The Deadliest Game

by Hal Ross

  He knocked again.

  The man who appeared, Yasser Shafi, was in his late forties but looked older. Full mustache and beard: both speckled with gray. His hair was mussed as if disturbed from sleep. He did not offer a greeting. Instead, he turned and beckoned his visitor inside. Once the door closed, he fumbled his way through an embrace.

  Yassin did not like what he was seeing. His host had a history of substance abuse. This was his second chance. But his eyes betrayed him. That, and the lethargic way he moved. This was not good, not good at all.

  “It has been too long,” Shafi said in Arabic.

  Yassin ignored the comment.

  The room opened up into a small, one-room apartment: kitchen in one corner, sofa and television in another. Photographs of imams or quotes from the Koran overpowered the walls. Each was five by seven or larger. All were held in place by thumbtacks.

  Both men took seats on the sofa.

  “Did you complete your task?” Yassin asked without wasting time.

  Shafi nodded.

  “How many people altogether?”

  “Exactly one dozen. All naturalized Americans.”

  “Good. Good. And how about the split?”

  “Eight men, four women.”

  “And what did you say to them?”

  “What you told me to say. That they will be occupied for a number of months. Six at the most.”

  “And they accepted this?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You are sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Yassin hesitated. The man couldn’t be trusted. He had lied to him about breaking his drug habit. “Do you have the list for me?” he asked.

  With some difficulty, Shafi lifted himself up. “I’ll get your list in a moment, if you don’t mind. I have to use the bathroom.”

  Yassin sat and waited. When his host returned his eyes were brighter, his nostrils enflamed. Sluggishly, he headed for the kitchen. He shuffled a few papers aside on the countertop. Then he removed a sheet and casually held it up. “This is the list of people I engaged,” he said. “It includes their addresses and phone numbers.”

  Without hesitation, Yassin removed the knife from his pants pocket. He gripped the blade and flung it with all his strength. He intentionally missed his host’s head by a mere inch or two. Embedded in the wall, the knife vibrated, making a pinging sound.

  Stunned, Shafi’s eyes widened in horror.

  Yassin came to his feet, strolled to the wall, and pulled the knife free. “Next time I won’t miss,” he said. He snatched the sheet of paper from his host’s hands.

  Shafi seemed unable to speak.

  “You told me you were done with your drug habit,” Yassin lashed out.

  “I am done with it.”

  “Liar!”

  “No. It is the truth. I swear.”

  The man’s weakness was troubling. Second chances were anathema to Yassin’s nature; third chances were out of the question. But something held him back. For all intents and purposes, Shafi had performed his duty. He was lying about his drug use. But it didn’t matter. Yassin would have him picked up in the morning and held in seclusion until their plans in America were concluded.

  He left the man standing there, turned and walked out without saying goodbye.

  CHAPTER 8

  The first thing Blair did when he arrived at his office on Monday morning was call his ex-wife at Saks, where she still managed one of the cosmetic counters. When she came on the line, he asked if he could invite her and Sandra to dinner.

  “Why?” she said, not in a nice way.

  “Why not?”

  “You mean, you have no reason? You just want to take us to dinner?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Blair?”

  He held the receiver away from his ear. He didn’t want to explain over the phone. Sandra’s words still weighed heavily on his mind. He figured a meeting face to face would be the best way to clear the air.

  “What is it that you really want, Blair?”

  “I told you.”

  “Yeah. An innocent dinner, just the three of us. Well, why don’t I bring Frank along? We can make it a foursome.”

  “I don’t need the proctologist’s company,” he said, growing angry.

  “He’s not a proctologist!”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot. Anyway, can you make it or not?”

  “I’ll have to call you back. Give me a few days.”

  He wanted to tell her this decision hardly required one day, let alone a few, but she’d already disconnected.

  That afternoon, Blair began reconfiguring some financial numbers on a scrap piece of paper. His entire future depended upon the success of Cyber-tech. Being reminded of that fact drove his nervous tension to the surface.

  His cell phone went off. Caller I.D. revealed a familiar Montreal number.

  “Hello, Mother dear,” he said.

  “Happy birthday, darling.”

  Blair paused. It hurt, hearing his mother slipping backwards again. “It’s not my birthday, Mom.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “It is. I should know when you were born.”

  There was no point in arguing. His mother, only in her mid-sixties, had been suffering from Alzheimer’s disease for the past three years. It was dreadful to hear her this way. There were still some lucid moments. But there were far too many others, like now, when she seemed completely lost.

  He did everything he could to help out financially. His older sister was in the middle of a third divorce and could barely support herself. This left the onus on him to get his mother into a private-care facility.

  People who didn’t know better raved about the Canadian medical system, not understanding that socialized medicine came with a cost. Taxes in Canada were exorbitant. The caliber of care was worsening annually. Trying to see a specialist often took months. And the system did not pay for private care. Thus it was Blair who had to cover this extra expense for his mother. And it wasn’t cheap. Another good reason, he reflected now, why his business couldn’t fail.

