The Hand of War

by Blake Banner

  “You going to be tough, Abbassi?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You know what happened to Aatifa, don’t you?” His skin went pasty. I went on. “He talked. He was very cooperative, but I needed him to know that I was not bluffing. Do I need to prove that to you?”

  He shook his head. I sighed, as though I was losing patience.

  “Let’s get some ground rules clear, Abbassi. When I ask you a question, you give me clear, succinct answers. I have no time for ambiguities or body language. Don’t nod or shake your head at me. Talk to me. Do you understand?”

  He swallowed hard. “Yes. I want to cooperate with you.”

  “What is contained in the canister that will be ruptured by the bomb at the UN?”

  “SF2, it is a genetically modified virus…”

  “I know what SF2 is. I also know that it is a theoretical biological agent. It has never been manufactured.”

  He nodded. “That was true until recently, but Professor Benjamin Wilde, at the Biochem Labs in Virginia, he produced a sample for us…”

  I interrupted him. “Benjamin Wilde?”

  “Yes…”

  “Is he here now, in New York?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he at the Hennessy debate?”

  “Yes, it was former President Dick Hennessy who introduced Professor Wilde to the Prince, knowing that they could do business. The Professor was looking for a buyer. They came to Prince Awad’s house after, to discuss the disturbance…”

  Ben.

  Ben had sold the canister to Awad, to plant at the conference. I stood and went to the window and leaned against the frame, looking down at the filthy yard with its trash cans and limp, dingy washing hanging out to dry in the night. I said, “Why?” He didn’t answer and I turned to face him. “Why?”

  His bottom lip was quivering and he had tears streaming down his cheeks. He reminded me of a woman I had seen once, kneeling at his feet, weeping just that same way. I figured, absently, that that made me like him. I reached down and pulled my knife from my boot.

  “Why, Abbassi?”

  Fifteen

  Maybe the question triggered some deep conditioning inside him, because a fearful, resentful anger twisted his face and he thrust his chin out at me. “You fucking Americans! You think you own the world! You and fucking Israel, marching everywhere with your tanks and your missiles, murdering Arab women and children! Killing in Palestine, killing in Syria, in Iraq! Stealing our oil and our land!”

  I rested my ass on the windowsill, waiting. I could see the hysteria building in him, like the rage of a cornered rat. His voice rose to an ugly whine. “You fucking imperialists! You make war on us because you care only about our oil! You are shaytan! You ally with the Israeli, Jewish pigs to rape our country and steal from us! But Allah is merciful! Allah is great! He will guide our hand in war and we will kill you all! All of you will die!”

  He rasped in his throat and spat at me. It was ineffectual and sprayed over the filthy bed. He went on.

  “You can kill me! You can torture me! Like you torture our brothers in Guantanamo! But you cannot torture Allah! You cannot kill Allah!”

  His voice trailed off. His eyes were wide with terror. I sucked on my cigarette again and as I let out the smoke I said, “Murdering Arab women and children…”

  “Every day in Syria, in Afghanistan!”

  “Like Sayad, last year, where you teamed up with ISIS and wiped out an entire village, murdering fifty women and children. Arab women and children.”

  He screamed, “They were collaborators! They will burn for eternity in hell! You cannot do this to me! It is against the Geneva convention!”

  “Really? They will burn in hell for eternity? Even the kids? Like the thirty kids and the thirty-seven women you murdered because you thought one of them had given me water? And they were all innocent of the crime you accused them of.”

  He screamed again, hysterical with terror, “They were collaborators! They were infidels! God has said: The unbelievers among the People of the Book and the pagans shall burn for ever in the fire of Hell, for they are the vilest of creatures! God has said, in Repentance 9:73, ‘Prophet! Make war on the unbelievers and the hypocrites and deal rigorously with them. Hell shall be their home!’”

  I said quietly, “And you are the instrument of God’s wrath and punishment, right?”

  He stared at me a moment before answering.

  “We are all the instruments of God. Allah is merciful. But only some see it. You who are blind will burn for eternity! It is written. And the angels shall laugh at your suffering, and mock you.”

