Eves of Destruction

by Roy Berelowitz

  He awoke to the unmistakable sensation of the cold hard metal of a gun barrel shoved into his mouth, almost breaking his teeth. A bright light shone in his eyes and he blinked in terror as he tried to catch his breath.

  He lay as still as possible trying to control his bowels which threatened to release uncontrollably. He could feel the weight of the gun pressing down on his tongue and gagged just as he felt a sharp blow to his stomach. He doubled over in pain and then was harshly pushed off the bed and crashed hard onto the floor. Strong hands reached for his shoulders and pushed him into a sitting position against the wall.

  The gun was now pressed hard to his forehead driving the back of his head uncomfortably against the wall. The bright light was still shinning in his eyes and he could not make out the face of the figure hovering over him.

  “Why are you here?” a voice barked out at him in guttural English.

  “Uh…I am looking for someone,” Devskoy answered, grunting out the words uncomfortably.

  “Yes, I know, but why?” The man pressed the gun a bit harder to punctuate his sentence.

  Devskoy gritted his teeth fighting the pressure on his forehead and the discomfort from the back of his head against the wall.

  “I have an offer…something to offer him… an opportunity.” He was having trouble speaking.

  The figure hovered above him for a moment then stepped back releasing the pressure on his head with the gun. “Get up and sit on the bed.”

  Devskoy rolled awkwardly to his feet and sat heavily on the edge of the bed holding his head. The bedroom light flicked on and he looked up at the familiar but older man he remembered from years before.

  “Rifiat Ali,” he said with some relief as he recognized the Syrian, “don’t you remember me?” he asked plaintively looking at the impassive figure still pointing the gun directly at him.

  The man nodded silently for a moment. “Yes, many people around here remember you Devskoy. I am surprised you dared to come back.”

  “I had to come… I needed help—your help to make some contacts.”

  The Syrian eyed him suspiciously.

  “Who do you wish to contact and why?”

  A conspiratorial smile crossed Devskoy’s face as he looked up the Syrian. “I have a very good story to tell you my friend. When I am finished you will be very happy that I came back and found you.”

  After many hours of conversation, the Syrian had not disappointed him. It took another two months, some days of uncertainty and a few moments of terror but as he hoped, dared to hope, the deal was done and money changed hands, at least enough to get started. The real money would come after today’s final test.

  Standing at the bar, Devskoy contemplated his empty glass one more time, checked his watch again, tossed a couple of Euros on the bar counter and walked out. He blinked against the sunlight as he stood outside on the broad sidewalk and subconsciously looked at his watch once more. It was nearly time. It was a short walk to make sure they were in place and then a quick phone call. In a moment of panic he patted his inside jacket pocket to make sure the cell phone was still there. He wiped the sweat beading up on his bald forehead with his hand and then wiped his hand on his trousers. He had to hitch up his trousers constantly as they kept slipping below his fat stomach.

  His confidence ebbed and flowed and he was surprised at how nervous he felt. He had done things much more risky, been in places and situations much more dangerous but that was a long time ago and this was the first time he was doing it all alone. Worst of all was the person they were forcing him to meet with. It made him ill just thinking about it but they had insisted. He knew he would have to be wary, careful not to show fear and careful to control the situation. He had all the power but they had the money. He needed to be smart to keep the power and get the money.

  Today was vital. It was the second test but the first test in a real setting. If it failed, if the test did not work, they would kill him. Of that he was certain. They had invested so much money and worked hard to make this happen. He was tempted to step back into the bar for one more drink but it was time to go.

  He hoped she was there on time, just like they planned. He had considered following her to make sure she was doing as she was told, but he no longer trusted his own skills to follow her without being noticed. By force of habit he glanced around to see if anyone was watching him and when he did not spot anyone, strode off purposely to his rendezvous.

  * * *

  The Russian was late. Abd Al Rahman had been told to wait an hour but almost twice that time had passed. He worried the phone was not working properly or that he had inadvertently turned it off. He closed his eyes in momentary frustration and then forced himself to relax and be patient. His curiosity and craving for action was getting the better of him despite his best efforts to remain calm. He lifted the small coffee cup to his lips and took one last sip just as the phone rang. He let it ring once more before picking it up and flipping it open.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Sorry I’m late,” the caller said panting slightly and in heavily accented but fluent English. “It took longer to set up than I expected.”

  The voice and the accent—he recognized them both immediately. Despite the warmth of the summer sun, he felt a chill go up his back. His hand tightened on the phone, as he involuntarily tensed at the voice he would forever associate only with pain.

  “Rue 15, sixth floor, room 616,” the caller said. “And hurry. They will be starting soon.” The phone went dead.

  Starting what? Al Rahman was not sure what the man was talking about but he assumed it was related to the video he has just watched. He snapped the phone shut and as quickly as he could with his awkward gait, started walking. He knew the general area of the address and after walking for about fifteen minutes, he arrived at a non-descript looking pension. He glanced up and down the narrow street and, other than a couple walking hand in hand some distance away, he saw no one. He stepped in to the lobby and then slipped unnoticed past the old attendant and rode the rickety and very small elevator to the top floor. Exiting the elevator into the empty corridor, he looked for the room number and when he got to it, knocked twice.

