King's Ransom

by E H Jennings

  He carefully upturned the carafe and filled a mug with the steaming dark liquid. He then added the cream and the Splenda, took a sip, and sighed contentedly. Perfect.

  It took him two trips to carry the coffee, the orange juice, and the newspapers over to his sitting area. The room, like most things in the house, had been his wife’s idea.

  His recliner was grouped with a small table and a lamp in one corner, while a love seat and a bookshelf decorated the other half of the room. The wall opposite his chair was a large window, granting a spectacular view of the backyard and woods beyond. As the sun crept up through the poplars, bright yellow and orange light refracted through the glass, bathing the room in color.

  Even though his wife had been dead for twelve years, he still unfailingly used coasters when setting a drink on a piece of furniture. The trauma of the few times he had forgotten was forever ingrained in his mind.

  He sat his coffee and orange juice on the coasters and eased into his chair.

  The old recliner was made of faux leather and was heavily worn. He had more than enough money to buy any chair he wanted, but it had been a gift. Plus, it had contoured to his body over the years. Sitting in it just felt right.

  He would probably die in it one of these days, and that was okay with him.

  He popped open The Washington Post with a crisp snap. As always, he began with the Nation and Politics section.

  The pillow slammed against his face, pinning his head to the back of the chair.

  The Colonel flailed his arms and arched his back, desperately trying to break free, to find air, but the strength that held him was enormous. The pillow seemed to press tighter the more violently he thrashed.

  Eventually, slowly, his arms grew weak and heavy and he could no longer resist. He felt the world fading. Moments later, the Colonel was dead.

  The man holding the pillow walked in socked feet across the carpet and returned it to its place on the love seat. He even fluffed it, making it match the others.

  He then moved back to the Colonel, picked the newspaper up out of the floor, and gently laid it on his chest.

  The killer stepped back and admired his handy work. When the medical examiner found the body, there would be absolutely no sign of a struggle. There would be no evidence he had ever been there at all. They probably wouldn’t even do an autopsy. People like a good story, and an old man dying peacefully in his easy chair, a newspaper in his lap, was so romantic people would never suspect murder.

  On the table by the chair, the Colonel’s perfect cup of coffee was still steaming.

  The killer didn’t touch anything else. He went out the back door, locked it behind him, and retrieved his boots from behind the air conditioning unit. He then took off his gloves and walked across the backyard toward the woods, making sure to avoid soft spots in the ground.

  Passing among the poplars, the man actually smiled. It was a nice morning.

  • • •

  The black Lincoln Navigator was parked on the shoulder of Martin Road, less than a mile from Colonel James Day’s neighborhood. Inside it, Drago Ancic smoked a cigarette and listened to what the Americans called country music. He positively loathed the sound, but he let it play anyway.

  Ancic wore his usual daily attire: black slacks and a heavily starched white oxford. He liked being known as Divljak, but he refused to dress like a savage.

  He was wealthy and powerful and he wanted people to know it.

  Reclining slightly in the tan leather seat, Ancic watched Americans buzz by in expensive vehicles, talking on cell phones, applying lipstick, singing along with the radio. He saw several vehicles that actually had televisions descending from the ceiling, little children watching cartoons as their parents drove them to school.

  Ancic sneered. One word came to mind as he watched the madness. Weak. Americans were incredibly weak.

  Such lavish freedoms would never have been allowed in the Soviet Union. Such expansive freedom led to the assumption that people somehow deserved privilege, that a certain quality of life was required. Ancic actually spat at the thought.

  Where he came from, the strong flourished and the weak starved to death. Survival of the fittest. It was the natural order of things, an order Ancic appreciated. He had helped maintain that order in his time with the KGB and he continued to do so now.

  Crna Kuga didn’t just take any assignment. There were two hard criteria: one was adequate payment, which typically meant tens of millions; and two, no assignment was accepted without Ancic’s approval.

