The Perfect Weapon

by Christopher Metcalf

  He closed his eyes. “I assume that two days after I was to connect with you through the phone message service in Brussels, you began to think something was up. Two days after that, you knew something was amiss and you called the service to be sure my message wasn’t misplaced. When you found nothing from me, you considered your very select set of options and then checked for any messages from Papa.”

  “Papa?” She knew already.

  “Seibel.” He opened his eyes, smiled and then closed them again, but not before sliding his hand down her arm. “I was off on another one of his missions and if I was missing, it’s not much of a leap for you to try that avenue.”

  “But why would he leave a message for me? I have nothing to do with you, right?” She turned onto her side and propped up on her elbow.

  “He works in mysterious ways, you know.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “So, am I close?”

  “You are correct, as usual. Have I told you how much you are like him?”

  “Ooh, that hurts. Really, that’s tough.”

  “Too bad. It’s true.” She fell on her back, her head on the pillow. “Christ. If I stop and think about it for a minute, it’s Freudian. He is my father and you are the image of my father that I seek for assurance and approval.”

  “Come on. I’m nothing like him.” He laughed and snuggled into her, pulling her close. “He’s chocolate, I’m vanilla. He’s Mercedes, I’m Honda. He’s-”

  “He’s a master manipulator without equal and yet, you are his equal.”

  “His equal?”

  “You are his heir, his disciple and protégé. Except...”

  “What?”

  She turned away to look out the window. He let her remain silent for these moments. “Except you are no one’s equal. That is to say, no one is your equal.”

  “Man, such praise from one in a billion. I am not your equal, not in your league even.”

  “I’m not trying to elevate your esteem.” He laughed at that. She sometimes messed up her English phrases and chose words that were too formal. “What?”

  “Nothing. Please, continue.” He said.

  She turned back. “You don’t need me to tell you anything. You know how he feels about you, how I feel about you. As much as you resemble him, you are much more. Lance, there’s no one like you, anywhere. I’ve been to a great many places and seen and met people of all types and there is truly no one quite like you. That’s the only way I can say it.”

  “You know, you took the words out of my mouth. I’ve not seen as many things as you and never will, but you are a singular creature. One in a billion, or six billion, like I said.”

  “You don’t have to say that. You don’t have to qualify your feelings for me in any way.”

  “I’m not. Just stating fact, as I see it.”

  “Then I’ll just say I love you.” She smiled, her smile. It was a singular smile just for him.

  “That’s all I need to hear.”

  “It was love at first sight for me, you know. Never felt anything like it before. I’ll never feel that way again, except the next time I see you after being apart.” She moved closer and put her head to his chest.

  “I can do better than that.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It wasn’t love at first sight for me.”

  “No? Then what was it?”

  He pushed her back so he could see her face. “It was death.”

  “Death?”

  “Death. I was done the moment I saw you. I’ve already told you how it, how you’ve changed me. I knew in that moment and in all the others we’ve been together that I would never change the way I feel about you. It’s a life sentence. I’ll die knowing it, no matter what happens, even if I never saw you after today.”

  “Don’t talk about dying. I’ve already asked you that.”

  “I told you, I died when I first saw you. All the rest of this is extra, like heaven I guess.”

  “Damn Lance, you are so good at this.”

  “At what?”

  “At making me want you, love you, need you. All of it.” She pulled him closer.

  “Then my plan is working.” He kissed her. Their conversation was over.

  Chapter 25

  “Lie to me.” Her eyes were half closed as she rested her chin on his chest, the left side of his chest; the side not still healing from bullet wounds and surgery. They were lying on a blanket on the beach a few hundred feet from their thatched-roof cabana. The waves in the lagoon were gently lapping. If they were on a honeymoon, this would probably be the moment they would both remember when they pulled out the photo album years from now to show to kids and then grandkids.

  They would both be graying, shriveling and yet still share that certain look when Yap and their honeymoon came up.

  But there were no photos from this holiday. No bright and shiny gold and diamond rings on fingers. This was a retreat, a reprieve. But it was also the proverbial calm before the storm. They were leaving tomorrow. The previous 19 days of peace, quiet, sand and sun would only be a memory. Nineteen days was a long time though. For many young couples, it could be a relationship killer. But for these two killers, it was just more glue to bond them together.

  “You know I can’t lie to you.” He had his left hand behind his head. His right was still sore, but he gently stroked her hair.

  “Come on, just tell me a few lies.” She pleaded.

  “I just can’t. I haven’t told you a single lie in weeks.”

  “But you are so good at it. Try it.”

  “You always know when I tell you lies. You nail me every time. Maybe when we get off this island, which I am definitely ready to do, I can get back to my old ways.”

  “I just wanted to be comforted by you and you are most comfortable when prevaricating. It is your natural state.”

  “Well, I’m not comfortable now.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I was just trying to help you feel better. I thought you were very anxious about leaving tomorrow.”

  “I am. I’m ready to get back to normalcy and routine. I need to get back to people, lots of people. I have to admit, just a little, that I’m bored. It’s not you, it’s just this place that I’m ready to leave.”