  As the door swung open, Abd Al Rahman steeled himself to remain calm. He stared at the man framed in the doorway, fat now and completely bald but the Russian still had the same ugly beady-eyed appearance he recalled from those dark days.

  The Russian looked afraid, terrified at the site of Abd Al Rahman in front of him, but he managed a weak smile as he welcomed his visitor.

  “Please come in.” The pitch in his voice conveyed his anxiety.

  Peering past the Russian, Abd Al Rahman could barely see into the room; the lights were off, heavy curtains drawn. He stepped cautiously inside and forced a smile at his former torturer trying to put the man at ease.

  The Russian locked the door behind them and then beckoned Al Rahman to follow him across the room to the heavy curtains. Still feeling uncertain of his circumstance, Al Rahman followed him and then peered cautiously through the gap in the curtains as the Russian parted them slightly just enough so both men could look beyond them to a similar hotel across the narrow road.

  The Russian nervously checked his watch.

  “They should be starting about now,” he said peering anxiously from behind the curtains.

  As Abd Al Rahman lit a cigarette, he regarded his former nemesis with a combination of hate and disdain. There was a pungent odor of sweat and alcohol about the man and even in the dim light he could see that the Russian’s face was soft and pasty, his nose bulbous and laced with red veins. He wore an open collar shirt, slacks cinched up tight below his stomach, and a dark blue jacket which had long ago lost its capacity to hide any more stains. Sweat was beading up on his bald pate, which he would wipe away with his hand and run along his pants to dry. When he spoke, it sounded like he was panting to keep his breath.

  “Look,” said the Russian interrupting his reverie while offering him a
small set of binoculars to Al Rahman. “They’re starting.”

  CHAPTER 4

  THE LARGE HOTEL room was cool and dark, diffuse late afternoon sun the only illumination. A lacy white curtain billowed lazily in and out of the open window as a gentle breeze swept into the room, carrying with it the city noises.

  The room was plain and functional with only a large bed, supported by a garish metal frame and two chairs, one of which was in need of new upholstery. On it a woman’s clothes had been carelessly dropped: bra, panties, and a flowery summer dress. On the other were a general’s uniform, jacket and pants, neatly folded. A thin colored bar, about four inches long, was pinned above the jacket’s breast pocket. White boxer shorts draped over one chair arm, a pair of highly polished black shoes below. Inside each shoe was a black sock, neatly folded.

  On the bed a large, naked, middle aged man lay on his back, hands kneading the breasts of the woman sitting astride him. His mouth was agape, a dull expression on his face as he watched her moving slowly, rhythmically, methodically on him. Small beads of sweat hung above his upper lip and on his brow and he grunted as her weight pressed down upon him.

  Though younger than her partner, the woman was not young. Her body was firm and toned, legs long and strong, but her face, although still attractive, was creased by age. She rested her arms on his shoulders, supporting herself as she moved back and forth. He reached down and placed his hands on either side of her hips. His right thumb settled just below a large thin scar on her left hip, but he did not notice it.

  She took his hands off her hips, moved them back to her breasts and leaned her head back as she shook her hair out of her eyes. She stayed like that for a few seconds, holding his hands on her chest.

  Then she leaned forward again and began watching his face, noticing his breathing, measuring his responses to her movements. She observed that his breathing had quickened and she let his hands drop from her breasts. She began to move faster, lifting her pelvis up and down, up and down. Then she leaned closer to him, kissing him, wrapping her arms around his neck, still moving her hips rhythmically. Suddenly he grabbed her, pulling her towards him as he climaxed.

  * * *

  Across the road in a similar hotel room, the two men stood at the window, listening and waiting. Both men were careful to stand a half step back and to the side in the shadow of the open window, but their eyes were focused on the room in the building across the street and two levels below them. Although they could not see the details of the activities in the room, they could make out the vague outline of the woman and knew what position she was in.

  The Russian carefully withdrew from his left pocket a thin tube, about five inches long and about the thickness of a man’s thumb. On top of it was a red button and just below it, a small safety lock. A thin red wire, about six inches long, hung from the base of the tube.

  Al Rahman watched carefully as the Russian, moving very deliberately, removed the safety lock from the tube, licked his lips in nervous anticipation and then squinted as the sun emerged from a cloud and the bright summer sun made it more difficult to see into the darkened room across the narrow street.

  “What is that?” Al Rahman began to ask, but the Russian ignored him. He was concentrating, staring through the binoculars at the two lovers, anxious to make sure he got his timing just right. This was a free test, the final proof and he did not want to waste it by making a mistake.

