by Bob Mayer
She smiled. "A most interesting name."
They didn't speak as they left the bar and went toward the elevator. She started to speak when the elevator gate closed, and continued all the way to his room. "I want to be a psychiatrist. I wanted to be a surgeon, but my grades weren't good enough and I was not a man. Unfortunately, I've always been just smart enough to get in the door. Not quite smart enough to get what I wanted. It didn't help being a woman."
Jawhar unlocked the door to his room and ushered her in.
"Psychology is most fascinating, though," Katrina continued. "I enjoyed my studies."
"And you are here to pay your way through school?" Jawhar asked.
"Times are difficult," Katrina said with the resignation Jawhar had heard from many in the former Eastern Bloc.
"I do not believe in psychology," Jawhar said as he pulled out his titanium case and began unscrewing the lid. He had had it carefully cleaned after Bosnia so it could go back to its original use. "Seems like they spend an awful lot of time looking backward instead of dealing with life now."
Katrina paused in the doorway to the bathroom. "But the source of our discontent and our madness is in our past. Until you can get to the source and understand it, you'll always be lost." The door swung shut.
Jawhar took a deep sniff of cocaine from the case. The hook in his brain was pounding now, a throbbing thing with a life of its own. A psychology student? He found that most amusing and ironic.
Katrina came back out. She flipped open the small refrigerator in the room. "Beer?" It was local stuff. Almost as bad as drinking piss water, in Jawhar's opinion.
Jawhar accepted the can and popped the top. "I have something you might like." He held up the titanium case.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Cocaine. Have you ever tried it?"
"Once."
"Did you like it?"
She nodded.
He poured a line on the table next to his chair. She came over and knelt, nose to the cheap wood. She snorted, then stood and went back to the bed.
He settled into the chair near the window and Katrina sat cross-legged on the bed, fluffing the pillows up to get comfortable. She looked at him quizzically, as if wondering why he wasn't joining her on the bed, but she didn't push it.
She blinked. The first wave hit her brain. "Judging from what you said before I went into the bathroom, you seem to be one of those people who believe that looking into the past is a waste of time."
Jawhar waved his hands. "I prefer to expend my energy on the present."
"But sometimes the energy you expend on the present is wasted energy if you aren't expending it in the right areas because you don't understand your past."
Jawhar sipped his beer and considered her. The understanding prostitute working on a degree in psychology. She thought she knew so much. "It is all bullshit."
Katrina leaned forward, her pupils dilated now. "What happened to you that was so terrible that you don't want to remember it?"
Jawhar closed his eyes. All of a sudden he was tired. The cushions of the chair enveloped him, dragging him down. "Nothing happened to me."
Katrina leaned back on the pillows. "I'm willing to listen. I'll be gone tomorrow, so you won't have to worry. I don't even know your last name. Tell me your dark secret."
"My mother was a bitch," Jawhar said.
"Why is the mother always blamed?" Katrina wondered. "I think it is more the father's fault in most cases."
"Oh, I blame him too," Jawhar said. "His time is coming."
"His time?"
Jawhar opened his eyes and looked at her closely. "You want to know something?"
"Yes?"
"I've killed."
Katrina blinked. "What?"
Jawhar smiled coldly. "I said I've killed."
She looked at the door briefly and then back at him. "Anyone I know?"
Jawhar took a sip of his beer. "The first time was in Kuwait. You remember, don't you? The great oil war?"
She seemed to relax slightly. "You were there?"
Jawhar nodded.
"Who did you kill?"
"A woman."
Katrina leaned forward on the bed. "A woman? Why?"
"She was in the wrong place at the wrong time," Jawhar lied. "She had to die."
"Did you feel bad about it?"
Jawhar stood. "No." He was now next to the bed, looking down on her. Her eyes were wide as she looked up. He knew what she was feeling as the cocaine rushed through her system.
"How did you kill her?"
"With a knife. I cut her throat." Jawhar sat on the bed behind her and put his hands on her shoulders.
