Dead Six (7 page)

January 20

The marketplace was busy, the large Sunday crowds nervous. Change was coming, and the people could feel it. I made my way through the bustling place, gray and incognito as usual, dressed like the locals in a traditional white thobe and checkered headdress. In my line of work, you never stick out. It keeps you alive longer.

There were three sections of Zubara City (Ash Shamal, Umm Shamal, and Al Khor). Each was a narrow sliver of land extending into the Persian Gulf for a couple of miles. Half a million people were packed on those three little peninsulas, mostly Sunni, some Shiite, a mess of imported workers, and I was spending my day in the poor, dangerous one, Ash Shamal.

Nobody used the country’s official name, or the abbreviation CGEZ. The Americans or Europeans who ended up here usually called it the Zoob. The rest of the world just referred to the tiny country as Zubara.

I got to the entrance of the club fifteen minutes early so I could survey the area. This neighborhood was one of the oldest in Ash Shamal, but there was much new construction underway. It was also one of the more traditional. It was interesting to note the fundamentalist graffiti that was popping up in many of the alleys, and even more interesting was that the local authorities hadn’t bothered to cover it up. Either there was too much of it to keep up with, the official government types didn’t bother to come into this neighborhood, or the cops actually agreed with the message. Either way, it was a grim omen.

Zubara was a relatively modern state, dragged kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century by the current monarch. Bordered by Qatar and Saudi Arabia, the tiny nation wasn’t nearly as rich as its neighbors but was relatively clean, organized, and, by Arab standards, efficient. Zubara was one of the jewels of the Persian Gulf, but that appeared to be changing with the current power struggle, and my specialty was to capitalize on the inevitable chaos that would result.

I had spent my entire adult life in various third-world countries. I’d seen revolutions, famines, wars, and the utter collapse of societies. I made my living on the fringe of mankind. I didn’t know what was going to happen here yet, but I knew
something
was coming.

Zubara would be just another job, just a little more difficult than normal, or so I tried to convince myself. It had been six months since I had been drafted for this job. Six months since Eddie had brutally murdered one of my crew just to let me know how serious he was. Half a year of preparation and groundwork to pull off an impossible mission. There was a bitter taste in my mouth as I prepared for this meeting.

I walked around the block to scope out the back entrance, just in case. There was some construction going on across the street, but the workers all looked like the normal Indonesians and Filipinos that did all the grunt labor in this country. I saw no indications of a trap. Making my way back to the front, I leaned against the corner of a building and watched the club. The man I was supposed to be meeting would probably be running late, like pretty much everything in this part of the world. I couldn’t spot anyone else surveying the place, so it was either safe or they were really good.

Waiting gave me time to think, which was unfortunate, because right now thinking about what I was doing just made me angrier. This job sucked. It was suicide, and I had been forced into it against my will. It was going to take months to accomplish, but once this gig was completed, I was going to devote my life to finding the man who put me in this situation. I vowed that I was going to go on a killing spree that would become the stuff of legend.

My thoughts of murder were interrupted when a black Bentley parked in front of the club. The luxury car didn’t seem out of place on the same street as a vendor selling live chickens, but that was the nature of the Middle East. The driver exited and held open the back door for his charge. The man that stepped out was in his forties, wearing a brown suit, white shirt, and no tie. This was pretty fashionable apparel in the region and was what all the cool terrorists were wearing.

He was early.
Amazing.
The driver stayed with the vehicle. I waited a few extra minutes, watching for anything out of the ordinary before I followed him into the club. The interior was dark and cooled by rows of ceiling fans. Inside, the social club was far nicer than its drab outside appearance suggested. It was relatively crowded by middle-aged men smoking hookahs, playing chess, and bitching about local politics.

The server acknowledged me as I entered, but I waved him off as I spotted the man I was looking for sitting at a table in the back. The server retreated deferentially.

The man saw me approaching and nodded once. I pulled up a chair and sat. “Lorenzo,” he said before taking a sip of his pungent tea. “I didn’t recognize you.”