  Drago Ancic only approved missions that served to promulgate his ideologies. This mission accomplished that as well as any mission he had ever accepted. Truth be told, Ancic had a healthy respect for the man his employee had just killed. He was one of the few Americans he had ever known that was willing to go the distance, to do whatever it took to restore and maintain order.

  Colonel James Day was an honorable man, a rare trait in such a spoon-fed nation, and Ancic was confident he would have understood why his death was a necessary sacrifice.

  He had just tapped out another cigarette when his man emerged from the woods. The passenger door opened and the man climbed inside, slightly out of breath. Ancic locked eyes with him and the man nodded.

  The Divljak smiled. They were one step closer.

  They each had a shot of vodka, celebrating the small victory, and the Navigator pulled onto the road. Their business in Maryland was complete.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Istanbul, Turkey

  Istanbul has always been a city of significance. With its rich, diverse history and optimal geographic placement, the city has long served as a cultural center for the Middle Eastern world.

  Founded in 657 BC by the Greeks, Istanbul was first known as Byzantium. Almost a thousand years later, it was re-founded as the Nova Roma, or “New Rome,” by Roman Emperor Constantine The Great, who re-named the city Constantinople.

  Situated between the Sea of Marmara and the Black Sea, Istanbul forms a transcontinental land bridge connecting Europe and Asia. The narrow Bosphorus strait bisects the city and connects the northern Black Sea to the southern Sea of Marmara. The Bosphorus, along with the Dardanelles strait eighty miles to the south, together make up the Turkish straits and serve to create a continuous waterway flowing from the Black Sea through the Aegean and eventually on to the Mediterranean.

  The Old City is located on the European side of the Bosphorus. It is there that many of Istanbul’s major tourist attractions are located.

  Among the most prominent is the Sultanahmet Mosque, more popularly referred to as “The Blue Mosque.” Built in the early 17th century by Sultan Amhed I, the Blue Mosque was more or less built as a consolation for the Sultan after a series of failed military engagements. Lacking the funds to build the immaculate structure he desired, the Sultan did the very thing America would perfect four centuries later—he borrowed the money.

  Sayid Moussafi was seated at the Babylonia Garden and Terrace Restaurant, two hundred yards east of The Blue Mosque. Another two hundred yards to the south was the Bosphorus strait. He could smell the water.

  He was in the outdoor section, and though the breeze coming off Marmara was sharp and chilled, it was pleasant.

  The food at Babylonia was good—he had chosen hamsi pilavi meze, a dish made from fresh anchovies taken from the Black Sea, olives, and rice—and his plate was now empty. The Arab had suggested the restaurant and Sayid was not surprised to discover the man had good taste.

  Many months ago, when Sayid first met the Arab, the man said to call him Faisah. Sayid had since grown certain the name was a cover. Sayid had even confronted him about it once. The Arab had smiled coolly and expressed pleasure at Sayid’s intuition. But he had never formally admitted the ruse.

  In his enigmatic way, he had said simply, “The less you know, the better.”

  That was the same answer Faisah had given Sayid when he asked about this strange mission in Turkey. The mission was
terribly delicate and Sayid didn’t like delicate. He much preferred the bash and slash approach; it satisfied his bloodlust.

  It was that vengeful bloodlust that had prompted him to join the Qassam Brigades in the first place.

  But despite the current assignment not suiting his more carnal tastes, he had grown to greatly revere Faisah. Faisah was the one he had met on that first day, after his wife and child were blown into small pieces. Faisah was the only reason Sayid had been granted entry into the Brigades, and for that, he was deeply indebted to the man.

  Faisah had been his primary trainer, but over the intervening twelve months their relationship had transformed from a mentor-protégé motif to more of a father-son dynamic.

  At the heart of that transformation was shared pain.

  Back at the compound, it had become Sayid and Faisah’s custom to stay up late into the night. They would drink coffee, eat bread, and talk. It was during these late-night conversations that they had first discovered the scar common to both their hearts: they had each lost family in the most brutal of ways.

