by Jack July
“Interesting you should ask that. Until two days ago, every apartment was occupied. The imam your people were asking about? Dead, shot on the steps of the Melton Mosque”
“That’s tragic,” Elle said with feigned concern. “Do the police have any idea who did it?”
“They don’t call the police. There is a shiite presence across town. The imams have been trying to keep the sunni-shiite conflicts confined to the Middle East and forge some sort of alliance. Things got tense and, well...”
Fenian’s mind began to race as she contemplated other reasons for her mission. She focused for a moment while asking herself, What exactly IS going on here?
Kahlid continued, “People are moving out of the complex, and others moving in. It seems the new imam has his own friends and family he wants to bless with free rent.”
Uh oh, this could be a problem, Fenian thought. She asked, “What about the Akhtars?”
“As of yesterday, they were still there. The cousins are in apartment 207. They have removed all of the numbers on the doors, so you must count. The apartment is on the second floor, third door on the right when you enter into the courtyard from the rear.”
“Have you been watching them enough to describe their day?”
“Farzin is very religious. He sometimes shops for food, attends prayer at the mosque and other than that, not much else. Yusef likes the strip clubs. He drinks, chases women, and tries to get in all the western sin he can before he has to go back.”
“Back to where?”
“Alexandria, Egypt.”
She took a bite of danish and another sip of coffee, waiting. Seeing what he would volunteer. She wasn’t disappointed. Khalid said, “Farzin is a good man, a devout man. He’s actually very kind. Yusef? He is radicalized, and was trained in the Al Qaeda camps in the North Sinai. He is very dangerous.”
Fenian slowly nodded her head and said, “No doubt. Tell me, how did you find this out?”
“I have been attending the mosque. People like to share what they know, although mostly in whispers, coded speak and innuendo”
“That must be hard for you, being Coptic. I’m also a Christian. I don’t know if I could do that, especially while adhering to the strict teachings of the Roman Catholic Church. If I remember, isn’t Coptic an offshoot of the Roman Catholics?”
“Ah, yes, but, it is no trouble.”
Strike one she thought. The Coptics split from the Church in 451 A.D.
“How many more trained Al Qaeda do you think are in Toronto?”
Khalid shrugged and said, “I don’t know, maybe dozens.”
“How about in the apartment complex?”
“It is newly immigrated families. I can’t imagine any.”
“Okay, stay by the phone. I’ll call you when I need you.”
Chapter 34
“Keep it simple” had been preached to Fenian since day one of training. It wouldn’t get much simpler than this. After everyone had returned home from evening prayer at the Melton Mosque, she would don a burka and veil and walk with Khalid through the rear entrance of the complex right to the Ahktars door. Khalid would offer Fenian to Yusef. Once inside she would move her arms, as she had practiced, out of the sleeves to the inside of the Burka, raise the silenced MP-5, cut them down, open the rear window of the apartment, rope down one story to the parking lot, get in the car and drive away. She had thought about taking them one at a time outside the complex, but she was afraid the other would get spooked and run. Her job was to kill them both.
She checked her watch, 4 p.m. Over and over she looked at the maps, committing the neighborhood roads, alleys and houses surrounding the complex to memory. Then there was her final preparation—the thing she always did that made it all easy. After removing photos from her folder, she took pushpins and hung them on the wall. First Daria and Danica’s high school pictures. She studied the twins, their unblemished faces and beautiful long dark hair that they had surely spent time washing, curling and brushing for this photo. Their perfect olive complections were radiant with no make-up other than maybe a hint of lip gloss. Their big, brilliant smiles told the story of two young women with so much to live for. A future limited only by their own ambitions. Finally, the eyes… the story was always in the eyes. Big brown eyes, warm, thoughtful and kind with just a sparkle of mischief. Yeah, these are my kind of girls, she thought.