“That’s the general idea,” I responded. Say what you will about the man-dresses, they were actually pretty comfy and enabled me to conceal a few weapons. Even still, they do make you look like a big stupid marshmallow, and you can hardly run in one. I’d taken a few days to brush up my Arabic and perfect the local accent. I’d grown my beard out, and my natural features enabled me to pass for a native Zubaran rather easily. After all, I had a knack for blending in wherever I went. “Good to see you again, Jalal.”

Jalal Hosani smiled. “No, it is not good, I am afraid. You are a wanted man in this country, if I recall correctly.” His English was perfect. It should be, since he’d attended Oxford, paid for by his friends in the Qatari royal family.

“Actually, no. You’re thinking of Syria, and the UAE . . . oh, and I think the Saudi courts want one of my hands. This is my first time in lovely Zubara. It’s kind of nice, except that whole pending revolution thing. So, what brought you here?”

“Business grew difficult in Baghdad,” he said with a casual wave of his hand, as if a couple hundred thousand American troops interrupting his illicit arms dealing was a minor inconvenience. Jalal pulled a silver cigarette case from his suit. He offered me one. I shook my head. “Still the health nut, I see.”

I only smoked when the cover required it. “Cardiovascular fitness comes in handy in my line of work.”

“About that.” Jalal lit his cigarette and took a long drag. “What is your work this time?” He waited for me to respond, and when I didn’t, he continued. “I see . . . Usually your work involves the involuntary transfer of wealth and countless murders. I can safely assume this will be the same?”

“But of course,” I replied as I pulled a fat envelope from my man-dress and passed it over. “As usual, you don’t want the details. I was never here.”

Jalal raised his eyebrows as he flipped through the stack of money. He looked around the room as he shoved the money into his coat. “That is a considerable sum,” he said. “A considerable sum indeed. You do realize, however, that there are men hiding in this country who are with organizations you have stolen from. In fact, I know that one
very
dangerous man happens to frequent this very club on occasion. I could just keep the money, say who you are, and—”

I cut him off. “I know who hangs out here.” Everyone knew Zubara was a safe haven for various terrorist organizations. Diplomatically, the government was friendly to the US, and tolerated the Israelis, but the official government was growing weaker by the day. “Maybe you talk, and I end up on an Al Jazeera video getting my head sawed off?” I had robbed, conned, or defrauded every major criminal organization on earth at some point. It had made me both a lot of money and a lot of enemies. “We both know that won’t happen, because you know I’d find a way to take you with me, and besides, I pay way better than those cheap bastards.” I gestured toward the envelope. “That’s the first installment. I’ll pay you double what I paid you in Dubai.”

“It was only a hypothetical.”

“And just so you know, I’m doing this job for Big Eddie. So if you
hypothetically
cross me, you
hypothetically
cross him, which means that he’ll track you down to the ends of the earth and
hypothetically
feed your entire family into a wood chipper.”

His eyes grew wide as he processed that information. Regardless of who you were in the criminal underworld, you were afraid of Eddie. He was evil incarnate. It was my ultimate trump card, because no one on Eddie’s naughty list lived for long. Jalal’s demeanor changed and he gave me a big smile, always the businessman. “Of course, my friend. How can I be of service?”

Jalal Hosani was a facilitator, not a man who got his hands dirty. He knew
people. When you are operating in a new area, you had to have intelligence, and that meant knowing the right people. Jalal knew the right people. Of course, he would also sell me out as soon as it benefited him. So I had to make sure that the math stayed in my favor, because I actually kind of liked Jalal, snake that he was, and killing him would make me . . . sad. Sort of.

“Later on I’m going to need a source for equipment, weapons, vehicles. Usual stuff, but right now I need information. I need to know what’s really going down in Zubara.”

“The emir is having a battle against one of his generals for control of the government,” Jalal said as if this were common knowledge. “The pro-Western factions are siding with the emir, the fundamentalists and Iranian puppets are siding with the general. It hasn’t become violent yet, but it is only a matter of time.”

I nodded. “I know that much. What I need to know is who all the players are, and then I’m going to have you do a few introductions for me. Which side are you on?”

