The Kompromat Kill

by Michael Jenkins

  Hewitt noticed another black vehicle slip in behind them from the terminal exit route. ‘Mr Hewitt, please forgive me, but we now have a short drive to meet Mr Alimani, your client,’ she said. ‘He has received your correspondence and has acquired everything you asked for.’

  Hewitt nodded, noticing her searing green eyes, well-groomed eyebrows and immaculate make-up with red lipstick that drew his attention, but he didn’t reply.

  ‘Mr Alimani will ensure you are well looked after during your time here, and I shall of course be pleased to assist.’ A pause while she checked her phone. ‘Of course, you’ll understand very well that, as we approach his residence, my helpers next to you will need to blindfold you – operational security, or OPSEC as I believe you say.’

  Hewitt nodded. He began to wonder about Nadège’s very efficient intelligence services background. She had all the mannerisms of a competent Middle Eastern spy, and was no doubt very handy in bed and equally handy in unarmed combat. He mused about both during the journey.

  He wondered who this next piece of highly paid work was for? Mossad? Possibly. ISIS? Unlikely. The Saudis? Very likely. Or was this a false-flag operation lined up by the Yanks, Brits or Russians? He would likely never know but was very guarded about each step of the journey to protect his own OPSEC.

  Hewitt felt a grip on both arms as the minders blindfolded him for the remainder of the journey. They were rough enough to let him know who was in charge, but civil enough to let him know that these were professional grown-ups in the murky world of mercenary sales that he was dealing in.

  As he was guided out of the vehicle, he heard the very familiar sound of a Sikorsky helicopter firing up its engines ready for take-off.

  Chapter 11

  Kuwaiti Desert

  The Sikorsky helicopter was in the air for less than sixteen minutes according to Hewitt’s estimate. He was blindfolded with a hood and goggles throughout the journey and the experience was beginning to piss him off. It brought back memories of his military days when he had experienced the traumas of escape and evasion training having been hooded for hours on end with no sense of spatial awareness. He felt a few twinges of sickness as the helicopter came into a wide arcing approach before touching down, rear wheels first.

  Hewitt was confused. Had they flown north and over the border into Iraq? Or south and into the desert expanse of Saudi Arabia? Who were these people and what was their big plan? He felt confident that his preparations and due diligence had been sound before accepting the task – and the $300,000 down payment had persuaded him that selling his mercenary skills in this manner was a pretty decent business transaction. A flicker of doubt remained and would still do so until he saw the way these people operated in detail.

  Hewitt was helped off the helicopter and guided to another vehicle, which whisked him away into the desert landscape. He had briefly felt the searing heat on his arms before he had been quickly shipped into the cool air-conditioned wagon. No one spoke, but he sensed the two minders again sitting either side of him and the stench of male sweat had become worse. Within five minutes the vehicle had come to a halt.

  ‘This is it – we’re here,’ Nadège said. ‘Sorry about all the inconvenience but I think you’ll find your next few days here somewhat more comfortable. I shall ensure it is so.’ She opened the passenger door, stepped out and leant inside the rear cabin to remove the goggles and hood from Hewitt’s head. ‘Welcome to a hot and dusty place,’ she said, helping him out of the vehicle.

  Hewitt shook his head a little and winced at the sunlight before dropping his head to escape the searing light.

  ‘Here, put these on and come with me,’ she said, handing him a pair of Salvatore Ferragamo sunglasses. ‘You’ll be ready for some food I expect.’

  Hewitt didn’t answer but stood for a while looking around the vast complex that he had arrived at. He noticed he was in a large private compound with distant mud walls that constituted the large perimeter of the grounds – about four metres high, he thought. Within its boundary were large expanses of flat desert with two or three large buildings and one hugely expensive villa that he stood and gazed at. The larger of the two minders, clad in a white shirt and expensive jeans, stepped in front of him, nodded and asked him to raise his arms. He gave Hewitt a thorough search before handing over his small rucksack, which had been rummaged. The minder, content with his search, stepped aside, nodded again and, with an outstretched arm, indicated for Hewitt to follow Nadège to the villa.

