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“And after that?”
“Nothing. That’s the end of your involvement. Take the keys and leave. The car will be driven away a few hours later. No face-to-face contact will be necessary.”
“Cameras?”
“No coverage where you’ll leave the vehicle.”
“How much?”
“Five million euros.”
Zaman was surprised by the amount. “Five million? Does this mean that you’ve made contact with Mullah Halabi?”
“I have,” Nassar admitted.
“Excellent! And do you think your new relationship will bear fruit?”
“Perhaps.”
In fact, it already had. Beyond the ISIS-generated story about his superhuman actions during the Mauritania attack, there had already been a quantifiable reduction in antimonarchy sentiment on social media. After the five million euros was transferred, Nassar expected the rate of that reduction to accelerate. It was a strategy that worked on two levels. His fabricated heroics played well with the general population, and the attenuation of antiroyal Internet bile played well with the king.
“Will it be used in an attack against the Americans?”
“I can’t be certain, but that would be my assumption.”
Zaman grinned. “I wouldn’t be surprised to see you as caliph one day. The leader of lands that stretch from Mali to Tajikistan.”
“If Allah calls on me to fill that role, I will of course do His will.”
Zaman slapped him on the shoulder. “Always so smooth, Aali. Those English girls at school never had a chance.”
CHAPTER 22
Outside of Chicago
U.S.A.
DONATELLA Rahn moved through the alleyway, carefully avoiding puddles swollen from the rain. Her long, dark hair was piled under a hat and she wore sunglasses that obscured a face that had at one time made her a great deal of money.
She maneuvered around a cascade of water coming from a broken gutter and took an opportunity to glance behind her. While the rain had done a good job of clearing the streets of pedestrians, there was no reason to be exposed any longer than absolutely necessary. Savoring the moment—while tempting—was a mistake made only by amateurs.
She slipped into a shallow alcove and pressed her back against the dirty bricks. The rain was coming harder now, obscuring her field of view more than she’d anticipated. On the positive side, it worked both ways. In the unlikely event that someone saw her, they would only register a vague human outline taking refuge from the storm.
At the center of the alley she could see her victim huddled next to a dumpster. The man with him flicked a lighter to life, and its flame glinted off a spoon used to prepare the drugs they had scored that afternoon. Having spent much of her youth doing similar things behind similar dumpsters, she knew how long it would take, the procedure, and the necessary paraphernalia. Not that it mattered. The drugs weren’t what she was there for.
And that begged the question: Why was she here?
For so many years she’d led a charmed life. Italian runway model, Mossad assassin, private contractor. She’d killed terrorists, well-trained enemy soldiers, and captains of industry. She’d been respected, sought after, and feared—by peers, by governments, and by the world’s billionaire aristocracy. Now she was getting drenched stalking a filthy and meaningless little creature named Jimmy Gatton.
He was a drug addict, small-time dealer, and hustler—none of which was of any concern to her. It was his work as a petty thief that had attracted her attention. Three weeks ago she had returned to the home that had been forced on her and found it torn apart. Her stereo, television, and laptop were gone. The contents of every cabinet and drawer was strewn across the floor, as was the contents of her refrigerator.
Donatella’s anger had flared, but only briefly. None of it was really hers. None of it meant anything. Besides, it wasn’t like she hadn’t been involved in similar jobs to feed a similar habit when she was young.
She’d begun walking from room to room, picking up the necessities that made existence possible—pans, a toothbrush, a thermostat ripped from the wall—and leaving the rest. As she continued, she began to feel an increasing queasiness in the pit of her stomach. The job was sloppy and unnecessarily destructive, but there was also a strange thoroughness. She made her way into the master bedroom, feeling her stomach tighten further. As expected, her closet door was open and its contents shoveled onto the carpet. Not expected, though, was the open door to a hidden storage room at the back. The latch had been hacked away with a meat cleaver that was now stuck in the drywall.
Donatella had frozen, her mouth suddenly going dry. When she finally managed to begin inching forward again, her horror grew with every step. The magnificent designer clothes and shoes, most made specifically for her in her previous life, weren’t just discarded like the other things in the house but utterly destroyed. The thief, after working so hard to get inside the secret room, had undoubtedly expected far greater treasure. Jewels. Weapons. Art. Perhaps even drugs. Instead he found decade-old Valentino, Gucci, and Louis Vuitton.
In his rage, he’d torn them apart and, judging by the smell, urinated on them. She’d stared down at all that was left of who she once was and, for the first time since her homeless teenage years, felt like she was fading away. How much more of this could she endure before she disappeared altogether?
