From his left-leaning position, Preacher lifted his right hand from underneath to grab al-Bakr’s right wrist. And with speed that surprised both he and his opponent, Preacher used the toes in his left foot to reverse his lean and throw his momentum back to the right. The stop-motion photography of the moment immediately showed him his opponent’s vulnerable spot – the elbow.
Preacher brought his left arm up cocked and he drove his own elbow into al-Bakr’s outstretched arm. Because Preacher held the man’s wrist in such a vice, the Arab assassin’s elbow exploded in the wrong direction under the fierce blow. Cartilage and bone snapped as the elbow broke and bent in the exact opposite direction is was designed to operate. The pain instantly removed the smile from al-Bakr’s face. It was replaced with a look of surprise and a primal scream of pain. The knife was released from al-Bakr’s right hand and began its slow motion fall to the street.
Preacher could have been done with this battle with this excellent move. But something inside, something almost evil, made him pivot off of his right foot, release the wrist and reverse all movement and momentum back to the left while spinning. He glanced at al-Bakr’s head position for reference, began raising his right arm while bending it and then completed a reverse spin. The result of this unexpected, unplanned move was an elbow traveling at a radical speed making contact with al-Bakr’s spine at the base of his skull. A sickening thud caused the Arab’s head to whiplash back and then fall to the ground with the rest of his limp body.
Preacher should have really been done with this latest move. But again, momentum, creativity and utter ambivalence guided his next action. He glanced back at Jamaani, rolled over al-Bakr’s body and reached under the Mercedes to pull out the flash cylinder he had placed under the front right wheel. With lightening speed, he retrieved the heavy canister and set it on the ground beside al-Bakr. Preacher rolled the Saudi assassin over onto his back and grabbed the broken right arm to place the assassin’s hand directly on top of the cylinder. Jamaani saw what Preacher was planning and took a step toward him. Preacher shot him a look and shook his head to stop the Jordanian in his tracks. He then moved to his right but still with a strong grip on al-Bakr’s right arm he reached into his pocket and pulled out the dual ignition device. Preacher turned his head to the right to avoid the heat and pressed the small button.
A thick, searing, white-hot pillar of flame shot 13 feet into the air. The heat was intense, so intense it took with it the flesh and then bone below al-Bakr’s wrist. The jolt of extreme pain awoke al-Bakr from his concussion with a howl that could almost be heard over the intense flame. Foam leaped from the corners of his mouth and he gnashed his teeth but could not move because of Preacher’s superior strength holding him in place. Preacher pressed the button again and the flame died. To quiet al-Bakr’s screams he put a knee in the assassin’s diaphragm and a hand to his throat. Preacher looked into al-Bakr’s eyes and gave him the same smile that only 20 seconds earlier the assassin had given him as he tried to plunge a knife into his heart.
Tarwanah backed the white cargo van a few feet from them and the back doors flung open. Preacher stood up, picked up al-Bakr and tossed the assassin’s broken body into the back of the waiting van. Al-Bakr screamed again when his dangling and shattered right arm made contact with the metal floor. The cauterized wound at his wrist where a hand had been moments earlier slammed into the floor and he screamed again. Preacher turned to Jamaani who was not pleased.
“You’re actions have cost us valuable time.” The Jordanian said.
“And if he had stabbed me with that knife, that wouldn’t have cost us any time?”
“Far outside the mission.” Jamaani was angry but needed to be brief.
Fuchs, who had moved up to take the RPG from Tarwanah to allow him to get back in and drive the van now walked up to Preacher and Jamaani at the rear of the plan.
“We will talk about particulars later. Fifty-two seconds and a second detail is just now leaving the compound. Gather the unused Flicker and be ready to move in 15.” He turned from them and walked deliberately back past the rear Mercedes now engulfed in flames. Another white Mercedes was speeding up the road toward the scene. Fuchs let it get within 150 yards and fired the RPG. The explosion was deafening. Debris shot well into the sky and the flaming husk of the vehicle continued forward, but now only at a crawl. It’s bulletproof glass no match for the rocket fired grenade.
