Political Thriller: RUSSIAN HOLIDAY, an American Assassin story

by Kenneth Eade

  Nice start for a morning. Breakfast of champions.

  Khalil passed a row of sleazy storefronts and paused to look at one. A scantily clad young woman sauntered out and attempted to lure him in, but he refused her advances and kept walking. Finally, at the corner, he darted into one of the shops and his follower stood outside at a distance and lit up a cigarette.

  There was a coffee shop across the street. Robert made his way there, politely refusing the solicitations of the female entrepreneurs who propositioned him along the way. He sat down and ordered a cappuccino.

  This should take about the right time. An espresso would be too quick.

  By the time Robert had finished his cappuccino and paid his bill, Khalil and his shadow were again on the move, this time back toward the metro station. Probably suspecting a tail, Khalil made the same move he had earlier, sending his stalker on a train in the wrong direction. Robert stepped into the last car on Khalil’s train, heading in the direction of St. Denis.

  Khalil exited the train in the Paris suburb of St. Denis, not only famous for its impressive catholic basilica, but also known for its predominantly Muslim population. As Robert suspected, a man who had been standing outside the station reading a newspaper, rolled it up and began to walk after Khalil had passed him.

  Another tail.

  Robert stalked the follower, who tailed Khalil to a local Islamic cultural center. Looking around for a good vantage point where he could blend in, Robert found a café on the corner and took a seat. He ordered lunch and settled in for the long haul as his fellow stalker moseyed into a salon de the next door.

  ***

  After a week of following Khalil, Robert was getting bored, but the preparations that had to be done were finally finished and he could now begin to formulate a plan. He would use his Ruger .22 with silencer as his principal weapon, with his Glock 17, also with noise suppression, as backup. The Ruger was smaller, not as conspicuous, and would make less of a mess than the Glock. It was an assassin’s right hand.

  Robert used the lunch hour, which in France was more like three hours, to his advantage. Lunch was almost an inalienable human right in France. The stores were all closed and would be for the next three hours, while the entire city of Paris seemed to shut down, except for the restaurants and cafés, which were filling up with hordes of lunch-goers and would remain full from 12:30 through 3:00 p.m. After the lunch exodus, when everyone went back to work, you would be lucky to get anything but a cup of coffee.

  Robert took advantage of the empty streets to slip into Khalil’s apartment building unnoticed. Wearing a French postman’s uniform and hat, he pushed all the doorbells at the front door of Khalil’s building, and declared, “La Poste! J’ai une livraison pour vous!” claiming to have a delivery, and shoved the door open when one of the angry residents who had their precious lunch interrupted, buzzed it. He ducked downstairs into the storage cave area and changed into a blonde wig with beret and a light green windbreaker. He checked his watch. According to his established pattern, Khalil should be home within half an hour. Robert went up the stairs to Khalil’s floor. The elevator probably had a camera and could be easily monitored. He scanned the corridor of Khalil’s apartment for surveillance devices and found none. He had finally “green-lighted” his own mission.

  He sequestered himself in an enclave on the side of the elevator and waited. Khalil showed up with the precision of a German train. Robert heard the doors of the lift open and immediately recognized him when he walked out. He waited a beat, followed after him with the Ruger in his hand and called out.

  “Excusez-moi, Monsieur?”

  Khalil turned. “Oui?”

  With lightning speed, Robert aimed and fired two shots directly into Khalil’s forehead, spattering blood and grey matter against the wall. Khalil collapsed on his back on the floor, his eyes frozen open in a permanent state of surprise.

  Robert tucked the windbreaker and wig into his bag, switched it for a non-descript baseball hat, and dropped the gun, which was clean, into a trash receptacle in the lobby. He slipped off his latex gloves, exited the building and calmly walked along with the flow of sidewalk pedestrian traffic right past the plainclothes detective who had been assigned to cover Khalil without even being noticed.

  He continued several blocks to the Concorde metro station and rode it to the Franklin Roosevelt stop, where he transferred to line 9 and exited at Ranelagh. It was about a twenty-minute walk home from there. All the excitement had rebuilt Robert’s appetite, but there was nothing at home, which meant he would have to wait until at least 8 o’clock before he could get anything decent to eat.

  The dog was barking upon Robert’s approach to his door and even louder when he inserted his key. When he opened it, he was almost knocked over by a wave of love.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  After the howling and wrestling of the canine greeting ceremony, Robert fed the dog its dinner and fired up his laptop to check his messages. He didn’t have regular email like everyone else. He couldn’t afford that digital fingerprint that the NSA, the CIA, the FBI and all the other espionage alphabeticals counted on for their privacy-bashing surveillance of the entire formerly free world. Robert’s electronic communications were by encrypted PGP mail in the Internet underworld known as the Darknet. The dog trotted up to Robert, wagging his tail, looked up at him and burped.

  “I see you enjoyed your meal.” The dog’s tongue hung out and he panted. After delving into the Darknet, Robert found an encrypted message that had been sent to his PGP key. Using the key, he decrypted the message:

  Bob, this Alexei (Lyosha). I come to Paris next week and it would be great to see you. Please let me know. Cheers.

