The Outskirts of Terrasini, Italy
‘This is the whole shipment? Are there other crates?’ Mustafa Aqmal looked over the three boxes before him without gazing up at the courier.
‘No, it’s everything.’
He removed a full-sized Kabar from a sheath at his waist and used the military knife to cut the cord binding the first wooden crate. Lifting the lid, he carefully examined its contents, ensuring all was as he expected it to be, before lowering the cover gently back into place. He repeated the process twice, once for each of the remaining crates, before finally turning to the courier. The cigarette dangling from Aqmal’s thin lips accentuated every action with a puff of thick, curling smoke that seemed to wrap around his heavily accented words.
‘Where did you source the compounds?’
‘The principal ingredients from my source in Gattières, in more than ample quantity. This you can see.’ The courier’s accent was stronger than Aqmal’s, he spoke a muted African French in which his ‘th’s came out as soft ‘z’s.
‘The final elements for the reaction are from his associate in Germany. Just as you instruct. Nothing from anywhere on the watch list.’
Aqmal had been specific: all countries designated on the Terrorist Watch List were to be strictly avoided.
‘And the circuitry materials?’
‘Also from Berlin,’ the man confirmed. The courier spoke quickly, wanting to please his buyer. He also felt the rising desire to complete the delivery and get away as swiftly as possible. Something about the man’s tone during their phone conversations had set him on edge, and meeting him in person only renewed that discomfort. The courier knew nothing about the individual before him, but something intangible suggested a darkness he did not wish to explore. And the man had horribly vacant eyes that seemed to stare right through him. He wanted to get away from those eyes as fast as he could.
Aqmal gazed long at the three boxes. They contained all the supplies his mysterious clients had requested, and from sources that wouldn’t raise suspicion. His promise of an efficient and untraceable delivery had thus far been fulfilled. His aim and theirs was met.
Almost.
‘Who knows of the shipment?’ he asked. ‘Who is aware these materials have been brought here?’
The African courier, used to being questioned, had his answers well prepared. In the hierarchy of black-market transactions his work was critical, but his position as low on the totem pole as it was possible to be. To stay alive and in business, he had learned years ago, meant always to be prepared to give a full accounting.
‘I brought them myself. I take my uncle’s boat from Toulon to Cannes, and last twenty-four hours in that death trap’ – the courier motioned towards a small 1986 Ford Transit parked a few metres away – ‘driving to Genova, then down to Arezzo and past Rome. This morning I take a ferry from Napoli. I know the captain, and for a little cash he takes me on board, no question, no inspection, and sets me down in Ficarazzi, away from port traffic.’ The man finished his report, self-satisfied at his labours. ‘That these crates are here,’ he added, ‘is only known to two men in the world: you, and me.’
Aqmal nodded, the motion of his head distracting the courier from the slight movement of his hands.
‘Good. But I’m afraid that’s where you’re wrong. Their existence here is known only to one man. Me.’
The courier was momentarily confused. ‘But I—’
It was then that he saw Aqmal’s right hand, raising the Kabar up to chest height. This time the blade was not pointed towards the packing cords. What moments before had been a tool was now a weapon, wielded by a man whose haunting eyes bore directly into him, devoid of any emotion.
With a certainty that came from too many years working on the market, the courier saw what was coming, and even as he bolted to dodge the blade, a helpless ‘Non!’ escaping his lips, his mind knew where this moment led. His presentiment was fulfilled in the sudden lunge forward of Aqmal’s lithe frame, forcibly halting his attempted escape. The Arab man grabbed his torso with his free hand and forced the knife between his ribs, piercing his heart without a sound.
As the courier dropped slowly to the ground, his final contribution to the shipment was accomplished.