by D S Kane
Maybe they would do this to Saudi Arabia, thought Houmaz.
Just after 11 p.m., Mark McDougal stood at the master bathroom mirror and brushed his teeth as he listened to the late night news. He could hear his wife shift in their bed as she watched the screen in their bedroom. When the phone rang he heard her mute the television. She called out, “Mark? It’s for you.” He rinsed his mouth and entered the bedroom. She handed him the receiver.
A voice on the other end said, “Mr. McDougal, you do not know me. But my brothers, you knew them before you had them murdered. I am Achmed Houmaz.”
McDougal choked on the toothpaste still in his mouth. He tried to think, but his brain wouldn’t function, ready for bed. The best he could do was to ask, “What do you want with me?”
“You were responsible for their deaths. You are listed in Pesi’s notebook as their contact at the agency. Their mole. And you sent the team that killed them. It was you who instructed their bodies be carved with the words, Such is the fate of all who fuck with intelligence agencies of the United States. I saw their bodies. When my father saw how they’d been mutilated, his heart stopped. He died because of you. I want you to know I will take revenge on you, and your family, just as they had threatened. I’m calling so you know that, as of now, you and your wife and son are walking dead. You will all be hunted and there is nothing you can do to stop their deaths before you suffer your own.”
“Wait! I did nothing! It wasn’t me or the agency that murdered your brothers.”
Silence at the other end of the line for too long. Then, “You have earned thirty seconds of my time.”
McDougal looked at his wristwatch. “It was two of the agency’s former employees. We hired one back, but neither was with the agency when they committed this crime. One is Cassandra Sashakovich and the other is Lee Ainsley. Ainsley rejoined us two weeks ago. It wasn’t the agency. Don’t hurt my family.”
The connection terminated. McDougal worried what would happen next.
Achmed Houmaz studied the notebook more carefully for several days until he found the names of both Cassandra Sashakovich and Lee Ainsley listed in small print on the pages toward the end.
He read the notes and understood what might have happened, if Mark McDougal was telling the truth. He saw printed into the notebook that NOC meant “non-official cover.” From the notes he had, he knew his brother, Tariq, had blackmailed McDougal, a director of the agency, to find the name of the NOC covert agent who had stolen over fifty million dollars from Tariq’s bank account. Pesi threatened McDougal’s entire family. The name he received was Sashakovich. The bank account she’d stolen funds from was used to recruit and train mujahidin and to fund their operations.
His brothers had mounted numerous operations as an offshoot of the Muslim Brotherhood. Tariq wanted to know if Sashakovich had discovered the nuclear bomb operation they planned in Washington, and he was prepared to torture her to death to find out. Achmed sat at his desk late into the night, an untouched cup of tea next to his hand. He reread Tariq’s notes about their final plan, and this time his hand jumped, and the tea spilled into his lap. She was the woman whose plans for torture he’d read a while before.
He had to read the section three times before he’d absorbed it. The words made him dizzy and he paced the room. Then, as he calmed, he sat down at the desk again. His brother Pesi recruited and administered for their organization, and Tariq handled training and conduct of operations. Pesi owned the bank account, but he had failed to keep it secure. Tariq was enraged but instead of killing his brother, he told McDougal he could either divulge the agent’s name or Tariq would capture, torture, and execute his wife and son, and then assassinate McDougal.
Achmed shook his head. He couldn’t even imagine this world. How evil his brothers were! He wished there was more to read, but he had all there was. Instead of continuing to reread the notebook, he spent hours using the Internet to research Sashakovich and Ainsley. About Ainsley he found almost nothing. Ainsley’s credit was good. No convictions. Nothing on Google.com. Even the landlines for the house in Chevy Chase were listed only in Sashakovich’s name. But from Google he found some detailed information on the woman, all of it very recent. He began to read, to see how she fit into the events that led to his brothers’ deaths. The first Internet link was to Swiftshadow Consulting Group. He examined her photograph on the web page and decided that it wasn’t necessary to look further. He concluded, she’s the murderess. But, there were other links that he eventually found, linking her with the intelligence agency. Houmaz read through these as well.
Chapter Nine
October 3, 6:48 p.m.
Wailea Spa and Hotel, Maui, Hawaii
Like most Hawaiian afternoons near the end of hurricane season, the day was bright blue with a wispy breeze that carried the scent of tropical flowers. The storms of September had passed. Sanji Morikono knew this was weather—and a view—that would cause almost any visitor to smile. But, as he watched the waves gently lick the shore from the window view of his office, high atop the Wailea Spa and Hotel in Maui, it wasn’t soothing. He was haunted by demons—all real ones—and found it difficult just to stay calm. Morikono suffered doubly because the demons were of his own making.
Almost ten years ago he’d had a dream to build the most spectacular hotel in Maui, one whose elegance would be revered. He used every penny he’d saved and everything he could borrow to plan what he was sure would be the finest hotel in the world. On that score, he’d succeeded. The hotel became one of the most sought after by celebrities. Those who could afford it stayed in a private section of rooms called the Nippon Tower, with room starting at $2,500 per night. Very wealthy families wanting their own private suites paid $15,000 per night. Heads of state, rich movie actors and actresses, and sports stars stayed and came back often. The rooms for common folk outside the Tower were relatively less expensive, starting at $350 for the least expensive room.
