The Perfect Weapon

by Christopher Metcalf

  “No. Don’t do that. Don’t do this. I won’t let you get involved.”

  “I’m involved.”

  “No. Don’t make me push you away.”

  “Okay.” Lance walked back over and sat on the couch to defuse the situation. “Marta, will you sit for a moment?”

  “No, I’ll stand. It helps me think.” She was already making plans and completing moves in her head. He could see her formulating strategy and planning deadly action. He had to admit, watching her like this turned him on. She was beautiful and deadly and unique. And, at the moment, she was his.

  “Then listen to me for just a minute.”

  “One minute, and then we need to go. I need to go.”

  “Okay. I love you.”

  She stopped her mental calculations, her planning and looked at him. His words diverted her. “I love you.” She said in return.

  “Good, so we have that straight. I’ll say it again. I love you. I told you I am a liar, I’m a killer, I’m a real bastard.”

  “And I still love you.” She took a small step toward the couch and caught herself.

  “Good. And I love you even though you are a killer, a world-class murderer. Damn that sounds really screwed up doesn’t it?” He laughed.

  “A little. But it doesn’t change how I feel and what I have to do.”

  “I understand. I just want you to take into consideration my concerns. As I said, if I had learned about you and Cherzny six months ago, I would have shrugged it off. It would have been nothing. But then I saw you, I met you. I don’t know where this is going or how it will end, but I can’t let you leave here without telling you. You said something earlier about being shot but it not hurting anything like losing me. I feel exactly the same.”

  She took another half step. “And because I love you, because I know how you make me feel, I can’t let you get involved. I can’t let you get caught in this and be hurt or maybe killed.”

  He smiled. “Don’t you see, that’s exactly how I feel. I can’t let you get hurt or killed. How am I supposed to live after that? This thing, whatever it is, has taken over. I’m different. It’s weird.”

  “I know. I know.” She breathed out slowly and then took three more steps to join him on the couch. “What do we do?”

  “I think you know what we have to do.” He leaned into her.

  “I do. But I can’t ask you,”

  “Don’t ask. I’m in. Let’s kill them both, Cherzny and Smelinski. That’s the only solution, eliminate the greatest threats.”

  Marta put her head on his shoulder. He took her face in his hand and kissed the top of her head.

  “And then when it’s done, we’ll have to kill one more.” He added.

  “I know.

  Lance reached under her chin with a finger and brought her face up to his. “He won’t really mind though. Seibel brought you and me together to see which one of us would kill him.”

  Chapter 18

  The southern island of Mindanao has the highest Muslim population of any of the Philippines island chain. This creates a distinctive atmosphere where Islamic separatists established the Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao, ARMM.

  With the ARMM, Muslims in the Philippines have provided a model for other parts of the world featuring a strong Islamic presence within the borders of an existing nation. With the ARMM, Islamic fundamentalists have established a wild west training grounds of sorts for all kinds of nefarious goings on. Beginning in the 1980's, terrorists from around the world started converging on Mindanao and surrounding islands because of its notorious lack of governance.

  The region does have a Sultan running things, sort of. But tribes, gangs and drug syndicates reign supreme. The western region of Mindanao, and the stretch of Sulu Province islands reaching southwest to Malaysia are reachable only by small aircraft and boat. These sparsely populated islands offer thousands of acres of secluded terrain to build and operate terrorist training facilities.

  A boat slid into a small dock on the southern tip of the island municipality of Tapul. Four men on board gathered up their duffle bags and hauled their gear up the dock where three men greeted them. For anyone witnessing this arrival, it was obvious that none of the men were locals. They were certainly not from the Moro tribes that populate most of these small islands. No, these men were Middle Eastern and Persian. The hair, bone structure, eyes and dress differed from locals. They were not the first and wouldn’t be the last members of the Mujahedeen, who fought the Soviets in Afghanistan, to travel to Tapul.

  One of the four arrivals was the soft-spoken man last seen by Western intelligence sources in New York, traveling under the fake name Rashidi. His actual name, given him by his father at birth, is Fahim Anwar al-Ansari. But he hadn’t called himself that for over a decade. His job during the last ten years was to be a ghost, a deadly, killing phantom. He had protected his anonymity by staying off the grid. He lived in remote areas of Afghanistan and western Pakistan and only traveled using non-commercial means. He was required to leave this blissful world of obscurity behind a couple of years ago to begin implementing his grand plan -- the grand plan entrusted to him to carry out.

  His Pakistan passport listed his name as Asif Khan Masood, a traditional name. Those who know cricket recognize the name as a Pakistani cricketer from the 60's and 70's.

  The attractive gentleman greeting Anwar and the others at the end of the dock went by the name Iqbal. Not his name. But his looks let him easily pass as Indian. The two leaders of the small groups hugged in the sweltering tropical humidity, thousands of miles from their first meeting more than a decade earlier on a hillside in northeastern Afghanistan. Minutes after that first meeting, they were firing on a Soviet convoy making its way up the valley below. Anwar watched as Iqbal stepped several yards away and prepared to fire a surface-to-air SAM rocket at an approaching helicopter. The SAMs were gifts of the U.S. and were already beginning to turn the tide of war against the infidel invaders from the north.