  “You know something, Mom? You are right. You should know when I was born.”

  “Are you coming to visit me today?”

  His mother knew he lived and worked in New York. She occasionally also knew the date he was born. From past experience, he understood that he should tread lightly. “I can’t today, Mother dear. But I will soon.”

  “Why not today?” Her mood seemed to shift.

  “For one thing, I’m working.”

  “Working? I thought you were retired.”

  He couldn’t help but smile. “Not retired yet,” he said.

  “So when will I see you?”

  “Soon, I promise.” The last time he had visited her, less than a month ago, she hadn’t recognized him.

  “Today?”

  “I can’t today, Mother.”

  “Why, not? Why is it that I never see you?”

  “You do see me.”

  “Not today.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “I want you to come.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Your father came today. We spent a lovely time together.”

  His father had died from cancer five years ago. “Mother—”

  “Please? I’d really like to see you.”

  This was getting more and more difficult. “I’ll come see you soon. Okay?”

  Silence.

  “Mother?”

  More silence.

  Alarmed, Blair began shouting into the receiver: “Mom, would you talk to me, please?”

  Finally, a stranger’s voice came on the line. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mulligan. Your mother has fallen asleep.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Oh, she’s fine. This is not uncommon. Happens on a regular basis lately.”

  “Could you do me a favor?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Could you have someone send me a
n update on my mother’s condition?”

  “I’ll see to it right away.”

  Blair had hardly shut his phone when a sense of urgency spurred him into action. His mother’s situation made it clear that his life, anyone’s life, could change in a heartbeat. He flipped open his cell once more and dialed the number.

  “How are you?” he said when Mandy came on the line.

  The sigh was audible. “You again. What now, Blair?”

  “Have you made up your mind yet?”

  “I said a few days, not a few hours.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I realized I couldn’t wait.”

  No sigh this time. Nothing. “We can make it Wednesday night. Pick us up at six. And Blair—”

  “What?”

  “Don’t be late. Okay?”

  “Who? Me?”

  “Yeah. I mean it, Blair. I’m not going to stick around like the last time.”

  “The last time I had dinner with you and Sandra? What was I, fifteen minutes late?”

  “Try an hour and a half, darling.”

  “Well, something came up at the office.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. Don’t let anything come up. Because we won’t wait for you this time. Capisce?”

  “Hey, that’s my word.”

  “Too bad. I just borrowed it. Goodbye.”

  Leaving his office, his mind preoccupied not only by the conversation with his mother but also by the one with his ex-wife, Blair heard a honking horn. Believing it was for someone else, he continued walking. It wasn’t until his name was called that he turned. But he couldn’t make out who it was. Just a man in a Lincoln MKZ.

  A hand beckoned him forward.

  Warily, he approached.

  “Get in,” John Dalton instructed. “I’ll give you a lift home.”

  Perhaps if his mind had not been engrossed he would have turned away. But he got in automatically, then silently cursed himself for having done so.

  “Nice to see you again,” the government agent said.

  He didn’t know which was worse, accepting a ride or facing the knowledge that the man had been waiting for him. “What are you doing, keeping tabs on me?” he asked.

  The agent smiled. “You’re valuable to us, Blair.”

  “I’m sure that I am.”

  Dalton was wearing an off-white shirt, open at the collar, and gray pants. But even his casual dress could not detract from his hardness, his too-cool demeanor.

  “I appreciate the ride,” Blair said, “but my answer is not going to change. I will not do anything to harm my relationship with one of my best friends.”

  “Even though this so-called friend is helping a terrorist group? We are not asking you to risk anything. It will be a matter of following some very simple instructions. You do what we ask while you are in Israel and that will be that. As a sign of our appreciation, we will deposit ten thousand dollars into your bank account. Treat it as found money. After all, I believe your savings are nearly non-existent at the moment.”

  Blair turned in his seat. Dalton was keeping his eyes on the road. But Blair sensed the smugness there, how pleased the agent was to have this knowledge about his personal financial situation. “You can leave me off here,” he told him.

  “Here? On 10th Avenue?”

  “Yeah. Right here. Stop the car. I’d rather walk.”

  “Mr. Mulligan, be reasonable.” Dalton kept driving.

  Blair leaned his head back on the seat.

  When the agent’s hand nudged his shoulder, he jumped.

  “We’ve arrived,” Dalton said.

  He peered out the window, recognized his building, and realized he must have dozed off.

  Blair was about to open his door when he noticed the gun in the man’s lap.

  Dalton followed his glance, acting as if he’d forgotten. “Oh,” he said, handing the gun to him, barrel first. “Would you mind putting this in the glove compartment for me?”

  The heat rose from Blair’s stomach to his neck. The threat may have been subtle, but it was a threat nonetheless. He opened the car door. “Put the damn gun in the glove compartment yourself, John,” he said. And he walked away, leaving the door open.

  “You have until tomorrow morning,” came the warning behind him.