  Seeing the message from Lyosha made his thoughts drift to Lana. He closed his eyes and could smell fresh soap and lavender, see her brilliant blue eyes and feel her soft hair. He thought about calling her for a moment, and then shook his head and put that thought out of his mind.

  No connections.

  Robert wrote back to Lyosha, using his PGP key:

  Of course. I’m waiting for you here in Paris. Call this phone number when you get into town: +33693784642.

  Before Robert logged off he heard a snorting sound and looked to his left and down. The big dummy was wagging his long scraggly tail.

  “What, buddy? You want to go for a walk or something?”

  The dog yelped and jumped in place, his big body flopping around, signifying the affirmative.

  “Well, let’s go then!”

  Robert stood up and headed for the door and the dog made a run for it also, but then sat quietly in the foyer and waited for Robert to open it. He didn’t move a muscle until he was given the okay. Robert walked out the door and stood to the side.

  “Okay, buddy, you can come out.”

  The dog ran out the door and immediately sat outside in the corridor, waiting for Robert to lock up.

  ***

  Nathan Anderson scanned the report from the CIA. Adnan Khalil, the target, had been eliminated. So far, his Paladine program was turning out a complete success. Neither he nor Ted Barnard saw terrorism in France as strictly a French threat. France was a melting pot cesspool for thousands of Islamic fanatics who were radicalizing new recruits and sending them out on suicide missions against American, as well as European targets. The roots of terrorism there had to be considered a threat to American interests and must be nipped in the bud at their source, because ultra-liberal, socialist France was not doing anything about it. They were tracking thousands of terrorist suspects, most of them also on the American TSDB (terrorist suspect database), but their enforcement was lacking and their laws and court system archaic. He smiled to himself as he sipped on a cup of steaming black coffee and then set it down to pick up the phone to dial the president.

  ***

  When Robert came back from his walk with the dog, he had already received his next assignment by PGP mail. He studied the secret dossier, memorizing the details. Fahd Naifeh w
as on both the French and American watch lists. He was wanted in the United States for espionage and terrorism, but the French had refused extradition on the grounds that he was a French citizen. Since the legal system could not capture him, the government had to resort to other methods.

  Naifeh was an Iraqi-born financial and banking expert from Turkey who had sided with ISIS during the civil war that had divided the Shiites and Sunnis after the American intervention in Iraq. He was suspected to be a major money launderer for the terrorist group in Europe, but the French government could not amass enough admissible evidence to bring a case against him in their courts. Robert’s assignment was to cut through all that red tape and eliminate him from the face of the earth. He studied Naifeh’s face and memorized it and his vital statistics. Since France had given up on him, he was less likely to be under surveillance and may be a little easier to take out than Khalil.

  ***

  Naifeh lived in a free-standing townhome in the Ranelagh neighborhood which was dangerously close to Robert’s own. It was so close – only two metro stops – he could actually walk to it. When he left his apartment, he was tempted to take the dog, but that would be an identifying factor he could ill afford. Instead, he rode the metro to the Ranelagh station and walked the short two blocks to the residence.

  It was the Parisian equivalent of a mansion, a free-standing building of three stories and a basement in a city where most people lived in apartments. Its easy walking distance to the Bois de Boulogne made it a potential site for the assassination, but it depended on Naifeh’s habits. Robert needed a place to stake out Naifeh’s house and the only candidate was a car on the street, so he went car shopping. He couldn’t rent one. That would involve giving his passport and resident card and personal information that could be verified. No – this car would have to be stolen.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Robert shopped for his car at the most logical place he could think of – the long-term parking lot at Orly Airport. When he got off the train, he immersed himself in choices at the “car lot”– the parking structure – looking for an automobile with a nice coat of dust on it, as opposed to a squeaky clean one or one with a thick coat. That signified one that, most likely, had been left a while and should sit there a little longer. He found one candidate, a Peugeot 308.

  Doesn’t fit the neighborhood. Not fancy enough.

  He kept looking, going from floor to floor and row to row. Finally, he found his prize – a white Range Rover Sport. He popped open the car door with a slim jim and the alarm immediately went off. As it wailed, he calmly and quickly plugged in a handy Chinese reprogramming device he had purchased online and reprogrammed an extra generic key fob in two minutes flat. The only glitch was presenting himself at the exit. He paid for the parking plus an extra fine for losing his entrance ticket.

  Robert stopped at a gas station and ran the car through the automated car wash to make it presentable for the neighborhood, then drove “home” in the new Range Rover. He circled around the street several times until he found the best parking space he could; one that gave him an adequate view of the front of Naifeh’s mansion. From that point on it was a waiting game.

  The hours droned on and Naifeh remained indoors. In the tedium of the stakeout, Robert’s thoughts ran rampant, imagining the soft, warm, exciting presence of Lana mixed with feelings of contempt for Gregory Manizek. He snacked on a baguette and cheese while he waited. There was nothing much going on in the street. A few were passers-by, likely headed for the forest, but most people were probably at work.

  Finally, late in the afternoon, Naifeh exited his villa alone and began walking toward the Ranelagh metro station.

  Even rich people ride the metro. Good way to beat traffic.

