“I just reacted. No conscious thought or planning. I suppose I didn’t like nearly having a knife in my chest. So I don’t think I’ll apologize.” They let the moment hang there, just looking at each other.
“Of course not.” Al-Bakr broke the silence. “Why are you here my young friend? Hopefully not to join these dogs in their amateur torture games.” Lance thought about that for a moment and envisioned al-Bakr torturing others in an expert and extremely brutal manner. He imagined how a professional butcher like al-Bakr viewed with disdain the unprofessional manner in which his interrogation had been conducted.
“Actually, they did bring me here to ask you a few questions.” Lance added.
“So the information they are getting from me through other means has been deemed unreliable?”
Lance sat back and took in al-Bakr as a whole, at least from the waist up. He had watched from behind a small two-way mirror a few minutes earlier as two interrogators worked together to question the detainee. One of them had stepped behind al-Bakr and pulled his hair, snapping his head back. They had not struck him in the few minutes Lance watched. But looking at al-Bakr now, he could see multiple wounds that had been administered in the two weeks since he was captured in Jeddah. The right side of his face was swollen and bruised. A small gash above his right eye was fresh enough not to have scabbed over. Bruises around his neck indicated trauma. His one remaining pinky finger had been broken and not set. All this on top of the damage Lance had inflicted in Jeddah. Basically, the Arab assassin was a mess. But he wasn’t broken; far from it.
“From what I hear, they haven’t extracted much from you at all.” Lance answered after some delay. He had spoken with Fuchs for a few minutes in the next room. But the conversation was short, hesitant. Felt to Lance like Fuchs only told him what he was supposed to; as if from a script. The rest was up to him once he entered the room. Another in Seibel’s endless tests.
“I have provided names, locations, phone numbers.” Al-Bakr added.
“But nothing of real use. Just periphery. Second and third-rate players.” Lance replied.
“So what do you want to ask me?” The smile grew again on al-Bakr’s face.
“I’m only interested in one thing.” Lance smiled and continued to lean back in his chair.
“Shall I guess what that is?”
“Please do.”
“My bet would be that you are interested in al-Ghamdi activities in Kuwait.”
“Close,” Lance leaned forward and put his elbows on the metal table. “I’m interested in your activities in Kuwait.”
“But I work-,” he stopped for a moment to correct the statement. “Worked for al-Ghamdi. All of my efforts have been to assist in the growth of business, security and relationships for my employer.”
“Come on. I only got to see a handful of files and your work went way beyond al-Ghamdi. I’ll go as far as saying al-Ghamdi was your cover, your puppet.”
“Please do not disrespect such a man. He is surely with Allah now.” And with that, Lance had his unexpected opening.
“Oh, like ‘please don’t spray my brains all over my car.’ That kind of disrespect?”
“I was merely saving him from my fate. I knew that he would not do well in a situation such as this,” he waved around the room for effect; the chain rattled. “He would not last long here. He was strong, but in business and negotiations, not in this way.”
“So what you did was humane. What about the other two gentlemen in that car? Do you think they appreciated your act of humanity?”
Al-Bakr let that thought run through his mind for a moment. It was clear to Lance that this killer had not given one moment to the memory of the other two men he executed at extremely close range. So close that their blood had spattered his face. “They were good men. Men I hired and trusted and they would surely appreciate my concern for them.”
Lance’s smile widened. “Man. You’re quite a friend.”
“To those who earn my trust.” Al-Bakr replied.
“Great. So let’s get back to Kuwait. Do you think you are going to find it in yourself to tell us a little more about what we need to know.”
“I have told you what you need to know. All of it.” The Saudi sat back to signify his act of sharing, his openness. “Everything.”
“You know what, I’m no good at this interrogation stuff. I don’t really know why they brought me here. As if seeing me might put fear in you, right?” Lance sat back.
