Remembering that our passports and IDs had made the two of us members of the Donovan family during this trip, I smiled and responded in kind. “Donovan. I’m Joel. This is my wife, Kate.”
Natalia extended her hand outward semi-courteously to Brigette. “Kathrine.”
Brigette shook Natalia’s—I mean Kathrine’s hand with a huge smile. After finding our names on her roster, she said, “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you both. Now, let me show you to your seats and we can get this party started! The two of you are on our VIP list this evening, so we have some complimentary swag for you. It’s a full house tonight, but it’s going to be great fun for everyone, so sit back and enjoy, okay? And make sure to let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”
“Marvelous,” the wife responded, in an almost perfect emulation of our hostess’s supremely effervescent voice.
I had to admit, the mockery was well warranted. Where the hell were we? Disneyland?
We followed Brigette from the vestibule around a corner and into an equally dimly illuminated main showroom, complete with a rather miniscule stage in the front of the house. The areas near the stage were already borderline overcrowded with folks, but the area to which we were being led was adequately spacious. I assumed it to be the VIP area Brigette had alluded to.
Our hostess motioned to a round high-top table in the corner with four chairs propped against it. “And here we are,” she announced, arranging the chairs. “Is there anything I can get the two of you to start you off? We’ve got appetizers, entrees, and a full bar of top-shelf—”
“Water,” Natalia declared. “Just water, thank you.”
Brigette cocked her head, looking dejected. “Are you sure? We have some great drink specials tonight, and happy hour is extended for our beloved VIPs.”
“Yes, Bridge, I’m sure. Water, please,” Natalia reiterated.
“Okay, water it is,” Brigette said unhappily with a sigh. “And for you, Mr. Donovan?”
“I’ll have a cup of coffee.”
Another unhappy look. “Coffee?”
“Yes. Water and coffee, Brigette,” Natalia said, a note of impatience in her voice. “Nothing else. Off with you.”
Brigette hung her head. “Cream and sugar?”
I nodded and offered her a smile just before she shuffled away, almost in a sprint. The wife and I then took our seats, picking spots that would put both our backs to the wall.
Natalia sighed. “Why the hell does every girl in the world feel the need to so obnoxiously flirt with you?”
“She wasn’t flirting.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah…she’s just young…and vivacious.”
“She needs to learn how to properly do her makeup. And she’s not vivacious.”
“Okay. What is she, then?”
Natalia shot her eyes at me, her eyebrows elevated. “A whore.” A pause before she continued. “What would you have done if she’d been a sparrow…sent specifically to seduce and extract information from you?”
I did my best to ignore the remarks while taking note of them. With regard to our present dialog, her response was predictable, but even Natalia recognized that for one, Brigette was far from being my type, and two, I had never been the easiest person to break. I had the scars to prove it.
Several minutes passed. Brigette never returned, but she did send a male subordinate over to deliver our drinks. I dumped a couple of packets of sugar into my coffee and disregarded the creamer, leaving it black. Surprisingly enough, it didn’t taste too awful. Venues such as these were inclined to take more notice of beverages they stood to profit the most from, and coffee wasn’t one of them.
More time passed. It was now ten minutes after eight, and the show had already started, and still no Jonathon. I was beginning to get worried, but Natalia had surpassed that notion long ago and was primed and ready to freak out. Just as she was ready to head out the door and pull me along with her, we both caught sight of two figures approaching from around the corner. One of them was Jon. The other, who lagged just behind, was a tall, dark-skinned man in a beige, double-breasted, well-pressed business suit. He was wearing a kufi cap and had a thick black beard, far from what could be considered unkempt.
I tapped Natalia on her thigh. “Two contacts dead ahead. Here we go.”
Natalia didn’t respond. She lifted her water glass to her mouth delicately and took a small sip from it, her eyes never leaving the unfamiliar face as it closed the distance. There was no doubt in my mind she had her other hand, the one I couldn’t see, on a blade of some kind. She was coiled like a serpent in its element, equipped and ready to strike.