  “And that gives you the right to massacre women and children.”

  “To fight the kafir is the greatest thing that a Muslim can do, and he will live in the grace of Allah for it! Nothing is so hateful in the sight of Allah as a kafir! Allah has spoken through Mohamed, ‘When the sacred months are over, slay the idolaters wherever you find them!’”

  “And that is why you are placing this bomb at the UN.”

  He spat at me again. “And because Islam is uprising. We are sick of your exploitation, of your imperialism, of your looting and raping of our countries!”

  “And I guess Prince Awad feels that way too, huh?” He didn’t answer. He just stared at me. I went on. “Prince Awad, who stands at around number forty in the Forbes list of the world’s richest men.”

  “Allah is merciful! Allah has guided his hand!”

  “You’re full of shit, Abbassi. You know who owns Arabian oil? You know it as well as I do. Arpetco, the Arabian Petroleum Company. It’s state owned, which means it’s owned by the Awad family, because they are the state. If anybody is raping and pillaging the wealth of your country, it’s them. Now cut the bullshit and answer my question. What does Awad gain by bombing the conference?” He drew breath, I could see he still had that crazed look in his eye so I cut him short. “One more crazy bullshit answer and I will take your thumb off. Give me a straight answer that does not involve Allah or the great shaytan.”

  He swallowed.

  “The climate is changing. There are droughts coming and crops will soon start to fail. When the crops fail, there will not be enough food for everyone. There is very little agriculture in our countries, and the people will starve.” He leaned forward. “There are too many people in the world—too many unbelievers! Africa and Arabia, the Muslim world, will suffer most, because the Jews and the Christians own all the good land! The believers will starve in the streets, and the west will turn its back on us, like always! Steal what is ours and laugh! Let the Muslims die! It is not your problem!”

  “Stay focused, Abbassi.”

  “Professor Benjamin Wilde gave the Prince information, that you fucking Americans are hoarding genetically modified seeds! Seeds that can grow in drought conditions! You can water with salt water! Grow anywhere! Denying these seeds to the Muslims so that we die of hunger and thirst when the sky burns!” He paused, staring at me with rage in his face. “So we bomb your fucking UN! Which is the fucking servant of the U.S.! To make the world wake up to the Muslim problem! We are exploited! Enslaved by the U.S.! But Allah will guide our hand in war and now, when the Earth is burning and people are dying with no food and no water, we will bring suffering to you and we will take what is ours!”

  I shook my head. “You don’t hear yourself, do you?”

  “Eh?”

  “Never mind.” I frowned and scratched my head, trying to make some sense of what he said. “So the bomb is to bring the Muslim plight to the attention of the world?”

  “It is the will of Allah. Allah is merciful!”

  “Yeah, he’s doing a great job.” I stared out the window again, down at the filthy yard. I didn’t think Abbassi had any more idea of why he was bombing the conference than I had. He’d been told Allah wanted him to do it, and that was all he needed to know. He’d been fed reasons he wanted to believe, that fit in with his own, twisted view of
the world, and he didn’t question them. I wondered for a moment if even Prince Awad knew the real reason why he was bombing the conference.

  I turned back to Abbassi. He hadn’t been hurt so far, not badly, he’d given me a lot of mouth and got no comeback, so he was looking defiant.

  “OK, Abbassi, here’s the million dollar question. Give me bullshit and I start taking you apart. Literally.”

  He swallowed and the defiance slipped a little from his face. “What?”

  “Where is it?”

  His lip started quivering again. “I don’t know. Please. I don’t know…”

  “Who does know?”

  His head went on one side and he started sobbing. “I don’t know. Please. I don’t know. I am just…”

  I sighed. “What? Just a warrior of God? A jihadist?”

  “Please, I don’t know. I don’t where it is, please.”

  “Aatifa, Ali, and Hassan were going to deliver it to the conference. Now they are dead. You must have made alternative plans.”