Lance had stepped back over to the alley to gather his camera case. Fuchs came rushing back to the van as Lance jumped in the passenger door. Jamaani closed the rear door behind Fuchs and Tarwanah floored it.
Lance looked at his watch and then at Tarwanah who refused to look his way. He turned back to Fuchs who kneeled in the back beside al-Bakr.
“One minute 18 seconds,” he called out over the roar of the engine. “Four seconds faster than our best time at the Point.”
Fuchs finished putting tape on al-Bakr’s wrists and ankles as Jamaani put a strip over their captive’s mouth. “I imagine we could have saved eight seconds without that little flamethrower bit.” Fuchs was not agitated like Jamaani, but then again he had not looked into Preacher’s eyes during the brief tussle.
Lance turned back to look out the windshield. Tarwanah had slowed as they moved onto other city streets. “An eye for an eye. A hand for a hand.” Lance said to no one in particular.
“You were reckless.” Jamaani piped in.
“I guess I should have just shot him a couple of more times.”
“Yes.” Jamaani was always brief.
Fuchs laughed. “That would have been too easy for you. You wanted to get in closer to the action. I think you wanted to look death in the eyes. Maybe feel it. But you put the rest of us in danger with that shit.” Lance didn’t comment, but he found it interesting that Fuchs had completely lost his Berliner accent in the van and in the moments just before leaving the scene.
“Next time, just shoot the asshole in both knees and cut off the hand instead of incinerating it. That was somewhat gruesome.” Fuchs smiled as he said this last bit. He turned to Jamaani who was also smiling. Between them they shared a look that belied their years of field service. Each would have liked to have just done what their young teammate had accomplished. Tarwanah looked in the rearview mirror to share their smiles. They had their man. And they had their own assassin.
Chapter 26
Artistry. That was the only appropriate word to come to Seibel’s mind after taking the binoculars away from his eyes. His vantage point from a darkened window on the fifth floor of an office building just over 1,000 yards from al-Ghamdi’s compound provided an excellent view of the show Lance, Fuchs, Jamaani and Tarwanah had staged below. He had just seen an artistic minute and a half production that rivaled any three-hour ballet performance he’d ever been forced to sit through.
The veteran of three-plus decades of espionage at the highest, and sometimes lowest, levels turned to Wyrick who was busy taking apart a video camera from a tripod. “Good footage?”
“Good stuff. Especially the blowtorch hand removal. Might even be a classic.” Wyrick responded without looking up from his work – a technician through and through.
“Then I didn’t just imagine that, huh?” Seibel raised his eyebrows and turned back to the window to watch as the van turned out of sight. “That was something…” He struggled for the next word. “Unexpected.”
“Friggin' crazy is more like it.” Wyrick had a smile on his lips so he went ahead and whistled.
“Ever seen anything like that? Anyone move like that?” Seibel asked the question to Wyrick, but was really asking himself.
“Foxy maybe 20 years ago. But he didn’t move with such decisiveness.” The way Wyrick put emphasis on the last word, it was evident he had selected that particular description for Lance’s style well before now and chosen just the right moment to use it. Excellent timing, Seibel thought.
“Decisiveness. Yes.” Seibel spoke the words, but his mind was miles and
years away watching through binoculars as a young Mikel Fuchs took down three mercenaries in Zambia. Fuchs had shot one between the eyes at close range, sliced another’s throat and then ended it with a broken neck for the third poor soul. Excellent work, and fast. But as Seibel recalled, Fuchs did take a knife to his back and several blows from the future broken neck before prevailing.
Either way, Seibel began to swell with pride at bringing a new resource to the National Clandestine Service just as he had done with Fuchs nearly 20 years prior; and his other protégé a decade ago. His current pupil had just confirmed his early worth in capturing al-Bakr alive without being severely injured himself. Seibel had been confident in the days and weeks leading up to the operation, but he knew the danger al-Bakr presented to even the most experienced agent. Lance had so easily responded with such brute force to the knife attack that the outcome was truly decided before al-Bakr began his initial thrust. Decisiveness.
