The Hand of War

by Blake Banner

Hassan said, “I have a question, Abdul.”

  “Yes, my brother?”

  “I realize that there will be some very important delegates there…”

  “Some very important men and women, representing the major governments of the western world, Hassan.”

  “But the death toll will be only in the hundreds…”

  Abdul laughed. “Spoken like a true warrior! No, Hassan, the death toll will be in the hundreds of thousands, possibly millions. It is impossible to calculate.” There was a rustle and a metal clank. “This sealed canister, my brothers, contains enough SF2 to wipe out several million people.”

  An awed silence, and then, “SF2?”

  “The key parts of a lethal strain of influenza that in 1918 killed more than twenty million people. It has been genetically modified to make it highly resistant to known antibiotics. The blast will kill a few hundred people, maybe, Hassan, but everybody who leaves that building will be carrying this virus. And nobody will know.”

  “Allah is merciful!”

  “Allah is great!”

  “Allahu Akbar!”

  I stared at the screen, not hearing anymore what they were saying. I was looking at the time stamp for when it was recorded. Five thirty. Two and a half hours ago. I grabbed my jacket and walked to the door. Now at least I knew what I had to do. I had to do what I was good at.

  Killing.

  Eight

  I left my car at the corner of Rhinelander Avenue and Unionport Road in a pool of depressing lamp light, and walked around the corner onto Amethyst Street. I had my Sig, my Fairbairn & Sykes, and my night vision goggles. I figured it was better to be over-equipped. The echo of my feet on the blacktop and the sidewalk had a flat, dead sound. The road was a dark tunnel, with hazy patches of amber that filtered through foliage and reflected in liquid pools off the cars. Houses and cars with dead, black eyes.

  There was no Ferrari today. I was pretty certain he didn’t live here, with the cell. He would have an apartment in Manhattan. Maybe he was a guest of the prince. I looked up at the windows of the house. They were all dark. The boys were either out or asleep. Either one suited me.

  I stepped to the door and slipped in the pick. The lock gave. I remembered from my first visit that the hinges did not squeak. I moved in and gently closed the door behind me. The house was dark and silent. I closed my eyes and remained motionless, listening. Nothing. I pulled on the goggles, turning the world into a weird, green and black nightmare. I pulled the Sig. I had cocked it in the car. Four long steps took me to the kitchen door. I knew it would be empty and it was, but it pays to be double sure.

  I moved up the stairs. There were two bedrooms here. Both doors were closed. I took one long step to the nearest and gripped the handle. Quick is quiet, slow makes a noise. I pulled gently toward me and yanked down. The spring squeaked slightly. I pushed the door open with my gun leveled toward where I knew the bed was.

  The sheets were a translucent green and his face was slightly luminous. His mouth was open but his eyes were closed. He was snoring softly. It looked like Ali, the kid from Pakistan. Nineteen years old and secure in the belief that all God wanted from him was that he kill people who did not believe his name was Allah. I moved in, closed the door behind me, holstered my Sig and drew the Fairbairn & Sykes. Another step took me to his bedside. I looked down at his unthinking, unquestioning face. One thing the world didn’t need was more stupid people. I pressed my left hand hard on his forehead and simultaneously shoved the long, razor sharp blade through his trachea and out the back of his neck, severing his spinal cord on the way.

  His eyes snapped open and stared at me while his body jerked and quivered for a second. Air hissed and bubbled out of the wound and he was gone. I gave the blood flow a second to settle and then withdrew the knife, wiped the blood on the luminous green sheet, and sheathed it.

  I opened the door with the Sig in my hand and stood listening. The house was still quiet. I took hold of the handle of the next door, pulled and yanked down as before. Nothing. I pushed it open. This was the British guy, Hassan Barr. He had his back to me. That would make the kill a little more awkward, but easy enough. I took a long silent step and clapped my left hand over his eyes and his forehead. I had the option of slipping the blade through his jugular, the carotid artery and then his trachea. If done effectively, it causes an almost instant, silent death. But it is best done standing. In this position, with him horizontal and roughly at the height of my knees, it could go wrong, and the last thing I needed was a scream and a fight, with Aatifa still alive.

