The Perfect Assassin (24 page)

His hand squeezed the armrest on the door and he wondered for the thousandth time how he’d gotten himself into this mess. He felt like a pawn in a chess game, only he was neither black nor white — simply a lone, errant piece trying to exist between two battling armies. Still, there was a chance. Roth could survive, maybe even profit if it all worked out. All he had to do was talk. He’d always been good at that, and he already knew what to say. If they believed his offer was legitimate, and of course it was, the only question would be price.

Al-Quatan shifted forward in his seat and peered through the front windshield. The Colonel then leaned back and used his thumbs to tuck in some loose shirt around his waistline. They were getting close.

Nothing about the journey had really surprised Roth so far, nor had anything about Colonel Al-Quatan. He was a short, compact man, with the olive skin tone so common among the Bir al-Sab Bedouins of the Negev region. He sported a thick black mustache, and a bristle of close-cropped hair served as base for his maroon beret. The shoes were gleaming, the fatigues pressed and heavily starched. To complete the package, a leather holster was wrapped around his ample midsection, one hip displaying a large caliber ivory-handled revolver, the other a satellite phone. Roth knew the colonel’s commission was self-appointed, never having been issued by any particular country or army. But he was, without doubt, the organization’s military commander, and he had no hesitation in flaunting the title of rank, as had been the case earlier when introducing himself at the airport.

The truck rounded a hill and a small city of tents appeared. The area was well lit, the tents grouped tightly together. Roth saw laundry hanging from lines between tent poles. A large pile of trash had accumulated off to one side of the complex. They had obviously been here for weeks, if not months. It was a place where they felt safe. Roth wished he had some kind of mental navigation device. The coordinates of this place might be worth a lot to the right people.

The Suburban neared the perimeter of the compound and its headlights illuminated two men sitting next to the road on an overturned fifty-five gallon drum. One stood up lazily and Roth was surprised to see, of allthings, an Israeli-made Uzi strapped loosely across his chest. The other man didn’t even get up, his Russian weapon leaning on a rock, its butt in the sand. These would be the guards. The one who was standing smiled and waved at the familiar truck, which passed without stopping.

Al-Quatan gave a directive to the driver in Arabic. Roth correctly interpreted the command and a surge of adrenaline jolted through his body. They were going directly to Khalif’s tent. Roth was not fluent in Arabic, especially given the numerous dialects, but he had a basic knowledge of the language, a fact he would certainly keep to himself for the next day or so.

Al-Quatan looked away for a moment and Roth quickly wiped a mist of perspiration from his upper lip. It was going to happen fast now, the balance of his life to be determined in the next twenty minutes. He had to keep his wits.

The Suburban stopped sharply in front of a large, centrally located tent.

“Stay here,” Al-Quatan ordered Roth. The colonel got out of the car, disappeared into the billowing tent for less than a minute, then returned.

“Moustafa Khalif will see you now. Abu will take your bag.”

Roth followed Al-Quatan to the tent. At the entrance were two armed men, these more serious and professional than the ones on the perimeter. It only made sense that Khalif would have his best men nearby. They gave their Israeli guest a rough pat down and a hard stare, then ushered Roth inside as Al-Quatan followed.

In the tent, Roth found a random, asynchronous atmosphere. Plywood floors were partially covered by ornate carpets. A scattered assortment of chairs, couches, and tables were strewn about the place, none seeming to match. A Louis Quinze desk was shoved into one corner, and on top was a ten-gallon jerry can with the word petrol stenciled in big block letters. A large crystal chandelier hung from the center of the tent’s frame, half its light bulbs burned out.

The two security men took up post at the entrance, out of earshot, but with a clear line of sight toward the Israeli. Roth was sure their aim was excellent. Al-Quatan moved off to one side and stood silently. Only then did Roth notice the other person in the room. He rose from a plush sultan’s chair, a tall man with huge olive eyes, a salt-and-pepper beard, and weathered features. Roth recognized him instantly. The man’s arms outstretched in greeting and, dressed in the traditional Arab
jellabah,
his robe flowed outward, giving the appearance of a huge bird airing its wings.

“Mr. Roth, I am Moustafa Khalif. I am pleased that you have come.”

