“Why have you come to see me today?” Kamil got right to it. “What news do you bring from the world?”
Preacher poured them each a glass of tea and settled back in his chair. “There has been more death at the hands of those you associate with. They attacked the heart of Russia with many bombs. Scores died and many more were injured. Most innocent, of course.”
“I am sorry to hear this. I know that Russia is home to a great many infidels, but also many of faith. I will mourn the innocent.” Kamil bowed his head.
“It was Anwar. He coordinated a spectacular attack, brilliant really. His choice of explosive device and explosive agent was similar to the one you detonated. Could have been many more deaths, but the toll was still very high.” Preacher sat forward and took a drink of tea. He was the image of conviviality, sitting across from a terrorist who’d killed dozens and been trained by Anwar to kill many more.
“I assumed that’s what you would tell me. That's why you are here.”
“To talk about him?” Preacher replied.
“Yes, to delve into my head again to look for him. I don’t know why you keep trying. I don’t mind your visits, even enjoy them. But I don’t know any more. I have nothing more to add. I’ve told you everything I know of the man. I owe him nothing. I don’t protect him with secrets.” Kamil was open today. The news of the Moscow bombings had affected him.
“I’m not here to mine you for more data. You know I enjoy your company. I benefit from just being near you.”
“How is that?” Kamil tilted his head, like a puppy.
“What do you mean?” Preacher just smiled.
“How does being here help you? How do you benefit?”
Preacher continued to smile at him. He then sat up, turned away and shook his head as if to clear a thought and turned back. When he did, his face was different. It was sallow, a little haggard. The skin hung as Preacher relaxed his corrugator spercilii muscles above his eyebrows along with his zygomatic major muscles on his cheeks. He adjusted his position and pose until it became obvious to Kamil. The terrorist was looking into a mirror of sorts. His eyes squinted and he moved his left hand to his chin. Preacher did the exact same with his eyes and hand, but it was his right hand to provide a "reflection" of Kamil.
“What are you doing?” Kamil’s voice rose slightly with the question.
“What do you mean?” Preacher’s reply was in the terrorist’s exact vocal tone and quality. The accent perfect.
Kamil continued to squint and then leaned forward. Preacher did the same. It was eerie.
“How, how do you do this?” Kamil tilted his head ever so slightly while asking the question.
Preacher’s head tilted, “I'm sorry, have we met? My name is Kamil al Ransfri from Syria. I don’t believe I've had the pleasure. It is an honor to make your acquaintance.” And Preacher held out a hand, but the way he did so was different, it was Kamil’s hand, his movement.
Kamil just sat there. It came to him after a few moments. The realization was sublime and he smiled. “You have been portraying me. Out in the world, you have been acting as me.” His smile became a short laugh. Hard to tell if he was scared or impressed.
Preacher mirrored the smile and laughed as he spoke, “I am you. I have been Kamil for months. I have traveled far and been introduced to many, many brothers dedicated to our cause. I have helped in several projects, including the one just completed in Moscow. It was glorious, beautiful really. I was close enough to feel the heat. The wind, pushed by the blast, caressed my face. It was a glorious blow struck against the infidels.” Preacher’s eyes opened wide and wild. He was a true believer.
After a few moments, Kamil caught his breath and his head cleared. “That is why you have come back to me time after time. You needed a little more of me to put on your show, to become me.”
“No, no not at all. I have been you since the first time we parted. I have mingled with others in our cause who have known you for years and have not doubted me in the least. You see, you have the perfect visage for me. I saw it the moment you road past on that motorcycle. Your light skin and subtle western features were ideal. It was just so perfect, don’t you think?”
“Quite amazing.”
“And Anwar, or Mohamed as he still prefers, has been most welcoming. He is quite pleased with my, our abilities.” Preacher turned his hand over as he said this. His open palm signifying openness, humility. It was time for the gamble. “I have been on the periphery mainly to this point. He had not invited me into his closest company, he allows only a few to know his plans, as you know. But he has seen fit to give me more responsibility in each mission. I believe I have earned his trust, his respect. He is truly Allah’s hand. He brings justice to the earth through Allah’s wrath.” Now, to see if it worked.
