If you read the brochures, there wasn’t a single square inch of the Channel Islands that wasn’t perfect. And that was true, depending on the intent of the reader. If you were looking for beautiful shoreline and ocean breezes, then there were plenty of square inches that were perfect for you. But if you were looking for a place to operate without much in the way of surveillance, well, there were square inches that were perfect for that as well.
It was toward one of those cramped, dingy square inches that Abdel Kassab was running full tilt, clutching his kufiya to his head with one hand as his baggy trousers and knee-length dress flapped in the breeze created by his sprint through the alley. He risked getting shot as he burst through the rear wooden door without giving the agreed upon knock.
“Mahboob is dead,” he declared, breathless. Three rifles were quickly placed back on the tables, as their startled bearers recognized Abdel moments before they would have perforated him.
The fourth man in the room looked up from his paper. “Of course Mahboob is dead, Abdel,” he said coolly. “His spirit now resides in the bosom of Allah, may his name be praised from the setting of the sun to the rising of the same. He is enjoying the ministrations of his promised virgins, as befits a martyr.” No one tried to create the mental picture of being ministered to by virgins while sitting on the lap of God.
“No, Javid,” Abdel panted. “He failed. The Zionists still live. Only Mahboob is dead.”
Javid sat up straight at full attention. “Explain,” he demanded.
Abdel explained how he had observed from afar how their carefully orchestrated plan unfolded: how the diversionary vehicle driven by the blessed martyrs drew the attention of the guards, and how Mahboob so very stealthily entered the alley leading behind the Grand Merlot Valeton hotel to complete his mission of jihad. But then the plan fell apart, when the slender American man ran up from the beach and entered the alley behind Mahboob, only to exit moments later, racing with Mahboob in his arms and hurtling him over the steep embankment to the beach below, where the bomb then exploded, wasting Mahboob’s life.
“The American must have detonated it with the remote,” Javid said. He spat. “We will find him. We will kill him and visit the blood of jihad upon his countrymen.” Javid prided himself on being an orator, and once a week insisted all his brethren participated in Speech Maestro training, a practice he had adopted years before. He stood, and walked out from behind his table, establishing his speaking area.
“Brothers of ya Homaar,” he intoned. “It is with a heart heavy with the righteous anger of the ages that we bid a sorrowful farewell to our brother Mahboob. Mahboob, who has been robbed of his riches in heaven, who is now, in fact, in Hell, wailing and gnashing his teeth in agony over having failed to bring jihad to full fruition because of the actions of an American interloper.”
The three other men in the room nodded in agreement, so Abdel felt he should nod as well.
Javid clenched a fist and waved it at the heavens. “This is why we fight, my brothers,” he spoke. He had such conviction in his tone, nobody bothered to ask the question, “We fight because of Mahboob?” They listened with rapt attention, cheering and spurring Javid on to greater calisthenics of oratory. “This is why we must win!” he continued. “And this is why we gladly die!” This last bit was met with more cheering, and if Javid noticed that it died off a bit prematurely as the words sunk in to his audience, he didn’t let it derail him.
He paced back and forth, collecting his thoughts before speaking again. “We must plan carefully to take revenge upon this American. His death must be bloody. It must be painful. But most of all, it must make headlines! Though we may not redeem our brother, Mahboob, we may certainly avenge him.”
Abdel brightened. “Ah, Javid! That vengeance has been handed to us already by the grace of Allah!”
“How do you mean?” Javid asked, puzzled and perturbed at the interruption of his great planning.
“The American spoke with a woman,” said Abdel. “Immediately after Mahboob’s death, he flirted with her and made arrangements for dinner at her hotel!”
“I see,” Javid said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “But how does this help our vengeance? Should we go there and capture him? Yes, this would be a good plan. We could videotape his torture and broadcast it to the Americans, to show them how weak they are against the men of ya Homaar!”
Abdel was confused. “But Javid, there is no need. The hotel, it is La Haule Manor, the very hotel where one of our brothers…” He looked about the room, his lips moving silently as he counted. “Javid, who is the martyr who is now on his way to La Haule Manor to destroy that decadent palace of capitalism while the authorities are distracted with the devastation at the Valeton?”
Javid waved a hand dismissively. “I have changed the plan,” he said. “We can find a much better, more impacting target than some opulent temporary dwelling for the idle rich. We should use our power against those who would oppose us, those who should be removed from the face of the Earth, like the Americans and the Jews.”
Abdel then noticed the backpack, the one holding the bomb, the bomb that was supposed to be well on its way to La Haule Manor. “But Javid,” Abdel spoke urgently. “The Americans, the ones who gave us the bombs, they were very insistent that the bomb be in place for detonation at a specific time. Very insistent!”
Javid spat on the floor. “Is this what you have come to, Abdel, that you subjugate yourself to the childish demands and tantrums of American infidels, and women?”
Abdel looked duly chastened. “I understand, Javid,” he said meekly. “I only meant that if we displease our infidel benefactors, they may not provide us with more of their arsenal in the future.”
Javid smiled. “In the future, Abdel, we…”
Whatever Javid’s plans for the future may have been were interrupted by the onrush of white flames that filled the room so rapidly that their sudden presence blew out both painted-over windows and splintered the door. The men inside were incinerated, then tenderized by the impact of the roof falling in on them. Of course, by that time they were quite dead, and possibly surprised to see Mahboob.
· · ·
“It’s not 6 o’clock yet.”
Avital walked briskly up to Remo, who was standing near the police tape that cordoned off the blast area.
“What’s a dinner date without a few appetizers?” Remo quipped, taking in the vision of her approach. She had only changed her skirt for a much shorter one than the one she wore earlier, but it was like he was seeing her again for the first time. He couldn’t wait to see her again for the first time later that evening.
“Destruction whets your appetite?” she said, looking out over the smoking rubble. “How far did you throw this one?”
Remo raised his hands. “It wasn’t me this time, I swear! I was just out taking a walk when I heard the boom.”
“A likely story,” Avital grinned. “And where’s your friend?”
Remo’s face darkened just a little at the mention of Chiun. “He was…a bit shook up by the events of the day, so I stepped out to let him get some rest.” In fact, Remo had stepped out to call Smitty about his concerns with Chiun’s health when he did, actually, hear the boom of the explosion and ran the several blocks toward the sound to investigate if he had missed some backup attempt by ya Homaar to take out the diplomats. But the neighborhood Remo found himself entering cleared up any concerns about that, unless diplomats had seriously lowered their standards. “What brings you here?”
She flashed a brilliant smile. “Reporter, remember? Like you, right?” Her brilliant smile collapsed into a smirk. “Explosions sell stories. Explosions are…sexy.”
“Boom,” Remo said softly, facing her and stepping in close. He looked deep into her brown eyes for an eternity of seconds, and could feel her getting just as lost. If it wasn’t for all the rescue workers, police officers, smoke, debris, and lack of anything resembling a mattress, he was ready to mambo. Maybe she was right about him. Maybe destruction always awoke some kind of appetite in him. But then, what was her excuse for feeling the same way? Explosions are definitely sexy, he thought, as he noticed her nipples press against the fabric of her dress. “So what do you think happened?” he asked, forcing himself back to reality. “Ruptured gas line? Meth lab gone bad?”
Avital blinked and shook her head. “Another bomb blast,” she said.
“Pretty shitty target to take out,” Remo said. “If anything, they improved the neighborhood.”
“It’s nothing like that,” she said. “At least, I don’t believe it is. I had some…reliable informants. They were convinced that ya Homaar operated a cell out of this area.”
“Those jackasses, again,” Remo said. “Maybe they blew up their hideout on purpose to cover their tracks, but based on my encounter with McBoob, they just don’t seem to know what they’re doing with their bombs.”
“They didn’t have such capabilities until recently,” Avital said, more to herself than to Remo. “All they used to do was make internet recruitment videos and beg for money.”
“Either they recruited somebody smart, or they found an outside benefactor,” Remo offered.
“What do you think they’re getting—the money for bombs, or the bombs themselves?” Avital asked. They watched as a rescue team went through the motions of kicking through the rubble, acutely aware that there wouldn’t even be recognizable body parts to salvage from the blast, let alone a survivor. “I’d love to get my hands on one of those bombs,” she added.
“Have someone you want taken out that badly, do you?” Remo asked.
Avital smiled wistfully. “Well, there was this editor, once,” she teased. “But no, I’d like to poke around inside, see what makes them tick.”
“What the hell kind of journalism school did you go to that included classes in Bomb Appreciation?” Remo asked.
“My father was IDF,” she said. “Yahalom,” she added, as though that should explain everything. When she saw from Remo’s blank expression that it did not, she continued. “Special operations, you would call it. He specialized in explosive ordnance disposal.”
“And he taught his little girl all his tricks, I suppose.”
Avital shrugged. “When he wasn’t teaching me how to shoot the balls off an attacker at eighty yards.”
