet,” Khoury objected.
Their captor wasn’t moved. “I’ve always read that any publicity is good publicity, no?”
Khoury exhaled and looked over to Berry. They seemed equally exasperated, outraged, despondent. But then Berry gave Khoury the tiniest of nods, firing up a kernel of resolve inside him.
“Get to work,” the man said.
He turned to go, and again, one of the authors interrupted his exit.
“Wait,” Khoury said. “We need more. To work with.”
“What do you mean?”
“Any decent plot starts with the antagonist.”
The man seemed confused.
“The bad guy,” Khoury explained. “These stories are only as good as their bad guy.”
The man said, “Fine. That’s me.”
“So we need to know about you.”
The man laughed, then wagged a finger at him. “Clever. Trying to get some information out of me?”
“No, I’m serious,” Khoury said. “It’s all about character motivation. It has to be solid. So we need to know, why are you doing this?”
“Where does this lust for blood come from?” Berry added. “Why are you angry at America? Was it something in your past? Maybe you blame us for something that happened to you or your family? Someone you cared for?”
The man thought for a moment, then shrugged. “No.”
The writers seemed thrown by his answer.
“Okay,” Khoury said, “you said you wanted to be bigger than Bin Laden. Where does that come from? Were you bullied at school? Or maybe at home? Did anything happen that changed you, that turned you into, if you don’t mind my saying it, a raging psychopath?”
The man considered the question, then shook his head. “No.”
The writers exchanged a perplexed look.
Berry asked, “So why are you doing this?”
“It’s more fun than driving an Uber.” He grinned, then fired them a look that said they were done and headed for the door.
“Wait,” Berry said.
The man exhaled loudly, dropped his shoulders, then turned around grudgingly. “Now what?”
“We need a name,” Berry said. “Something to call you.”
Khoury added, “Ideally, something with a strong ring to it.”
The man nodded, then proudly proclaimed, “My friends call me El Assad. The Lion.”
Khoury glanced at Berry, then shook his head.
“What?” the man asked.
“Can’t use it,” Berry said. “Nelson DeMille already used it. Twice.”
“Then there’s the Syrian president. He’s really taken the shine off that name.”
“True.”
The man frowned.
“What about Dr. Evil?” Khoury asked sheepishly.
“I’m not a doctor,” the man said.
Khoury gave Berry a discreet grin. “Worth a shot.”
“Call me Abul Mowt,” the man proposed, his face darkening with the words.
Khoury’s face sank. Which Berry noticed.
“What?” Berry asked.
“It means ‘father of death,’” Khoury said.
Berry looked over to their captor. “Not bad,” he said. “That, we can work with.”
“So get to work,” the man said somberly.
“And about the food…?” Khoury asked.
The man’s tone rose with irritation. “I’ll get you some damn food. Anything else?”
“It’d be good to have an internet connection,” Berry said. “You know, for research.”
The man glared at him, half-amused. “Nice try. Get me something, soon. You’re not leaving here until you do.”
Then he walked out, his fingers snapping his minions to follow suit, leaving the two authors locked in their cell.
6
Reilly had no idea how capable his targets would prove to be, but as he took another bite of his chicken shawarma wrap, he was certain of one thing: when it came to Lebanese food, these guys knew where to go.
“Unbelievable,” he said, watching as Malone layered some tabbouleh along the spine of a lettuce leaf.
“I really miss this in Copenhagen,” Malone managed between mouthfuls. “Can’t get decent Lebanese food there. Nothing like this, anyway.”
Reilly dipped a triangle of thin Arabic bread into the plate of humus, then studied the restaurant again as he savored the bite.
It was a long, narrow room. Along one side of it ran a bar made of a slightly garish, richly-veined marble. Behind the bar were the two shawarma stands, huge, fat cylinders of meat — one lamb, the other chicken — that was layered onto a skewer that rotated slowly in front of a gas fire. There was also a wide, narrow horizontal charcoal grill that was used for kebabs, and a wide preparation area where the three chefs added the various condiments and garnishes to the sandwiches or plates. Eight customers, all men, sat on tall stools facing the bar, eating. A couple of them seemed chummy with the chefs and were chatting away with them between bites. A dozen small tables lined the other wall, which was clad with large mirrors. Reilly and Malone occupied the table closest to the door, facing the shawarma stands, where a couple of other men waited for their takeaways. Judging by the uninterrupted flow of such pick-ups, and of diners coming in and out of the place since the two Americans had been seated there, the restaurant was evidently doing a brisk business on all fronts.