“Maybe something like that. Maybe to remind me of this,” he held up his stump. The act of moving the arm caused him significant pain. “As if I need reminding.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think that’s it. Sitting here, I think the reason I’m here is to let me see a dead man. Talk to a dead man, breath the same air as a dead man. I think I’m really here for my benefit. It’s part of my education, my learning.”
Al-Bakr rubbed his beard for a moment. The act of doing it with his left hand obviously still foreign to the assassin. “Interesting. Not a bad hypothesis. I know I’m a dead man. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but I won’t leave here no matter what they say or promise me in exchange for more information.”
“Right.” Lance nodded his head in agreement. “Dead is dead, whether today or tomorrow or next year. When you accept it, you come to peace, right?”
“Exactly. It is peaceful. As if nothing can touch me.” And with that, Lance pounced on the opening al-Bakr exposed a minute earlier.
“Until Izrail comes for you, heh?” Lance sent up a trial balloon.
“Ah, yes. The Day of Judgment is not far away for me. I am ready.”
“For the fires of hell, right?”
“No, no. Paradise. I will surely be shown into Paradise by the angels.” The assassin smiled.
“What the-? Are you serious?” Lance’s procerus went to work tugging his eyebrows together.
“Of course.”
Lance played up incredulous. “You’re the definition of an evildoer. Your personal angel has recorded what, 40, 50 deaths by your hand. You are a murderer, torturer, adulterer. Your sins against Allah are almost countless.”
“Disbelievers. Infidels. Their deaths were just, ordained. I did Allah’s will.” Al-Bakr was dismissive to a fault.
“Jeez. You don’t believe any of that. I don’t think you believe in heaven or hell or even Allah. You’ve never cracked open a Quran, except maybe to pull out some papers to wipe your nose. Nothing you’ve done indicates any actions within the pillars of faith. Come on.” Lance sat forward and put his arms on the table to bring himself just a foot or so from al-Bakr.
The effect of Lance’s comments was immediate and obvious. Al-Bakr had never been spoken to in this way. Had never been disrespected in such a blasphemous manner. He went from ice cold to boiling behind his eyes. Lance saw it and knew he had a wedge.
“Do not blaspheme me or God.” Al-Bakr sputtered.
“Me blaspheme you? Hell, I’m a better Muslim than you and I don’t believe a word of it.”
“Infidel! Demon.” Al-Bakr gave away a weak spot. Lance didn’t hesitate to advance the conversation and take advantage of this momentary weakness. He, unlike his adversary, knew every word of the Quran.
“Yes, you are. An infidel. A disbeliever in the scriptures. Your life is a sin and when Izrail comes for you in a matter of days, your soul will be ripped from you and cast into hell for all eternity. I have no doubt about that my friend.”
Al-Bakr struggled at the chains, tore at his handcuffs in an effort to rise. He kicked at the chair he sat in, but it was bolted to the floor and didn’t budge. The pain he felt in his right knee and right arm stump were evident, but he was possessed. He slammed his damaged right arm on the table. The pain was excruciating but he had lost control.
Lance was a little baffled by this display. Surely the interrogators had tried this ploy with their pseudo-Islamic captive. Lance stayed right where he was as al-Bakr struggled and screamed and breathed fire in his dir
ection. Exasperated, the assassin collapsed back into the chair. He pulled his right arm to his chest and brought up his left arm to cradle it.
“You’re serious. You actually believe that you’re going to paradise with 72 virgins and eternal bliss. Unbelievable.” Lance sat back with an incredulous look on his face. After a few moments, he reached down into the satchel on the floor he had brought into the room with him. Out of it he pulled a manila folder and out of the folder he pulled dozens of sheets of paper and photos. One by one, he laid them on the table. As he placed each sheet or photo on the table, Lance said a name and date. After a dozen or so, al-Bakr finally did what was expected and spat on him and on the papers before him. Lance disregarded the warm spittle and continued with the parade of murder and mayhem left in al-Bakr’s wake over the last two decades.
