They’ll never see me coming.
To assume that suddenly the agencies fighting terrorism abroad would be able to track down any of his six hideouts, much less one of them, seemed absurd at best. Fazil moved around randomly, relying on the roll of a dice to determine when and where he’d go next. It was the one way he’d managed to keep his movements disguised as even he never knew where he’d migrate to next until his fate was revealed on a dotted cube.
Petrov’s offer had been enough to lure him—and the rest of Al Hasib—out of dormancy. Funding had always been a problem and had become even more so since certain banks started joining in the battle against terrorism. Freezing assets became a quick way to neuter several groups, a tactic Fazil equally admired and despised. Eliminating funds was resourceful and cowardly. Instead of fighting like men, the western forces cowered behind their gods of dollars and euros. To Fazil, it seemed fitting enough since that was what westerners worshipped anyway. He’d observed how they didn’t have the sense of community found in the Middle East, the kind necessary to wage war against an enemy more powerful than yourself. Fazil always understood that winning according to his terms was highly unlikely, yet he knew it was a fight that no one he knew would walk away from. Al Hasib was a tight operation, one that possessed the camaraderie among its men to move forward even when the outcome appeared dark.
Fazil felt new life being breathed into Al Hasib. He knelt on his sajjāda and recited the Asr prayer. He preferred to worship in a mosque but had grown accustomed to more private prayers while trying to remain hidden from groups who desired to claim his head as a bounty. When he was finished, he stood and took a deep breath.
Allah, please show me the way.
Fazil didn’t sit and wait for an answer. He trusted the next steps would be revealed as he pondered the assignment given to him.
Petrov’s request had been simple: destroy Verge Oil Corporation’s facility just outside Kuwait City. The pipeline there served much of the region and generated the lion’s share of the country’s wealth. More than that, it was a source of pride for most Kuwaitis. They boasted about the fact that their dinar was the strongest against the U.S. dollar of any currency in the world. But it had little to do with their ingenuity or special skills; rather, it had everything to do with location. Like a farmer who strikes it rich when he sells hundreds of acres of his land after a burgeoning city surrounds and encroaches upon him, Kuwait and its people’s wealth was little more than the product of good fortune and good timing. But to hear Kuwaitis discuss it, one would’ve thought they were responsible for creating a recipe for making oil. All of these sentiments helped Fazil channel his focus into taking down Kuwait’s wealth in the slyest of ways. He’d never forgiven them for the way they leaned on the U.S. to assist when Saddam Hussein aggressively attacked their oil fields and sought to claim them as his own.
Cowards, every last one of them.
Fazil determined this attack would be a memorable one. If he was going to return Al Hasib to the front pages of the world’s newspapers and websites, he’d do it by making a big splash. And he knew exactly how he’d do it.
The only thing Fazil hadn’t figured out yet was if he was willing to re-enter the fray, or if he’d wait and direct the operation in safe territory. He didn’t consider the thought cowardly. To him, it was calculated, an approach he viewed as a pre-requisite to any serious planning.
Regardless of what he decided he would do, he was convinced of one thing: The Americans are going to rue the day they came after me.
CHAPTER 9
Paris, France
THREE DAYS HAD PASSED since Petrov duped Brady Hawk and the Firestorm team into doing her dirty work for her. She sat at her private table atop the balcony at Le 7th Ciel restaurant and sipped a glass of chardonnay. After all, such a victory deserved a moment of celebration, as short lived as it might be. There was still plenty of work to be done if she intended to see The Chamber’s dream come to fruition. But baiting Hawk into murdering Germany’s biggest bankers and then providing Interpol with footage of his assault was just cause to revel in her stroke of genius with some wine.
Anatoly slid Petrov’s cigarette case toward her and held out his lighter.
She waved him off. “After dinner. I don’t want to spoil my drink with my vice.”
“Vice, as in singular?” Anatoly asked, the faint hint of a smile emerging across his face.
“Sophisticated women don’t keep track of all their vices.”
Anatoly held up his finger. “So it is plural. I was quite certain smoking wasn’t the only vice you could claim.”
“I could claim others, but they’re far too unsavory to discuss in public,” she said, leaning in close and dropping her voice to a whisper. “Seriously, who wants to talk about their penchant for murdering people who don’t go along with all your suggestions. It makes you a bore at dinner parties.”
“I can see how discussing your vices such as killing others could make you a bit of a pariah when you’re out on the town with friends. The whole time they’re wondering which one is going to be next.”
Petrov patronizingly patted Anatoly’s hand, which rested on the table. “There’s a reason I hired a sharp-witted young man like yourself. You at least