  Faisah didn’t like talking about his family. The most he had ever told Sayid was that they were taken from him unjustly, and that injustice was the reason he had joined Hamas. It was also the reason he had taken mercy on Sayid the day he showed up at the compound’s doorstep.

  When Faisah had gazed down at the angry, weeping figure, he hadn’t seen Sayid—he had seen himself. And with that common bond as a foundation, the friendship between the two men had quickly grown strong.

  When the waiter passed by, Sayid politely asked for more water. As the man filled his glass, Sayid thanked him in Turkish and complimented the chef on an excellent meal. They carried on small talk for a few moments, then the waiter moved on to other patrons.

  Faisah had taught him several Turkish words and phrases and he was eager to use them. Though the waiter probably knew he wasn’t a native speaker, Sayid was pleased his Turkish was at least passable.

  Taking a drink of the water, Sayid reclined his head and eyed the building across the street. He had been surreptitiously monitoring the building throughout his meal.

  Despite the great food, the cuisine wasn’t the reason Faisah had suggested the Babylonia.

  The name of the building was House of Zeugma. Though its primary function was as a hotel, there was also a small patisserie and café attached to the bottom floor with seating right on the street. The structure was three stories tall and the décor was decidedly chic, with curved balconies outside each window and ivy climbing the stone façade.

  Sayid’s attention was focused on the upper right hand window. He didn’t think they were there—he knew they were. The windows had drapes but he had seen movement behind them several times over the last hour. Someone was in the room.

  Earlier in the day, Sayid had entered the House of Zeugma to inquire about lodging. He posed as a tourist and pleaded for a room on the top floor with a view of the Sea and the Old City. The hotel manager had vehemently apologized and told him the entire top floor was being renovated.

  In an attempt to retain Sayid’s business, the manager had offered a second floor room for half price. Sayid declined, claiming the view was very important to him. He tipped the manager for his kind efforts and left the hotel.

  He had obtained the information he needed. The men currently staying on the third floor—room 311, according to the floor plan Sayid had found online—had paid off the hotel manager. They needed private space to operate.

  To Sayid’s eye, every room on the third floor was empty. All except for 311.

  Satisfied with the intel, Sayid placed a sizable tip on the table and left the Babylonia. He took a left onto Akbiyik and strode past the Best Western Premier Acropol. This district of the Old City, Sayid knew, had once been known as the Acropolis during the rule of the Byzantines. Hence, the name, Best Western Acropol.

  The building was regal and pristine, an old mansion restored in the original Ottoman style architecture. The hotel was a popular tourist establishment in the heart of Istanbul.

  It was also the reason Sayid Moussafi had come to Turkey.

  The walk back to his own lodging, the Basileus Hotel, took less than fifteen minutes. After climbing the stairs to his room and locking the door behind him, Sayid set his Kel-Tec PF-9 on the nightstand and collapsed into bed.

  His assignment would begin in a few hours. If he was going to carry it out properly, he needed sleep.

  He thought about the men in room 311 as his eyes closed. He didn’t know who they were, but Faisah had told him why they were here. As was his way, Faisah had kept the more intimate details of the mission shrouded in mystery, and that was okay with Sayid.

  The details didn’t really matter.

  As Faisah had told him so many times before, the fight for justice was always worth the cost.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Al-Safirah, Syria

  Omar and the Arab had been driving for almost six hours. They had taken a circuitous route along Lebanon’s western coast, employing frequent switchback maneuvers to ensure they weren’t being followed.

  It was only seventy miles from Beirut to Tripoli, but that segment of the trip had taken the longest. Lebanon’s population was densest between the two major cities, so the Arab had instructed Omar to use even greater caution in these areas.

  Thirty miles north of Tripoli, they crossed the border at Aarida. They took some flak from the Syrian authorities for not having a return coupon on their passports, but were ultimately allowed to pass.