  Instead, I opted to ram the point of the knife hard into the vertebrae at the base of his skull, severing his brain from his body. Even if death was not instant, whatever his brain told his body to do in those last few seconds, it wouldn’t do them, including scream.

  His body jerked and quivered, his breath hissed out of his lungs, and he lay still. The last thing Hassan Barr ever saw was my fingers clasped over his eyes.

  That left Aatifa Ghafoor upstairs. These two had been naïve amateurs, but I figured Aatifa was experienced and battle-hardened. My money was on him and Abassi being old friends from Afghanistan.

  I withdrew my knife, wiped off the blood, and sheathed it. Then I drew the Sig and moved up the stairs through green luminescence and black shadows to the next floor. I didn’t want Aatifa dead. I wanted him talking.

  I didn’t try to be quiet. I kicked open the door, holding the Sig in both hands trained on the bed. I shouted, “OK, Aatifa! On your feet with your hands in the air!” But before I had finished, I’d seen that the bulk under the covers was not a man but a roll of bedding and cushions.

  I swung left to where I knew he would come at me, but it was too late. He had the barrel of the gun in his left hand and was rushing me to slam the heel of his right into my elbow. His face leered at me in a weird, green grin. I let go the Sig with my right and bent my left elbow hard, pulling him to me as I slammed my right fist into his nose. He rolled with the punch and didn’t let go of the gun. Instead, he gripped it with both hands, trying to lever it from my fingers. For a man fighting almost blind, he was doing OK.

  When somebody grips the barrel of your piece and levers, there is only one thing you can do. I released the magazine, pulled the trigger to empty the chamber, let go, and landed three punches on the side of his head with my right fist while gripping his collar with my left; but most of the power was wasted on his hunched shoulder. Then he struck at my floating ribs with the butt of the gun. It hurt and I stepped back.

  It was all he needed. He slammed on the light and lunged for the magazine on the floor. I ripped off the goggles and kicked at his head. I caught him a glancing blow, but the guy was tough. He took it, gripped my ankle, and twisted. I let myself fall, expecting him to jump me and try to pin me down. Then there would probably be a knife. It was going to get ugly.

  Instead, he made a mistake. He reached again for the magazine and with scrabbling fingers, tried to ram it into the butt of the Sig. As his fingers worked feverishly, he watched me with bulging eyes and a swollen, corded neck as I rose to a squatting position, pulling the knife from my boot, and rammed it into his elbow joint. He screamed and dropped the weapon and the magazine. I left the blade in and slammed my fist into his jaw. His eyes rolled and he fell quivering to the floor as though he was in an epileptic fit.

  I picked up my gun, rammed the magazine back in, and holstered it. Then I pulled the knife from his elbow, wiped off the blood, and sheathed the blade. In the wardrobe I found several wire coat hangers. I took four down and opened them up. After that, I went down the passage to the can and filled a tooth mug with water. I brought it back and threw it in his face. He spluttered, grunted, and opened his eyes to look at me. He said something in Ugly and then the pain in his elbow kicked in and he started moaning.

  I showed him the business end of the Sig and said, “Stand up.”

  He struggled to his feet. He was shaking badly, and if he hadn’t been a man
planning to kill an entire city, I might have felt sorry for him. Instead, I waved the gun at the stairs and said, “The living room, get moving.”

  He shrugged and made a face like stupid. I pistol-whipped him and as he staggered back I stepped to the door and took the bug from the top of the frame. I showed it to him. “Lying to me is not a good idea, Aatifa. And every time you do it, it will become a worse idea. Get downstairs or I’ll blow your kneecaps off right here. Go.”

  He swallowed and nodded, then made his way down the stairs. I followed with the coat hangers. When we were down, I said, “Grab a chair, sit.”

  He pulled out a chair and sat. I stood behind him. He’d gone very pasty and he was shaking badly. “Put your right hand behind the chair.”

