The Assassin by Andrew Britton Page A

didn’t have to drop a bomb next to your house,” he said quietly. “That tells me more than all of your bullshit.”
    Kassem stopped moving. He stared at Kealey, openmouthed, for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he sat back down, and when he spoke, his words were very soft.
    “I think I’d like to be paid now.”

 
CHAPTER 6
FALLUJAH
     
    “What the hell is he doing?” Walland hissed, directing the question to Paul Owen over his MBITR handheld radio. Kealey’s transmission was coming over the SINCGARS unit mounted to the dashboard; he could hear the rapidly deteriorating conversation through the sliding rear window of the Tacoma.
    “I have no idea,” was the Delta officer’s strained reply. “It sounds like he’s baiting him.” There was a rush of static, then, “We’re turning around. This looks like it’s going to shit… I want to be able to get out of here in a hurry.”
    “I hear that. I’ll cover the guards while you move.”
    “Roger that.”
    Walland resumed watching the two guards, his M4A1 across his chest, muzzle depressed. He couldn’t point the rifle directly at the guards without starting an unnecessary gunfight. At the same time, his stance allowed him to bring the weapon to bear in an instant if the need arose.
    It happened just as Kealey said it would. The guard on the right lifted a radio to his lips the moment Owen’s vehicle started to roll, and it didn’t fall to his side until the Tacoma had completed its three-point turn. The other pickup followed suit so that all three of the trucks were facing north, back toward the train station.
    Walland lifted his handset. “Did you see that?”
    “Yeah, I saw it. I’m squelching Kealey’s radio. Let’s hope he plays it smart.”
     
     
    The tension in the room was almost unbearable. For Kealey, the silence amplified everything else: the hatred in the eyes of Arshad Kassem, the particles of dust dancing in the hazy light, the nervous twitch of the one guard in his field of vision. The older man was staring at him expectantly.
    “I want my money.”
    Kealey shook his head and said, “We’re not through yet.” With the guard watching his every movement, he slowly pulled a thin folder from the pack at his feet. At the same time, he checked to make sure that his radio was still transmitting. He tossed the file onto the table. “These are wire records, Arshad. Your records, traced back to the Allied Bank in Beirut. It looks like you’re doing pretty well these days. Accounts in Luxembourg, Switzerland, and the Central Bank in the Dutch Antilles. What are you looking at, total? Five, six million dollars?”
    Kealey’s face grew suddenly hard. “Six million . Where the fuck did that money come from? We’ve paid you seven hundred thousand over two years.”
    “That is not your concern. It is a separate business arrangement… a separate client.”
    “A separate business arrangement?” Kealey’s expression made it clear what he thought of this argument. “How does this ‘client’ feel about your dealings with the Central Intelligence Agency?”
    The Iraqi smirked in response. This was not what Kealey had expected, but before he could recover, his radio emitted two short beeps.
    Kassem didn’t seem to notice. “You shouldn’t have come here,” he said quietly. He spread his hands over the table and stared hard at the younger man. “This was supposed to be simple. You have no idea what you’re getting into. Now give me my money, and get the fuck out of my city.”
    Kealey met his cold, unflinching gaze for a long moment. Then he reached down for the pack, his eyes never leaving those of the Sunni warlord.
     
     
    Walland was now watching the guards with greater interest. The more he heard of the conversation between Kealey and Kassem, the easier it became to think of the two men in front of the building as potential targets. He didn’t know what Kealey was doing, but one thing was becoming increasingly obvious: