At 1355, to my surprise, Abu Nadel arrived. He came quickly up the street with four bodyguards, all dressed in local fashion, sandals and Kalashnikovs. Two hustled inside without hesitating. The other two remained outside, standing casually, holding their AK-47s. It was a sorry display.
“I have a bead on the front door,” Boon said, aiming through his Dragunov sniper rifle. “These two . . . they won’t know what hit them.”
I waited, watching the entrance. No one else came. At 1405, I made my way down to the street. There was no need to give Boon and Wildman instructions; they were used to covering me during arms negotiations and strategy talks. My headset was in clear view, letting Abu Nadel know I was in contact with my team. If he tried to take the headset, I wouldn’t let him. Boon and Wildman needed to hear the conversation. Long ago we had worked out code words that I would slip into the conversation: naturally meant “yes”; okay meant “no”; perhaps meant “everything is fine”; interesting meant “I need help.”
“Good luck,” Wildman said over the headset, as I did a functions check on my SCAR. I made sure my holsters were loose, for a quick draw. Walking into a blind meeting with armed men in a small space with no backup was foolish, but our options were limited. I could have taken Boon or Wildman with me, but being ambushed outside was a bigger threat. For all we knew, Abu Nadel, or whatever his name was, had sold us out to ISIS.
“You sure he’s worth it?” Boon asked over my earpiece.
“It’s okay,” I responded, meaning no. It was a question that had been on my mind, too. “But what’s life without risks?”
I walked across the street and entered the building. Two guards were inside the door, where passersby wouldn’t notice them. They walked me to the second floor, one ahead and the other behind, weapons drawn. Abu Nadel was waiting cross-legged on the floor with guards standing on either side of him. They were wearing black robes and turbans that covered their faces, like ISIS, and holding AK-47s.
I hesitated, an involuntary tell. Where had the additional men come from? There was no other door. They must have been here all along. But why hadn’t Wildman seen them when he was setting the explosives?
Abu smiled, then motioned me forward. A rifle in the back convinced me it was a good idea.
“It is a good thing to be underestimated,” he said in English. He was right, but the line was rehearsed. It was meant to show his confidence, but unfortunately for him, everything else gave him away. The nervous energy in the room. The way the guards kept glancing at each other, instead of watching me. Terrorists thrived on overconfidence; it was the best way to bend sacrificial lambs to a twisted worldview. Abu Nadel couldn’t pull it off. He was sweating like a horse. The room was hot, but not that hot. The man was out of his depth. I didn’t know yet if that was a good or a dangerous thing.
“You surprised me this morning,” he said, when I had settled across from him with my legs crossed. It was the local custom, and it provided access to my boot knife. Sometimes you bowed in wonder to the god of small things. Sometimes you planned them.
“Yes,” I said. “Now you know who you are dealing with.”
“A small team,” he replied. “Two Humvees, seven men. Good for stealth and speed, but lacking firepower. I know you have explosives on the roof and a sniper on the door. They are listening now. But you cannot kill your way out of this situation. You have no hope of leaving this city without my permission.”
Impressive. He must have had eyes everywhere. Wildman hummed Darth Vader’s Imperial Death March over the headset. Not helping.
“Perhaps,” I said, signaling to Boon and Wildman that everything was okay. “But you are fearful.”
He didn’t deny it. “And yet we both came. Why?”
I shrugged. “Because we each have something the other wants.”
Abu Nadel flicked his right index finger. A woman appeared in the doorway carrying a tea tray. She was covered in a head-to-toe burka with only a narrow slit for the eyes, the type favored by ultrareligious Muslims so that no visible skin would tempt men to corruption. A second woman, dressed the same way but quite overweight, followed with two platters of sweets. A man followed in black ISIS robes, no doubt the guard that pressed these locals into service.
So many people, and they hadn’t entered from the outside. Boon and Wildman would have seen them and alerted me through the earpiece.
“Decadent,” I said, as the first woman poured the tea, arcing it high into each glass, then pouring each glass back into the kettle. She repeated this cycle several times with mesmerizing skill. The cookies were fancy and fresh, made in a bakery. People were starving on the streets yet here were confections of indulgence. Abu Nadel was messaging me: This was his turf. Sinjar was in a desperate situation, he was not.
“I have heard of your reputation. They call you Zill Almaharib, but we both know you are just a paid assassin. That you can be hired to do almost anything.”
When I was at Apollo Outcomes, I would have barely registered the insult, but now the truth hurt. Was I still that man?
“Are you okay?” Boon whispered, inaudible to those in the room. He sensed my hesitancy.
“Naturally I stand by my reputation,” I said to Nadel. Yes, I’m fine.
“I have heard you kill the servants of the Caliphate.”
No use lying. “When I have to. I don’t believe in unnecessary violence.”
One of the guards shifted uneasily. Did he understand our conversation, or was he reacting to Abu Nadel’s surprise? “But you are an assassin.”
“Assassin, soldier, terrorist . . . humanitarian. They are different names for the same thing, depending on your point of view.”
Abu Nadel licked his lips. He was nervous. “You would have me believe that you fight for a better world?”
I wasn’t sure, but I gave him what he wanted. “Yes.”
“You are lying. You are a soldier for hire.”
“I choose my own jobs and my own causes.”
“Then why are you looking for the prince?”
I hesitated. There was only one answer: He was my ticket out. I wanted a new life, and that required money.
Abu Nadel must have read it on my face. “How much are you being paid?”
“One million dollars on delivery.”
“Alive or dead?”
“Alive. Do you think a father would pay a million dollars for his son’s corpse?”
“Yes,” Abu Nadel said.
I let the comment slide. There were too many possible motivations for such a statement. “Do you know where the prince is?”
Silence.
“Where is your master?”
“I am asking the questions,” Nadel said harshly.
I laughed. Harshness wasn’t his natural disposition. It was a robe he put on to survive in ISIS territory, or a habit he learned from his fellow holy warriors. The rough fit only made him more dangerous. He could shoot me in the face out of weakness, just to prove he was strong. One of the guards stiffened at my laughter, finger on trigger. I needed to cool the situation’s temperature.
“Fine,” I said, picking up my tea. I had no intention of drinking it until I saw Abu Nadel take a good sip. “But you don’t have to be so serious. I am trying to help him, not kill him. Assassins don’t negotiate.”
Nadel took his tea without looking at the server. It was as if the woman wasn’t even there. “You don’t think ours is a worthy cause?”
“No,” I said flatly.
“Uh, Locke.” Boon’s voice in my ear. “Don’t pick a fight.”
“You don’t think this town is worth anything?”
“It’s worth a great deal,” I said, “to the people who live here. But Farhan doesn’t live here.”
“This is our home. These are our people. We take care of them.”
“Saudi Arabia is your home,” I said. Abu Nadel, or whatever his real name, blinked but said nothing. I didn’t need him to confirm that, like the young man in Mosul, he had come to Iraq from the Gulf States. It was obvious.
“The world is our home,” he said slowly. “All people need saving.”
“This thing with ISIS or Daesh or the Caliphate or whatever you call yourselves . . . it’s not going to end well for you. A better world built on blood? Conversion by the sword? Piety through crucifixion? Surely you see the folly of your crusade.”
He slammed his fist down, catching the edge of the cookie platter and sending a squadron of sweets through the air. The trigger-happy guard shouted, lunging for me. Before I could dodge, he jammed his AK-47 barrel into the side of my head, tilting me over. Reflexively, my hand pulled my Beretta and shoved it up to his balls, thumb cocking the weapon’s hammer. The other guard shouted at him in Arabic, telling him to stand down.
Abu Nadel held up his hand for silence. The gunman and I froze: his AK-47 barrel against my temple and my Beretta in his crotch. Tea poured out of the overturned glass, a dark stain on the carpet, spreading toward me. The gunman spit on my face but backed off, his rifle still trained on my head. I lowered my Beretta and sat upright, wiping the saliva off my cheek.
“You okay?” It was Boon over my earpiece.
“Give us the word and we’ll send those buggers straight to Allah,” Wildman said. I knew his finger was on the detonator trigger. I closed my eyes and considered my next words carefully, since they might be my last.
“Perhaps,” I began (I’m fine. I’m in control.), “you could tell the prince I come in peace, but that I need to see him at once. His life is in danger. Other men will come who are less . . . deferential.”
“I will pass along the message.”
“No,” I said, reaching for a cookie in a show of exaggerated calm, “you will tell him now, since he is here.”