Kamil sat motionless. He was confused, shocked. That was good. A confused man can be coerced to act, to make mistakes. Preacher waited patiently. “He, he welcomed you?” It was a good start.
“Yes. I did not push in the least. I waited for his call, and when he beckoned with a small assignment, I delivered a solid performance. Very professional.” Preacher was modest, respectful in his demeanor. His head bowed.
“Did he ask you about my father?” Bingo. Kamil was bare, open.
“He mentioned our father, spoke in reverence of his memory.” Preacher’s head still bowed.
“He was a great man and Anwar knew of his piety, his commitment to Islam and freedom.” Kamil looked away. He looked at his father in his mind. It was time.
“He finally welcomed me into a meeting, a gathering of leaders over tea.”
“He did?” Kamil was proud.
“Yes. He shared only the framework, the outline of his master plan that only a select few have been blessed to hear. He gave no time frame, and only mentioned that it would be on a scale not seen before. It will shake the world, bring the infidels to their knees.”
“It will. It will. More than anything before, it will strike fear into their souls and make them question their support of Israel.” Kamil let slip more than he intended. Preacher gave no notice of this information, only agreeing with a nod. He smiled back at Kamil with the terrorist’s own smile, the same fire in his eyes. It was a magical moment.
“The American Devil. He will pay with blood, with death.” Preacher whispered.
“Yes. Glorious death.” Done. He had what he needed.
Preacher wanted to explode, to rise up and rain pain and misery and more pain down on this speck of humanity. But Lance stopped him. Just as Preacher was readying his attack, Lance came down from the ceiling and sat cross-legged in the middle of the table. It calmed Preacher down. The two of them just looked at each other. Lance spoke first.
“Looks like you did it buddy.” He smiled as he said it.
“You think?” Preacher smiled back.
“I think we are going home.”
“To the American Devil?”
“The Devil!” Lance brought up a fist and raised his pinky and forefinger to make horns as he whispered the words menacingly. Preacher couldn’t help but crack up.
In the meantime, Kamil had recovered a portion of his senses and wondered just why his friend George was laughing. “What is so funny?” He asked.
Preacher couldn’t see Kamil with Lance in the way so he leaned into and through the ghost. He was no longer a reflection of the terrorist. He was just himself, a ruthless killer. “I was just talking with my angel and he said I have to let you live, at least for another day.” And with the smile gone, he reached out and grabbed Kamil’s shirt to pull him close. “I was going to kill you a few moments ago. It would have been a slow, painful death with my smiling face the last thing you would ever see. But my angel talked me out of it. He said you have more value on earth than in hell. I don’t know, but he is usually better than me at judging people.”
Chapter 33
“Here to babysit me again?”
Preacher was not surprised in the least
to see Fuchs waiting for him outside. He leaned against a railing outside the small, unadorned and unobtrusive building that functioned as a black site, a prison that did not exist. Fuchs was bearded for the first time Preacher could recall. He hadn’t seen him since the Philippines, where Fuchs saved his life.
And Preacher couldn't stop the song by Three Dog Night that started up in his personal cranial radio station. His right foot tapped the song's beat as he stopped a few feet in front of Fuchs.
“No, I was just stopping by. I’m surprised to see you here.” It was a lousy lie. It was supposed to be.
“Where did you fly in from? Couldn’t have been too far for you to get here so quickly. I’ve only been here for a couple of hours.” Preacher had taken his chances coming to visit Kamil over the past few months. He didn't know if Seibel had a kill or capture order posted for him. Fuchs being here was only slightly alarming.
“Not too far, northern Italy when I got the call.” Fuchs looked tired.
“Been looking for me?” Preacher walked over to lean against the same railing.
“Not for a couple of months. He had me track you to the Philippines and through Indonesia and India. But you were never there. It was all false evidence, very clever. I figured it had to be her.”
“It was. She is much better than I am at leaving those digital and electronic footprints that lead you to the wrong conclusion.” Preacher smiled at Marta’s seemingly limitless abilities.
“You look well. Fully recovered I assume.” Fuchs waved from Preacher’s shoulder to his leg.
“All better. I didn’t have the opportunity to thank you back then. You had to run off on another mission. Someplace fun I hope.”
“Always.” Fuchs lied again. Another lousy one. “Did you find Anwar?”
“Got close, but no. My friend in there just confirmed what I’ve been thinking for a while.”
“And what’s that?”
“He’s planning a little tour de force in America.” Preacher looked up at Lance. He was busy looking down at Fuchs, reading every detail, evaluating every move, or lack there of. Something had Lance on edge. The visual data being fed into Preacher's brain by looking around was being processed by his very active subconscious. The result was a hovering ghost on high alert status. Something was definitely wrong.
“America is a big place. Do we know where? Or maybe when?” Fuchs didn’t know he was being spied on from above.
Lance saw it. A miniscule jetting of Fuchs’ eyes to the right. He looked in the direction and Preacher followed his ghost’s sightline. It was a van, a black van. And something inside it moved. Lance then looked to the east. Parked over there was another van. This one was dark blue.
“Foxy, are you here to take me in?” Preacher’s question got no reply. So he stepped closer to Fuchs. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” Fuchs gave nothing away.
“Were you there when he trained her? I assume it was at the Point. And I assume that you, and maybe one other person in the world, knew about her. Probably Wyrick, maybe Braden. Were you there?”
Fuchs kept his eyes on Preacher but nodded.
Preacher’s mind was racing, expanding. He was looking into Fuchs’ eyes, watching the van to the north and the one to the east all at once. He worked through options one by one and chose the seventh after moving through 16 he could see.
“She is a much better shot than me.” Preacher smiled as he said it.
Fuchs replied with another nod. “Yes, she is. Even better than me I think. A natural.”
“Maybe.” Preacher pursed his lips. “I owe you my life. I don’t owe him anything.”
“This isn’t about debts owed or debts to be collected. This is simply work, our job. And you have chosen to go off mission one too many times.”
“How’s that?” Preacher remained right in front of Fuchs.
“That was quite a show in Moscow last week..”
“Was it?”
“It got everyone’s attention, as you knew it would. Anwar is a household name from Moscow to Los Angeles. He is one of the world’s most wanted terrorists and no one even knew his name eight days ago.”
“How 'bout that.” Preacher kept his eyes on Fuchs. Lance pivoted his head in all directions. In one of the vans, he saw a radio come up to a man’s face and looked at the other van to see a response. Preacher leaned his head to the left to get a look at Fuchs’ right ear and the radio earpiece in it. Fuchs heard the radio conversation but gave nothing away with his eyes. Preacher was impressed with him, like he always is. "Mikey, I really hope Tarwanah and Jamaani aren't in either of those vans. That seems so beneath them."
“Too bad about Cherzny, of course.” Fuchs ignored the comment.
“Of course. A great loss.”
They just looked at each other. Fuchs’ lack of movement became clear. Anything more than a fidget would result in a half-dozen or so men filing out of the vans with guns trained on Preacher.
So Preacher played his hand. “When you and Seibel trained her, did you know she would kill you?”
The question caught Fuchs a little off guard. He hadn’t considered it, at least for many years. “No. I knew she would kill many, she already had. But she would never turn on him or me. There is no reason.”
“Sometimes there is no reason when we die. I should have died on that tiny island or in an alley in Baghdad before that. You should have been killed dozens of times, yet here we stand. Me alive and you dead.”
Fuchs’ eyebrows tugged at that one. “Dead?”
“I said it before and I meant it. Thank you for saving my life. I’m sorry you have to go, but this death is as good as any. To die at the hands, or at least the finger, of someone so gifted at death is an honor, I think, at least.”
Fuchs’ got it. “So you are going to kill me? Right here?”
“No. Not me, her.” Preacher raised his eyebrows somewhat in resignation. “Please don't move. You have a beautiful little set of crosshairs on your forehead right now. I know you scouted the area when you and the teams arrived. You checked all surrounding buildings at a cursory level. She watched it all and relayed it all back to me. Do you mind?” Preacher pointed to his jacket pocket.
“Go ahead.” Fuchs couldn’t help but look over Preacher’s shoulder and the buildings a quarter mile away. Lance, watching from above, laughed. That damn Preacher is such a good liar.
Preacher pulled a headset out of his pocket to show Fuchs. “This was all her idea. She comes up with the good ones. Coming here is a little stupid, but you and he would think me just crazy enough to keep doing it, to pay this particular resource another visit. Her only frustration at the moment, from what I can tell, is that Seibel is not with you. Or at least is not willing to show his face.”
Fuchs laughed. “You and your b.s. You had me going for just a second.”
“I know. It's good isn’t it? Can’t help it. So what do we do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do we let you die, or do I save your life?”
“Enough. Cut the shit.”
“Fine.” Preacher raised his left hand just an inch. It worked. Fuchs didn’t want to die here, for little or nothing. Not today.
“Wait.” Fuchs nodded and leaned forward just an inch.
“Call them off. Send the vans away.” Preacher wasn't playing games. The two of them stared for a few moments.
“Leave.” One word from Fuchs got two engines started. The vans pulled away slowly.
“I think you were supposed to bring me in, not kill me. Then why is that guy up there on the roof still pointing a rifle at my head?” Lance had risen a couple hundred feet into the air and spotted the sniper’s rifle on the rooftop. Preacher could see the barrel protruding over the edge of the building’s roof ledge. “It makes me think that maybe you were sent to eliminate a threat if I did not come peacefully. Not very nice.”
“He is not supposed to kill you. Strict orders. Just hit you in the leg, maybe both.�
�� Fuchs' matter of fact response sufficed.
“Wouldn’t be the first time I got shot in these damn legs would it?" Preacher fake-punched Fuchs in the gut. "Well okay then. I guess we need to say goodbye.”
Fuchs just shook his head.
“What?”
“I always knew you would be too wild, too unpredictable. Your value was always limited by your erratic behavior. But he was always so sure.”
“Okay. To put a capstone on this touching little farewell, I’m going home to hunt a terrorist who wants to blow up Americans. If that is off mission then so be it. Tell him to come and get me himself. When I find and kill Anwar, you can come and give me hell for being too wild and unpredictable. And you’re welcome for saving your life today Foxy.”
Preacher turned away and walked toward where the blue van had been a minute earlier. Fuchs stood there for a moment and scanned the horizon. He then did something a little funny. He waved and nodded his head as if to thank Marta for not putting a bullet through his skull. Lance was being tugged along by Preacher, but he cracked up at Fuchs standing there waving.
He and Marta had been tracking, researching, investigating anything and everything about Anwar. They had been to nine European, Middle East and Asian countries and spoken with hundreds of humans offering varying quality of information. Most of it led nowhere. Anwar was indeed a magician.
But, a few of the leads uncovered pointed across the Atlantic Ocean to America. Kamil's confirmation a little while ago was all they needed. It took a few months to soften Kamil up and get him to slip up.
Preacher was headed back home. Marta was returning to the country of her birth for the first time more than a decade. If Anwar was there, they would find him and stop him. They would kill him.
Chapter 34
Tuesday, September 22, 1992 — Fairfax, Virginia
They would just sit there. This was routine for the two of them. One would remain stoic, eyes closed. The other would watch him, waiting patiently. But this time was different. A third person sat there, well not really sat; he floated up in the corner of the room.
The Perfect Weapon Page 21