  CHAPTER 9

  It took less than fifteen hours for John Dalton to make numerous attempts to reach Blair—via e-mail, text messaging, and calls to his business and mobile numbers.

  Blair sat in his office, shaking his head. Harassment was one thing, but this was ridiculous.

  He recalled trying to find some mention of Dalton’s agency, BIS, in the back issues of Time, without success. And he wondered now if the letters truly stood for what he had been told—Bureau of International Security—or if they, in fact, represented something entirely different.

  Some years ago, stories of secret plots against America were the norm. President Bush had been accused of using these ominous threats to help his reelection campaign. By the time Barack Obama took office, most people were fed up and disillusioned.

  So why should he believe John Dalton? Was America’s well-being truly at risk? Who was BIS? And what was Dalton’s role in all of this?

  He fingered the man’s business card, slowly shaking his head.

  What if he’s expecting this? Blair worried.

  For what purpose?

  I don’t know.

  You don’t have to talk to him. Just see if he really works there. See if he comes to the phone.

  I don’t know…

  Only way to find out.

  Yeah, I guess so.

  Dialing the number made his skin crawl.

  “B-I-S.” Female voice, businesslike.

  Blair hesitated.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, is John Dalton there, please?”

  “One moment, sir.”

  He dangled the receiver in his hand.

  When Dalton’s voice came on the line, he disconnected.

  Satisfied? he asked himself.

  CHAPTER 10

  On Wednesday night, Mandy guided Blair toward the den in her home by beckoning with her index finger as if she were a temptress. It was the first time since their divorce that she had allowed him past the entranceway. Blair found the house to be the same, yet different. Photographs on the walls had been replaced by abstract paintings. The dining room was stained in a light shade of taupe. The knickknacks were new. As was the jumbo papier-mâché Dora the Explorer positioned near the kitchen window.

  Mandy’s pink blouse was practically unbuttoned to her waist. She proffered a glass of champagne, almost forcing it into his hand.

  “Where’s Sandra?” he asked. He took a seat on the off-white leather couch.

  “Why do you want to know?” came the coy reply as she sat down beside him.

  “Mandy?”

  “She’s at a friend’s house, sleeping over.”

  Blair put the untouched glass of champagne down on the coffee table and went to stand.

  Playfully, Mandy pushed him back. She edged closer, slipped a hand to his thigh.

  “We were supposed to have dinner,” he said.

  “So?”

  “The three of us.”

  Mandy struck a pose, exaggerating her chest. “You mean, you’d prefer dinner over me?”

  Blair laughed despite himself. “Who’re you imitating? Lady Gaga?” He forcefully removed her hand from his leg and stood.

  “Where you going?”

  He was halfway to the door when he stopped and turned. “Sandra told me what you said. That I chose not to live with the two of you. That I hate you. A six-year-old kid, for God’s sake. What’s the matter with you, Mandy? Why would you tell her such a thing? You are the one who cheated on me. You are the one who asked me to move out. How dare you insinuate that it was my fault?”

  Mandy came off the couch and approached him. “Is that what’s got you so hot and bothered?” She went to put her arms around him.


  He backed away. “I want you to stop feeding this crap to Sandra, Mandy. I mean it.”

  “Okay. I’ll stop.”

  He waited.

  “I will. I’ll stop.” She paused. “If you give us another chance.”

  He looked up in surprise. “Huh?”

  “Let’s try again. It doesn’t have to be anything serious. Just a few dates to start with.”

  “A few dates?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “It wouldn’t work.”

  “Yes, it would. You don’t have anyone else in your life, do you?”

  “What happened to your doctor friend? You dump him?”

  “Not exactly.”

  The picture became clearer. “He dumped you, then? I guess you’re never going to learn.” With that, Blair turned for the door and opened it.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Mandy quickly asked.

  “You figure it out,” he said, stepping outside.

  CHAPTER 11

  The scene at Billie’s on Saturday night was quite different from what Blair was used to. Gone were most of the married men and women, replaced instead by a number of couples, and the odd single out for a good time.

  Dressed in his favorite charcoal brown suit and the mandatory accessory—his tie—this one a flowery design in beige from Italy, he took a seat at the bar.

  Blair considered Billie’s the most comfortable watering hole in town. Recessed spots in the ceiling, angled away from the floor, gave off a non-intrusive glow. The seats were more like captain’s chairs. Each was upholstered, with swivel-ability and a contour that was appealing not only to the eye but to the oddest, or largest-shaped, butt. The music was eclectic, with an upbeat slant, varying from jazz to rock to pop, depending on the time of night. It seldom interfered with one’s conversation and often worked as a pleasant backdrop.

  Hearing his name now, Blair turned to the voice behind the bar. “What’s up, Jimmy?”

  “Same old, same old. The usual?”

  Blair nodded.

  “Thirsty?”

  This was code for a double, so he nodded again. His drink, Johnnie Walker Black, was served in a highball glass filled with ice, just the way he liked. He thanked the bartender and took an easy sip. He looked at the time: not quite 7:15.