  He was shaking his head. “No, no, I’ll tell you everything I know. I’ll tell you. That was a distraction. They were meant to get caught. It was not the real bomb. I don’t know where the real bomb is. Only one person knows…”

  “That was a feint? They were meant to get caught at the entrance?”

  “Yes! The canister was empty!”

  “So the real bomb?”

  “I am not told. This was not my mission! My mission was to prepare the false bomb!”

  “Jesus Christ! The whole damned thing…!”

  “I did not plan it! I did not plan it!”

  I snarled at him, “Who employed you?”

  “Prince Awad!”

  “How did he choose you?”

  He was sobbing noisily. “I don’t know! I don’t know! Please, be merciful! I have answered your questions! I have told you everything I know! Please! Be merciful!”

  I stared at him. “Should I learn from you, Abbassi? Should I learn from you how to be merciful?”

  He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, like he’d gone into some kind of idiot trance. “Allah! Allah!”

  “Like you were merciful with the women and children at Sayad and Baykhan?”

  “Please!”

  And that was when the door burst in, and Mclean and Jones stood silhouetted, training their guns on me. “Freeze, Walker! Get on your face!”

  I sighed. “Jesus, Mclean! Where were you when they were handing out brains? Did you get the files I sent you?”

  “Get on your face!”

  “No. Just listen to me, will you? This man is involved in a plot to bomb the UN conference in about nine hours…”

  “I don’t want to hear it! For the last time! Get on your face!”

  I raised my hands. “I am unarmed, Mclean. Even you can’t be stupid enough to shoot an unarmed man. Do you know who this guy is?”

  He glanced at Abbassi, who started burbling, “I am Abdul Abbassi! I am attached to the Embassy! I have diplomatic immunity! I am an aide to Prince Mohamed bin Awad! You are required by law to release me!”

  “Do not release him, Mclean! This man is a dangerous terrorist! Do not release him!”

  Mclean jerked his head at Jones, who holstered his .38, moved to Abbassi, and inspected the cuffs. He glanced at Mclean. “They’re standard cuffs.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out his standard keys. I said, “Jones! For crying out loud! This man is a killer!”

  Mclean shouted, “Shut up, Walker! I’ve about had it with you!”

  Abbassi was standing, rubbing his wrists. Jones was kneeling at his feet, unlocking the cuffs on his ankles. I said, “Mclean, for crying out loud…”

  Abbassi bent down, muttering, “Allow me to help…”

  I pointed and shouted, “Jones!”

  But it was too late. Abbassi had his gun in his hand. He turned, smiling, and fired at Mclean. I saw the red hole in his chest and the plume of red gore explode from his back. Then, in a single, fluid movement Abbassi had hammered down with the butt of the gun on Jones’ head, and as the FBI man sagged and sprawled on the floor, Abbassi emptied two rounds into his heart. I was reaching for my Smith & Wesson behind my back, but he was already aiming at me, pulling the trigger. I dropped to the floor, heard two explosions and the glass shatter above me. Then he was grabbing his clothes, running down the corridor. I scrambled to my feet. Jones was dead, but Mclean was gasping.

  I grabbed my cell and called 911. When they answered I said, “Shut up! Two FBI agents down, critical, Bryant Avenue, the Bronx!” Then I hung up.

  Mclean was staring at me, trying to talk. I said, “I warned you. I sent you the damned files.” Then I reached in his jacket and pulled out his badge. I showed it to him. “I’m going to borrow this. I may need it.”

  I went after Abbassi. I ran down the stairs, taking them three at a time. In reception, Joe looked worried and I went over to him and grabbed him by the scruff of his filthy neck. “You have two Feds upstairs, Joe, that you should not have let in. That guy who ran out in his shorts just now? He shot them. You are going to have a lot of trouble now, pal. But that is nothing compared to what you’ll have if you mention me. Look at me. Listen to me. I will come back and I will feed you your own dick. You understand me?”

  He nodded and I left, wondering how they’d found me. I climbed in my car, knowing there was probably an APB out on it. I took off north, up Bryant to Spofford Avenue and turned west as far as Tiffany Street. There I turned left again into the industrial units. They were dim and lonely. It was late and the whores had all gone home, leaving the sad, yellow light of the street lamps to wait for the gray dawn alone.

