pornographic than any sex scene. What can be more obscene than the government of the U.K. refusing to deport radical Muslims who preach the overthrow of England, demand the introduction of Sharia law, and chant ‘death to the queen,’ all the while refusing to lift the ban against Jack Hatfield? I am the only member of the American media prohibited from entering the U.K. because of the degenerate political minds of the home secretary and her cohorts.”
The hypocrisy of the U.K. and the weak-kneed sensibilities of his own nation were stunning, but with his credibility all but destroyed he was forced to surrender those battles, withdraw from the national scene, use his wits and skills and whatever closet supporters he had left-and thank God there were a bunch of them-to earn a living.
He did it alone, because his wife had withered under the scrutiny and catcalls, the burning bags of feces on the doorstep and the death threats on voice mail.
He made his deals in back rooms, wrote or produced anonymously because even his friends were afraid of Lawrence Soren, Muslim backlash, or both.
But he did it all, survived so he could get to this point.
Not to stroke his wounded pride, not to show a president or prime minster that by God he was right.
He did it for this one chance to help the nation save itself from itself.
5
Sofia, Bulgaria
The moment Hassan Haddad stepped off the elevator, he knew he was being watched.
It was a weeknight, and across the lobby the hotel lounge and casino were full of European and American businessmen, either drunk or getting there, planning their schemes to rape and pillage the country’s economy as they gambled away their weekly salaries.
Both the hotel and casino were examples of the new Eastern capitalist vulgarity. Crowded craps tables, roulette wheels, and slot machines, surrounded by gold-inlaid walls and marble floors-all symbols of decadence and woeful immorality.
Then there were the Gypsy whores. Bulgaria didn’t hide its perversions any more than it hid its corruption, and these brown-skinned Roma girls knew where the gold was. Nothing could be easier than picking off a pasty American salesman whose wife was nearly five thousand miles away.
Haddad understood the temptation these men felt. He had felt it himself, many times. Most of the girls were quite attractive, wearing short sheer dresses that clung to their skin and suggested at the pleasures that lay beneath. Just last night he had succumbed to the charms of one sloe-eyed beauty, taking her to his room where she had let him do things few women would ever permit. She had received him with such enthusiasm, such passion, that he had to wonder if, unlike so many of the whores he had spent time with, her pleasure was genuine.
Haddad was so surprised and delighted by the girl that he considered inviting her to accompany him home. It was an absurd, blasphemous notion, though it hadn’t seemed so as she knelt over him.
After she was gone, he lay on the drenched bed sheets, thinking back to when he was a younger man, attending university in America. Like Bulgaria, there were no rules in the west, and the two girls across the hall from him, both as limber as gymnasts, had taught him how to please a woman. He often lay with them on their dorm room floor, watching them stroke and prod each other to a feverish frenzy-an education he wasn’t likely to forget.
Haddad had applied those lessons last night and had been rewarded in kind. But shortly after the girl was gone he remembered who he was and why he was here. Sending up a prayer, he asked for forgiveness, promising that he would never again allow himself to fall prey to such depravity.
It was a promise he wasn’t certain he could-or wanted-to keep. Nonetheless, women would not be a priority. There was something more important he needed to do.
The lounge and casino weren’t the only sections of the hotel that were crowded. Several businessmen sat on chairs and sofas around the lobby itself, smiling and laughing, deep in conversations that didn’t interest Haddad.
What did interest him, however, was the lone man sitting near the window that looked out onto a busy street.
Turkish. Casually dressed in a sports jacket and jeans. Neatly trimmed beard, after the current style. Small but hard bodied, with a powerful frame that clothes couldn’t disguise.
Haddad had seen him the day before, amid the crowd of commuters and tourists on the train from Belgrade. They had not made eye contact, and at the time he had thought nothing of the man. Had not even considered that he was anything more than a weary traveler, anxious to get to his destination. The fact that he was staying at this very hotel had not been a concern.
Many people stayed here.
Yet now Haddad sensed that there was something about the Turk that wasn’t right. The way he kept his gaze focused on the newspaper, never looking up, never showing any sign of curiosity about what was going on around him. A beautiful woman walked by but he didn’t register even a flicker of interest.
So he was either a luti — a homosexual-or something else was going on.
Haddad knew quite well that surveillance was a skill that took cunning as well as patience. But the Turk was trying too hard to appear disinterested in his surroundings, and that was as much a giveaway as not trying hard enough.
That was how Haddad knew he was being watched. And this, unfortunately, was a problem.
Moving toward the lobby door, he checked the clock above the front desk. It was nearing eight P.M., and the man who called himself Chilikov would be expecting him soon. If he were late or arrived with an unwanted escort, Chilikov would disappear and that was unacceptable. These arrangements had to be concluded tonight or his schedule would be seriously compromised.
It had taken Haddad a considerable amount of time and money to cultivate a relationship with the Bulgarian, and he couldn’t afford to start over. Normally, he would have sent someone else to handle this task but there was too much at stake.
So he had a choice. Lose the Turk-or kill him.
The meeting place was less than a mile away, a fifteen-minute walk. Haddad knew he could quickly hail a taxi and be there in less than five minutes, but taxi drivers had eyes and ears, and while the chances of anything coming of such a casual encounter were nearly nonexistent, he had always been a cautious man who preferred to travel on foot whenever possible.
After receiving Chilikov’s text message this evening, Haddad had spent nearly an hour checking and rechecking the route to their meeting place using a portable GPS unit he’d picked up in Belgrade. He had found three possible routes to his destination and had memorized them all, certain that he would not be followed but prepared for the possibility.
Now that possibility was quite real.
Haddad stepped through the revolving door onto the sidewalk, paying no attention to the man as he passed but not overtly looking away as the Turk was doing. Because of that, Haddad was able to see, peripherally, what he needed to see.
Haddad moved with deliberation, never rushing. He was a tourist going out for a stroll, nothing more.
The Turk would know this was a lie, of course. But Haddad saw no reason to betray that he was aware of being watched. As he walked away from the hotel, he kept his gaze forward, never glancing back at that revolving lobby door but knowing that the Turk would soon emerge and head in his direction.
Haddad was relatively sure the man was working alone. The best surveillance is done in teams, the larger the better. The subject gets passed along like a baton, giving him less opportunity to make-or lose-a tail. But the modern spy tends to wear iPod earbuds or a Bluetooth, innocuous technology that keeps him plugged in to partners or HQ. Haddad’s cursory look as he passed the Turk revealed neither of these. Besides, he’d been in enough of