Seibel closed his eyes and turned to slide his back down the wall to sit on the floor as Wyrick finished packing up his video gear. The veteran reviewed the 1 minute 18 second operation just completed. He would watch the videotape dozens of times and maybe show it to a few key individuals before destroying it. But here and now, he replayed the scene in his head where he could see it fresh, in 3D in his mind’s eye.
Fuchs and his team executed the plan masterfully. The Jordanians were solid, always dependable. Lance fulfilled his duties and then chose to step in with al-Bakr. Seibel replayed Lance’s approach to the assassin. In the young agent’s movement he did not see overconfidence or braggadocio. No, it was expediency. He had placed one bullet in al-Bakr’s knee as instructed during training. But the Arab’s reaction showed that two, three or even four bullets would not move him from his position. Lance confronted him and placed himself within attack range to move the scenario and situation forward to completion. He baited al-Bakr with his body.
His response to the knife attack, now that was something else. Seibel had witnessed a good deal of Lance’s martial arts training and noted his significant progress over nearly three years. But the coordination of movement, leverage and application of violent pressure on a vulnerable joint was exceptional. The reverse spin and elbow blow to al-Bakr’s neck was exceptional as well. The next move, however, that was pure creativity. Violent, no, malevolent stewardship of a target. Seibel smiled with eyes closed as he replayed the extremity amputation by way of flash cylinder.
“Frigging crazy.” Seibel opened his eyes and repeated Wyrick’s words from a few moments ago. “That’s the kind of stuff legends spring from. Too bad we can’t tell anyone. That footage would be something on the evening news.”
Wyrick shook his head. “Can you just imagine what that’s like? Having your hand basically disintegrate before your eyes. Christ, I don’t know about legends, but Preacher boy made himself a lifelong enemy with that stunt.”
Seibel stood up and straightened his thawb and headscarf. “No doubt. His new enemy will likely never see light of day again, but he will undoubtedly remember our young Preacher every time he tries to scratch an itch or pick his nose and his hand is no longer there.” Seibel nodded to Wyrick and walked across the empty office. “See you back at the ranch Mr. Wyrick.” The contract agent simply nodded back at him. The two of them had been through years of this stuff together.
As he exited the building, made his way to a private airport and then departed the Saudi Peninsula for the time being, Seibel worked through his mental notes. He would be reporting back to Account One in Washington in 36 hours before journeying to an undisclosed location to participate, only at the periphery mind you, in the interrogation of al-Bakr.
He glanced at his watch and out the window of the private jet bound for Nicosia, Cyprus. From there, he would grab commercial flights to Rome, JFK and D.C. The trip will total 22 hours travel time.
Once home, a nap, shower and shave and then a personal appearance before the members of Account One. Seibel is the only operative who reports to this particular committee, which is comprised of the heads of the CIA, NSA and White House intelligence office. Account One really did not exist in any form other than an assemblage of this august body. There is no paperwork, no documentation, no minutes kept, no calendar appointments referencing the meetings and no one ever willing to admit the existence of the group’s actions and directives. Congress is never informed of their activities. The President is never told in advance of their meetings or topics of discussion. Plausible denial is more than a necessity for the members of Account One. Seibel was given the responsibility to act on behalf and report necessary progress or setbacks to the committee more than a decade ago. Since then, his actions had taken on urgency and priority. His projects were never questioned, at least never more than once. Likewise, his requests for resources and recruits were never held up. Results were demanded of him and he always delivered. Account One was job one.
The members of the group would be disappointed to hear about the loss of al-Ghamdi but quite pleased with the al-Bakr acquisition. He would leave out almost all of the details but inform the Account members that their investment in a new agency resource over the past few years had borne fruit. Seibel knew that as much as these heads of huge labyrinthine organizations wanted results, they also enjoyed hearing exotic and bizarre bits and pieces of the spy game. They had been updated on Lance’s progress, without mention of his true identity of course, and would be delighted to know he not only played a role, but actively participated in the acquisition of al-Bakr.