  In the dim light of the distant room, he could vaguely make out the women’s upright form and at that moment she leaned forward and disappeared below the rim of the distant window and out of his view. He quickly placed his thumb over the red button and pressed it down hard. He stiffened briefly at the flash of the explosion from across the way, while his companion showed very little expression and calmly raised his left hand to his thin lips and took a long hard draw on his cigarette. He turned his face up to blow the smoke from his lungs as the muffled explosive sound slowly rolled across the street towards them over the city noise. As he watched, a small puff of smoke rose out of the open window in the building opposite and wafted into the city air and a smile briefly creased his lips, but was quickly erased as the Russian turned towards him with a triumphant look on his face.

  “I told them it would work,” he blurted out. His companion briefly closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath, nodded slowly and then with a jerk of his head indicated it was time to go. They left the building about ten minutes apart, the Russian staying behind briefly to make sure no evidence of his brief occupation of the room remained.

  Across the way, the two lovers lay in a twisted mess of commingled body parts, indistinguishable and inseparable from each other. The explosion had killed the woman instantly, shrapnel shredding her lungs and destroying her midriff. The man lingered on for a few moments, unable to assimilate the incongruity of his situation, but feeling his life ebb away, his blood mixing with the woman’s as he quickly bled to death.

  CHAPTER 5

  ABD AL RAHMAN walked as quickly to the park as his damaged right leg would allow. His gait was unbalanced because he had to throw the dead weight of his right leg forward with his hip to get it in front of his body. The motion was tiring and made his back ache, but the anticipation of a call to action, to the meeting to discuss what he had just witnessed was strong motivation and he ignored his discomfort.

  He reached the park and slowed his pace, and almost as an after thought, he looked around cautiously to see if he was being watched or followed but noticed nothing untoward. It was quite late in the day and mothers were gathering up their children to leave the park and a few older people were strolling along the path. He considered taking a seat on one of the park benches but decided to keep walking through the park. For some reason he felt it was better to keep moving rather than sit and wait for his contact. As it turned out, he did not have to wait long. A hand slipped inside his left arm and a now familiar voice spoke to him in French.

  “I see your wounds from the old days are still with you,” the stranger said. “Does it pain you to walk? Would you rather sit down?”

  Abd Al Rahman turned to look at his companion and shook his head. “No, I am fine. We can keep walking.”

  The two men walked in silence for a few a minutes accompanied only by the sounds of their feet on the gravel and the noise of distant traffic wafting over them.

  Abd Al Rahman broke the silence. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Who I am is not important but what I am is very important,” the stranger answered cryptically.

  “I don’t understand,” Al Rahman responded with a quizzical tone in his voice.

  “Osama sends his regards and prays you still walk with Allah.”

  “Osama? You have seen him and spoken to him?” Abd Al Rahman asked with surprise in voice.

  “Not directly but we have exchanged ideas and plans.”

  “How is my brother? It has been so long since I have seen him or spoken with him. Is he well?”

  The stranger smiled briefly and ignoring the question stopped walking and turned to face Abd Al Rahman. He stared hard at him for a few moments and then asked, “Is Allah still in your heart and soul, Abd Al Rahman? Are you still with us or has your life here in Paris made you soft and feeble?”

  Abd Al Rahman stared back at the stranger, a hard fixed stare, his face flushed, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes narrowed to small slits. When he replied his voice was strong and resolute.

  “I have lived among these infidels, these weak, self indulgent French pigs and their filthy whores for more than nine years. I have idled away the best years of my life for a cause in which I was not permitted to participate and I have denied myself the comfort of my faith and the companionship of fellow Muslims. And you dare ask me if I have maintained the faith.”

  He pulled his mutilated right hand out of his pocket and held it in front of the stranger’s face. “I thought this was the greatest test of my faith, but living here doing nothing, just waiti
ng to be called, to have no purpose, has been worse.”

  The two men remained staring at each other a for a moment after Abd Al Rahman finished speaking and then, with a smile, the stranger leaned forward and gently pulled Abd Al Rahman’s mangled hand to his lips and tenderly kissed it.

  “You have served us well Abd Al Rahman,” he said. “First in war and now you will serve us again. Osama has named you to lead the next battle against the infidel.”

  “Inshalla,” Abd Al Rahman said under his breath. Eyes closed, he repeated the mantra three times, as for the first time in years, he felt a sense of peace and fulfillment briefly overcome him as he intoned God’s greatness.

  “Inshalla,” the stranger repeated as he again took Abd Al Rahman’s arm and guided him down the path. He led him to a park bench in a relatively secluded spot that still had a clear view of the path. The two men sat and the stranger began to speak.

  “The meeting with the Russian, it went well.” The stranger said it more as a statement than a question.

  “Yes, I think so,” he replied. “I’m not exactly sure what I saw but I think it was similar to the woman in the video.”

  The stranger nodded. “That woman in the video, what did she look like to you? Did she look like an Arab?”

  Abd Al Rahman shook his head. “No, she looked northern European, white with blond hair.”

  “Exactly,” the stranger replied. “She looked like them,” he said as he nodded his head at the direction of a couple young women walking down the path. “They all look like them.”

  Abd Al Rahman glanced at the two women and back at the stranger. He did not quite grasp what he was being told. “What do you mean all? Are there more like her?”