“And that work that you do… you’re a hitman now?”
Bahar returned to his chair and crossed a leg over the other. “What are they saying about me on the streets?”
“They say that you’re a concierge for wetwork, that you mediate contract killings and kidnappings. That you’re basically a ghost who pays well for bad work.”
Bahar chuckled loudly. “Ah, that is good. That is what I want them to say.”
“Why is that funny?” I asked.
Bahar slowly returned to his feet. “I will be back.” He opened the door and walked out, returning a minute later with something in his hand. Stepping behind me, I felt a press on the zip tie and then it snapped, freeing my hands. I brought them around and rubbed at my wrists. They tingled as the blood rushed back.
Bahar put the small knife in his pocket and returned to his seat. “I freed your hands as a gesture to show you I did not bring you here to harm you. I did not understand why Emmanuel Samaras reached out to me the way he did or what you had to do with it. Now that I do, I wish for us to talk, to have a conversation and see if we cannot understand each other.”
“All right then. Let’s start with what happened to you after we first met all those years ago. I had you dead to rights, and the CIA shows up and offers you a deal. Which, as you said, you accepted.”
“I am a very lucky man. After my father and my brother were killed, I became very bitter. I allowed my thinking to become clouded by the beliefs of other hateful men hiding behind the loose robes of their religious clothing. I was going to detonate a bomb that day. As you said, it would have killed some of your soldiers. Had it not been for the redeeming opportunity that the CIA offered me, I certainly would have been sent to Guantanamo or perhaps some black site in Africa.”
“And what did Langley get you to sign on to?” I asked. “They flipped you?”
“Yes. They flipped me. I provided names of local muj fighters and also private recordings of the local sheik, who was training the minds of the youth for more war. I did this for two years before they came to me and asked me to expand my reach. I was, you see, very skilled at building connections and trust. So I went to Kabul for a time, then Jordan, and finally, they planted me as an informant in Syria. I did this for five years. After that, we parted ways.”
I sat forward and set my elbows on my knees. “Parted ways,” I repeated. “So you help my country fight terrorism for five years then, what, become a terrorist in your own right?”
“Ah,”—Bahar smiled—“you are talking about what they say about me in the street. What Emmanuel told you.”
“I am. You had a young lady kidnapped and a Saudi prince murdered. I’m sure that doesn’t even scratch the surface.”
“It is true. I commissioned those things. And they were carried out just as I promised my clients they would be. However, let me give you some context. If you wish to judge me afterward, then, well, that is your right.”
“Say on.”
“The young lady that Emmanuel kidnapped was the daughter of a very wealthy man in Rome. He paid me to get his daughter back to him. She had run off to Athens with a charming young actor who got her addicted to drugs and then finally left her. She refused to come home. Her father decided he would scare some sense into her. He also sent her to reform school in Canada under a new identity. The kidnapping narrative is what he wanted her former circle to hear. He wanted her to have a fresh start.”
“So you were just helping?”
“Yes. Helping.”
I had also been told that he murdered someone in cold blood. “And the Saudi prince?”
“Prince Abdullah was vacationing on his yacht in Santorini. A man from a country that will remain unnamed paid me very handsomely to have him murdered. Prince Abdullah had raped and killed this man’s sister. He fled the country and would have never seen a judge or jury. The evidence of his crimes was irrefutable. So I brought justice to his bow.”
The pieces were finally coming together, slowly clicking into place. “So you left the employ of the CIA and transitioned into the vigilante justice arena?”
“Precisely. Any jobs I take must fit certain, pre-established criteria.”
“Killing someone without a trial—that’s skirting the line a little, don’t you think?”
“Why? Because I do not have the sanction of a national government? Some important men in a secret back room have not permitted me to do it, so it is wrong?” He shocked his head. “No, I do not think so.”
“But I’m sure you profit very well off of your flexible view of justice.”
“Call it what you will. Your government has dozens of black-ops teams, carrying out some politician’s version of justice. And yes, I do make good money. Very good money, in fact. But I put it all to programs that have great value to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have built a large house for my grandmother and my sister. I have privately funded two schools and an orphanage in Kandahar. That is where the money goes.”
If what he was saying was true, I was impressed. Here was a man who had come from some hard beginnings and turned his life around, walking away with a moral code that most never achieve. “That’s commendable, Bahar. It really is.”
He stood up. “Come with me.” He went to the door and opened it. I followed
