A yellow taxi approached slowly, then stopped a few meters from him. Khalil noted that the taxi's off-duty light was illuminated. The driver lowered his window and asked, "Mr. Gold?"
Khalil nodded and got into the taxi behind the driver. He said in Arabic, "Yalla mimshee." Go.
The driver continued down the street, and Khalil said, "Take me to the house."
"Yes, sir." Amir glanced at his passenger in the rearview mirror. He did not know this man, except as a fellow Libyan, a friend of a friend. And this friend had made it clear to Amir that this man, who for some reason was posing as a Jew, was a very important man, and that Amir had been chosen to perform a service to his country by aiding this compatriot. Also, this man would give him a thousand dollars to show his appreciation.
Amir again glanced in his rearview mirror. The man's eyes were black like night, but nevertheless seemed to burn like coal.
"Look at the road. Not at me."
"Yes, sir."
They drove slowly, and Amir made a few turns through the quiet neighborhood.
Yes, Khalil thought, it was a family day, and perhaps the Americans went to church in the morning and then they observed the secular aspects of the Christian Sabbath-going to the park or to the beach where men, women, and children paraded half naked in front of one another. And, of course, there was the Sunday shopping. The Americans shopped seven days a week, morning, noon, and night, including even on their Sabbath and their holy days.
Malik had told him in Tripoli, "There are two hundred fifty million of them, and they are consuming the planet. Money is their god, and spending it is their sacred duty." Malik had added, "The women especially are like locusts in a field of grain."
Khalil turned his thoughts from Malik back to the taxi driver sitting in front of him. He asked Amir, "Have you remained observant here?"
"Of course, sir. And my wife and my six children. We answer the call to prayer five times each day and read from the Koran each evening."
"Why are you here?"
"For the money, sir. The infidels' money. I send it to my family in Tripoli." He added, "Soon, we will all return to our country, Allah willing." He added, "Peace be unto him."
Amir turned onto a tree-lined street of brick houses and said, "The house is up ahead on this side."
Khalil asked, "Do you have my gift?"
"I do, sir." He took a black plastic bag off the floor and handed it back to his passenger.
Khalil opened the bag and extracted a bouquet of flowers wrapped in green paper and cellophane. He took from his overnight bag an eight-inch carving knife and stuck it blade-first into the bouquet. He said to Amir, "Stop at the house, then park where you can see the whole street. Call me if you see a police vehicle or anyone approaching."
"Yes, sir." Amir stopped in front of a two-story house of brick with a blue front door, which Khalil recognized from the photograph.
Khalil scanned the area around him, but saw nothing that alarmed him. More importantly, he felt no danger. And yet that text message had certainly reached Haytham's cell phone. Perhaps, too, they had called him at his home.
A more cautious man would leave now, but caution was another word for coward.
He exited the taxi quickly with the flowers in his left hand, the Glock in his right jacket pocket, and the Colt.45 stuck in his belt under his jacket.
He walked straight up the driveway of the house in which two vehicles were parked, and if anyone saw him, they would not be suspicious of a man in a good sports jacket carrying flowers to a friend's house. He could thank his former trainer, Boris the Russian, for the contrivance of the flowers, which according to Boris was a tried-and-tested KGB ruse. Boris had said to him, "A man with flowers and a smile on his face is not perceived as a dangerous man." Yes, and Khalil would thank Boris in person before he cut out his heart. He smiled.
At the end of the driveway was a garage, and the house and garage were connected by a white fence with a gate. Khalil remembered the aerial view of the house and recalled that the rear property was surrounded by a high wall and tall hedges, and there was a patio with furniture and outdoor cooking apparatus. According to Malik, Khalil could expect that the family might be outdoors, and the family had no dog. Khalil now heard music coming from the backyard, Western music, which was not pleasant to his ears.
He took a step beyond the concealment of the house and peered over the low fence as he reached for the Glock. If they were waiting for him, it was here that they would show themselves. But there was no one on the patio, and he opened the gate and moved quickly toward the back door of the house. Then he realized that the music was coming from behind him, and he turned toward a chaise lounge that had been facing away from him. On the lounge was a girl of about fifteen years, lying in the sunlight, nearly naked, wearing only a small white bathing suit such as he'd seen in Europe. On the ground beside her he saw the radio that was playing the music. She seemed to be sleeping.
He stepped toward the girl, whom he recognized from photographs as Nadia, Haytham's daughter. As he moved toward her, he kept glancing back at the house, but saw no one at the windows or door.
He stopped beside the girl and looked down at her body. In Libya, she would be whipped for her near nakedness, and her mother and father, too, would be whipped for allowing this. Her mother might even be executed if the Sharia court ruled against her. No matter, Khalil thought, they would all be dead shortly. He withdrew the knife from the bouquet.
The girl must have sensed his presence or sensed that something was blocking the sun on her body, and she opened her eyes.
The girl did not see the knife; she saw only Khalil's face and saw the bouquet that he extended toward her. She opened her mouth, and Khalil thrust the knife into her bare chest between her ribs and deep into her heart. The girl stared at him, but only a small sound came from her open mouth and her body barely moved. Khalil twisted the knife and let it go, then threw the flowers on her chest.
He spun around, drew the Glock, and moved straight toward the screen door. Khalil turned the handle of the screen door, which was unlocked, and stepped into a rear foyer that was cluttered with shoes and jackets. To the right was an open doorway through which he could see a kitchen, and in the kitchen he saw the back of a woman at the sink. She was wearing short pants, a sleeveless shirt, and she was barefoot. She appeared to be preparing food.
Khalil moved toward the opening, and he could now see the entire kitchen; there was no one there but the woman. He focused on an open doorway that led toward the front of the house, and he heard the cheer of a crowd-a sporting event on the radio or the television.
Khalil pocketed the pistol, stepped into the kitchen, and took two long strides toward the woman.
The woman said, "Nadia?" and as she turned her head over her shoulder, Khalil clamped one hand over her mouth and the other on the back of her head and pushed her hard against the sink. He saw a knife in her hand, but before she could raise it, he twisted her head until she was almost facing him. Their eyes met for a second before Khalil felt her neck snap, and the knife fell from her hand.
She began twitching, and Khalil let her slide gently to the floor, where she continued her spasmodic movements.
Again, they made eye contact, and he watched her for a few seconds, trying to determine if she was going to die or become crippled from the neck down. It didn't matter to him, though he might prefer that she spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair. In a year or two, he thought, her bare legs and her arms would not look so good to a man.