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He followed the path of the fence, listening to the static hum, like a hive of bees off in the distance. It made his teeth hurt and his jaw clench. He shook his head, trying to get the aggravating sound out of his ears, but he needed it as a guide, needed the buzz to tell him when to move.
He inched closer and closer to the fence, staggering each step forward to coincide with the steps of the guards. He’d covered himself in deer scent, thought he actually smelled like a goat, but these dogs were trained to the scent of man, not beast, so wouldn’t alert unless they saw him moving. He was hungry, but food would have to wait.
He checked his watch and settled against the trunk of a tree. He was ahead of schedule; the walk in had gone easier than planned. He double-checked his GPS, and yes, he was in the right place.
Since he was a control freak, he had to admit he didn’t like having to rely on Matthew and Andy to fulfill their end of the bargain, but he was philosophical, everything was out of his hands for the moment.
I told you to do that but you didn’t!
His father’s voice, sounding now in his head, as it did sometimes over the years. When he’d heard the old man had collapsed of a fatal stroke five years before, he’d rejoiced and gone to his favorite pub in London and bought everyone there pints of Guinness.
Zahir had always been different, unique, that’s what his mother always told him, touching him, kissing him, praising him while his father looked on, disgust on his face.
He remembered he’d done his best to impress the old man, with his gray beard and mustache, his heavy jowls and his gap-toothed smile that wasn’t a smile at all, more a smirk, recognition that he was the only one in this household that was important, the only one with the power and that was because he had money, lots of it, and he ruled. “My darling, you are unique, you will do great things.” His mother, his beautiful fragile mother, who’d died when he was only eight years old.
Since he was the fourth son, he always knew he was worth less than spit to his father. And when he was eighteen, he realized his mother had been right. He was unique. He was chosen. God had given him a gift. He was clever, more clever and shrewd than his crude, peasant elder brothers, more cunning and more sly than his weak, whimpering sisters. Certainly more brilliant than his venal, grasping father, with his love of money and custom planes. Was he more astute than even his quiet, beautiful British mother, who’d given up her world to come live in the pit of Hell? He didn’t know. Sometimes he’d suspected she could have ruled the world, if only she’d been given the chance. He found himself thanking her again, as he had so many times throughout his life. She’d taught him perfect English, since he was, after all, an English citizen, and taught him pride and freedom. He’d joined the coalition forces, knowing, somehow, it was where he belonged. They trained him, they taught him to kill, to blow up people, to shoot from a distance. With his gift, they soon made him a perfect killing machine.
He was unique, and now he knew what it all meant.
It didn’t take long to develop a reputation. And with it came the money.
It never ceased to amaze him how many people wanted other people dead. And how rich he could get taking care of their problems for them.
And now this, surely the pinnacle of his life’s work. He had to admit he was still amazed at the complexity of Rahbar and Hadawi’s plan. So many moving parts, all the pieces having to dovetail at exactly the right time. He wondered how many more men in Iran wanted to lay waste to the world, consequences be damned. Centuries-deep hatred made them blind and deaf to all but death to their enemies.
That nutter Iranian colonel Rahbar had texted him that the gold coin Zahir had sent the month before had been turned over to his hand-picked scientist, brilliant and trustworthy. He was loyal to Rahbar. The Iranian scientist was in awe of Matthew’s genius, the way he’d combined certain elements, deleted and adjusting others to produce a payload to cause extraordinary damage. And the formula was really quite simple, but his genius in imagining this work of art had left him in awe.
And the colonel had laughed, said the stage was set and the Americans were doubtless scrambling around, unsure what to do, everyone on edge and just wait. Just wait. And the timing was perfect. As planned, the president of the United States had left Geneva in a huff aboard Air Force One to return to Washington.
Everything was on track and Zahir could see the colonel rubbing his hands.
Zahir found it delicious that the brilliant ideologue Matthew Spenser, hate-filled, yet so very naïve, would be the lynchpin. He’d given Zahir—Darius—a coin bomb for a souvenir, now being disassembled in Iran, and Zahir had stolen a second one, currently residing in his pocket. Even though the coin he’d sent to Rahbar hadn’t as yet been tested, Zahir had known to his soul it would work, and he’d made doubly sure at Bayway, and when he’d texted colonel Rahbar with the result, he’d been elated.
Zahir fingered the coin in his pocket, smiled, and thought of Matthew’s finger pressing the button that would signal the beginning of the end of the earth as anyone knew it
.
Yes, all his bases were covered, all contingencies dealt with, as the Americans said, and because the FBI could close in on Matthew before he could act, Zahir had his backup plan firmly in place. In fact, he rather hoped he would have to use it. More drama, more impact, the killing blow.
He sat back against an oak tree and closed his eyes, listening to the guards’ footsteps, their low voices, the dogs. Not much longer to wait.
He heard a dull thwap, then the buzzing stopped. Matthew had succeeded. The fence was down.
Shouts from the guards, movement all around. Now was the time. He had to move.
He knew their protocols: the guards would leave the fence in this quadrant. The left flank guard would cover the area of two while the guard closest to the camp turned on the generators. He watched him walk away, gun cradled in his arms, the dog following, tail wagging, liking the change of pace.
Three steps, two, one.
The guard was one hundred feet away now, the dog lunging toward the path.
Zahir ran out of the woods, went up and over the fence.
He lost his footing, landed hard on the other side, scrambled away as quietly as possible. He’d knocked out his breath, but the guard hadn’t seen him.
He was inside the perimeter.
When he could breathe easily again, he moved carefully, slowly, always out of sight. When he got close to the farthermost cabin, he put the earwig in, and sure enough, as Matthew had promised, the voices came through clear as a bell.