“Ouch.”
“I’m kidding,” she said. “I read a lot. He had manuals.”
“You know, most teenage girls I know go in for stories about vampires with glittery makeup, not military textbooks about which bomb wire to cut.”
“I was never your typical teenage girl,” she winked.
Remo gave her a lopsided grin. “I can imagine,” he said. “So you actually understood all that stuff and remembered it?”
“You should see the things I learned from the Kama Sutra.”
“Is it 6 o’clock yet?”
“Close enough.”
“Give me five minutes, I need to make a quick phone call.”
“So do I,” she said. She slipped him a card. “My spare room key,” she said. “Meet me there. Don’t start without me.”
“I think I already have.”
· · ·
As Avital walked away, Remo found a less-destroyed alcove and began punching numbers into the latest phone Smitty had given him. After a few minutes and a string of numbers rivalling pi, he smacked the side of it. “Why does it have to be so damned hard to dial Smitty?”
“Dialing: Smitty,” an electronic voice within the phone said cheerily.
Remo looked at the screen of the phone, bemused. “Might’ve been useful if he’d told me it did that before,” he said.
Smith’s acrid voice came through the speaker as clearly as if he were there. “This isn’t an authorized time.”
“Yeah, I know, because the bad guys who’ve managed to crack your communications security don’t go to lunch for another three hours, right?”
“What do you want, Remo?”
Remo hesitated, a sure indication to Smith that he wasn’t going to like the news he was about to hear. “It’s Chiun,” Remo said. “I think he’s sick.” Remo could picture Smitty giving this fact its due reverence as the phone stayed silent. “He’s just sits there watching the recordings of his soap operas.”
“That sounds like any given day to me.”
“It’s more than just that,” Remo said. “Something’s affecting him. I think it’s affecting me too, just not as badly. Maybe it’s because he’s more experienced or older or whatever.” Remo struggled to explain how Chiun had fallen during the recent tremors, and what the Master of Sinanju had said right after about the pains of the Earth.
“Smitty, are we sure Silas Forben is dead, or do I owe you a refund?” Remo asked.
Smith coughed. Silas Forben had been an elderly scientist Remo encountered early in his career with CURE. Utilizing a unique invention he called a ‘water laser,’ he was able to activate fault lines—specifically the San Andreas Fault—and had attempted to use this capability to blackmail the U.S. Government. In the end Remo had killed him and pushed his assistants—his own daughters—into an open fissure which quickly closed over them. “The man known as Doctor Quake is very dead,” Smith replied. “If you left any spark of life in him, I can guarantee the autopsy extinguished it.”
“Anyone get their hands on his machines, or the blueprints?”
“Not likely,” Smith said. “All the research was secured and the laboratory was swept clean.”
“Well, it was worth a shot,” Remo said. “Any news on these bad boys I’m trailing? Although, honestly Smitty, you’re paying me for pretty much nothing. These guys are killing themselves without any help from me. I’m almost insulted.”
“I’m working on that,” Smith said. “I should know more soon. Meanwhile…” He paused, searching for the right words. “I’m sure Chiun will be fine. Probably just something in the water.”
Remo rolled his eyes. “I’ll relay your best wishes and condolences, Smitty.”
· · ·
When Avital turned a corner and was sure she was out of Remo’s earshot, she took out her cellphone and entered the secure number to Ephraim.
“You can strike one operations center for ya Homaar,” she said as soon as Ephraim picked up.
She could almost see Ephraim’s befuddled expression as he tried to assimilate the terse message before he replied. “Explain yourself.”
“The cell where I’d been meeting with Javid has been obliterated,” she said. “Even the dust was shattered. And you won’t guess who was on site when I arrived at the rubble.”
“Do you think your Mr. Robespierre had something to do with it?”
Avital tried to think of alternatives. “Either he took it out, or he was coincidentally nearby when someone else did. And you know how I feel about coincidences,” she said. “Of course, he claimed the latter.”
“So you have not come into possession of one of the devices as yet.”
She sighed. “It’s frustrating,” she said. “On the one hand, our American agent is doing a damned fine job killing the enemy. But he’s also blocking my efforts at finding a long term solution.”
Avital could hear Ephraim’s fingers tapping on the counter, a nervous habit he had when he was considering distasteful alternatives, which seemed to be all the time. “We should try to disable him, “ he said. “Slow him down so you can get access to a device before he destroys the place.”
She smiled, and the heat of it made Ephraim’s cheek flush even over the phone.
“Exactly what I had in mind,” she purred.