When Jon reached our table, he offered his companion a chair. I stood immediately and made my way between him and the other man.
Jon put his mouth close to my ear to overcome the ambient noise. “This is Ammar.” He put his mouth to the other man’s ear while gesturing to me, whispering something to him I couldn’t discern.
After a moment, the tall Middle Eastern man held out a hand and tendered a closed-mouth smile. “It is an honor to finally meet you,” he said, an Arabic inflection coating his words. “My name is Ammar. Ammar Yamin.”
I took his hand into mine and we shook while taking turns evaluating each other. “Pleasure,” I said, though I couldn’t tell if he could hear me or not. I held a hand across the table in Natalia’s direction. “My wife…”
“Yes…yes. I know full well who you are, madam,” Ammar said, and reached over the table to offer his hand while rotating his body away from me.
Natalia produced her signature smile, warming the space and accepting his hand. I breathed an internal sigh of relief. She was back, utterly relaxed and fully in control once more. Was she really drinking water?
During a break in the laughter and clapping around us, Natalia said, “Masa’a al khayr,” with distinct attention to the intonation of her Arabic. “As salam aleykum.”
Our visitor’s smile became grand upon hearing his native language being spoken. He thawed quickly, as did his reply. “Wa aleykum as salam.”
After we all took our seats, a few moments passed while the four of us shared glances and approachable smiles amidst the crowd noise. Soon, however, the looks on our faces morphed into something much more sobering even the comedians on stage couldn’t interrupt, dissuade, or discontinue in spite of their antics.
Brigette managed to surface again to bring Jon a beverage of clear, chilled liquid in a rocks glass with no ice—which I assumed to be vodka. She went to offer Ammar a drink and was instantly shot down, though he did thank her for her time. Ammar was either playing the part of a devout Muslim or was in full conscience with his faith and, as such, didn’t partake of or consume intoxicants. This just wasn’t going to be a good night in the VIP section for young Bridge.
After draining his drink in short order, Jon leaned over to Ammar and whispered something to him, to which Ammar responded with an acknowledging, yet fleeting nod.
Jon then turned to me and beckoned fervently. “Slight venue alteration.” He thumbed his beard and casually rose to his feet while his eyes darted around nervously.
With Jon leading the way through a shadowy corridor, the rest of us followed him into the area designated as the private lounge. We passed a half-dozen sentries along the way, all of them operatives: paras, mercs, and the like. They couldn’t have had a decade of military or tactical experience in total, combined between them. And if they were attempting to blend in, they weren’t trying very hard. I sneered at each of them as colorfully as possible when I passed. If they stood out, I wanted them to know it.
Upon entry into the lounge, which was vastly more subdued than our previous location, we found our seats at a large round mahogany table centered in a red-carpeted room. Upon taking his seat, Ammar pulled out a bulky dark-brown cigar and ignited it. He pulled a tablet PC from the internal pocket of his jacket, placed it in the middle of the table, tapped the screen with his index finger
, and watched it come to life.
He smiled from the corner of his mouth and took a long puff off his cigar before pointing his finger informally at Natalia and then at me. “I must begin by saying that I am slightly overwhelmed sitting here.” Ammar’s English was broken but well pronounced, and had an Arabic drawl coating it. “I am, as you say, starstruck.”
I chuckled, twisting my coffee mug around nonchalantly with my fingers. “That’s flattering. But we’re not celebrities, Mr. Yamin.”
“You shouldn’t be so modest. After all, I’m convening with two of the most highly prized assassins in all of the world. It is a great honor for me.” A pause. “And please, call me Ammar.”
Natalia smiled, but didn’t say anything. She sat as comfortably as she always had in situations such as these. Her legs were crossed, her fingers interlaced, and her hands were nestled in her lap. Her resilient, feminine posture was damn near faultless. La Femme Nikita, eat your heart out.
Ammar continued, his finger now withdrawn, his eyes wide and fixated on my wife. “You are the one with the nickname Stiletto, are you not?”