“General Al Sabah is a very dangerous man, but the emir should not be underestimated.” My old acquaintance appeared to give it some thought. “I suppose I will wait and see which side wins. That is always the side to be on.”

“I killed a guy named Al Sabah once.”

“It is a common name.” Jalal shrugged. “Either way, most of the army is loyal to the general and his personal guard is growing with many foreign”—he paused, looking for the right word— “volunteers.”

“You mean fundamentalist nut-jobs who got tired of getting their asses kicked up north decided to get a different job where they could still sock it to the Great Satan?”

“Something like that. Now let us get down to business.” We spoke for another half an hour, during which he provided me with the low down on the various players in this unfolding drama. I was careful to give him no information about what I was actually doing here. I asked random questions about unrelated things, to cloud the issue just in case he was planning on betraying me. The meeting was beneficial, and I learned quite a bit more about the inner workings of Zubaran politics. Finally we were done, and Jalal, late for his next appointment, excused himself. We would be in touch.

I leaned back in my chair and watched him leave. The power struggle complicated things. Politics in this part of the world was like a high-speed chess game where the losers got put in front of a firing squad. Heightened tensions led to heightened security, which could prove to be a pain. If the situation deteriorated too quickly, it might spook our mark, and ruin Phase One. We would have to adjust accordingly.

A moment later the server approached me with a menu. The young man greeted me with a great deal of respect. “We did not know you were going to be visiting us today, Khalid.” He addressed me by the fake identity I had been cultivating here over the last few months. “How can I be of service?”

Zubaran food was relatively bland for this part of the world, but it was tolerable, and scheming always made me hungry. “Kusbasi kebab, and make sure to spice it up this time. And fetch a chess board. I’ll be meeting Al Falah for a match shortly.”

He snapped his heels together and retreated toward the kitchen. The service here was excellent, as it should be, since I was their new landlord. I had bought the club outright as soon as I had arrived in Zubara. I checked my watch. My next appointment should be on the way.

At least for now, Phase One was proceeding according to plan.

Chapter 2:
If You Die, They Don’t Have to Pay You

VALENTINE

Quagmire, Nevada, USA

January 30

1420

It was quiet in my Mustang, save for the noise of tires on gravel, as I made my way down the long, winding road to Hawk’s home. I hadn’t been down this road in months, not since I’d first settled in Las Vegas.

Hawk’s real name was John Hawkins. I’d met him in Afghanistan years prior. He’d been the team leader of Switchblade 4, my team, before moving into the training section, then retiring. It had been Hawk who’d taught me how to shoot a revolver and instilled in me a love of Smith & Wesson .44 Magnums. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw that Tailor’s Expedition was right behind me, shrouded in the cloud of dust my car was kicking up. Our two vehicles were laden with nearly all of my worldly possessions. It was surprisingly little, all things considered.

The dirt road passed through a barbed-wire fence, but the gate had been left open. Up ahead, I could see Hawk’s ranch house and the barn beyond it. Several trees shaded the house from the afternoon sun. I could see a couple of horses absentmindedly chewing their feed, paying us no mind.

I came to a stop near Hawk’s Dodge turbo-diesel pickup truck, and Tailor parked next to me. I stepped into the cool desert air, glad that I’d worn a jacket. Tailor joined me a second later.

“Place hasn’t changed much,” Tailor said, looking around.

“Look, he’s got solar panels on the roof now.”

“Hawk likes to live off the grid,” Tailor said. “He’s got his own water supply, his own food supply, and his own electricity. You could ride out the end of the world here.”

I chuckled. “That’s probably his plan.” As we approached the house’s large front porch, the door opened. Hawk stepped out into the afternoon air, squinting slightly in the light. He looked the same as ever, tall and fit, with rough features and hard eyes. His hair and goatee had more gray in them than they used to, but overall he was doing pretty well for a guy in his fifties. Hawk was wearing a tan button-down shirt, faded blue jeans, and cowboy boots. As usual, his Smith & Wesson Model 29 revolver was in its custom-made holster on his right hip.