  He did and I looped one of the hangers tightly around his wrist, then twisted the other end around the top of the leg. I did the same with his other wrist and with his ankles. Plastic zip-ties and duct tape are OK, but if you know the tricks you can bust them. Wire coat hangers—there is no way out.

  By the time I pulled a chair out and sat in front of him, he looked very scared. I set my cell phone to record, put it on the table, and stared into his eyes for a long time, then I said, “Aatifa, I am going to go to the kitchen now and get the big kitchen knife.”

  I left it at that and went into the kitchen. I took my time and selected the big cleaver from the block, then I brought it back and put it on the table. I sat down again.

  “Aatifa Ghafoor, you need to understand that Ali Kamboh and Hassan Barr are both dead upstairs.” I pulled the Fairbairn & Sykes from my boot and showed it to him. “I killed them with this, while they slept. I am a professional.” I put the knife back and picked up the cleaver. He was shaking badly by now. “I am going to cut off your fingers, one by one.”

  I stood.

  “Wait!”

  “You have something to say to me?”

  “What do you want?”

  “You know what I want.”

  “Information! You want information! I give you information! I tell you!”

  I sat. “I know about your plan to release SF2 into the United Nations Assembly Hall on Friday. I know your cell commander is Abdul Abbassi. What else can you tell me?”

  “Anything, anything you want know.”

  “Where are the components for the bomb? Where is the canister of SF2?”

  His mouth started trembling and tears started running down his face. He tilted his head on one side. “Please, Abbassi have it. He does not live here. He will bring, on Thursday.”

  “Where does he live?”

  He shook his head. “Please, I don’t know.”

  I didn’t hesitate. I took the cleaver, stepped behind him, and cut through the joint of his right thumb. The scream was horrific. I didn’t like doing it, but while he screamed and sobbed I replayed in my mind the women and children that Abdul Abbassi had tortured and executed in Helmand, because he suspected one of them had helped me. When I was done thinking of that, I thought of the eight million people that this bastard was willing to murder, women, children, and babies, because they didn’t believe the right things in the right way.

  I went and sat in front of him again. “Where?”

  He shook his head, sobbing, “He don’t tell us. It is protocol. He does not tell us. Please….”

  “How often does he communicate with you?”

  “Fridays.”

  “By phone?”

  “Only in emergency. He come in person.”

  “You have his cell number?”

  He nodded. “But never call, only in emergency.”

  I stood and pulled my weapon. “Make peace with your god, Aatifa.”

  His face crumpled and he began to sob.

  “This is the path you chose. Next time choose a better path.”

  I put a round through his forehead and it was all over for him. I holstered my gun and went up the stairs to his room. I collected my goggles from the floor and found his jacket hanging on the back of a chair. I fished around in the pockets till I found his cell phone. There was only one number in his address book, Chief. I figured that had to be Abbassi.

  I had the son of a bitch.

  I went downstairs, opened the front door, and stepped into the night. The houses and the cars all looked at me through the yellow haze of the streetlamps with gaping black eyes. I ignored them and started up the road in the direction of Rhinelander Avenue, where I’d left my car.

  A movement across the road made me look. Two men in trench coats climbed out of a Dodge Charger. The doors slammed like two gunshots and they walked across the road toward me.

  “Hold up there a minute, Mr. Walker.”

  I slowed but kept walking. “Agents Mclean and Jones. What are you doing out this late?”

  “Just stop walking, would you?”

  I kept walking. “Any reason why I should?”

  Jones stepped in front of me and Mclean snarled, “Yeah. I want to ask you some questions.”

  I stopped and looked deep into Jones’ eyes. Then I turned to look at Mclean. “Really? Aren’t you afraid my replies will be some elaborate James Bond fantasy?”

  “Yeah, maybe, but I’m curious anyway.”

  “I’m sorry, boys, I don’t have time to talk to you tonight. Phone Miss Moneypenny at MI6 and make an appointment.”

  “Cute. What were you doing in that house?”

  “Your job.”