Natalia nodded her answer but didn’t modify her posture, nor did she offer any change to her relaxed expression.
“I am told the Russians call you tikhaya smert, or silent death,” he said. “Is that true?”
Natalia’s poker face was strong tonight. She didn’t waver. “I’ve been called a lot of things,” she purred.
Ammar nodded and puffed his cigar. “Then it is true,” he said with a crooked smile, then turned to face me. “And you. You are the one known by many as Azrael. The angel of death.”
“While I’m not certain, I’ve been told the word translates to ‘whom God helps’ in Hebrew.”
Ammar nodded passively and spoke with animated hands. “To the men fighting for their countries in the war-ravaged regions of the Middle East, places in which, I am certain you are familiar, you are the angel of death. Just so you know.” A pause. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Azrael.”
I nodded in return. “Consider me mindful…as well as diminutively flattered, once again.”
“Very well,” he said, and took another puff of his cigar, then pointed to the table. “Everything you need is there. Please take a few moments to study what I have brought for you to see.”
I reached for the tablet before anyone else even made the attempt. I tapped the only folder icon I saw on the screen, and after a quick animation, it opened to reveal an assortment of files—both images and documents. One of the photos had been titled ‘primary’. I tapped it, and a photo of a man of Arabic descent appearing in his mid-fifties with a white beard came into view on the screen.
“That is Khaleel el-Sattar,” Ammar said, then hesitated. “He is your primary target. In other photos, you will find his wife, Saheera, as well as his daughter, Maisara, and his son, Haashid.”
“Children weren’t part of the deal,” Jon inserted, his hand held up in a halting gesture.
Ammar nodded. “I know this, and my benefactors are not asking for them to be. Our only requirement for fulfillment of the contract is the primary target be terminated. How you choose to satisfy that task is entirely at your discretion.”
I finished perusing the images in the folder and passed the tablet to Natalia. I’d never forget those faces, just like hundreds of others before them. Among my many gifts, or curses, I’d been bestowed with a vividly eidetic memory. A sniper by trade, it was both an advantageous and convenient attribute.
I motioned to the tablet and roused Ammar’s attention. “Who is Khaleel?”
Ammar didn’t respond immediately. He rolled his cigar around inside the glass ashtray, making a conical sculpture out of the ashes clinging to the tip. “Khaleel el-Sattar is an imam, the most recent to be christened a sheikh, a title of great honor to which no Muslim has been designated since Osama bin Laden,” he explained. “He is currently one of the uppermost ranking leaders of the Islamic State of Iraq and al-Sham, or, as you Westerners commonly refer to it, ISIS. He is a true Islamic fundamentalist, regarded by many of his followers as a prophet. But perhaps most importantly, Khaleel is a direct descendent of the Quraysh…predestined to become the next caliph.”
Jonathon shook his head in refusal and held up a finger. He almost chuckled. “You’re lying, bro,” he said casually. “There hasn’t been a legitimate caliphate declared anywhere on the planet for more than a century. Tell us a new story.”
“I am afraid…that you are misinformed, my friend,” Ammar said, turning his attention to Jon. “Or perhaps oblivious, much like the preponderance of the intelligence community. I understand it is easy to turn a blind eye, but that is exactly how Islam has been able to multiply, propagate, and overtake lands as easily as it has over the years.” A pause. “There are thousands of enclaves throughout the world—even now in your own country, where Islamic law has become the rule of the land and non-Muslims and white men such as yourselves are forbidden. Most, if not all, of these provinces are now radicalized. Those which are not are destined for this and soon will be. All but few have pledged baya’a.
“There are jihadist training camps in hundreds of locations throughout your country, and the threat of jihad has been waiting quietly by your doorstep for decades. The assertion of an American caliphate is close at hand. All of what I am telling you is verifiably accurate, yet no one in America seems the least bit troubled by it.” Ammar smirked. “Too many pressing items to worry about on reality television, I am guessing.”
Jon looked rattled. He’d brought his empty glass along with him, and I guessed it possible that he now needed a refill.
