The Assassin by Andrew Britton

understand the agreement. What I don’t understand is how we’re supposed to measure your progress. What guarantees can you offer us?”
    “You have seen the proof,” Kassem boasted. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t hold the arrogance down for long. “How many soldiers have you lost in the last month? Or the month before that?”
    “That’s a fair point,” Kealey conceded. “I wonder what happened to those men. The ones who, according to you, have turned away from the insurgency. Maybe some of them have accepted the new government. Perhaps your peers to the east are as successful as you in their efforts to reform those who served under Saddam.”
    Kassem nodded solemnly. “Perhaps you are right. It takes time to—”
    “On the other hand, maybe they didn’t turn away at all.”
    The Iraqi furrowed his brow, clearly annoyed by the interruption. “What do you mean?”
    Kealey leaned forward, stabbing his words across the table. “The timing seems very convenient, Arshad. You’ve been on the Agency payroll for nearly two years, but you didn’t seem to care too much about fulfilling your end of the deal until the president decided to start pulling out troops. I can’t help but wonder who else is dumping money into your bank account.”
    Kassem did not respond for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his words were slow and measured. “I can see that you are new to this line of work. You are very quick to make accusations.”
    Kealey shrugged. “Let me tell you that—”
    “No, let me tell you .” Something had changed in the Iraqi’s demeanor. “Have you ever been to Najaf?”
    For Kealey, the lie came easily. “No.”
    “I know a man who lives there, a friend of mine for many years. We are very much alike, this man and I, in that he commands respect in his district, he is looked to as a leader. His position brought him to the attention of your government, but there was a difference between us. He did not want to take your money, to bow to your authority. I called him a fool, and I was right to do so, but I was also envious, because I admired his strength.
    “Of course, it could not last. An American came to see him two months ago. He was young, like you.” There was a brief, meaningful pause. “He offered my friend a hundred thousand U.S. dollars to switch sides, to give the government, your government, his support and the support of his men. My friend refused. His honor was worth more than any amount of money. At least, that is what he believed at the time.”
    Kassem watched Kealey for a reaction. When none appeared forthcoming, he continued. “That evening, your country dropped a bomb less than a hundred meters from the house in which he was sleeping. He survived the blast, and the following day, the American returned. This time he offered seventy thousand dollars. My friend accepted.”
    Kealey nodded absently. “It sounds like he made a smart decision.”
    The offhand comment was the last straw. Kassem’s face twisted into a mask of rage, the hatred suddenly boiling to the surface. “You arrogant fuck ,” he hissed. “Where do you think you are? Who are you to judge what is right for my people?”
    Kealey didn’t visibly react to the sudden outburst. His right hand, however, inched closer to the slight bulge beneath his shirt as the Iraqi continued, his voice rising with each passing syllable. “You come here with the belief that you are superior. What you cannot buy, you take. You stupidly believe that you are invincible, that you can survive anything….”
    Kassem abruptly half-stood, his body shaking in anger, and waved his arms around the tiny room. “This is my country!” he shouted. “Do you honestly believe that we are that weak? That we could not get rid of you if it suited us?”
    The man’s tirade confirmed what Kealey already knew: that at some point in his dealings with the Agency, Arshad Kassem had stepped over the line. Way over the line. “I know that we