Hasan Bozlak clutched the steering wheel with both hands. Rashid had been gone for three hours and it was getting dark. Hasan’s concern was for the mission, not Rashid. Rashid was a brash megalomaniac who had grown up as childhood friends with Kemel Kharrazi. No matter how dutiful Hasan was to Kharrazi, he would never reach the status that thirty years of friendship had shaped. While Rashid was busy getting himself arrested for attempting to blow up the White House, Hasan was constructing the blueprint for gutting America’s democratic resolve. The week Rashid’s mug shot was on the cover of Time Magazine with the words, “The Face of Terrorism,” below it, Hasan was busy planning the nationwide bombing of the United States. Hasan was the one with the foresight to calculate the pressure President Merrick would receive from the American people should they all be put in harm’s way. No one would be immune from the danger. Not even senators.
Hasan’s prognosis appeared sound. From everything he was hearing and seeing on CNN, America was not willing to risk their lives over some country most civilians couldn’t even pick out on a map.
Rashid had insisted on purchasing the batteries himself. Another bold move that lacked the prudence required at such a critical time in the operation.
Hasan had just as much talent with explosives as Rashid did, but without the swagger. It was almost as if Rashid wanted to get caught so he could receive credit for his genius with a remote detonator.
Hasan pulled into the Wal-Mart shopping center and groaned when he saw the van at the far end of the parking lot. He crept the vehicle through the lanes as if he was searching for a good parking spot, all the while observing the van. He became alarmed when he saw a strange man sitting in the front seat shifting his glances over an open newspaper. Hasan parked the car two aisles away facing the van. The man folded his newspaper and opened the door to leave. Suddenly, there were two of them. The other man must have exited from the side door. He saw the second man lean into the passenger window and reach for something inside. Hasan thought he heard a distant clap of thunder, but when he looked up he saw nothing but blue sky. By the time he returned his attention to the van, the two men were striding away and entering a car. The tall one was driving. Hasan recognized the car as a rental. He wrote down the license plate on a scrap piece of paper from the glove compartment and waited a few minutes, carefully watching the rental car drive away. He wanted to run to the van, but knew to remain patient. What had Rashid gotten himself into? Did his temper finally get the best of him?
Finally, when Hasan was convinced there was nobody interested in the van, he walked over to the vehicle. He peeked his head through the open passenger window and saw Rashid slumped over in the back of the van, a round circle above the bridge of his nose. Both eyes were open and they stared at Hasan as if they had a story to tell.
“You stupid arrogant man,” Hasan murmured. He looked down and saw the bag with twenty-five C batteries, then noticed the keys were still in the ignition. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the sheriff’s office found Rashid’s body, and not soon after that the town would be flooded with federal agents. He had to get the van away from any spectators. He got in and started the engine. He would send someone for his car later.
The cabin was set deep in the woods, forty miles from downtown Payson and five from the nearest paved road. It was chosen with painstaking care. There was no way to approach the building except down a narrow dirt road that even the skilled Kurdish drivers struggled with after twenty trips. Although it was a small A-frame it contained almost forty KSF soldiers. This included the twenty-five who worked in the five thousand square foot basement, building bombs, and dispatching them to the appropriate locations. The site was cleverly chosen-the canopies of the surrounding trees obscured the roof from view, making it almost impossible to detect the cabin from the sky.
The surrounding thirty acres were wired with enough miniature cameras and microphones to detect an ant colony shifting locations. Hasan drove down the tortuous dirt road, his mind searching for answers. He knew the police hadn’t shot Rashid, but he struggled for an explanation. Hasan would inherit the top spot under Kharrazi’s regime, and he needed to assume his post with answers, not problems.
A hundred yards before he reached the cabin he could feel the eyes of the armed sentries concealed in the treetops lining the road. He parked the van behind the cabin under a clump of overgrown shrubs and tugged on his left ear. A signal to the invisible eyes that he was alone and not followed.
The back door opened and Hasan entered the kitchen where Kemel Kharrazi stood at the head of a large oak table, leaning over a map of the United States. Two personal guards stood stoically behind Kharrazi, while a dozen soldiers surrounded the table listening to his instructions.
Kharrazi was clad in his usual khakis. His skin was pale from lack of sun and his full eyebrows protruded from his forehead like antennae. His eyes were cold and as dark as tunnels. He was barely five-foot nine and maybe one hundred and sixty pounds, but just by the way he carried himself, everyone looked busy when he entered a room.
When Hasan approached the table, the room became quiet. Kharrazi raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Well?”
The first few words out of Hasan’s mouth were in Kurdish, then he caught himself and spoke in the practiced English that Kharrazi ordered everyone to use while in America. “I bring bad news, Sarock. I found Rashid in the Wal-Mart parking lot. . dead. He was shot in the head. I saw two Americans leaving the van when I approached. I waited for them to leave the area before I risked a look.”
Kharrazi’s lips pursed. “Where is he?”
“He is in the back of the van where I found him. I drove it back here as soon as I was certain I was not being followed.”
Kharrazi rose and the soldiers backed away, opening a path for their leader. He motioned for Hasan to follow and he walked out the kitchen door. The two of them were alone when they reached the van. Kharrazi opened the back door and saw Rashid. He was lying on his stomach, his head turned away. Kharrazi grabbed a fistful of hair and twisted the dead man’s face toward him. He inspected the wound for a long minute. Hasan felt as though Kharrazi was praying, but soon realized he was reflecting. Maybe considering the actions that took place in order for Rashid to wind up this way.
Suddenly, Kharrazi spun around, a Beretta magically appearing in his hand. He pressed the muzzle of the Beretta to Hasan’s temple and pulled the slide, chambering the first round.
