Baltimore, Maryland
The Monaco Hotel, Friday 9:41 P.M.
Bishr Abdul opened his eyes.
Gradually, the images around the room sharpened into focus. He noticed a crystal bowl filled with fruit adorning the coffee table in front of him. To his right sat a three-seat sofa, its upholstery sheen the color of soft gold. Against the wall lay a wet bar with an assortment of wines and liquors atop its glass counter. Outside, he could hear a distant rumble of vehicles motoring through the city streets.
Where am I?
A dull throb began assailing the back of his neck, pulsating, rising to an excruciating crescendo. Wincing, Abdul tried to pull his hands up to massage the ache, but for some reason his muscles didn’t respond. Why? Glancing down, he noticed his arms laced behind him, pinned to the back spindles of his chair. A brief struggle to free himself did little good. The plastic straps binding his wrists remained tightly secured.
In a burst, it came back to him. Baltimore…the Monaco…my hotel room…a flash of pain…then blackness…
Only when he finally looked up did his eyes alight upon a shadowy figure sitting in the opposite corner, silent, his face cloaked by a haze of darkness. As if to acknowledge Abdul’s awareness, he carefully uncrossed his legs.
“Who…who are you?” Abdul cried in accented English, more a demand than a question.
Offering nothing in reply, the man slowly extended his right arm toward Abdul. A metallic glint flashed in his hand.
A gun?
Abdul abruptly froze, unable to breathe. Sheer bewilderment pushed him to near panic. What was going on? Surely a mistake…it has to be! He yanked at the straps, desperate for some sort of explanation.
“Please!” Sweat beads erupted on his forehead. “I don’t know what you want but—”
Finally, a response. The attacker rose from his chair and approached Abdul, his auburn chukkas gliding across the carpeted floor. Stepping to his prey, he kept his olive eyes locked on Abdul’s face. The nine millimeter in his gloved right hand rested gently against his khakis.
Abdul held firm. He waited.
Via smartphone, his assailant displayed a brief video hewn from a national news website. Pressing play, the fervent voice of Abdul lectured on energy economics to a select group of American industrialists. Given at Johns Hopkins University a day ago, a reporter summarized Abdul’s speech, noting the irony, the OPEC chief hawking petroleum responsibility.
A slight ease buoyed Abdul. So that’s what this is about, a frustrated oil devotee taking his loyalties a little too far.
“Look…relax. It was nothing, just a 20 minute talk.” He shrugged, downplaying the issue. “I merely said what Americans need to hear. That’s it.”
The assailant, calm, collected, resolute, didn’t move. In time, he spoke.
“I think not.”
Abdul tightened. A jolt of fear cut into his ease.
“You’re here for another reason,” the thug continued. “To stop the holocaust.”
He leaned in, mouth tight, the sacred on his lips.
“Filastin.”
The word sent a dagger through Abdul. Impossible! He can’t know that! Only way is if—
And then he went numb. No. No.
The attacker narrowed his eyes, honing in. Deeply tanned and cleanly shaven, with flowing locks of dark hair accentuated by flecks of gray, he could have been from any one of a hundred countries. While not overly tall, maybe 5’10” or so, he maintained a stern athletic build. A faint European accent pealed from his English, a smooth, almost aristocratic dialect.
He leveled the gun. “Where is it?”
Needles of dread and shock began piercing Abdul. Dread that others knew. Far worse, shock at near certain treachery…
Of him.
Denial became his final option. “This is nonsense! I’m an oil minister. I don’t even know what you’re talking about!”
The assailant studied Abdul, his face stoic. Eventually, he offered a brief nod and returned to his chair in the far corner. Placing the gun in his lap, he deliberately screwed on a suppressor.
“Five.”
Abdul’s denial reached a peak. “This is madness! I’m not who you think I am! Stop…stop!”
“Four.”
“I’m nobody! I’ve nothing to offer!” As angst replaced denial, Abdul started chattering Arabic involuntarily, his native tongue. “Let me go! Please!”
“Three.”
“Listen. I can pay you. Whatever you want. Nobody will know, I promise. Just let me go.”
“Two.”
Abdul sagged. He shut his eyes, the inevitable impossible to avoid any more.
“Wait…”
A prolonged silence descended. The thug tilted his head.
“There’s a file on my laptop.” Abdul wet his lips. “I think it’s what you want.”
“Where is it?”
“My briefcase.” Abdul glanced at a black leather case next to the door. “In there.”
Grabbing the case, the assailant proceeded to a large wooden table across from the king-sized bed. A black Lenovo laptop rested inside. When he flipped open the lip, the powder blue screen glowed to life, where a single window met his eye.
Authentication.
“What’s the password?”
Abdul tensed. “No password. My fingerprint unlocks it.”
The killer approached Abdul and cut off the plastic straps. He placed the tip of his gun on Abdul’s neck.
“Don’t do anything dumb.” He pushed the suppressor into Abdul’s shoulders, prodding him from the chair. “Show me the file.”
Abdul stood up with a slight wobble from the blood rushing to his feet. Grateful for the chance to massage his sore wrists, he took his time walking to the table. Behind him, his attacker followed, keeping a safe distance of about five feet. Abdul sensed the weapon zeroed on him with every step.
As instructed, he took a seat at the table and pressed his index finger on the touchpad. Once validated, he maneuvered through several icons before eventually accessing the file.
“Here.” He pointed.
The assailant scanned the document. He smirked, satisfied.
“Delete it.”
Stricken at the idea, Abdul stalled. “Delete? No…I can’t…I can’t. Do you realize what would happen if this played out—”
The thug sat down. “Three.”
“Stop! Fine, I’ll do it. Just…please, give me some time.”
“You’ve got two minutes.”
Abdul returned to his laptop, stretching his arms to his legs. In the same motion, he withdrew a smartphone from his pant pocket, masked somewhat by his left hand. Saved on the device lay an alert, a personalized email specifically for a close ally.
Careful…
Nimbly, delicately, Abdul entered a five-digit code to access the message. A familiar balloon popped up, requesting translation to English. No need. The email would explain everything when properly deciphered.
Just a few more seconds…
“One minute.”
Abdul did not answer. Sweating anew, focused, he used his right hand to close the file on the laptop, then dump it in the recycle bin. Fumbling about, he nearly dropped the phone before selecting the proper email address.
“Time’s up.”
Simultaneously, he emptied the recycle bin on the Lenovo and sent the email from his phone.
At last.
Pocketing his phone, Abdul faced his assailant. “I did it. Now let me go.”
“Certainly.”
He aimed at Abdul’s forehead and fired.