  Today, the two acquaintances would spend quality time together training others in the construction, placement and detonation of explosives. And later this evening, Iqbal and Anwar would sit in the dark and update each other on their progress toward the collective goal of bringing death and destruction on a massive scale to the West. They would not say the words al Qaeda during their time together, but each carried the same mission in their heart.

  “Peace be with you brother,” Iqbal whispered into Anwar’s ear on the dock.

  “And peace be with you my brother,” Anwar whispered back. Iqbal thought for the hundredth time about this man, this strange, quiet and brilliant man. His surprisingly light brown, almost honey-colored eyes, made him stand out. He attracted others to him, even though he worked so very diligently to remain anonymous, just one of the Mujahedeen.

  But Iqbal, and hundreds of fighters who stood and bled and died beside the man they knew as Mohamed, Anwar's chosen cover name, learned quickly that he was indeed different. His skills increased rapidly as he learned from another quiet freedom fighter about the intricacies of bomb making. Anwar was trained to assemble seemingly random and disparate items into devices that brought death, devastation and confusion to the invading Soviet enemy. After his mentor from Iraq was killed when one of his explosive devices detonated while he was holding it, Anwar became the senior bomb expert for the region. He eventually became the preeminent bomb builder in the Mujahedeen and one of the Soviet Red Army’s most wanted terrorist enemies.

  He was ahead of his time in Afghanistan. Even ahead of other bombers fighting the good fight, and killing the innocent along with infidel targets throughout the Middle East. Soon, bombers in training traveled to learn from Anwar at his village hideout. It was those skills he brought to share with others on this small island in the Philippines. From his lessons, others would take deadly skills back to Syria and Lebanon and Bali and Hamburg and then the United States.

  In just two weeks on the small island of Tapul, Anwar expecte
d to train a small but dedicated group of bombers who would rain down death on infidels. This all sounded mighty and righteous, and was evidence of his commitment to the cause of Jihad throughout the world. It was also complete bullshit.

  Anwar did like the idea of people who deserved death meeting their end through violent means. But his true mission in the Philippines was not simply to train others. He was building a wall of distraction he had planned for years. Exploding bombs in Tel-Aviv and Beirut and Paris and Barcelona and Moscow and Bali would conceal his true intentions. It was all debris on the battlefield, a smokescreen he was sending up to mask his true intentions.

  He looked around at the men he had assembled. When he gazed upon others with this look, it commanded silence and respect. Those who knew him knew that Anwar was a man of few words. His lectures were met with undivided attention.

  “Brothers, we have a short time here together to perfect our skills and bring justice to the world. What you learn over the next few days will allow you to take our war to the heart of the infidels of the West. We can strike a blow for Allah. Give me your absolute trust and I will give you mine. Allahu Akbar.”

  This was met by a chorus of “Allahu Akbars.” After a meal and sleep, the men gathered the following morning. Mass murder class was in session. Anwar was the teacher. And he was the committed and steady hand of God.

  Chapter 19

  The steam, smells and crush of nine million people in Manila can overwhelm. These merged elements also provide cover and camouflage for those seeking anonymity amid chaos.

  Lance had only been enveloped by Manila’s smothering culture for 11 hours, but he was already at home. It was liberating to be exposed in every way, yet hidden in plain sight. All around him, people hustled and bustled and belched and spit and sang. They also talked.

  He needed people to talk, to tell him what he needed to know, to help him track a ghost whose sparse trail left tracks that pointed to the Philippines. At least, that is how Seibel read the tracks. And Seibel had a list of four potential contacts he wanted Lance to hunt down to ferret out any tidbits of information about Anwar.

  The route Lance had taken to where he now stood in a doorway of a small, leaning house, two streets over from Manila’s main drag, was not an itinerary Seibel would have prepared. In fact, Seibel would likely not be aware of the resources Lance had employed to reach this island nation. No, Lance’s route over the previous 69 hours would not be the choice of any experienced traveler.

  He had flown, ridden trains, buses and a boat. He’d crossed the Asian continent through Russia and Siberia, and stopped over in Japan before arriving in the Philippines this morning. He was tuckered, but no more than normal these days. Sleep consisted of stolen hours on seats, in chairs and on the ground. He’d made his way to the Philippines under the guise of a Russian college senior from Obninsk, the home of the world’s first nuclear reactor power plant. To complete the effect, he carried a worn backpack over his shoulder.

  He leaned against a wall in the doorway, looking in the direction of a martial arts studio 150 meters down and across the street. Lance was headed there a couple of minutes ago, but he stopped when he recognized someone he knew enter the small building. This particular location was not one of the four Seibel had given him weeks ago during preparations for his “off the grid” mission. So the fact that Mikel Fuchs was now inside the martial arts studio meant one of three things.

  Either Siebel was once again babysitting Lance, or the great leader had become concerned by Lance’s disappearance and lack of contact over the last nine days and sent in the cavalry. But most likely, Seibel was up to his usual trick of knowing everything and playing his own little chess game. Lance smiled to himself. Damn.