Hasan stood motionless, eyes wide. He made no attempt to protect himself. He was going to die and instantly accepted his fate.
Kharrazi withdrew the gun and returned it to his holster.
Hasan let out a breath.
“You had nothing to do with Rashid’s death,” Kharrazi stated.
“Of course not.”
“I know now. If you had a guilty mind you would have been prepared for my attack.”
“Sarock?”
While staring into his eyes, Kharrazi placed both hands on Hasan’s shoulders and gripped down firmly. A rare smile creased his face. “Hasan, you do not think I know how you felt about Rashid?”
Hasan was taller than Kharrazi by four inches, yet he met his leader’s gaze as if he was an overgrown child listening to his parent. “I’m not sure I understand?”
Kharrazi reached an arm around Hasan’s shoulder and led him down a path with twilight simmering around them. Hasan heard the kitchen door open and knew Kharrazi’s bodyguards were trailing them.
Kharrazi sat on a fallen tree at the side of the path and nodded for Hasan to join him. From his wallet Kharrazi removed a folded piece of paper and handed it to Hasan. Once unfolded, the paper revealed a photograph so old the back was peeling off. The picture showed two young boys standing with their arms around each other. They had huge smiles and leaned into each other with complete ease.
“We were only twelve when that was taken,” Kharrazi said.
“Rashid?”
“Yes. The day before that picture was taken Rashid taught me the most valuable lesson of my life. We were eating fish in an alley that afternoon when a group of older boys gathered around us. I was nervously watching the boys while Rashid ignored them. They wanted our fish. At least that’s what they said they wanted, I’m sure it didn’t matter what we had, they would have wanted it. I was just about to hand one of the boys my food when Rashid grabbed my hand and shook his head.
“Well, I have to tell you Hasan, I was terrified. One of the boys produced a pipe as long as my arm and began slapping it against his thigh. But all through this Rashid kept eating his meal. Just as the group was about to launch into us, Rashid jumped toward the largest boy and jammed his fork into his testicles. The boy howled like a cat while the others gawked at the blood spreading from his crotch. Rashid grabbed the pipe from the boy and waved it over his head like a wild animal. He kept screaming, ‘Who’s next?’”
Hasan watched his leader reminisce. It seemed Kharrazi was speaking to the trees and the air around him, only occasionally making eye contact with Hasan. Kharrazi stood up and snapped a branch from a low-lying limb. He withdrew a knife from a skintight holster attached to his chest and began working on the branch.
“Of course the group fled,” Kharrazi said. “And Rashid returned to his meal as if he’d just swatted away a fly. I’ll never forget that day. He taught me the efficiency of going after the biggest bully.”
Kharrazi slashed at the wood while pacing up and down the narrow path, working the stick with incredible dexterity. Hasan couldn’t tell if he was whittling anything in particular or just flicking off tiny fragments of anguish.
“America is the biggest bully,” Kharrazi said. “For decades we’ve endured prolonged attacks from the Turkish government while the world turned their back.”
Kharrazi pointed his knife at Hasan. “Where was America when the Turkish Security Force sent warplanes to bombard our villages with cyanide gas? Ten thousand Kurds massacred in one Friday afternoon. Your own sister fallen at the threshold of her front door, never to rise again. Where were the American zols then? Now that we finally exact some deserved revenge, America sends troops into our homeland to interfere. Our homeland, where we have yet to gain our own sovereignty.”
Kharrazi kicked up dirt while Hasan sat in silence, allowing his leader to vent, busily carving up the branch. He knew Kharrazi was mixing rationalization with grief. It was Kharrazi’s idea to come to America and now it had cost him his best friend’s life. Explaining his motive to Hasan was entirely unnecessary, but perhaps just what he needed.
Kharrazi glanced at the group of soldiers carrying Rashid’s body from the back of the van. Shovels could be heard plunging into the earth one after another, rhythmically excavating a final resting place for Rashid. Kharrazi was not a religious zealot. He ruled from the strength of his devoted Kurdish following. Thirty million people searching for a state to call their own. This is what drove Kharrazi-what was here on earth, not up in the sky. He would allow his soldiers to mourn however they saw fit, but he would not participate in any formal ceremony. Hasan knew that Kharrazi was unique in this manner and it seemed to allow him a freedom that a more spiritual person couldn’t afford without inviting contradictions.
Kharrazi looked away from the scene. “I allowed Rashid to act foolishly at times and I know it cost me a certain amount of respect from my men. But not you. You kept your mouth shut when I allowed such blunders. You were loyal and loyalty is what I need from someone in your position. When I return to the cabin I will announce you as the new captain of the American mission. You are now my eyes and my ears. I may allow you to make mistakes also, like Rashid, because you are loyal and deserve that right.”
Hasan felt his body quiver. Was he just now getting over the gun to his head, or was he absorbing the importance of Kharrazi’s words? “Sarock,” he said, “Rashid was killed, but not by an officer of the law.”
Without looking up from his whittling, Kharrazi said, “You make me proud, Hasan. I test the strength of your integrity with the notion of death, and yet you present me with the issue we need to discuss at once.” Kharrazi looked around the facility they’d been working on for almost a year. “We are safe here. Whatever Rashid did to deserve his fate, it will have no affect on our plans.”
Hasan nodded.
Kharrazi closed his eyes and said, “Did you get the license plate of the vehicle the Americans traveled in?”
“Yes. It was a rental.”
Kharrazi smiled. “Good. Speak with our local contact and get the name of the person who rented the car. I will give Rashid the only thing he would have asked me for.”
“What is that, Sarock?”
Defiantly, Kharrazi gripped the stick with his right hand and held it up to the deepening purple sky. It had taken the shape of a razor-sharp fork. “Revenge.”