When he finished, more than 40 pieces of paper and photos were spread out on the shiny metal table. It was entirely covered by death, destroyed lives, desolated families. “Paradise. You asshole; you’re going to hell on the angel of death express, no $200 dollars, no passing go, no 72 virgins. Straight into the fire. Burn, baby burn.”
Al-Bakr bowed his head and began to chant silently. He was finished with the conversation and his friend. But Lance wasn’t.
Lance took his arm and swept the assemblage of papers and photos of individuals and families no longer living off the table to the floor. He reached down into the satchel and pulled out another manila folder. And like a few moments earlier, he began laying pieces of paper and photos on the metal table top, this time saying only names, no dates. Al-Bakr stopped his chanting and opened his eyes. After seven, al-Bakr tried his damdest to slam the table with his left hand, but the chains only let him reach so far.
“Bastard. You bastard infidel!” Al-Bakr howled, but Lance kept laying the photos on the table and saying their names. “I will kill you! By Allah, I will slaughter you and take your heart!” Without missing a beat, Lance continued to place the photos on the table one by one until he had laid all 36 down.
When he was done, he sat back and let al-Bakr yell, scream, curse and grow redder with every breath. After a minute of the show, the caged assassin slumped back in his bolted-down chair and began to cry, maybe for the first time in his life. Before him on the table laid photos of all of his children, even those conceived and raised outside his marriages. Also pictured were his brothers, uncles and father.
“I don’t believe in heaven or hell or Allah or the angel of death or paradise. I do believe in payback. And you have earned an amazing amount of payback for what you’ve done.” Lance gestured to the photos, “The Israelis have been given the names, locations and photos of your children. The French and Germans will divide up your brothers and their families. And the British will take those living in England. But I get the very best job.”
Lance lifted his left arm to look at his watch, all for effect. “I will personally pay a visit to your father.” He smiled and waved his hands over the photos. “All of them will be dead by day after tomorrow. No prisoners, that was the rule to play in this game. No one sparred. Then the photos of each of their dead bodies, with all the men decapitated of course, will be brought back to this room and laid before you on this table and you’ll have your eyes pried open so you will be forced to look.
“All except one, because here’s the best part. I am bringing your father back from his village, back to this room to sit him right here and look at all these photos plus those on the floor. And we are going to tell him all the evil you have done. Then I am going to hand him the knife that he will use to slice your throat. Lastly, I’ll hand him a gun with one lonely little bullet so he can blow his own brains out and join you in hell; his retribution for spawning a demon like you. Izrail will come for both your souls and that will be that.”
Al-Bakr burst into tears and full, babbling crying. A broken man. A man now ready to betray the trust of those he had dealt with in Kuwait, Iraq, Saudi Arabia and anywhere else. “No.” It was all he could get out.
“Yes.” Lance looked at his watch, “In 36 hours, most will be gone and I should be sitting down for tea in your father’s tent.”
“No. No. I can give you more information. I will tell you.”
“Sorry, I don’t want information. I want your family dead, all of them. This is where it gets good.” The look in Lance’s eyes was ice, lifeless. He showed al-Bakr the face of evil.
And with that, Lance got up, grabbed his satchel and walked to the door as al-Bakr pleaded with him.
“No! Please no. They are innocent.”
Lance turned back to him. “I’ve got several calls to make and a plane to catch. Should I send the amateurs back in?”
“Yes. Please send them back in. Now. Please.” The assassin pleaded.
“Unless plans change, I’ll see you back here in two days with my new old friend accompanying me.” Lance couldn’t help but smile as he left.
Once outside, Lance was greeted by Seibel who stood looking at his watch.
“Thirteen minutes.” Seibel said.
“That long?” Lance replied.
The CIA spymaster turned to Fuchs and smiled. “Two weeks these so-called specialists have been working him and our boy turns him to bucket of piss in 13 minutes.” Fuchs just laughed and shook his head.