Two more pictures were pinned to the wall, the crime scene photos. It was pure evil in graphic color. Farzin had agreed to take his daughters and Daria’s boyfriend to the movies. He took them to an isolated alley instead where his cousin Yusef waited. How did the girls feel? What were they thinking? She imagined the confusion and then panic as they heard sounds of duct tape tightly binding their wrists and ankles. Daria’s boyfriend Kenneth must have felt a different panic, his own panic over not being big or strong enough to stop it, followed by the realization that he too would die. The coroner said he put up a fight, however short it may have been. Had it been a typical honor killing, Farzin would have been saying prayers in the background as Yusef swung the pipe, crushing the first skull, the other two likely watching in horror, knowing they were next. The night was no doubt filled with crying and begging punctuated with screams of terror and then silence. Maybe a gentle rustle of clothing or gurgling of blood as the dying bodies twitched their last grasps at life.
Fenian’s blood ran cold as she reached for the last two pictures and pinned them to the wall. Farzin and Yusef looked back at her with dead eyes. Life in the blood cult called Islam had drained them of sympathy, empathy, kindness and any sort of functioning human civility. They were monsters, and if all went well, by the end of the day, there would be two fewer monsters in the world. Fenian gave the pictures of the Ahktar cousins a crooked little smile. She was ready.
After packing her things, she called her pilot and said she should be ready to go around 10:00 p.m. She saw a folded piece of paper on the counter, cracked a little smile and stuck it in her pocket. After final weapons check, she suited up. Her .45 was in a left shoulder holster with two extra magazines in pockets attached to the underside of the holster. The MP-5 hung under her right arm, with the end of the barrel in a small Velcro pocket to keep it from swinging, accompanied by four extra magazines in pockets on her left side. Four frag grenades hung from her Kevlar vest, two on each side, one above the other, and two knives, one at the nape of her neck and the other at the small of her back. She wasn’t about to run from this fight.
Apparently there are not many six-foot tall Muslim women. The burka was about eight inches too short. She rolled up the legs of her tactical jumpsuit so she wouldn’t be seen as wearing pants, a no-no in a strict Islamic society, which also meant no tactical boots but only black tennis shoes with ankle socks. She told Khalid where to meet her and picked him up on the way. She had to let him drive, as driving was another no-no for women. As he drove she filled him in on the plan. Khalid seemed confused, so he asked, “What do we do when we get in the apartment?”
“I kill ’em both and we climb out the back window.”
He stared in shock and said, “I did not agree to be involved in murder.”
“You’re not, just don’t forget to duck,” she said calmly.
She was rearranging the MP-5 when she saw a light out of the corner of her eye. She turned to see Khalid with a phone. “Hey, put that away!” she barked.
“I was just messaging my girlfriend.”
“Call her when we’re done,” she growled.
“Okay, okay, easy,” he said, putting the phone back in his jacket.
They parked as close as they could to the rear window of the Ahktar’s apartment. It wasn’t as close as Fenian would have liked. The car that Farzin and Yousef shared was in the lot, a good sign that they were there. Fenian looked over at Khalid and said, “Before I go to work, I like to say a little prayer, the 23rd Psalm. Would yo
u join me?”
“Ah, yes, of course.”
She bowed her head and prayed, “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” then she paused, waiting for Khalid. “Khalid?” she prompted.
“Yes, ah, I will fear nothing because…”
Fenian finished, “I will fear no evil: for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.” Strike two thought Fenian. She secured the hijab on her head, looked at Khalid and said, “Okay, let’s go.”
Across the parking lot, two older men dressed in traditional garb appeared. They looked at each other and walked quickly toward Fenian, shouting something like “Harlot” or “Whore.”
She had seen this in Afghanistan, religious police, who were mean old bastards that enjoyed hitting women for the smallest of dress code infractions. “Khalid, Khalid,” she whispered, but he backed away.