But during the recent economic decline, peak season occupancy had plunged from eighty-five to forty-five percent, and he fell to the verge of bankruptcy. The last three years had been unkind to Morikono. He’d been growing fat before the economy cracked apart. Now he was gaunt. He shook his head, walking to admire the view from the picture window, then back to his desk. He saw the latest financial reports on his desk, and grimaced.
He’d needed money to supplement operations and keep himself from bankruptcy. When he applied for loans from banks, they turned him down. They saw the occupancy rates as proof of imminent failure. Desperate, he began searching for loans from private sources. It had taken almost a year, but he found help. And, therein lay the problem. His helpmates were the Japanese Building Society. The Yakuza. As long as he could make the payments at their exorbitant interest rates, they left him alone. But the economy kept sinking, oil prices soaring above six dollars a gallon caused his occupancy rate to drop daily as oil prices increased. When he lowered the room rates, nothing happened to the occupancy rates. The rise in fuel cost meant that the prices of everything increased continuously, from food for guests to salaries necessary to attract hotel maids. Fewer people could afford to fly to Hawaii for even a brief stay in his cheaper rooms. Now, in trough season for Hawaii, only a quarter of the rooms were rented. It would be two months before the start of the next winter peak. He was near bankruptcy and feared he wouldn’t last until the winter.
Morikono thought about suicide. Almost constantly.
He expected to miss his second repayment in a row, and the Yakuza would come to collect its pound of flesh. Literally. He held his head with clenched hands. He couldn’t concentrate, and found the gorgeous view outside unsettling in its contrast.
The phone rang. Morikono jumped, then took a deep breath and tentatively picked it up, expecting the worst. Omasu Maru, the loan officer—enforcer—from Yakuza asked, “How long do you expect patience from us, Morikono-san?”
At the sound of that voice, oily and rough, toned down to just above a whisper, Mor
ikono gulped. “I’m still having low occupancy rates and no cash. If I don’t pay for food for the restaurant or for help to clean the rooms, the hotel will have to close.”
“Such a pity. Your problem, not ours. If you can’t pay the minimums on our loans, we’ll want immediate repayment of the entire amount. Under the terms of the loan, we’ll assume ownership of the hotel.”
Morikono felt the spreading panic in his stomach. “But isn’t there some other way I can show good faith?”
“I’ll talk with my boss. But you better pack your bags.”
During the intense heat of the afternoon, while he sipped coffee, Achmed Houmaz watched dust devils from inside his air-conditioned office at the Ministry. He studied the links from Swiftshadow Consulting Group. Then, he Googled Sashakovich’s name. What astounded him most was that all the intel was dated within the last four months. Sixteen pages of links.
He read about her career at the agency, her current financial status, and her hobbies. She’d achieved celebrity status since the Afghanistan operation two months ago made the headlines at Al Jazeera. And, he found a link there to a news article concerning Lee Ainley’s arrest just over a month ago. He read the article on Al Jazeera and concluded she let him take the blame for all the murders she’d committed.
She must be evil. She would be difficult for him to kill.
He had no experience and this would be dangerous work. He’d need help.
Houmaz considered rescinding his pledge to avenge the deaths of his father and brothers. After all, his brothers had been vile and there was no earthly excuse for him to consider their acts worthy of revenge. But his father was another story. His father had been a good man, and Sashakovich deserved to die for causing his death. On the other hand, he realized that murdering his brothers was the only option she’d had for remaining alive.
The sky darkened while he sat thinking. Then, he decided: better that she should have died and his father had lived.
But, he didn’t know how to exact revenge. He’d done project planning for the oil Ministry and thought that it might help to see this as a project. First he looked for tools.
The first effective one he found was www.crypome.org. Using this he was able to follow Sashakovich’s actions since being fired from the agency. Although there was no proof, one of the sources he found told him that her net worth had somehow swiftly grown to over two billion dollars. He was sure she stole that money from his brothers. In a pique of anger, he threw the coffee mug against the wall of his office.
Then, he had a flash of brilliance. He picked up the phone and dialed the number of Khali Al-Jambar, the reporter for Al Jazeera who had written the editorial story that Achmed’s father had read, causing his fatal heart attack.
He tried to stay relaxed as he spoke. “Salaam, Khali, my name is Achmed Houmaz. A few weeks ago you wrote an article on Al Jazeera’s website about the murders of my brothers. I thought that you might be interested in who had actually done the murders. I know their names.”
Al-Jambar replied, “You are Director Houmaz?”
Ignoring the man’s disbelief, Achmed said, “Yes, of course I am. Are you interested in this information? Will you report what I tell you?”
“Uh, yes, Director, I am interested. If you give me their names, I will do the research to ensure that what you tell me is, ah, is true.” His voice trailed off with the last few words, as if he feared telling Achmed Houmaz that he’d require a second source as confirmation.