  Jones scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I leaned toward him and stared into his face. “It means I was in that house doing your job, Special Agent Jones. Now please step aside.”

  Mclean hitched back his coat to reveal the butt of an automatic. “Take it easy there, Walker. Don’t do anything you’re liable to regret. Now I’m going to ask you again, what were you doing in that house?”

  I sighed. “If I tell you, can I go on my way?”

  Now Mclean frowned, like I’d asked a stupid question. “Well, that depends on what you were doing in there.”

  I looked him straight in the eye with no expression at all and spoke in a dead voice. “I killed two young terrorists, Ali Kamboh and Hassan Barr, by stabbing them in the neck while they slept. I pulled a third, an Afghan by the name of Aatifa Ghafoor, from his bed, tortured him to find out where the bomb was, and then shot him in the head.”

  They both struggled for a moment to make sense of whether I was telling the truth or being a wiseass. Then Mclean said, “Jesus…!”

  “Agent Mclean, have you ever heard of SF2?”

  “What?”

  “After this, look it up.”

  “After what?”

  Bruce Lee said the abdomen and the hips were the most important parts of the body when you were fighting. He was right. If you use your abdominals and your hips to drive a punch, instead of your arms, you can multiply the speed by a factor of three or four. I smacked Jones on the tip of his chin and while Mclean was still wondering what the hell was happening to his partner I rammed my elbow into the side of his jaw. The whole thing took maybe a second. Jones sank down where he stood and Mclean fell back against a battered old Ford pickup. I felt bad, they were just doing their job. But I had no time to waste on them, or on getting arrested. I needed to get to Abbassi, and I needed to get to him fast.

  I fished in Mclean’s breast pocket and pulled out his wallet. I found a business card and kept it. I’d be sending him an email that night. I put his wallet back and jogged the rest of the way to my car.

  As I pulled away and headed south, I barked at my phone, “Gantrie!”

  Gantrie was a contact my father had given me before he died. He was an IT genius and had never yet let me down. His cell rang twice and a voice that could only belong to a nerd said, “Lacklan. Long time. What’s happening?”

  “Listen very carefully, Gantrie, all your craziest conspiracy theories and nightmares just came true. I haven’t got time to explain, but I need you to locate a phone for me, and I need you to do it
now.”

  He was quiet for a second or two. When he spoke you could hear the smile in his voice. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, Gantrie, I’m serious!”

  “Disclosure? Aliens…?”

  “No, Gantrie! Not aliens! Just locate this number for me, will you?”

  I gave him the number and he sighed. “I assume it has GPS.”

  “I’m pretty sure it has.”

  “You realize there are websites where you can do this yourself?”

  “Cool. Just do it, will you!”

  “OK, I’m on it. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have it.”

  I hung up and then called Ben.

  “Yes.”

  “I need to see you now.”

  “I’ll send a car for you. Where are you?”

  “I’ll be at my apartment in an hour and a half.”

  “Is everything OK? Anything I need to know?”

  “No, everything is not OK. But I’ll tell you when I see you.”

  I got back to my apartment within half an hour. I immediately sat at the computer and set about editing an audio file which included all the information about the bomb and Aatifa’s statement that Abdul Abbassi had the device and the canister. I attached the file to an email, along with the earlier file where Abbassi explained the plan to them, and sent it to Mclean.

  My phone rang. It was Gantrie.

  “Dude…”

  “What?”

  “I was having trouble finding him, then I realized he was at a location where I was being jammed. I narrowed it down and I can place him within an area of about two hundred and fifty feet square.”

  “Good. Where?”

  “Dude, you were not kidding. That area is occupied by the palace of Prince Mohamed bin Awad. And they are jamming my GPS locating software.”

  “Good work. Keep tracking him, Gantrie. Stay on him until I get back to you.”

  I hung up, closed down the computer, and the doorbell rang. I went and opened it. It was Ben.

  Nine

  We stood staring at each other for a moment. I was debating whether to drag him to the terrace and throw him over. I decided not to—not yet—and stepped aside.