"But you did it because it was war. Right?"
"Oh, yes," Jawhar whispered. He reached down and cupped her breasts. She rolled back against him.
"What did it feel like?" she whispered.
"I felt like a god. I felt like I had the ultimate power. I felt like I was in control for once." He pulled and her blouse parted, buttons spilling on the bed and floor. He picked her up and threw her back on the bed, her head on the pillows. She looked up at him with a glazed look—no resistance. She wanted it. He could feel it.
"I want to play a game," he said. He pulled out a wad of bills and threw them on the bed next to her. She looked at the bills, then back up at him. It was more money than she could make in a year working the bar downstairs.
"What kind of game?'
"A fun game. It will very much be worth your time."
He saw her struggling to think. He pulled more bills out. She nodded, then closed her eyes.
Jawhar used the remains of her blouse on her left wrist, tying it to the bedpost. Her bra unfastened in the front and he used it to fix the right wrist. She was writhing now, struggling against the bonds. Jawhar looked about. A shirt was lying on the dresser. He went and got it. Returning to the bed, he knelt on top of her, his groin pressing up against her large breasts. She looked at him as he rolled the cloth. The last vision she had of him was his smile as he placed the cloth over her eyes. He lifted her head and tied it. Then he got off her and stepped back from the bed. She was still playfully struggling against the bonds.
Jawhar reached down and removed the knife he always carried strapped behind his back. The blade was long and curved and very sharp. He went back to the bed. Using one hand, he unbuttoned her skirt down the side and laid it open. Her cheap black panties beckoned.
Jawhar placed the point of the knife under the waistband. Feeling the knife, Katrina froze. "What are you doing?"
Jawhar didn't say a word. The sharpened blade slid through the material. Jawhar pushed his free hand down on her mound. She was wet. He pressed hard and she writhed under his ministrations. Jawhar played with her for a few minutes until she was arching off the bed—then he stopped.
He went back to the dresser. Another piece of cloth. He went back to the bed. Wadding her panties up, he held them in one hand. He looked down on her for a long minute. He reached down and played with her for a few seconds. She opened her mouth to gasp with the pleasure and he rammed the panties in. She jerked up and he quickly wound the cloth around and sealed them in place. He ignored her muffled protests.
Jawhar removed his clothes slowly. She was kicking now. The pleasure was gone. This was serious. He knew she knew that. But it was too late. He grabbed her ankles and spread her legs. She was strong, but he was stronger. He pinned the legs down and pressed his body on hers. His cock slid in effortlessly—she was still wet from the beginning.
Jawhar pushed his head up next to hers and whispered as he fucked. "The one in Kuwait was the first. She was a prisoner. A local woman who had cooperated with the Iraqis. Or so her neighbors said. Who knows if that was the truth? She was given to me to interrogate. That's when I learned about being in control."
Jawhar took a moment to catch his breath. Katrina was arching up to keep him going, the cocaine and his low voice bringing her back to thinking this was indeed a game.
/> "It was so easy. If I had known how easy it was, so many things would have been different for my brother and I. Remember I said she was the first? Well, there were others." Jawhar could feel the pressure in his balls build. "All over the world." Katrina's moans reached a crescendo. Barely enough to make it to the door of the room, never mind summon help.
"They all really wanted to die. They all deserved to die. Just like you." Katrina was crying now, her muffled sobs dying in her throat and her tears staining the blindfold.
Jawhar almost paused then because a vision of another woman crossed his mind. Then he felt himself coming. He shuddered and thrust deeper. He felt himself pour out into her.
After a minute Jawhar lay still. He pulled out and stepped back. Katrina wasn't moving. Maybe she was hoping he'd leave now or just let her go. Jawhar blinked, shaking off the effect of the sex, cocaine and beer. They were all the same.
Jawhar scooped up the knife from where he had laid it on the nightstand. He dressed quickly and put the knife in its sheath. Katrina remained frozen throughout.
