target.
Halud Demma sipped his coffee. Savoring the twin rush of caffeine and adrenaline, he weighed the setup. As fate had it, he was given a table within a few yards from where the curtained double doors kept the senator and the DOD man in isolation from the other guests, as they were granted complete privacy in the banquet room. The intelligence provided him by his handlers in Pakistan stated the senator was predictable in his dining habits. Same Italian restaurant in Virginia, same day, nearly the same time, give or take thirty minutes or so. One bodyguard for each man, side arms their only hardware. That the bodyguards were standing post just inside the doors, taking drinks and appetizers from the waitress once she knocked, would make his task that much easier. So far, it appeared their strange and unnatural collaboration with the American intelligence operatives was panning out, though he wasn’t about to take the mission for granted for one moment.
Which was why, at the last minute, he had acquired certain ordnance from a sleeper cell in the Foggy Bottom area of Washington.
He figured the targets would be granted sufficient time before the main course was delivered, but he found himself becoming impatient. They were special guests. VIPs, after all. Why rush them through a pleasant dining experience? What was another few minutes? It had been a fearsome strain on nerves alone just to make it this far, trusting his fate to men he would have normally shot on sight. Only their money, their willingness to betray their own country for undeclared reasons, hire assassins to do their dirty work…
The mullah had given his blessing, and that was enough for the three of them.
Finally the waitress went to the door, tray on her shoulder. Quickly, he palmed his cell phone, tapped in the sequence of numbers required to time the executions. Call it one minute and counting, he figured, and the six-ounce block of C-4 would cover his exit from one of the side doors in the banquet room. Indulging a last-moment smile, he thought himself clever, walking in, dressed as a cleanshaven businessman, the briefcase perched on the empty seat, doomsday ticking down to the last supper for all gathered.
He unzipped the small duffel bag at his feet, easy access now granted to the Czech M-25 submachine gun. Grasping the weapon, he stood and marched ahead just as the bodyguard filled his hands with plates.
RIKAZ HANAHZUD WAS the avenging angel of death for all Islam.
Trained in the Afghanistan camps, he had sharpened his skills to lethal perfection in the killing grounds of Iraq. How many Iraqis, betraying Islam by serving the Great Satan, had he slain? he wondered. How many American soldiers had he sent on to judgment with roadside bombs or sniped dead from a distance?
Not nearly enough, as far as he was concerned.
There were always more enemies, millions, in fact, that needed to feel the sting of death if Islam were to thrive, remove itself from under the bootheel of the Americans.
No, his mission wasn’t the glorious big event he had often dreamed about in Peshawar, or fantasized about during the missions he had pulled off in the hit-and-run killing fields of Iraq, but the targets here in the condominium complex in Washington D.C. were high value. He had been told they were CIA officials, two men, he believed, who kept charting the genocide in Islamic countries. Whatever the reasons the American operatives wanted these men killed were insignificant in the long run. Any dead infidel, especially one who had the power to keep murdering his people, was a good infidel.
The pizza box and matching uniform had gotten him through the secured door when he buzzed the desk. A quick ride up the elevator to the seventh floor and he was now climbing the steps to number eight. He felt his belly churn with hunger as the aroma of pepperoni and onions filled his nose, aware he hadn’t eaten all day. Anticipation, adrenaline and nerves had kept him edged out before the call from his American handler gave him the green light. Food could wait until the victory dance.
It was time, he knew, feeling the weight of the duffel bag hung over his shoulder, open for quick access to the hardware he would use once he crashed the door. Once it was done, he would descend the stairs, evacuate through the basement door.
He was in the hall, gripping the sound-suppressed 9-mm Makarov, when the two infidels standing guard at the door came alive. Falling into his best subservient act, he showed them a wide smile, chirping, “Pizza delivery.”
They looked suspicious, turning his way, one of them lifting a hand, waving him off.
“This is a restricted floor, pal. And nobody ordered any pizza.”
He acted confused, shook his head, then one of them took a step toward him. Honahzad threw the box in the man’s face, the Makarov pistol up and chugging death.
THE HARDEST NATURAL substance on the planet was his ticket out of the life and into the sweet bliss of golden retirement in a tropical paradise of his choosing.
Mike Mitchell knew a little something about diamonds, and he found himself becoming impatient to the point of anger the longer the middleman from Wilders sat at the table, grunting, now and then, as he examined the uncut gems under the 10-power magnifier. No, he didn’t want to hear all the trade talk about clarity, brilliance of facets, color, carat weight and so forth. Nor listen to another round of patronizing babble from the man, how diamonds were the world’s best conductor of heat, with a higher melting point than any other mineral, all the gibberish about their being extracted from kimberlite beds, those pipelike intrusions formed by olivine, deep as eighty feet beneath the earth’s surface. He wanted his damn money.
Mitchell paced the apartment, chain-smoking, hating the setup more with each passing minute, fearing the worst, which was that his little game plan had been found out and someone on the home team was coming to yank his ticket. The ringer and his two cronies from Luanda, he saw, were more interested in the porn flick on the giant screen TV—one of several perks imported along with a case of whisky and Cuban cigars—than a business transaction with the Swiss cheese who called himself Herr Cabal he figured would net him three, hopefully four mil or more. With their AK-74s resting on the deck, barely within quick snatching distance, if they were concerned about security…
Look at them, he thought, chortling, swilling booze, lounging on the big couch, wishing probably they could jump through the screen and devour some light-skinned flesh, ignorant people thinking the bottom line here belonged to them. No way. This was his deal, earned on sweat, blood and balls of steel. A pound or more of rocks, smuggled, here and there, out of Angola the past year or so, stashed in a safe-deposit box in Madrid until he felt it safe to bring in his man from Wilders. And the idiots, he thought, he was sitting on for the organization he had slaved for as mercenary were one of several reasons he was bailing. The org’s end game, for one item, was unnerving enough, preposterous, even suicidal the more he thought about it. It was time to look out for number one. Fifteen years dodging bullets had earned him the right to walk off into the sunset with a bag stuffed with cash.
Mitchell felt his hand wanting to twitch to unleather the Beretta M-9 pistol under his coat, force Herr Cabal to hand over the briefcase he knew was stuffed with a down payment. He looked at Johannsen, sitting on the other side of the table, the big blond merc boring diamond-edged drill bits into the middleman, his AKM resting in his lap. One nod and they would force this show to a surprise ending.
“What’s the story?” he barked at Herr Cabal who took another handful of stones from the large silk pouch. A noncommittal grunt, a shake of the head, and Mitchell snapped, “Come on. Those stones are perfect, but you’re sitting there, acting like they’re cheap knockoffs.”
Cabal grunted. “Perfection is impossible. A ‘perfect diamond’ is an unacceptable trade term. What I am looking for are as few flaws as possible.”
“What’s