  Robert donned his knit beret and got out of the Rover. He followed Naifeh to the metro station, lingering back so he could observe if he was the only one doing so. Naifeh proved to be less evasive than Khalil had, patiently waiting on the platform for his train, and not making any last-minute switches. He boarded the train along with all of the other passengers and Robert stayed one car back.

  With Robert silently in tow, Naifeh exited at the Opera Station, making his way up the stairs into the famous plaza, and its centerpiece, the Opéra Garnier, which was surrounded on almost all sides by private banking branches of the well-known and unknown banks of the world. He steered himself into the Bank of Turkey, and disappeared behind its revolving door.

  Bank of Turkey – makes sense.

  Robert knew ISIS financed its operations and managed its money by dummy companies trading through money exchanges in Istanbul, which operated on a “trust” basis, with extremely high commissions. It was only logical some of that money would find its way into Turkish banks.

  No wonder they want him taken out. It must be almost impossible to stop them from connecting with the international banking world.

  Naifeh remained inside the bank for about forty minutes, and then was on the move again. He headed across the street toward Galeries Lafayette. Robert followed Naifeh through the front entrance and into the grand domed superstore with its gilded arches. The main part of the building was round, like the Capitol building, with three upper floors opening onto the main floor below, like balconies in the opera house across the street. Above the top floor, the huge illuminated ceiling of the rotunda looked like the inside of a kaleidoscope perched on top of a row of church-like stained glass windows. The opulent Parisian department store was exactly as it appeared: The ultimate symbol of western world decadence.

  Hmm. Another devout Muslim.

  Naifeh navigated through the first floor’s perfume, cosmetic and jewelry counters, stopping at Rolex to admire the watches. The salesgirl held out a 20,000-euro watch for him to examine, and, as he handled it, Robert couldn’t help but be reminded of the way he had seen his dog drool for a steak bone.

  Surprised he’s not drooling. He must have made a good deal at the bank.

  Naifeh tried on a watch and held it up to the light in an almost feminine way. Robert was getting quite enough of him.

  Can’t wait to waste this guy.

  Naifeh purchased the watch with cash. After he had made this investment with the money gleaned from the blood of countless refugees, he headed up the escalator and Robert followed him to the second floor, where he made his way across the connecting bridge to the men’s store. Robert followed him to the shoe department, where he observed another tedious process of trying on the most expensive shoes in the world. The shoe department had many different boutiques, representing the various marks of fine shoes. Robert took a seat in front of a rack of Prada footwear and watched Naifeh.

  “Puis vous j’aider?”

  Robert turned his attention from Naifeh to a middle-aged saleswoman, offering her help.

  “Non, merci. J’attends quel qu’un.”

  Naifeh’s own salesperson was building a virtual tower with shoe boxes. Finally, the terrorist banker settled on a pair of brown Berlutis for 1800 euros.

  After he had spent more money in the store than most of his compatriots make in ten years, Naifeh exited with his shopping bags and grabbed a taxi at the taxi stand. Robert did the same, hoping not to lose him. The driver was an Arab who could have passed for Naifeh’s brother. Robert instructed the driver to pursue the escaping cab.

  “Suivez lui.”

  “De quoi vous parlez?”

  Robert shoved a 100 euro bill under his nose and he got the idea.

  “Le taxi la! Allez!”

  The driver took off down the grand boulevard, using its width to navigate a place behind Naifeh’s taxi. The taxi pulled to a stop in the 5th Arrondissement at the Grand Mosque of Paris and Naifeh disappeared through the archway under a golden half-moon and star symbol.

  Ah, he’s going to thank Allah for all his little gifts. Don’t worry, scumbag, I’ll make sure you can thank him in person. And soon.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Naifeh taxied home with his conscie
nce clear and with his new purchases and settled in for the night. Robert watched with field glasses as he trudged up the steps to his front door, and then bent over and felt under the flowerpot and withdrew a key. He opened the door without disarming an alarm and placed the key back under the pot. It was too good to be true.

  He spent the next few days and nights watching Naifeh and concluded he was not being tailed, which was a good thing. The French had given up on him. But the boredom of sitting in the car for hours on end and following the hypocritical Muslim around Paris was becoming too much for Robert to bear. His only breaks were to walk home the back way, through the forest, to let the dog out twice a day. Tedium was not the only issue. He didn’t know when the owner of the Rover was coming back, but once he did, he was sure to report the car stolen. It had to be returned as soon as possible. It had become, out of necessity, Naifeh’s time to die.

  Robert sketched out a homicidal plan in his mind, covering every possible detail and contingency. With even the best plans, there was always at least a 20% margin of error because of unknown variables. Robert went over the plan again and again in his head, trying to cut the margin down. When he was satisfied, he headed for the airport to drop off the car. He stopped at the Total filling station and filled the tank to the approximate amount it had been when he had picked it up. He parked in the vacuum stall and vacuumed the car thoroughly, wiped it clean, and headed for the airport. He parked it in the same lot, in almost the same place as the exact one it had been parked in when he had taken it. He took the parking ticket with him and put the car out of his memory as he walked away from it, discarding the ripped-up ticket in the metro station.