He considered the room. He knelt down next to Katrina's head. "Did your psychology help you? Did you understand me?"
Jawhar removed the blindfold and she blinked, trying to adjust to the light. He levered his right forearm across her neck, slowly applying pressure. Her eyes bulged and her legs drummed against the mattress. Jawhar put all his weight behind that arm. Her eyes were terrified, an animal caught by a predator. Jawhar released the pressure and he could hear the wheeze of air as she desperately tried to get oxygen around her gag.
Getting off the bed, Jawhar took the beer can and crushed it, throwing it in the trash. He got another out of the refrigerator and sat in the chair by the window.
His SATPhone rang. He wanted to ignore it, but he knew better. He pulled it out of the coat pocket and punched the on button.
"Yes?" He knew it could only be one person, his brother Akil.
"Have you met the colonel yet?"
"Yes. He is getting what we want."
"How soon?"
"Two or three days. He wants more money."
"How much?"
"Two million, American."
"I'll tell the old man."
"He'll pay," Jawhar said. Two million was nothing to their father.
"Be careful. We've received whispers from the West that the colonel is not to be trusted."
"I don't trust him." Jawhar's eyes were on the bed. He could see the rise and fall of Katrina's naked chest.
"Our Western contact says the colonel has already made plans to go to Colombia."
"Before or after he completes his end of the bargain?"
"Let us hope afterwards. Perhaps it is good he wants more money," Akil said.
"I believe he will come back for the additional money. He said he will return in two days."
"I will come to your location in two days to bring the money and to make sure the colonel delivers."
"Good," Jawhar said.
"1 will see you then." The phone went dead.
Jawhar pulled the knife out and played with the razor-sharp edge as he considered Katrina. At least he would not be bored while he waited.
Chapter Nineteen
"You think these are your guys?" Morty Lorsen pulled out a pair of rimless glasses and looked at the two downloaded images.
"Yes." Thorpe was in the passenger seat, Master Sergeant King cramped in the back of Lorsen's old car. "We think they're from the Middle East," he added. "Saudi Arabia."
"Odd names for Saudis," Lorsen noted. "I got just the guy for us to see." He threw the old BMW into gear and pulled into traffic.
"Who?" Thorpe asked.
"You'll see," Lorsen said.
They wove through the narrow streets of the old part of Stuttgart, several times almost colliding with a car coming the opposite way. With a squeal of breaks badly needing servicing, Lorsen spun the wheel and came to a halt in a narrow alley that barely allowed them to open the doors on the driver's side. Thorpe slid across the seat and followed Lorsen out, King getting out of the back.
"Do you know every back alley in Stuttgart?" Thorpe asked, trying to see into the darkness ahead.
"Not every." Lorsen was already walking and Thorpe and King hurried to catch up.
Thorpe stopped as Lorsen suddenly disappeared to the right. "Come on, come on," the old man's voice echoed back.
Thorpe turned the corner and saw Lorsen standing in front of a steel door. Above the door a video camera was staring at them, the little red light on the top letting them know they were being observed.
Lorsen was looking up at the camera and waving. "Me they know. You they'll be wondering about."
"Who?" Thorpe asked once more.
"You'll see. If they ever open this door." Lorsen waved his hands in front of the camera. "Let's go, let's go."
Thorpe was surprised when the door quietly opened, swinging back so smoothly he had no doubt it was being done mechanically. There was no one inside the small, white-painted foyer that beckoned. A wooden door was on the other end ten feet farther in. Another camera was above that door.
Lorsen ushered Thorpe and King in, the steel door swinging shut behind them with a solid thud.
"Are you armed?" Lorsen asked.
"Yeah," Thorpe answered.
"Put your weapons here." Lorsen pulled out a snub-nosed revolver and placed it on a small shelf.
Thorpe placed the 9mm pistol he had been given by Dublowski on the shelf, while King deposited a Beretta.
"One way mirror," Lorsen jerked his thumb at the large pane of reflective glass to their left.
