Enemy of Mine

assassin was some super-secret Hezbollah weapon who had the ear of Nasrallah himself. The name Infidel meant a great deal in the boy’s circle of friends, and the fact that he was the conduit gave him special status and envy.

“I had a meeting today with some people on behalf of the party. It went a little strange, and I implanted a technical device to record what was said after I left. That’s what I want you to translate. It’s a couple of hours of tape, but not all of it is dialogue.”

It was no accident that he’d left the Hezbollah meeting without asking for his backpack or other equipment. The digital camera he had shown the Hezbollah members cloaked a remote recording device with a wireless transmitting capability. It would pick up all conversation for two hours of continuous use and transmit that recording in bursts to a special collection device. The range was limited, so the assassin had been forced to embed the collection capability in the frame of his car, which he could access via the cell network.

He’d waited three hours after his meeting before conducting the download. He hadn’t wasted the time, going straight back to his apartment, packing up, and moving to a small, nondescript hotel. He’d taken precautions to never let Hezbollah know where he lived, but was under no illusions about their reach. Luckily, everything he owned fit into a large duffel bag and two Pelican cases.

The boy pulled out a notebook. Before hitting play, he said, “Does this have something to do with the computer I’m picking up from the Druze contact?”

Taken aback, the assassin showed no emotion. “Yeah, it does. How’d you get roped into getting the computer back? I thought that was a one-way deal.”

“It’s not your computer. I think that one is destroyed. The meeting the Druze attended was attacked, and he left with someone else’s computer. He called the party, and I’m supposed to pick it up in a few hours near the university.”

The assassin simply nodded, his brain working in overdrive. “Well, we don’t have a lot of time then. Listen to this, and you’ll be on your way.”

The boy put in the earphones and hit play, listening and scribbling on his pad. The assassin left him to it, trying to puzzle out this latest bit of intel. What was this about a computer? And why would the Druze contact Hezbollah? Surely Nephilim Logan was now dead, and the Druze would suspect Hezbollah had killed him. Something was not right.

He watched the boy for any signs of what was being said, but nothing registered in his body language until about an hour into the tape. Then, the boy stopped writing and looked at him, his eyes wide. When the assassin did nothing but give him a hard look in return, he went back to the page, scribbling furiously. Soon enough, the tape was done.

“Well, what do you have?”

“Abu Infidel, it’s not good. You need to stay away from these people. Tell the Resistance what they’re doing.”

“Spit it out. What’s on the tape?”

“Well, there’s apparently an assassination being planned, but not here in Lebanon. Somewhere else. The assassin was at the meeting with your computer. Someone attacked the meeting, and there’s something about an American intelligence agent, who’s now dead. There’s a lot of the talk that I couldn’t understand because it was garbled, but the assassin lived. He called the person on this tape, and he’s going forward with his plan. He asked for help.”

“Who is it? What’s his name? What’s his target?”

The Infidel quietly seethed. He was the chosen one for this work, the professional used when it was something delicate with strategic implications, and they’d hired someone else. The fuckers had actually gone to another player when he had a perfect record.

“They didn’t say. They seemed pleased that he was continuing, but didn’t say anything specific, except the target was bringing money and they wanted that money to go away.”

“Money? For what? Who’s bringing money?”

“I don’t know.” The boy put his hand on the assassin’s forearm. “Your name came up. They said they were going to kill you to keep you from affecting the operation because of something else you’d done.”

The news didn’t really upset him. Deep inside, he knew his time here was coming to a close. Hezbollah was just too damn paranoid to let him run around forever. He knew they’d try to kill him sooner or later. The issue now was stopping that order before it got out to the Hezbollah chain of command. He’d last five seconds in Beirut if that happened, looking over his shoulder at everyone who walked behind him.

The second issue was this new assassin. Kill me, huh? How about I kill your whole fucking plan? It was a matter of pride now.

He didn’t know the man’s name, but he knew where to find it. And he’d need the computer the boy was supposed to pick up. He looked at his watch and saw he had about forty minutes before the meeting with the Druze.

“Come on. I need you to read something else.”

“What? I don’t have time for that. I have to meet the Druze, then pass the computer to someone else.”

“Who?”

“Abu Aziz.”

That computer is important. Abu Aziz was one of the guys on the inner circle protective detail of Majid and Ja’far. It would work out well that he wasn’t in the Dahiyeh, because he was a giant of a man and the most competent. Of all the inner circle that the assassin had met, Aziz was the only one with combat experience, having earned his position through skill in the 2006 war with Israel.

“I’ll pay for you to get to that meeting. I have as much interest in this as you do.”

He stood up and flagged a cab. The boy mistook his irritation at what he had translated as an urgent need to inform the Resistance. He entered the cab as well. He said nothing until they entered the outskirts of the Dahiyeh, then said, “You have something for me to read here?”

The assassin saw his face twist in confusion, and said, “Just a quick stop. Nothing for you here. You take the cab to the meeting. When you get the computer, come back here. Don’t worry about taking the computer to Aziz. Bring it right back here. I’ll be upstairs with the leadership. Give me a call, and I’ll let you know if it’s okay to come up.”

Infidel smiled. “I’ll introduce you to the power brokers. The real people of the Resistance. Forget about Aziz. He’s an errand boy.”

The boy’s eyes glowed at the thought. He nodded vigorously. “I’ll come right back here. You’ll tell them to call Aziz?”

“Yes.”

Infidel paid the cab driver up front, then walked to the cafe, glancing to make sure his car was still parked where he’d left it. He was fairly sure he’d need a rapid mode of exfiltration, and waiting on a cab wouldn’t cut it.

Two men were at the entrance. Walking up to them was incredibly dangerous, but he had one card to play: He supposedly had no idea Hezbollah wanted him dead. If these guys didn’t either, then he’d be allowed into the cafe just as he had been before. If they did know about the order, they’d be smirking behind his back, thinking they were now saved the trouble of hunting him down. Either way, they’d let him into the inner sanctum, with no idea that he knew what they’d planned for his fate. A little thing, this bit of information, but something potentially decisive for a man of his skills.

He allowed himself to be frisked, telling them he’d simply come back for his camera and backpack. The two guards radioed into the inner sanctum. He hoped that Majid and Ja’far would be upstairs and not inside the cafe. Killing everyone there would be difficult. He needn’t have worried. The radio call came back, and a conversation ensued, with both guards surreptitiously stealing glances at him. They finally told him he could enter, and led him through the cafe to the stairs, one in front and one behind.

So it’s option number two. Good. Rather have them know why I’m killing them.

The guard in front opened the door to the office and stepped inside. The assassin caught a glimpse of Majid and Ja’far inside, both with insincere smiles. The door swung outward, toward him. In one fluid move, he swung the door closed on the lead man and pulled the carbon-fiber push dagger from his belt, the blade sticking out between the second and third finger of his clenched fist.