  She rose from his chest and sat up with her knees pulled up. “I’m sorry you feel this way.”

  He burst out laughing and still somewhat painfully sat up to put his chin on her knees. She didn’t look happy in this moment.

  “This is a side of you I’ve not seen,” she pulled her head back a bit.

  “Uh, honey, you asked for it.”

  “What? I don’t understand.” She furrowed her brow and he melted inside. It was that quick.

  “Marta what did you ask me to do one minute ago?”

  “To lie to me, not to become a… jerk is what you say.”

  “And what did I say?”

  She looked back over their brief conversation and then suddenly shoved his forehead. “Not jerk, you’re an asshole.”

  “Sorry.” He smiled wider. Marta's anger was a brilliant treat for his eyes. Her eyes lit up, her cheeks blushed.

  “Which ones were lies?”

  “Which ones do you think?”

  “The part about leaving here.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Which parts then?”

  “All of it. Every word I spoke. I did as you asked.”

  “Damn you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Chapter 26

  Preacher's plans were changed by headlines on a newspaper folded over a chair at the small island’s airport. He picked up the paper, read about the triple bombings three days earlier and turned to Marta, who stood in front of a man at a desk confirming their reservations for a chartered plane.

  She turned to see his look. His brows furrowed, his procerus muscle hard at work. She walked over and he handed her the paper. He turned away to look out a window onto the runway. After a min
ute, he turned to her as she finished the article and looked up. Her face said it all. Change of plans.

  “That’s my friend’s handiwork. I’ll bet he built each one.” Preacher was looking at her, but he was gone, out of body looking down from a satellite view 200 miles in orbit. He peered down at Zagreb, Cairo and Grozny. He was about to zoom in to each location when she brought him back.

  “All within three hours of each other. That required teams. Not one man.”

  “Anwar used some soldiers. My gut tells me Grozny was a suicide bomber. The others were planted.”

  “This changes things.” She was dead on, as usual.

  “Definitely does.”

  “What do you need to do?”

  He smiled. “I need to talk to Siebel. I’ll bet there are a dozen messages waiting for me at the service.”

  “We’ll have to adjust our plans.” She was matter-of-fact, not hurt.

  “You’ll have to promise to not do anything without me.”

  Her turn to smile. “I’ll wait. A little while, at least.”

  “You could go with me, help me.” He squeezed her arms gently. He was serious.

  “No. You will need to concentrate. I would get in the way.”

  “You already get in the way. Every moment. You know that.”

  “Lance. You will need to be someone else, move quickly without explanation or baggage.”

  He exhaled and shook his head. She knew exactly what he was about to do. She had done it herself many times. She kissed him and turned back to the gentleman at the desk.

  Preacher watched her, admired her. At least they had the long flights over the next day together. After that, they would go separate ways. It stung, he could feel it. He knew they’d have to part at some point. But he still didn’t care for it. Hell, he hated the thought of it. Damn.

  Law enforcement officials still had the Zagreb train station roped off six days after the bombing. The damage to the facility was extensive, massive. Preacher squatted on his haunches and took in the destroyed north face of the structure. Twisted metal, burnt walls, fixtures and casings were evidence of a massive explosion. From his vantage point 150 meters away, Lance could make out a good bit of the mess. His vision from on high, allowed him to see down, through the gaping hole. He could see the train cars mangled by the blast. He knew it was a single case, because he had a copy of the preliminary report from Interpol.

  He wanted to walk around the site to get a better feel, to smell the remains, the burn. But something told him to stay away. He couldn’t see them, but he could feel eyes watching the devastated building. And he had a pretty good idea what those eyes were looking for -- him, or at least someone who looked like him. Someone seen from across a chaotic training compound in the Philippines.

  All evidence pointed to a large case or trunk placed on the loading dock. Residue and fragments pointed to ammonium nitrate; lethal and fairly easy to assemble. Forty-one people were killed instantly. Another nine died later that day and the next. And at last count, 72 were still hospitalized. It could have been much worse if the blast had occurred at rush hour.

  And that was the fact that perplexed Preacher. Anwar could have killed hundreds, if he had waited until the evening rush hour, instead of late morning. He assumed Anwar wanted to demonstrate his power more than kill. Lance stayed away from the crews still combing the wreckage for evidence. He looked around in all directions to see if anyone looked out of place or appeared to be cataloging the onlookers. He saw no one. He closed his eyes and reviewed the dozens of photos and hours of video collected by Interpol. These gave him the perspective required to go out of body and look down on the scene in the minutes before the explosion.

  In his wandering mind’s eye, he surveyed the crowd visible in security camera footage. He looked for the case, but couldn’t see it. The person or persons who placed it, knew where the cameras were positioned and avoided detection. It was a good job, for a mass murder. Message sent.

  Decked out in a comfy tan cotton blend thawb and white ghutrah headdress, Preacher looked enough the part of a desert resident that no one gave him a second look.

