Twenty miles to the north, in an upscale condo in the Pearl District of Portland, Kaamil paced, looking out onto a small terrace. He had a call he did not want to make. Jazz playing on his Continuum Audio turntable system didn’t help to calm his nerves. Expensive things and good music only helped when you weren’t afraid.
The keylogger he retrieved last night from Richard Martin’s computer did provide next week’s password. He confirmed that no changes had been made to the security system at the chemical depot. He did what he was asked to do, but killing Martin’s secretary would still be counted against him.
The man he was about to call gave him nightmares. He had seen men killed before, shot several himself, but the images of men beheaded by this man still haunted his mind. Two or three strikes with a sword and the screaming stopped. Sawing with a knife to finish the job was bloody, but the victim was quiet by then. It was what followed that scared him. The man’s eyes turned red, blood red, as the capillaries in his eyes exploded with the pleasure of killing.
The man was older now, and looked like any other successful western CEO, but Kaamil knew a raging fire of hatred burned in the man’s heart. He was, without a doubt, the West’s worst nightmare.
It was nine o’clock, and the call had to be made before nine thirty. The leader lived in Las Vegas and, despite all its distractions, still followed a rigid prayer discipline which included Eshaa, the evening prayer.
Kaamil wasn’t as disciplined and poured himself a second tumbler of Scotch before walking to his study. He entered the number for the day, on a disposable cell phone, and tried to slow his heart rate. Any sign of weakness, any sign of hurried speech or unclear thinking would be noticed. The man was uncanny in his ability to detect deception.
When the connection was made, he sat forward in his chair and prepared to report on last night’s event.
“Kaamil, my brother, I am worried. I thought I would hear from you last night.”
“I’m sorry, Malik. I wanted to make sure of something before I called,” Kaamil explained.
“Like how close the police are to finding out who killed that woman? Is that what you wanted to make sure of before you called me? Or were you hoping I wouldn’t hear of your failure before you worked out your excuses?”
“Malik, please, killing the woman was a mistake, but it couldn’t be avoided. I had no way of knowing she’d return that evening.”
“Did you consider having someone outside, to warn you? Of course not, or you wouldn’t have been surprised. Is there any evidence you were there?”
“No. I wore surgical gloves, and the surveillance system was turned off. There’s nothing that could identify me. I took precautions.”
“Except for posting a lookout. Were you able to verify the current password?”
“Yes, nothing has changed in the security system at the depot. We’re okay.”
“Make sure that we are. Also, make sure the investigation of the woman’s murder doesn’t get close to you. A third mistake would be your last,” Malik said, ending the call.
Kaamil wiped off his fingerprints and dropped the cell phone in his briefcase to be thrown away. If Malik counted two mistakes against him already, he couldn’t afford another. His old football coach used to say, “Son, if you can’t carry the ball without losing it, I’ll find someone who can.” In the game he was playing now, benching would be more permanent than the old coach ever contemplated.