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Nasir’s eating a bowl of oatmeal in his holding cell when I arrive. He wears a white TV shirt and black sweatpants; he’s not restrained in any way, and he sets his spoon down when I enter the room.
“I have to confess something,” I say. “You aren’t alive by luck. You were spared during the attack on purpose, Nasir Al-Zayani. We knew you were Hamza’s second-in-command. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
He frowns, but nods.
“What was Anton going to do with the missiles?”
“Why would he have told us?”
“Did Hamza have a theory?” I ask.
Nasir sighs.
“With those missiles, he could eliminate any person on the planet whenever he wanted. Business rivals, heads of state — whoever stood in his way.”
“Anyone specific?”
He doesn’t answer, looking away. He knows something.
“I wasn’t lying about having a job for you,” I say. “But you’re going to have to prove you’re loyal. That means giving us actionable intelligence. Again, I’m sorry that I had to kill Hamza. It was necessary. But you can ensure that he died for a good cause.”
“Okay,” says Nasir. “While Anton and Hamza spoke privately, Anton’s men were talking. Maybe they didn’t think any of us spoke English. Anton planned to test out the missiles soon. They said two names: Thor and Lincoln. I assumed those were codenames.”
No. Timo Thor and Lincoln Waterston.
“Did they say where the targets are? Or where they were headed next?”
“Possibly,” says Nasir. “One joked about testing the missiles on horses. Does that help?”
“It does.”
Waterston’s ranch in Kentucky. Not a bad place to lay low and stay out of Anton’s way. I have property records for every member of the Masters; finding out the exact location should be easy. We can set up surveillance to determine who, exactly, is currently living there. This could be our opportunity to acquire what we need most: one of the Masters, alive and alone.
Of course, that’s just part of the plan.
“So, Nasir,” I say, taking out a handgun. “Does this mean you’ve accepted my offer, or is this goodbye?”
He laughs.
“Can you even pay me? Hamza worked out of a palace, not a bunker.”
“Hamza had clients to impress,” I say, leaning in close to Nasir. “I have a monster to kill. Help me, and when this job is done I’ll pay you enough to buy that palace. How does that sound?”
Smiling, Hamza replies, “Your man called you Death, earlier. Is that what I should call you?”
“No,” I say. “Call me Ingram. Welcome to Anarchy, Inc.”
