Naomi’s finger swept down the page. “According to the information in Mr. Warren’s electronic file, Gemini never went to another bank.” Her eyes were fixed on Evrette. Sensing that she had struck a nerve, she pressed on. “Not only that, but it seems that Gemini Holdings got their loan money not ten days after they were turned down here.”
Evrette shrugged. “That’s none of my concern.”
“Really?” Her lips pursed in admonishment. “I think Billy Warren discovered that it was very much your concern. I think that’s why he was keeping an eye on Gemini long after their loan was turned down.”
That was when she heard the soft metallic click. As she began to rise from her chair, McKinsey’s firm hand pushed her back down hard. Then the cold metallic press of a gun at the base of her neck.
Behind her, McKinsey pulled the trigger, and she was slammed forward. Immediately, blood spurted, warm and cherry red.
PART THREE
CHERRY BOMB
R
OBERTO
B
OLANO
TWENTY-TWO
ARIAN XHAFA stepped off the military air transport at Vlore Air Base in southwest Albania into a driving rain. The dark, fulminating sky seemed as low as the treetops, and a filthy wind battered him.
An armored car pulled up and he got in. He was carrying no luggage; none had been needed. At once, the armored car pulled away, exiting the base without going through either immigration or customs.
“Good to be home?” the Syrian said.
Arian Xhafa nodded. “Always.” He was a man of swarthy skin, dark curling hair, which merged with his full beard. His face seemed chiseled by wind and sun, the deep-set eyes, the high cheekbones, the hawk’s-bill nose. He might be Albanian by birth, but his aggressively Middle Eastern blood had forged his physiognomy.
The Syrian sighed. “I have no home.”
“A long-held dream, soon to be realized, my friend.”
Even next to Xhafa, the Syrian was a big man, tall, his shoulders and arms knotted with muscle, as if he had been a hod carrier or a bricklayer all his life. His hands were big and square, calloused, their backs ropy, dark as coffee. But his eyes had in them the talent of a sculptor. It was, of course, his eyes that were most remarked upon. One green, the other blue, each seemed to be buried in a different head or, more accurately, connected to a different brain.
People were terrified of the Syrian, and with good reason. You never knew what he was thinking or how he would react. He had a real name, of course, the one his parents had given him, but it had been so long since he had used it that it had been all but forgotten. Xhafa, for instance, had never known it.
“So,” the Syrian said now, “how was Washington?”
“I despise that city,” Xhafa said, “and it despises me. Dardan has been killed.”
“Is that such a tragedy?” The Syrian was not one to mince words or care who he defamed. “I warned you about him. He was weak.”
“He was family,” Xhafa said stiffly.
The Syrian grunted. “Sentiment is itself a weakness.”
Xhafa fought to swallow the rebuke. He feared the Syrian as much as everyone else, he simply refused to show it. It would do no good, he knew, to remind his companion that he had lost all his family to war. The Syrian never invoked their names; it was as if they had never existed. While in Washington, Xhafa had read of a recent DNA study that proved, genetically, at least, there wasn’t much difference between the Arabs and the Jews. Something else he dare not mention to his dour companion. On the other hand, losses were much on his mind.
“It’s not only Dardan,” he said now, “but my men in Tetovo. The entire fortress was destroyed.”
“That was, of course, always a possibility,” the Syrian’s face darkened, “but I cannot understand how the enemy escaped the ambush you laid for them in Dolna Zhelino.” His tone made it sound like the error was somehow Xhafa’s.
“They killed all my men.”
“Yes, but how?”
“My men—”
“Were no doubt happy to die for the cause,” the Syrian said with a dismissive sweep of his hand.
“My men are not yours,” Xhafa said. “They’re not ignorant mountain fanatics who die without a thought.”
The Syrian was not offended. In fact, he laughed. “This is true, Xhafa. The men of the mountains of Afghanistan and Western Pakistan are the defeated, the disenfranchised who were chased into their mountain lairs by stronger tribal forces. The mountains’ lawless state attracts the fanatics, the extremists, the outcasts of society. But, listen to me, Xhafa, they are my most valuable resource. Their ignorance breeds fanaticism and that is my stock in trade. They are my creatures because I tell them what they want to hear. In return, they do what I tell them to do.”
He puffed out his cheeks, his eyes alight. His ideas made him restless. “What they want is simple: They want to blow up the society that cast them out. This is the opportunity I give them and they are grateful.”
“They have proved to be the best weapon we have against the West,” Xhafa said.
The Syrian snorted. “The West believes that it is their fanaticism that makes them cruel, but, no, this is incorrect. What makes them cruel is their monumental ignorance. They have no conception of the world. Good for me. Even better, they don’t care, so I don’t even need to lie to them. They’ll never get what they want, of course, but in the meantime they are useful as agents of chaos. And because they wish to martyr themselves for their doomed cause, they keep coming. They die and they rise endlessly.”
The Syrian stroked his beard. “But never mistake me for one of them, Xhafa. As you know, I come from the lowlands, from a wealthy family. I’m well educated, a graduate of universities in both the East and the West—under different names, of course. You might say that I’m a man of the world. A prerequisite to understanding the enemy.”
A certain tension informed his body. “What must be understood is the cause of the enemy’s success.” Being a master tactician, he was understandably focused on battlefield failures. In contrast, the loss of human life was of importance to him only inasmuch as it affected his plans. “The failure in Dolna Zhelino might be explained away by happenstance, but not the complete destruction of your fortress in Tetovo.” He tapped his forefinger on his knee. “No, there is another factor here of which we’re ignorant.”
Xhafa shook his head. “I still don’t understand the need for such complexity.”
“That’s because you haven’t studied this Jack McClure. His mind works best within complicated situations. To him, that’s the way the world works, and he’s not far off the mark. Give him something simple to solve and he’ll become immediately suspicious. Frankly, he’s a con artist’s worst nightmare. To my knowledge only one person was able to con him, and then not for long.”
“Annika Dementieva.”
“Correct.” The Syrian sighed. “You know, Xhafa, I tried to do this the simple way, but, try as I might, I couldn’t get to Gourdjiev. I lost half a dozen of my best men in the process. Even at his age, that wily old fucker is still formidable.”
The Syrian stretched in his seat and cracked his knuckles. “So I had to tackle the problem from another angle