  Unlike their experience at Masnaa, the traffic at the Aarida crossing was very light. The difference was simple: everyone wanted to leave Syria and no one wanted to come back.

  They drove north through remote countryside for eight miles before catching the M1 and taking it due east. As they passed through Homs, the Arab took out a notepad and began writing. He had taken ten pages of notes when Omar asked him what he was doing. The Arab had simply looked at him, the annoyance on his face telling the man all he needed to know. Omar was to shut up and drive.

  Highway 42 took them northeast out of Homs back into forsaken lands, the ground hard, flat, and impossibly dry. The 4Runner was silent as they pushed ahead into the dusty abyss.

  It was the middle of the afternoon when they reached the dirt turnoff. The road was incredibly rough and both men were jostled violently in the cab. Nonetheless, the Arab instructed Omar not to slow down.

  When green trees came into view, the Arab directed Omar onto another narrow path, this one headed steeply downhill into a copse of Aleppo pines. Beyond the trees, the structure came into view.

  Built of mud brick, the Qassam Brigades compound was a dull and brooding gray. It was a two-story structure with very few windows and the Arab could already see men standing on the rooftop, smoking. A smaller building built from the same bleak-looking stone stood to the right of the compound. It was a garage of sorts, filled with vehicles.

  Beyond the compound the woods became thick and the terrain grew tortuous. Steep valleys and sheer rock faces marked the rugged descent down to Jaboul Lake.

  There was a gravel turnaround that coiled in front of the compound and the Arab directed Omar there. When the 4Runner stopped, the Arab politely thanked Omar and handed him one thousand American dollars before climbing out. The money was payment for the drive, but it was also an assurance of discretion. Omar understood the arrangement.

  Underneath the bottom bill was a piece of paper with the details of the driver’s next assignment. They would be seeing one another again very soon.

  The Arab watched Omar disappear back through the pines. The men on the roof were yelling down at him, laughing, and he waved to them as he made his way inside.

  The Qassam Brigades served as the military wing for the Palestinian-based Islamic organization, Hamas. The Brigades were composed of over twenty thousand jihadists, most of whom were organized into cells actively operating in the West Bank and Gaza Strip.


  This particular cell, code-named Q24, had been organized and established in Syria within the first six months of the civil war. Though their primary purpose was liberating Palestine, Hamas was predominately comprised of Sunni Muslims. As such, they felt they had a role to play in bringing down the oppressive Ba’ath Party regime in Syria.

  The ancient sectarian war was alive and well.

  The Arab didn’t give two shits about the Sunnis or the Shiites. They had been killing each other since the beginning of time and they would keep doing it. He didn’t believe in Allah and he didn’t particularly like people that did.

  None of it was his concern.

  What did concern him was America.

  A small man called Madi approached him in the hallway and passionately shook his hand. Madi was young, twenty at the oldest, and had no business operating in the military wing of anything. He was barely five feet tall and had a thin build. Hamas leaders had recruited him for his intelligence.

  “Greetings Faisah,” said the young man. “How was your mission?”

  The Arab smiled. “It went well, Madi. It is good to see you.”

  A broad grin consumed Madi’s face and he gestured for the Arab to follow him. They began down the narrow hallway, headed for the stairs.

  “How is Sayid?” asked Madi. “He left in the middle of the night two days ago. No one has seen or heard from him since.”

  The Arab had lobbied for Sayid’s admittance into the Brigades. He had also trained him. Such was the Arab’s standing with cell leadership that Sayid was entrusted to him as an apprentice. In a sense, he was to be used as the Arab saw fit; the Arab assigned Sayid missions without oversight.

  But Madi didn’t need to know that. And he most certainly wasn’t privy to details regarding Sayid’s dealings in Turkey.

  The Arab shrugged. “He’s conducting Brigade business in the north. I have not spoken with him since I left for Damascus.”

  Madi accepted the lie without question. He was still smiling. “I’ve grown to like Sayid. I hope he is well.”