In the interim, I quizzed, “What exactly is a prominent ISIS operative like el-Sattar doing in the United States? There’s no denying the country is one big surveillance state. It’s been on a twenty-four-hour-a-day terror-alert standby since 9/11. Doesn’t that seem odd to you? Or at the very least, imprudent?”
Ammar looked puzzled. “Forgive me, Mr. Azrael, but I was under the impression you performed your obligations in exchange only for financial compensation. I was not aware you required further detail, or motivation, for that matter.”
“We don’t. But occasionally, supplementary details can be comforting. Especially for a job this…significant.”
Ammar lowered his head reverently at a slight angle before returning his stare. “As you wish,” he said. “He is in the country to convene with regional jihadist leaders. It is a confidential meeting, one that occurs only once every five years. Before leaving Iraq, he arranged for temporary Kuwaiti visas for himself and his family under the assumed name al-Kamel. We imagine he brought along his wife and children to aid his cover, and we also believe he will use them as human shields if any attempt is to be made on his life.”
“Great.” Jonathon spoke up cynically, snapping his fingers at a passing waiter to order a new drink. “Kids and machine guns. That’s always awesome.”
Ammar tilted his head. “I never said he was a man of honor.”
“False credentials, willingness to use his own family as walking bullet-catchers or not, he’s taking quite a chance being here,” I said.
“Khaleel is a true believer, Mr. Azrael. As such, and like all other radical Islamists, he is unafraid of martyrdom, and not frightened by much else.”
“So by terminating el-Sattar, we’d be cutting the head off the serpent. Is that it?”
“Khaleel is the one man with full control of all Islamic State sleeper cells within US borders,” Ammar said. “So in a word, yes. You would be eliminating the one man with the ability to order them out of hibernation. You’d be given another chance to once again serve your country, Mr. Azrael.”
I chortled. “You speak those words as if you think I somehow give a shit.”
Ammar held up a hand. “I do not understand. Have I insulted you?”
“No—not insulted. Underestimated. If you assumed my patriotism would serve as some master key to disengage my resolve and close thi
s deal, you’d be considerably mistaken.” I paused and stirred in my seat while Ammar’s face hardened. I could tell he wasn’t pleased with my response as he sized me up with his eyes over the table.
I waited a long while before continuing, allowing him to agitate. “So why use us? el-Sattar is obviously a national security threat to nations all over the globe. To me, this seems more suited for a military or sanctioned overt operation. Why use private assassins to off him?”
Ammar took a long drag from his cigar, the tension in his face showing. “Because doing so in the open would produce…unpleasant implications, Mr. Azrael. el-Sattar’s security is an army of men. Their skills are substantial, not easy to overcome or penetrate. Imagine a man…one with eyes in the back of his head. And imagine the legion of security that surrounds him, all having the same. Getting to him necessitates a level of stealth not many in military are capable of. You and your wife are renowned for being the best at this manner of infiltration. This is essential, because his death cannot and must not be misconstrued as being politically motivated. My benefactors want him dead, but they do not wish to start a war.”
“So I take it he’ll be rather difficult to find?” I asked.
Ammar reached for the tablet and tapped the screen a few times, then returned it to the table. I looked down to see the screen had become a topographical map of the area. A blinking icon of a bull’s-eye not far away also caught my eye.
Natalia and I leaned in to get a closer look while Ammar explained further. Jonathon didn’t move, his attention locked only on the drink in his hand. I assumed that to mean he’d seen this tech before and had probably been tracking el-Sattar himself for some time before this arrangement had been set up.
“Khaleel was implanted with a nanotechnology transponder many years ago while under dental anesthesia,” Ammar said. “The device transmits encrypted data on a spread of frequencies difficult to detect, and even has its own countermeasures. Very few are aware it even exists, and as you can see, it is still very much operational.”
Until Nothing Remains: A Hybrid Post-Apocalyptic Espionage Adventure (A Gun Play Novel: Volume 1) Page 5