  He walked through dry, cool streets and alleys in ancient Cairo. The streets were bustling. Hard to believe that a bomb killed dozens a couple of streets over just a week before. When he came around a corner into an open area, he could see the destruction. Even though significant effort had been made to clean up the bloody mess, there was still much to do. Looking around, he saw shattered windows, blood splatters along rooflines, debris blown into the sides of buildings and piles of rubble waiting to be hauled away. One such pile was being loaded onto a dump truck by day laborers. Police stood watch casually around the perimeter. That was normal. A week and a day after a massacre was enough passage of time to allow people to return to habit, normalcy.

  Preacher walked slowly to the left to get a better view of the scene. Two things were obvious. This was the work of more than one bomb. And this bombing was punishment. The message was plain to see – “you have sinned against Allah and Islam. You must pay.”

  He saw an old man sitting on a stoop across from the market and decided to approach him.

  “Greetings sir,” he said in Arabic.

  “And to you my young man.” The aged gentleman replied without looking up

  “May I sit beside you?”

  “Please,” he waved his hand in a welcoming gesture.

  Preacher squatted and then sat. He looked around for a full minute without speaking. “Such a waste. Such destruction.”

  “Have you traveled far to come see this destruction?” The old man knew Preacher’s accent was not local.

  “I am visiting from Jordan and felt the need to see for myself this horror. Useless.”

  “Not useless. No, very useful for sending a message I think.”

  Preacher glanced at the old man who continued to look straight ahead.

  “And you, where have you traveled from to see this?” Lance placed the man’s accent from Syria, maybe Iraq.

  “Oh, I live here now. But I am from elsewhere.”

  “I see.” Lance let it end there and silently watched the action before him. He observed the patterns, or remnants of patterns. In his months of bomb training at Harvey Point, he spent weeks on explosive design and blast radius analysis. He was especially intrigued by the destruction wrought by the shockwave blown out, or pushed, by the explosion. It often did extensive damage, but the debris following the blast usually gets the credit.

  He could see where two bombs had been placed about 40 feet apart. Distinct craters showed where they had been detonated. The Egyptian Security Service's initial report estimated that each bomb was loaded onto a cart pulled by donkey. The explosive agent this time was apparently acetone peroxide. To add to the misery, the bombs were packed with nails, marbles and ball bearings. Brutally effective.

  Thirty-eight were killed immediately. Another 16 died within days and more than 60 people were recovering from injuries. Preacher was about to excuse himself from his companion when something caught his eye. It was a strap, a camera strap. It extended out from underneath the old man’s robe. It didn’t fit. And then it clicked. Damn.

  He had stumbled right onto someone watching the bomb scene, someone being paid to sit here and take photos of anything, or anyone, meeting a certain description.

  “What do you have to report old man?” A harsh tone in his voice.

  It caught the older man off guard. He began to turn his wrinkled head in Preacher’s direction.

  “Don’t look at me.” Preacher was abrupt and dismissive. “Keep your eyes forward and tell me what you have seen today and yesterday. I have not received a report in three days.”

  The man hesitated. He was not prepared for this.

  “Quickly. I’ve wasted minutes sitting here beside you waiting for you to wise up. Get on with it.” Preacher changed his accent to mimic the intonation he heard from a number of Saudi, Jordanian and Omani generals in the buil
d-up to the brief Gulf War in January.

  “I’m sorry. I did not expect your visit. I, I have been following my orders. I have delivered my reports and film as ordered.” He was all apologies.

  “Well then someone else has been lazy and slow. I am to travel to Libya this evening and need the latest information. Now, please.” Preacher softened his tone slightly.

  “Yes, of course. There is nothing new to report today. They continue the clean up. Investigators from Interpol were here yesterday, but no one today. I’m sorry. That is all.”

  Preacher didn’t respond. He envisioned the process as he could see it unfolding. This man, and likely others, were paid a stipend to watch the bomb site each day and then drop their report and film in a box. From there, a courier would take it to another location where it would be picked up by someone who would then relay information and develop the film.

  This was the kind of break that only comes to the lucky. Preacher shook his head at his dumb friggin' luck once again. Better living through lies and deception. He turned to the man. “Very good. Now, give me your ID.”

  “What? I’m sorry?”

  “Your identification now, quickly.”

  The old Syrian reached into his robe and pulled out an ancient leather wallet. He extracted his identification card and hesitantly handed it to Preacher, still not looking him in the face. Preacher took the card, memorized its details and handed it back.

  “Isaac, I thank you for your service. Please continue your procedures. I will report our conversation to my associates and commend you for your attention to detail. I will also call upon you at your home within the month for another assignment. Be ready for my visit.”

  With that, Preacher stood and walked away. It was almost 4 p.m. and Isaac would likely be leaving the bomb site within the hour. He needed to make himself scarce and watch the old man to be sure he was right about the process.

  About 50 minutes later, he learned he was wrong. And 30 seconds after that, we was pissed off at himself. A motorcycle came around the corner and Isaac stood up. He pulled out a piece of paper and the film from the camera and extended his hand. The man on the motorcycle reached out and took the items and dropped them into a satchel around his neck.