  ‘Mr Alimani awaits you Mr Hewitt,’ Nadège said, leading him into a large dining hall dominated by a palatial chandelier. The home was a palace of sorts, perhaps a seasonal one for his client. It was opulent and lavish nonetheless, causing Hewitt to feel a little more at ease. He found it odd that they would meet at such a personal place for his client, especially when he was buying death on a grand scale from Hewitt.

  Hewitt was ushered to take a seat at a large sixteen-place Hampton table. His client had good taste in traditional English oak furniture and Hewitt was sure there was probably an element of respect for the British when he did his business. He wondered how many other British businessmen had sat at this table for more legitimate discussions than the nefarious ones he was about to have.

  Hewitt studied the large oil paintings of Arabian horses and one grander frame depicting a desert scene of warriors on horseback armed with long-barrel weapons, a swathe of sand kicking up in their wake as they galloped past distant white Arabian tents. Clearly from good stock he mused, perhaps even royalty.

  Mr Alimani walked in and Hewitt stood to greet him. ‘As-salamu alaykum,’ he said, clasping both hands. ‘Welcome to one of my homes Mr Hewitt, I hope this will be a pleasant and welcome stay for you.’

  ‘Alaykumu salām,’ Hewitt replied, before sitting. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He noticed the slow and deliberate movement of his client, surmising he was in his mid-sixties, but also that he had striking bone structure and was clearly a man of wealth. The most obvious feature for Hewitt though was the man’s pot belly. He was dressed in a white black-buttoned dishdāshah with gold cufflinks, a plain white keffiyeh topped with a double circlet of twisted black cord and a large expensive watch on his left wrist. The outfit, coupled with his age, gave him an air of elegance and charm. He sat at the head of the table, with Hewitt immediately to his right.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m only here for a short time before I depart to the Levant,’ Alimani began. ‘I have a wonderful second wife living there who does put some curious demands on me.’

  ‘That’s fine, I like travelling anyway. And I think you’ll make it worth my while,’ Hewitt replied.

  ‘Indeed I shall Mr Hewitt, and I’m hoping your travels here will be as welcoming for you as they are for me.’ Alimani turned towards Nadège, who was sat three seats away from Hewitt having assumed a position a comfortable distance from the two men, recognising her role in the triumvirate.

  ‘Nadège will be looking after you for the entirety of our mutual business arrangement but I’m sure we can have some civil time together as we develop the plans,’ he continued. ‘I was once the Head of Military Intelligence in Kuwait and, suffice to say, my work still requires me to travel a lot these days.’

  Two waiters began to pour water for each man and Nadège indicated to the female waitresses to bring them the starters.

  ‘As a former head of intelligence, you’ll understand that I still retain several enemies Mr Hewitt, perhaps somewhat similar to you.’

  ‘Yep, I have too many,’ Hewitt replied, picking up his knife and fork, following his client’s lead.

  ‘It’s fair to say that, for both of us, our enemies have driven us in a particular direction along our many branches of life,’ Alimani said. ‘For me I’ve reflected deeply on the last forty to fifty years of global change and I have to say it’s led me to some very clear conclusions.’ He began to take small forkfuls of the tabouleh dish. Hewitt began to sense an element of Lebanese linkage in all he heard,
smelt and observed.

  ‘The world has changed beyond all comprehension and the West has been lulled into a civil war that we Muslims are fighting amongst ourselves. A war they neither understand nor know how to solve.’

  Hewitt listened intently and became engrossed in the compelling narrative, wondering where this might lead. Was he trying to influence Hewitt’s thinking? Was he trying to prime him that his motives provided an ethical means to an end – even if it meant death via Hewitt’s bombs? Or was he being authentic in his motivations for employing a mercenary mass killer?

  ‘Nadège, would you care to transfer the next sum of money please?’

  Nadège opened her laptop and started to type.

  ‘You see Mr Hewitt, the West seems to be under some misplaced illusion that this recreation of conservative Islam should be fought by appeasement and integration, which sadly will never work.’