The first one took what looked to be a decorated half broomstick and pointed at her ankles. Both of her ankles and a bit of lower leg were exposed. Fenian began gentle muted apologies in Pashto, when he swung the stick, hitting her in the left arm. He began to recite a prayer rhythmically as he swung the stick, repeatedly hitting her. She turned to deflect the blows away from the MP-5, the magazines, anything else that would make a metallic sound, and God help them all if he got a good hit on one of the frag grenades. Her eyes flashed to Khalid for help, but he just stood there. Suddenly the stick hit something plastic, making a cracking sound. A piece of her broken phone fell from the bottom of the Burka and bounced across the asphalt. The man without the stick picked it up and looked at it. Khalid knew he had to make a move.
Fenian’s arms slipped out of the sleeves and were grasping the MP-5 when Khalid stepped in between them, slapped her on the side of the head and began to yell in Arabic, “I WARNED YOU! I WARNED YOU ABOUT THAT!” Then he slapped her again. She had mentally switched to kill, when Khalid turned toward the men and said, “I am sorry brothers. Please, please allow me to get her home so she may receive the punishment of Allah.”
After a few tense stares they agreed and walked on. When they were out of earshot Fenian growled at him, “Took you long enough.”
“That’s not how this works. They needed to feel important and respected, or it would have been worse.”
Fenian took a deep breath and tried to calm down. She snapped back into situational awareness, looking around, checking everything, looking for anything out of order, when suddenly out of the corner of her eye she saw the curtains move in the Ahktar’s back window. It was at that moment she performed a little exercise she learned at the Farm. She slowed her walk and emptied her mind of everything except the mission at hand. She began a step-by-step reenactment, beginning when she picked up Khalid. It took about thirty seconds. Everything in her being told her something was wrong. Then the final red flag waved. They turned into the hallway that led to the courtyard. She took three steps and froze. The courtyard was lit, dimly and with yellowish lights, but it was lit. On her two previous trips it had been dark. On the satellite photos, it was dark. She was staring at the perfect kill zone.
“Khalid,” she called and waved him back toward her. “Change of plans.” She took off the hijab and tossed it to him, and then she pulled the burka over her head, tossed that to him and said, “Put it on.”
“What?” he asked, confused.
She locked the sliding stock into place on the MP-5, clicked off the safety and leveled it at his chest. “Five seconds, then I kill you. One, two…”
He slipped the burka over his clothes while slowly backing to the entrance of the courtyard. He fumbled with the hijab and pretended to try put it on. After making a quick turn, he ran into the courtyard screaming, “BROTHERS, IT’S—” He never got “ME” out of his mouth. The volley of automatic weapons fire cut him down. Then it seemed as if somebody had kicked a jihadi hornets’ nest. At least two dozen men flooded the courtyard with weapons.
Her first thought was to make a run to the car, but the automatic fire coming down on her from that side of the apartment made it suicidal. The men chasing her had their own problem; they had to exit through the relatively narrow passage from the courtyard. She set up across the alley behind a dumpster and waited for the hall to flood with people. They charged through, and she opened fire, dropping five or six of them. The rest retreated and returned fire from the corners. A quick magazine change and she was under assault again, this time from the opposite parking lot. She saw three and quickly dropped one, forcing the others to take cover. One sprinted across the alley and began working his way behind her. That wasn’t going to happen. She grabbed a grenade, pulled the pin and waited three seconds and tossed it into the hallway, then turned and ran. Screams echoed after the explosion. Dammit, I’m running again, she thought.
Cutting between houses and through alleys, she tried to put as much distance between her and her pursuers as possible. She found a little enclave behind some garbage cans and reached for her phone to call for help. It was broken and the battery was gone. Quick footsteps made their way to the other side of the garbage cans. She peeked through and saw the barrel of an AK-47. When it turned away she came up with her knife, grabbed the man’s head from behind and slashed across his throat. She dragged him behind the garbage can and listened for others. Tires squealed as cars raced through the neighborhood searching for her. She dashed across another alley and ducked through yards, trying to stay concealed. She felt she was being surrounded and had to make a move.