  He glanced at the Russian-made Poljot watch on his left wrist and realized he would be spending his birthday in the Philippines this year. Twenty-five wouldn’t be a whole lot different than 24, except for the fact that he was in love, way too much in love really.

  Keeping his eyes on the front entrance to the studio, Lance’s mind wandered. It had been doing a lot of that the past few days. During most of his journey to Manila, he had either closed his eyes and drifted or conversed with others traveling with him.

  But most of his time was spent thinking of Marta. He could see her face, brilliant smile, falling hair, proud shoulders, naked body and healing scars. This was bad. He had never been like this and never expected to find himself in this position. While rattling along a stretch of railway in Siberia, he recalled a teacher back in high school asking her students to write down where they expected to be in five years and then put the written assignment in a safe place to review after those five years passed.

  Lance finished the assignment first. He wrote one word and folded the paper into thirds like a letter ready to be stuffed in an envelope and mailed. The teacher walked around the room and came to Lance. Like she did often, the teacher squatted down beside him and put her elbow on his desk. She did this to get at her students’ level instead of looking down on them.

  “Lance, done already?” she asked with inquisitive eyes.

  “Done.” A seventeen year-old version of Preacher answered with innocence aplenty in his eyes.

  “Happy with what you wrote?” she persisted.

  “Enough, I suppose.”

  “Would you like to share?”

  “Sure.” He handed her the folded piece of paper.

  She read the one word he had written, refolded the paper and placed it back on his desk. “You think?”

  “Didn’t really plan on making it this far. Five years is forever.”

  He opened his eyes and looked out at a bleak landscape passing by the window of the train and thought back to where he’d actually been five years after writing the word “dead” on that sheet of paper back in Oklahoma at age 17. He was at Harvey Point. Not dead, yet.

  Now, if he was given that same five-year assignment, he’d have to give it some thought. In five years he’d be almost 30. Where would he be? Who would he be? Who would she be in his life? Would she be in his life? Damn, there she was again.

  None of these thoughts had crossed his mind in the previous 25 years. When he thought of the future, it was an exercise in envisioning a succession of characters and scenarios created to give him a variety of challenges. The future, like the past and present, was a game for Lance.

  That wasn’t true anymore.

  Lance closed his eyes on that train and went back to Vienna, back to her. After they made their decision to find a way to make this screwy relationship work, Lance and Marta spent the next 36 hours making plans, making love and putting things in motion. She introduced him to people he would have never met and helped him create several new covers. A forger in a dreary Soviet-style apartment building in Bratislava, Romania, just across the border from Vienna, produced three new passports that were quite simply works of art. They were better than the real thing.

  Marta provided Lance with his transportation itinerary. Again, without her, he would have never discovered the route and unsavory characters both utilizing and providing the transportation.

  She was a treasure trove of illicit behavior. She was so full of useful information that he stepped back at one point and just laughed. She reached out to him and put her hand flat against his stomach and stepped into him while he continued to laugh. The moment, shared in a shabby hallway outside a freight forwarding office, was another of those intimate moments they had together during those four days. Their last night together in her townhome was passionate, but tinged with sadness. They weren’t like another young couple that had to pry themselves apart for a day or a week. When Lance left the following morning, each knew they might not see each other for months. Or maybe ever.

  They lay next to each other. They shared thoughts, fears and even a few hopes in the midst of an uncertain and unknowable future. With her back pressed against his front and her fingers laced between his, she held the back of his hand to her lips and whispe
red to him in Russian, “did I hear you say that you think you love me?”

  “Something like that.” He whispered back in Russian.

  “Tomorrow will be difficult.”

  “Just the goodbye will be tough. The rest will merely be torture.” He smiled into the back of her head.

  “That’s what I wanted to tell you earlier.” She said.

  “Earlier?”

  “Yes. Before you looked at me with your eyes and forced me into this bed.”

  “I think I recall a slightly different version, but nonetheless, I’m sorry if I forced you into doing something you didn’t want to by looking at you that way.”

  “Please. Find another way to look at me or we’ll never get out of the bedroom, wherever we are.” She moved his hand to her cheek.

  He rolled her over to him. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to get used to me looking at you like this. Can’t help it. I’m afflicted.” He stole her line. “And you’ll have to find a way to control yourself, and not pull me into the nearest bed every time I lay my eyes upon you.”

  “That will be impossible, I’m afraid.” She kissed him and they could have easily moved from the kiss to making love again. But Lance stopped and put a finger to her lips.

  “You wanted to tell me something earlier?” He asked her in English.

  She kissed his finger and then shook her head. “I did.”

  “Well?”

  “About tomorrow," she hesitated, "about tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want to kiss you and then turn away and cry.” She rolled onto her back and looked at the ceiling. “I can’t do that.” She fell back into Russian so the words came out, “YA ne mogu etogo sdelat.”

  “Then what do we do?” Lance opened his eyes on the train a day and a half after asking her that question. “Chto my delaem?” He asked the question aloud in Russian – “what do we do?” No one around him heard. The rattle of the train was all anyone could hear. He knew what she had meant. He knew what she needed. He had held her close as they slept. He got up before sunrise and left.