Roth nodded politely, noticing Khalif made no effort to amplify his greeting with any of the traditional physical add-ons — no Arabic embrace or Western handshake. He looked much like the photos Roth had seen so often in the newspapers back home, perhaps older, a bit grayer.

“I hope your journey was not a difficult one,” Khalif said. His English was measured and deliberate, almost without accent.

“Not difficult, just long,” Roth said.

“Good. I know we are not conveniently located, but you can understand our reasons.” Khalif waved a wing toward an open chair. “Please have a seat.”

Roth chose a sturdy dinner chair as a man in an ill-fitting white servant’s jacket presented a tray of tea. So far, so good.

“Traveling. There is something I am no longer able to do. When I was a child, my parents took me to Italy and Austria. The Sistine Chapel, Vienna, the Alps. I remember it like it was yesterday.”

Khalif gave a wistful sigh and Roth tried to imagine the terrorist as a child. He couldn’t.

“Here, I am a prisoner, surrounded by a desert and a people that are not my own. Still, we are safe, and for the moment that is important. From this place we can pursue our freedom, and someday, if it should be the will of Allah, we will return home. Perhaps then I can travel once again.”

Roth wondered if Khalif really believed it. He sipped his tea with a level gaze, not sure where this was headed.

“Where are you from, Roth? What part of Palestine?”

The bait was obvious and Roth decided the Arab was testing him. “Haifa,” he said. “And it hasn’t been called Palestine for a long, long time.”

Khalif’s eyes narrowed, a hawk gliding above its prey, deciding when to strike. Roth tried to hold steady under the piercing stare. The isolation of his tactical situation suddenly seemed overwhelming. He was alone, unarmed, and surrounded by the enemy. He took another sip of tea, trying to gather his wits. Meandering wouldn’t be to his advantage, so he moved right to the point.

“Did you view the loading process in South Africa?”

Khalif paused before answering, obviously deciding if this was where he wanted the conversation to proceed. He relented. “Of course. We sent one of our best agents. He photographed the loading and we have studied the evidence.”

Roth knew, in fact, that Khalif had rushed his nephew, Fareed, down to South Africa. Hopelessly inept, but completely trustworthy, Fareed had been the only one to meet both requirements — the proper documents to travel on short notice, and a rudimentary knowledge of photography. Roth was also aware that Khalif’s technical range for photo surveillance and imagery interpretation was nothing beyond Fuji film and a magnifying glass.

Khalif continued, “The cargo was in canisters. How do we know what you say about them is true?”

“You saw my partner there. And the kidon. What else would Israel be taking out of South Africa with that kind of secrecy?”

“I would not venture a guess,” Khalif said dryly.

Roth reached under the lapel of his jacket. He sensed a brush of motion from the two security men by the door. He gave the guards a plaintive look as he slowly pulled out an envelope and handed it to Khalif.

Khalif found four photographs in the envelope. He laid them out on a table and gestured for Al-Quatan to join in. The two men studied the photos carefully for a few moments. Roth watched their expressions intently.

“How can we be sure?” Al-Quatan said in a harsh whisper.

“My associate inspected them before they were canistered,” Roth explained. “He also took these pictures for my government. It wasn’t easy to get copies.”

Khalif looked at the photos again, then asked, “Where are they now?”

“At the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.”

The two Arabs looked at one another in amazement.

“Imbecile!” Al-Quatan exploded. “You said you would—”

Khalif cut him off with a sharp wave.

“You must be patient,” Roth said.

“How?” Khalif wondered. “How will it be done?”

Roth told them how the weapons would be retrieved, his eyes darting back and forth between his customers. The explanation seemed to settle Al-Quatan and eventually drew a smile across Khalif’s thin lips. Roth could tell he liked the plan.

“And you also have the technical data?”

“Of course. That was part of our agreement. But there is one thing,” Roth added, his voice cracking just slightly. “It has become more expensive than I thought. I’ll need more money.”

Khalif raised an eyebrow, but it was Al-Quatan who spoke angrily. “We have already agreed on a fair price! You are in no position to negotiate!”