  Nadège indicated to the young female waitresses to clear the first course as they stood assiduously at the door.

  Alimani continued. ‘I do not wish to see evil prevail across our world Mr Hewitt and so I need your professional help to support my scheme. I have an enemy in the West that needs my attention. Something myself and my friends firmly believe in.’

  ‘So, you have some specific targets you want me to deal with?’ Hewitt asked.

  ‘I do indeed. The West has been infiltrated by all manner of ill thinking which has skewed its logic of how to bring the damage it caused to an end – the end will be beyond my years Mr Hewitt, but our friends can help achieve the new dawn that is needed right now. And yes, it will require blood to be spilled. That is an unfortunate by-product, but a brutal strategy is needed I’m afraid.’

  Hewitt was eager to learn more, but the luncheon was over all too quickly.

  ‘Now Mr Hewitt, I must take my leave.’ Alimani removed his keffiyeh to reveal a more informal code of dress. He wore a small Gahfiah on his head, a type of skull cap, and Hewitt noticed he still had a full head of grey hair. It made him look more Western and youthful – Hewitt took this to be a mark of respect in his presence.

  ‘I think this job will challenge you to your limits and I hope you enjoy putting this mission together. I will leave you with Nadège, who has arranged everything you have requested of us. She has acquired all the items you listed - just let her know of anything else you need. I shall meet again with you one day soon.’

  ‘Just one thing, sir,’ said Hewitt politely. ‘Who was it that referred you to me through my broker?’

  ‘Shall we just say a good Russian friend who has been watching you for some time Mr Hewitt. Surveillance I think you might say.’ He smiled and walked from the room.

  Nadège was pleased that the first element of deception with Hewitt had worked well. He’d be none the wiser as to the true motive for building his bombs and killing the enemies of her country. She explained that she would show Hewitt his workplace and quarters before leaving tomorrow for a few days’ business elsewhere. She knew she had to settle this task and cement some trust with Hewitt before taking on the next stages of her mission in Istanbul. She missed her lover and was excited at the prospect of being able to fall into her embrace once more.

  Nadège showed Hewitt to a dwelling adjoining the main villa and they entered an underground bunker that was accessed by a flight of external steps to the main abode.

  Nadège showed Hewitt his workshop. His bomb-making factory. She watched him walk into the bunker, surprised to see such a large expanse of space and the technical equipment around the room. Some of the heavy-set benches had industrial drills screwed into them, others had electrical cutting equipment and state-of-the-art milling equipment bolted to the floor. In the middle of the bunker workshop was a large square table with four chairs around it and a laptop connected to two seventeen-inch monitors. Nadège watched Hewitt walk around the room, looking pleased, before he stopped to look at the ceiling. The workshop had been designed with ceiling-mounted LED lights suspended by chain-links to provide daylight working conditions in Hewitt’s new bomb-making laboratory.

  ‘The list of items you requested is on the table Mr Hewitt,’ Nadège explained. ‘I believe we have acquired everything you asked for but do have a quick look if you want. Or you can check things a little later after I’ve shown you your accommodation?’

  ‘It looks pretty good,’ Hewitt said, meandering around the room, checking some of the tools laid out on the benches. ‘I assume you’ve taken all the precautions I asked when you got this stuff for me?’

  ‘Indeed. My team have very competent networks. They took extreme care to make sure it cannot be traced.’

  ‘Good. In which case I’ll come down later to check it all.’

  Nadège led Hewitt up the stairs, handing him an access control card for the workshop. ‘It’s all alarmed, has full fire protection and only you and I have access to the room. The minders who will be around for your security do not.’

  ‘You’re right. I didn’t expect this,’ said Hewitt. ‘Very different to most clients I work for.’

  Nadège smiled and threw him a look, making sure he knew what the next stage of the day would entail. She loved setting the pace, laying a little bait and enticing her target with her full-throttled appeal, knowing full well that Hewitt would now be wondering which intelligence service she was working for.