  I knew I didn’t have long. Pretty soon the whole of Hunts Point would be crawling with cops and Feds. I needed to move fast. I turned right onto Randall Avenue, right again into some dark alley, then sharp left and over Truxton into 156th. There I stopped outside an industrial unit with a parking lot full of trucks. It was sealed off with a steel fence and a padlock. I checked my watch. It was fifteen minutes after three. I had less than nine hours.

  I climbed out and with my Swiss Army knife, I removed my plates. I vaulted the fence, wondering if I had triggered an alarm. I ignored the possibility and set to work removing the plates from a truck at the back of the lot, where it wouldn’t be noticed by cops with flashlights. It took me less than five minutes. Then I clambered back over and fitted the plates to the Zombie.

  As I pulled away, headed north, I could hear the sirens descending on Bryant Avenue. And somewhere above, there was a chopper circling. I kept going, taking random turns for no particular reason, going back on myself, around in circles, but always moving north and always west, until I finally came to the Alexander Hamilton Bridge, pretty sure I wasn’t being tailed. There I crossed over into Washington Heights and finally, I started to head south, toward Midtown.

  At three-forty AM I finally came to West 42nd and turned east in the direction of the United Nations Headquarters. At that time the traffic had a restless, prowling, predatory look. What had F. Scott Fitzgerald called it? The long, dark night of the soul, where it is always three o’clock in the morning. But I was closing in on four o’clock, with eight hours to go. I left my car on the corner of 1st Avenue, lit a cigarette, and took a walk up as far as the Sutton Bar, which I knew was open all night.

  As I walked, the horizon beyond the East River was already touched with the first gray light of pre-dawn. My footsteps were loud on the sidewalk and, far off, an accelerating car and a woman’s shouts made a strange, lonely counterpoint.

  I pushed through the door of the small bar into the desultory laughter and conversation of those people left at the tail end of the night. They sat, a couple of small groups at small tables, leaning in to each other, wanting to take one more laugh, one more drink, maybe one more promise of love before they went back to an empty bed, or at least a bed that felt empty.

  I sat at the bar and ordered a Bushmills straight up from a barman
who looked bored and tired. I tried not to think about Marni, about what she was doing right then, what she would be doing in the last moments if I failed.

  If I failed.

  If I failed at what? I didn’t even know what I was doing there. I didn’t know what my plan was, or even what its precise objective was. The number of questions that needed to be answered was overwhelming. Was it a bomb? If it was, where was it? Was it in the General Assembly Hall? Was it in the parking garage? Was it in the wasteland nearby? Was it biochemical? And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

  I knew that if I considered all the questions at the same time, my mind would seize up. I needed to select one single question and work from there. And the one that was staring at me, the one that was shining bright, was, if the bomb that Abbassi and his team were supposed to plant was a fake, if that was misdirection, then what was the other hand doing? Where was the other device going to be placed?

  I tried to visualize the scene. Abbassi had assured them they could get through security carrying their pieces of the bomb. I could hear the recording in my mind. “…Don’t worry about that, Ali, that is not your concern. Trust me, that has been taken care of. I have the components here for you. You will each carry a separate part. Ali, you will carry the C4. Hassan, you will carry the detonator, Aatifa, you will carry the agent. You will arrive separately on Friday, at eleven o’clock, eleven fifteen, and eleven thirty. You will not be detected at security. Forget about that. Forget about that! You go down to the basement at exactly eleven thirty-five…”

  But he had lied to them. They would be seized at security. And hard as I tried, I could not see how that would allow for the placing of a different bomb. Unless the bomb was already there.

  I took a pull on my whiskey and savored it slowly. It still didn’t make any sense. If this was misdirection, it meant that while everybody’s attention was on Aatifa and his team, the real bomb had to be slipped in some other way; not through the main gate. Through the parking garage then? But that didn’t work either, because the seizure of the three at the gate would not affect security in the garage.