Roth looked at Khalif, pointedly ignoring the underling. “The cost of executing our plan is greater than I expected. And afterwards, it will be very difficult, very costly for my friend and I to disappear. You know how my country can be about tracking down its enemies.”

Khalif turned away. Clasping his hands behind his back, he moved slowly across the room. Roth felt his heart pulse. Sweat began to bead again.

When Khalif turned back, the wrath in his eyes and the hiss of his voice were venomous as he leveled a finger at Roth. “You are not an enemy to your country! An enemy fights with honor. You are a traitor! And you and your friend would betray me as quickly as you have betrayed your own people. I will pay the agreed upon amount. Half soon, then half when we have received the shipment and verified it to be authentic. What happens to you afterwards, I do not care. But trust in this — if either of you attempt to deceive us in any way, we will come for you. And we will give evidence to your own country that you have betrayed them.”

Al-Quatan laughed, “For once Palestine and the Zionist pigs would be united in a cause. That of finding and destroying two wretched little weasels.”

Khalif was apparently finished with his outburst and Roth stayed calm. A gradual smirk came across the Arab’s face and he clapped his hands twice.

From behind, Roth heard a familiar, sultry woman’s voice, “
Mmm
, Pytor. It’s been so long.”

Roth turned to see Avetta. She looked better than ever, her silken black hair framing classic features and flawless skin. The layers of her robe could not hide the full, ripe young body that swayed beneath. Sweeping by Roth, she looked just as she had the first day he’d seen her, almost a year ago, only now the expression was different. The chin a bit higher, the black oval eyes no longer innocent but knowing, and her full lips showed the hint of a smile. She moved beside Khalif, victorious.

“I believe you know one another,” Khalif prodded.

Roth frowned, briefly wondering what her real name might be. He was also curious as to why Khalif had seen the need for her presence. “You don’t have to prove your point,” he said.

“I think I do,” Khalif countered. “I think it is important that you know exactly where you stand.” Khalif produced his own small stack of photographs and handed them to Avetta. She walked over to Roth and held up a few for the Israeli to see. Grainy and undeniable, they’d been taken in a cheap hotel in Beirut, showing the two of them engaged in various acts of indiscretion. Roth looked right past the photographs as Avetta waved them tauntingly in front of him.

“I’ve seen them before.”

“Some of them,” Khalif said. “There are others. But this thing you do for us now, there is little evidence of it. Understand, traitor, we can give these to your government at any time, along with samples of the documents you passed on to us. You were very cooperative when your paramour asked for these things.”

“I was cooperative with a prostitute who was blackmailing me.”

Avetta dropped the photographs and slapped Roth hard across the face. The room was silent for a moment before Colonel Al-Quatan started to laugh. Avetta gave him a hard look that was mirrored by Khalif, and Al-Quatan’s humor evaporated.

“A prostitute acts for money,” Khalif spat, “but not my Seema. She had a far more honorable purpose, and she succeeded magnificently.”

“Your who?” Roth queried.

“Seema is my eldest daughter. Doesn’t it make the pictures even more meaningful? You, a sergeant in Aman, a married father of four, taken by the daughter of your country’s most bitter enemy.”

Roth was caught off guard, amazed that Khalif could use his own daughter in such a way. He’d never understand the things these people did in the name of religion. Holy War was enough of an oxymoron, but this was new territory.

“I understand my position,” Roth admitted. “As of today, my career in the Israeli army is over. I’m a deserter.” And an ex-husband, he thought, even though the marriage had been cold for years. “A successful outcome is more important to me than you. It’s my only chance.”

“Good. Then we understand each other.”

Seema was dismissed and Roth felt the worst was over when Khalif and Al-Quatan pursued the details of the financial transfer. Finally, they discussed how the delivery would take place. Roth’s idea bred hesitation at first, but Al-Quatan liked it, so Khalif consented. “It’s the safest way,” Roth said of the transfer. Then he tried to sound casual in reciting the precise words he’d been forced to practice a hundred times.

“Keep in mind, these are highly complex devices, not to mention valuable. I trust you’ve made plans as to how you’ll handle them once they’re yours?”

Al-Quatan answered. “We have made all the arrangements. Security and technical help will be the best.”