Achmed frowned. Of course. Investigative reporters always needed another source. He sensed Al-Jambar was interested, and would print the story. He said, “I found the names of the murderers in a notebook that my brother Pesi hid before the compound was attacked.”
He continued talking to Al-Jambar for several minutes.
Al-Jambar waited for Houmaz to finish and then asked, “Director Houmaz, how did you come by this information?”
“One of the security guards at my family compound found the notebook. Now you know everything I know. You are a reporter. Do what reporters do. If you decide to use this in print, you may also use my name as your source.”
Al-Jambar was silent for almost a minute. “Thank you, sir.” He ended the conversation. Achmed wondered if the reporter suspected there were too many loose ends for him to write anything. Did he think the security guard been the real author? Could he find someone who could verify his story for Al-Jambar?
Days passed and the reporter hadn’t even called back. No story was posted on Al Jazeera. He paced his office, frowned, and sat behind his desk.
Once again, Achmed Houmaz studied the website for Swiftshadow Consulting Group. Although he’d visited the website often, he decided to take a longer, deeper look. First he researched all of the board members, and then read until the complete picture of what had happened emerged for him.
She was defending herself, and in doing so she had assembled a mercenary force large enough to kill over seven hundred people.
In his research, he stumbled on a link from Google that led him to her bet on www.GrayNet.com. He found the bet was worded “CEO’s of drug companies will live if their companies don’t develop cures for chronic and deadly diseases and make the cures affordable to everyone.” She was placing a bounty of a million dollars to support the bet. And with the wording she’d phrased, people betting against her could win her money—both the bet itself and the bounty she offered—by killing the CEOs.
His first thought was that, indeed, this woman was an accomplished killer. But he appreciated the efficacy of her bet. She could scare the CEOs into doing her bidding without having to personally engage in any death-dealing herself. He thought about just how smart a move that had been. After considering what she’d done to his brothers, he marveled at the concept of the bet itself.
He found a website that tracked the movements of celebrities, athletes, politicians, and corporate executives. There were over two hundred thousand people on whom the site maintained records. He used the site, called www. gawkerstalker.com. He began to follow her electronically, obsessively, many times each day. He wondered if there was some way he could accomplish his vengeance without linking himself to her demise. But he’d never used violence as a weapon before.
Houmaz thought about hiring a contract killer. He researched this and found that although they didn’t advertise, there were ways to find them. He used the Saudi secret police to point him to several and called one, a Japanese-American assassin. The man was almost impossible to find and didn’t respond to emails Houmaz posted on the hit man’s hidden website. Achmed was ready to give up when his phone rang.
“Why are you sending me emails?” The voice was deep and twanged with an Asian accent.
Houmaz gulped. “Are you the assassin?”
“Why are you contacting me?”
Houmaz gulped. “Do you know who I am?”
“Of course I do. Once more, why are you sending me emails?”
“I want you do my bidding. I want two people killed. Isn’t that what you do?”
“I’m not in that business anymore. Don’t contact me again or I just might go back into business and kill you. Good luck.” There was an abrupt click on the other end of the line.
Houmaz hung up and found he’d been perspiring in his air-conditioned office. His brows furrowed. There would have to be some other way.
He felt increasingly compelled to follow Sashakovich’s movements, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about her. Except for despising her.
Days had now passed. Achmed sat behind his desk, scratching his head. There had to be a way. He wondered just how much power he really wielded, given his entire government lived off the taxes on oil revenue, and he was its manager. Maybe he could bend the Saudi Prime Minister, Ibrahim Fahd. He took a deep breath, steeling himself to his task, picked the phone and dialed the man. “It’s Houmaz. I have a favor to request.”
“How can I be of service, Director Houmaz?”
“Reme
mber the words carved into the bodies of my brothers?”
He waited while the silence at the other end of the phone line went on and on. “Uh, yes. But none of the sixteen secret police forces in the United States have admitted their complicity in the deaths of your brothers. And they dismissed the lone individual they did arrest, a man named Lee Ainsley. Somehow they proved his innocence.”
“It wasn’t Ainsley. It was Cassandra Sashakovich, his girlfriend. Can we extradite her to our country? I want her confession, even if you have to torture her to get it. If she confesses, I want her beheaded in Chop Chop Square.”
Houmaz could hear the man’s robes rustling at the other end of the line, could feel the man’s discomfort. “Minister Houmaz, the Americans are our friends. They sell us weapons. If we call for her extradition, it will certainly cause relations between us to chill. Do you have proof of these allegations?”
Achmed’s jaw fell open. No, he didn’t have proof. The notebook showed there might be motivation for her actions. But it wasn’t even close to proof. “If we extradite her, we can force her confession. You’ll get your proof.” His voice was getting louder, almost a scream.
“We’ll need proof first, in order to extradite her. If you can find any, I will consider doing as you wish. But until you have evidence we can share with the American ambassador, my hands are tied. I’m sorry, sir.”