She was beside a two-story house with flowers around it. She peeked in the window and saw an old couple watching TV. She made her way to the backyard, jumped a small fence, and gently tried the doorknob. Locked, but the hardware didn’t seem too formidable. She took a step back and gave it a kick. The door flew open. Without a pause, she rushed through the kitchen and into the living room in time to see a huge German Shepard jump up next to the old man’s chair, teeth showing. She raised the MP-5 as the old man grabbed the dog’s collar. Everyone was still. Fenian slowly lowered her weapon, looked at the man and said, “Sir, I could really use your help.”
The lady squinted through thick glasses and asked, “What’s the matter dear?”
“There are some really bad people chasing me.”
The man’s expression became sour. He said, “It wouldn’t be dem furriners, eh?”
Fenian nodded and said, “Yeah.”
The lady reached over, bopped the dog on the nose and said, “Down, King.” Then she looked at Fenian and said, “They’re a nasty bunch.”
The man nodded and said, “The whole neighborhood has gone to HELL since they arrived.”
The old lady turned quickly to her husband, “Howard, the language?”
“Sorry, dear.” The man looked at Fenian and asked, “So dear, what do you need?”
“I just want to use the phone, if that’s okay?”
The lady said, “Sure dear, it’s in the kitchen.”
“Thank you,” replied Fenian. She walked into the kitchen, pushed the back door shut and secured it with a dining room chair. Then she took the phone and sat down in front of the cabinets so she would be out of sight. Her finger hovered over the buttons when it occurred to her she had nobody to call. The emergency number was programmed into the broken phone. Everyone else would take far too long, and she wasn’t about to get these sweet old people hurt. Then she grinned to herself, shook her head and reached into her pocket for the piece of paper. She poked her head around the corner of the kitchen and asked, “What’s the address here?”
“247 Poplar Lane,” the man answered.
She dialed and in two rings heard an answer, “Hello?”
With a breathy voice she said, “Ben, it’s Elle. I’m feeling lonely. Can you come and get me?”
There was a stunned silence on the other end, “Ben?”
“Yeah, yeah, oh yeah, yes, when, um where are you?�
�
She gave him the address and said, “Ben, if you’re not here in five minutes, I’ll be gone.”
“On my way!” he exulted.
Hmm she thought, nice kid, hope I don’t get him killed.
Chapter 35
Meyer remained distant. He spent a little time with his children and treated his wife like furniture. She understood for a while; however, she was too young and pretty to be ignored. She was living out the lyrics of the Eagles’ song “Lyin’ Eyes” with a twenty-year-old baseball player from Oklahoma State University. Meyer knew, but said nothing. At least one of them deserved some occasional happiness.
The first manila envelope with no return address arrived in the mail. He sat in his den and opened it. Inside was a short list of very simple questions concerning the United States’ nuclear submarine force. How many ballistic missile submarines patrolled each ocean? How many fast attack subs patrolled each ocean? How many fast attack subs escorted each battle group? Do fast attack subs always carry nuclear weapons? Which ones? He bowed his head and thought, This is all top secret stuff. Troop and ship movements, big time classified. Nuclear weapons? Who would know this stuff? Members of the Senate Armed Services Committee, maybe intelligence? He shook his head, not believing he could even consider selling out his country.
Mid-term elections were eight months out. Twenty-two senators would be up for re-election and every two years, elections became dirtier and more expensive. After doing some research, he found which one he would need to support. Antonio Neri, democratic senator from New Mexico, minority leader of the Defense Strategic Forces Committee. They had been combatants in the past. Meyer had tried to start industrial businesses in New Mexico, but Neri promptly sic’ed the EPA on his projects, costing him copious amounts of time and money. They were far from friends, so one could only imagine the shock when Meyer Braddock showed up at Antonio Neri’s Albuquerque office for an appointment. The former Miss Teen New Mexico sat at the front desk, doing what appeared to be her homework, when Braddock walked in. “Hola. Señor Braddock?” she asked with a smile.