“Lunch time?” Lance grinned at them.
Seibel shook his head and sighed. “In a minute. I need to get with the boys to discuss next steps. You two go ahead and I’ll come join you.” Lance and Fuchs started down the hall. Seibel called to them. “But Lance, I suppose if Fuchs had handed you two folders with pictures of butterflies and blue birds five minutes before you walked into the room you would have used those to convince al-Bakr you would kill them all, in 36 hours was it?”
Lance thought for a few seconds. “If it were butterflies and blue birds, I would have told him I’d already killed his children and given a butterfly and bird for each one to his father. Probably would have made something up about their souls being as free as winged creatures fluttering on the winds of fate. Or something along those lines. Telling lies, you know. It’s what I do, in case you weren’t aware.”
“I know. Your specialty.” Seibel smiled and turned to his interrogators who had been watching Preacher’s performance from an adjoining room.
Chapter 28
“Operation Sandal Rash has proven quite successful, even more than initially reported.” Seibel sat at the far end of a plain oak conference table in a nondescript conference room somewhere outside Washington D.C. The members of Account One sat on both sides of the table with the current head of the National Security Agency sitting directly across from Seibel at the far end. His briefings on his SAD, Strategic Activities Division, operations were often the highlight of these leaders’ month.
They had each been listening intently to his report, but all perked up in the last minute as he began his update of activities surrounding the killing of al-Ghamdi, capture of al-Bakr, and resulting intelligence gathered through interrogation of the assassin.
Seibel’s initial telling of the capture four weeks prior had elicited a good number of questions from the members of this ultra-elite group of intelligence professionals. He had dropped bits and pieces about the operation and sprinkled in a smattering of Preacher magic dust with a reference to the Saudi no longer possessing a right hand. He left out the details of Lance incinerating the Arab’s appendage from his body. But he let it be known that during direct contact, hand-to-hand, he asked them to pardon the pun, the Account’s youthful prize investment not only held his own against an experienced killer, Preacher completely and utterly dismantled the terrorist’s ability to ever pull a trigger with the stump. Let alone shake hands, since Muslims do not shake hands with their left.
It seemed, sitting here in this tight little room full of powerful people with war and invasion on the immediate horizon, these intelligence czars wanted more details about al-Bakr’s capture and the value of his testimony as muc
h as anything else. They also let it be known that they wanted an update on Preacher – his latest activity and future projects.
“The value of our subject’s early confessions was minimal, almost without merit. The details provided were only at the surface level. Hardly worth the time and effort dedicated to the sessions.” Seibel always spoke this way when addressing this group. He almost never gave actual names; used coded words and phrases and spoke in generalities. Protocol did allow for divulging explicit information, but this was generally done only in the sole company of the Director of Central Intelligence, who went by the codename Marvin. Every once in a while, a member of Account One would pat or even slam the table and demand that Seibel stop speaking in code and tell the group in no uncertain terms what needed to be said. This was rare, however.
“The quality and complexity of this information changed substantially 10 days ago when the subject received a visit from Preacher.”
Before Seibel could continue, the White House intelligence advisor butted in, “Did the subject lose the other hand?” Members of the group couldn’t contain themselves and all chuckled. Seibel allowed himself to join them with a smile.
“No. The subject did not have his other hand severed by way of inferno like his right one,” Seibel let another bit of information from the Jeddah operation slip.
“Inferno?” The NSA Director at the opposite end of the table asked. “How was the hand removed?”
“Incinerated sir, blasted away for all of eternity by a Flasher.”
“Christ,” this time the CIA Director weighed in. “Literally burned away, gone?”
“Completely, right above the wrist. Gone and cauterized in seconds,” Seibel added for effect.
“I know I don’t recall amputation being a part of your plan,” NSA followed up. “But use of a Flasher for this purpose seems extraordinarily cruel.”
The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) Page 19