  The building consisted of two floors, with Hewitt’s living quarters on the first floor, which in turn led to a bedroom via a spiral mezzanine staircase. It was plush. The decor and furniture were expensive Western brands. The lounge was dominated by a large semicircular leather suite laden with azure cushions to complement its dark beige colour. Nadège liked classy decor. There were modern pictures of European cities on the wall. They were vibrant, lively and clean, exuding a sense of bravura and urban magnificence.

  ‘Drink?’ Nadège asked, standing with a glass in her hand at the well-stocked bar adjacent to the open-plan kitchen.

  ‘Of course. I assume you’ll be having one too?’

  ‘A large one. It’s time to relax a little. We have a busy time ahead of us you know.’

  Nadège started mixing a couple of whisky sour cocktails, glancing at her inner arm as she mixed them in large oval bowls. The scars were not visible, but she could still feel them there. She had been eight years of age when she first cut herself. It felt like a morbid and forbidden desire, but she found it released her inner pain. There was a lot of blood and, despite that, she cut herself again and again. Her father, a Lebanese Embassy official, was always away on business. It was her mother who was left to cope with Nadège’s incessant troublemaking and histrionics. Her mother would often lock her in her bedroom in their luxurious house located in the affluent Banlieue of Neuilly-sur-Seine in Paris and that was when Nadège’s mind left her. She never really felt empathy, but nor did she feel pain. She simply washed her wounds, wrapped them in cellophane and wore long cardigans for weeks on end. Her obsession with blades never left her, nor did her fascination for her father’s job. All she ever remembered was him telling her that she had Iranian blood and that his masters were the ones who would decide how history would be written - and that one day she might be able to shape that history.

  Nadège dropped a few ice cubes into the drinks and ran a finger across her scars. Her mind flickered to how she would one day kill this man in front of her and then commit mass murder on an extraordinary scale.

  ‘So why has Mr Alimani gone to all this trouble to recruit me when there are plenty of others out there?’ Hewitt inquired.

  ‘He really can’t take any chances,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t want amateurs and you are just one part of a much bigger plan.’

  ‘A state-sponsored plan you mean.’

  ‘Perhaps. Now. About the special devices. I need to go to Istanbul to meet someone who will take me to buy the material you need.’

  ‘Same Russian friends who found me then?’

  ‘Mr Alimani has many friends, and they’re
all very well connected to the weapon-smuggling markets. It’s all been arranged.’

  ‘Well, he’ll need to be a very well-known and competent weapons runner to get the stuff we need. Probably with contacts in the Russian mafia. It’s been a long time since I worked with fissile material but I’m looking forward to it. I need access to a scientist though. I can’t operate on this without an expert.’

  ‘I’ll be back within ten days,’ Nadège said confidently. ‘With everything you need.’

  ‘Tell me. Why are you involved in all this? I’m curious.’

  ‘Ah, but Mr Hewitt, you know the rules here,’ she said as she walked over to the sofa where Hewitt was now sat. She stood in front of him and placed the drinks on a glass table. Her white blouse was open enough to reveal her ample cleavage and she leant down, knowing Hewitt was not of a mind to ignore it.

  ‘Wilson. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?’

  ‘I somehow knew you would,’ he replied.

  ‘You know full well that in our world we don’t ask such questions. We are doers and we have things to fulfil.’

  She stood and adjusted her pose to show off her figure, then placed her left arm enticingly on her waist. Hewitt looked admiringly at her body before slowly adjusting his gaze to her face. Standing there in her cage of supremacy, Nadège felt a surge of pleasure. She knew that one day she would have to kill this man and that gave her ripples of the sensation she craved. The feelings that had made her alive and kept her alive. She needed to feed her inner torment, most often with sex, but ultimately with the knowledge she would kill again.

  ‘I see,’ Hewitt replied.

  ‘You do Mr Hewitt.’

  With that, Nadège slipped off her blouse and undid her red bra to reveal a tantalising body that she knew Hewitt would not resist.

  ‘Time for some doing,’ she said, dropping her skirt to the floor.

  Chapter 12