beloved brother, are fucking insane.'
Smith said, 'That quaint premise was clearly established years ago, old friend. My only question to you is, are you or are you not willing to aid me on this latest, admittedly insane, but nonetheless potentially devastating operation of mine?'
'There was one question I have,' the Sheik said and he wagged his head in the familiar Afghan way. Smith smiled at the ritualistic game they were playing.
Ah, the enigmatic smile of the wizened yet wise warlord. Could mean yes. Could mean your head. Could mean nothing at all. He gave the old devil a wry smile in return and they were both content to sit in silence for a time sipping their scotch. The bottle on the Sheik's magnificent carved desk was already half empty.
'Your question?'
'This idea of yours is fraught with risk. You could easily be killed or captured by the British. A catastrophe that would put all of our plans in jeopardy. Especially if you were captured and tortured.'
'Yes.'
'So. One wonders. Why do you yourself need to be personally involved at all? Surely the team can handle this without you.'
'Perhaps, perhaps not. But I must be there. I'd pull the trigger if I had the skill. You will understand when I tell you this target holds great symbolic interest for me. This is no ordinary operation. It is intensely personal.'
'I understand now. I agree. You must go. And if things should go wrong, you will take yourself out of the picture, of course.'
'Of course. Cyanide is my constant companion.'
The Sheik turned his eyes toward the ceiling, tapping the tips of his fingers together, clearly mulling this over. He thought like a chess player. It was the reason for his ascension to power in the void created by the absence of Osama bin Laden. He was always at least four moves ahead.
'It would be good public relations, naturally,' Sheik al-Rashad admitted. 'An explosive international media strike right to the heart of the enemy.'
'Well put. And wholly accurate.'
'It is not surprising that it is you who has conceived this assassination. You are always following your natural inclinations.'
'Naturally. It is my sole destiny and what I live for. But I tell you. Not a bomb on this earth could rival the devastating effect this will have on our enemies.'
'Not even the precious nuclear arsenal we will soon control at Islamabad?'
'All of those weapons will be in the hands of the Sword of Allah before we are done, brother. Only a matter of time.'
'An extremely powerful nuclear device seems to have gone missing at the Islamabad nuclear weapons facility.'
For the first time, Smith's face showed excitement.
'Good, excellent. Without a problem I hope?'
'The security guards at the airport storage facility were put in place by my ISI friends years ago. All of the guards' families are held at one of my bases in the mountains, under constant threat of death. No one will ever know how we are removing the weapons.'
'We are so close now, brother, so very close,' Smith said.
'How old is the boy now, by the way?' Al-Rashad asked, sipping from his glass.
'In his twenties.'
'Old enough to fight, old enough to die.'
'Yes. Old enough.'
'I know very well why we, the glorious forces under my command, would glory in this particular invader's death. What I still cannot understand is why you, of all the people on this planet, would want to kill him. There is a good English word for it. What is it? Like a souk, sounds like, perhaps?'
'Bizarre?'
'Ah, yes. Bizarre.'
'As I said, I have my private reasons. Deeply personal reasons. To me, they are not the least bit bizarre. It is my life's work. Leave it at that.'
'Your precious reasons. All very mysterious. And always your gold to pay for them. It is, I assume, already in my vault at the bank in Basel?'
'Of course. It was in Switzerland a week ago. I'm surprised you received no confirmation.'
'I have been out under the stars these last weeks. There are no confirmations there, only the almighty presence of Allah.'
'I confirm that one million British pounds in gold bullion now sits quietly in your vault at La Roche and Co. in Basel.'
'Your gold, your gold. Old friend, I must tell you something about gold. It is not so effective an inducement now, you know. Over the years, you and all the others-the Americans, Russians, the Chinese-all of you have made me rich beyond imagining. Perhaps that was a mistake. Perhaps in hindsight, you should have kept the tiger hungry.'
'Our business tonight is not about gold, brother.'
'No. Of course not. Tonight is about…how do you put it in English…your vendetta.'
'Are we not fortunate that, on so many occasions over the years, my personal reasons and yours have been in such perfect alignment?'
They both laughed deeply, remembering that they had long shared a certain sense of irony, a thread of humor that bound them, a connective tissue not common between their two cultures. It was one reason Smith was still alive after all these years. The all-powerful Sheik al-Rashad thought he was funny.
'Tell me more. Where is the boy now?'
'Afghanistan. Based in a U.K. forward operating base in Helmand. Serving as a spotter with the Blues and Royals regiment.'
'And how do you know this?'
'It is my business to know everything.'
'Impossible. My men, both my military and my intelligence operations, would have known of his arrival in the war zone.'
'A very closely guarded secret, to be sure. All prearranged with the U.K. print and broadcast media who have entered into an understanding not to provide coverage. But he is here, serving on the front lines, that I assure you.'
'Not Iraq? That's what the world was told by the Western media.'
'No. At the last minute Iraq was deemed too dangerous. The British Army decided against it. But he was determined to fight. So. He has secretly been deployed to Afghanistan on condition that his whereabouts remain unknown.'
'But you know,' Al-Rashad said, smiling.
'I do. Known to be in Iraq, he would obviously have become a Taliban target. As the boy himself said, 'I would never want to put someone else's life in danger when they find themselves sitting in a foxhole next to the Bullet Magnet.''
'The Bullet Magnet?' Sheik al-Rashad laughed. 'Delicious! And this delusional Bullet Magnet thinks he is anonymous in Afghanistan?'
'No one knows the Magnet is here. Except, of course, for me. And now, you. With your help, I shall kill him. To maximum political effect, I can assure you.'
'You are the strangest of men, my dear Mr. Smith. You know that, do you not?'
'I am not only stranger than you do conceive, brother, I am stranger than you can conceive.'
'Tell me what you need, my friend,' the Sheik said, 'and it is yours.'
'Primarily, I will need the sniper Khalid. Where is he now?'
'At my main training base in the Hindu Kush mountains.'
'You once told me Khalid was the best Taliban sniper in existence.'
'None deadlier, believe me.'