"Who's watching us?" Thorpe asked. He felt naked without his weapon and the elaborate security measures did nothing to ease that feeling.
"Mossad," Lorsen finally informed him.
Thorpe had suspected as much. If anyone would have tabs on Middle Eastern personnel, it was the Israeli security agency.
The wooden door swung open. A tall, thin man waited. His face was drawn, the bones tight under the skin. He had short dark hair, a generous portion of it turning gray. His eyes were deep-set and a very dark brown, almost black.
"My old friend Mr. Lorsen." The man waved them inside. "With friends. At least I assume they are friends, although they came to my door armed."
"Everyone comes to your door armed," Lorsen said. "It's a calling card of the trade."
The man led them down a corridor into a small room with a table and several chairs. The walls were an off-green color that had seen better days. A fan revolved very slowly above their heads.
The man perched himself on the edge of the table. Lorsen sank down gratefully into one of the chairs. Thorpe and King remained standing.
"This is Major Thorpe and Master Sergeant King," Lorsen said by way of introduction. "Can I tell them your name?" he asked the man who let them in.
The man nodded.
Lorsen gave a small bow. "And this, my friends, is Esdras. At least that's the name he is currently using with me. Whether it is his first or last name, I know not and care not to know."
Esdras smiled. "Always a joker, old man." The smile disappeared. "What do you want?"
Thorpe pulled the printout of the two pictures and names out of his pocket and placed it on the table. Esdras picked it up. His face grew even more taut, if that was possible.
"How do you know these men?"
"They attended some military schooling in the States," Thorpe said. "James and Alex Matin. Our records indicate they are officers in the Saudi Arabian army."
Esdras tossed the paper back onto the desk. "What about them?"
"We feel they might have a role to play in the disappearance of several American military dependent girls in this area," Lorsen said.
"That is not my concern," Esdras said.
"The Samson option," Thorpe said, catching everyone in the room off guard.
Esdras's head snapped around. "Mr. Lorsen, please take Sergeant King into the corridor." His eyes
remained focused on Thorpe.
Lorsen and King left the room, the door swinging shut behind them.
"The Samson option is fiction," Esdras said.
"It is now," Thorpe agreed. "But a year ago it was fact. I suggest you call your superiors and tell them my name. And the name Colonel Parker. And you might want to mention the Omega Missile."
Esdras turned and left Thorpe alone in the room. The second hand on the plain clock on the wall slowly made its way around as he waited. After five minutes the door opened once more and Esdras came back in. He took a seat on one side of the table and Thorpe sat across from him.
"I am informed that the State of Israel owes you a great deal of gratitude," Esdras spoke without inflection, "and that I am to extend to you and Colonel Parker any courtesy short of compromising my nation's security."
Considering he and Parker had stopped a nuclear missile just seconds from making Tel Aviv a fused-glass parking lot, Thorpe thought that was most kind of the State of Israel.
"Tell me about them." Thorpe stabbed his finger at the pictures. "Jawhar and Akil. You have a file on them?"
"I have our file on them being copied," Esdras said, "but I am fully up to date, as they are on our Level A list."
"Level A?"
"People who are considered real threats to Israeli security and interests." Esdras picked up the pictures. "Jawhar Matin, a.k.a. the Jewel Man, and his brother Akil."
"Why is Jawhar called the Jewel Man?" Thorpe asked.
"He wears a ring on every finger. His hands are probably worth a half million dollars, given all the jewels on those rings."
"Does Akil have a nickname?" Thorpe asked.
"He doesn't need one," Esdras said. "He's a killer. Most of his training comes courtesy of your United States. But the instinct, the cold blood and lack of conscience, that he was born with. Their father is Prince Hakim Yasin. Have you ever heard that name?"
Thorpe shook his head.
"Hakim is one of the top three oilmen in Saudi Arabia. So rich you don't even bother putting numbers against his name. More powerful than most countries. Which explains why these two pigs"—Esdras indicated the pictures—"are on our Level A list yet are still breathing."