A smile came to Seibel’s lips under his fake moustache and beard at the thought of giving these unelected kingpins a few morsels of red meat on Lance’s actions from this morning. Just as they have marveled over the years at Seibel’s brief tales involving Fuchs and a few other select resources, they would salivate and then walk away with a warm feeling in their hearts knowing their country had a new killer-in-training like Lance Priest to turn loose in the field. Especially with the heat turning up and all eyes looking to Kuwait and points northwest in Iraq.
Chapter 27
Lance pressed his right forefinger into the earphone to increase the seal against the skin around his ear, which improved the sound quality. The conversation he was listening to was taking place on the outskirts of Baghdad 1,986 miles away from where he sat at his listening station in Augsburg.
A commander was excoriating a subordinate in the same manner a farmer might berate and then beat a dog that had failed to protect the flock from a coyote. Lance tried like heck to concentrate on the conversation, to pick up on any between-the-lines elements that might tell a deeper tale. The commander screamed on and on about the road south from Umm Qasr. Lance didn’t need to glance up at the map pinned to the wall above the long bank of recording equipment. He had the entire region memorized.
He jotted down on his log the particulars of the conversation. The commander’s dialect placed his hometown in the vicinity of Tikrit north of Baghdad. Therefore, he was most likely a member of the extended Hussein family. No surprise he treated his underlings likes dogs.
In his previous stints at the base, Lance’s listening ears had been aimed at Eastern Europe and the disintegrating Soviet Union. Since Saddam’s march into Kuwait City on August 2nd, resources had been repositioned to the Fertile Crescent.
Lance still thought it slightly humorous that he had learned both Russian and Arabic at DLI. Seibel had suggested he “double up” in his short time in Monterey. Because he learned both languages simultaneously, they often overlapped in his mind. Even though they were significantly different in their phonic and tonal origins and qualities, the languages did have some common characteristics. Mesopotamian Arabic made its way up into the “stans” just as Russian had crept down into Southwest Asia. Each had been carried by winds of colonial expansion, and of course, human brutality.
Since August, Arabic had taken preeminence. After returning to Augsburg from the gig in Jeddah, Lance found himself a hot commodity. He was
immediately tasked with spending every available hour listening in on transmissions as the radio operators brought new frequencies and transmissions online. In the two weeks he’d been back in Germany, he had put in 16 to 18-hour days eavesdropping. His only day off had been a 26-hour overnight trip to a top-secret facility in the Balkans where he spent a little over an hour with his new friend Hassan al-Bakr and then three hours with Seibel and Fuchs reviewing the Jeddah operation. The meeting with al-Bakr in an undisclosed location three days ago still occupied his mind, kept getting in the way of his undivided attention on his interception and translation duties. He knew the session with the prisoner was yet another test engineered by Seibel. Part of the learning process; no surprise there.
Lance received nothing but utter and unabashed respect from al-Bakr when he walked into the interview room. He had been told in advance by the Arab assassin’s interrogators to expect to be spit upon and cursed at in the most profane manner. Al-Bakr’s left wrist was chained to the floor. No reason to chain the right, of course. First of all, there was no wrist and second, the elbow was shattered with tendons and ligaments ripped and torn. He couldn’t see the man’s legs because of the table, but the damaged right knee was down there somewhere.
He was greeted instead with a smile. The first thing al-Bakr did was painfully raise his bandaged right stump and break into outright laughter. “You really did a number on me.” Al-Bakr blurted out in English while trying to stand. His arm was in a sling, but had not been set in a cast as it should have been. All part of the breaking process, of course.
“That was something.” Lance spoke in Arabic and sat in the chair across the table from his new friend. “Got caught up in the moment I think.”
“Surely you did. I was sure I had you with my blade and then a moment later, my skull nearly crushed and my hand gone – poof.” Al-Bakr used his left hand and opened all his fingers to make the international poof sign. The chain rattled as he raised the hand slightly. “You were too fast, I think maybe too young and strong for me. I guess I’m getting old.”
The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) Page 18