The Assassin by Stephen Coonts Page B

“He is a Russian,” Nate Allen said as he stared at Sophia, writhing with the knife in her.
    “You’re lying. You work for the CIA.”
    The man on the couch shoved his knife slowly into Sophia, who groaned against the tape.
    “No,” Nate Allen hissed.
    “Who, then?”
    “Jake Grafton.”
    When he heard the name, Abu Qasim knew he was hearing the truth. Yet he wanted more, a lot more.
    The torture and questions went on until Sophia passed out from loss of blood. Her blood was all over her, the floor and the man beside her, who was obviously enjoying torturing her. When she fainted, Nate Allen spit in Qasim’s face.
    The man wiped the spittle from his face and, with a glance at Sophia, nodded. The knifeman pointed a silenced pistol at her head and pulled the trigger. Her head slammed back. The knifeman let her corpse fall to the floor.
    His interrogator put the muzzle of the silencer on his pistol against Nate Allen’s forehead. “Tell the Devil that Abu Qasim sent you,” he said, and pulled the trigger.
    A week later Abu Qasim attended a meeting in Karachi. Eight men were there. After they prayed, the man on Qasim’s right, an Egyptian, said, “Abdul-Zahra Mohammed was the fourth brother of the inner circle to die in the last six months.”
    “The CIA is sending these killers,” another man said. “Two of them are Russians, I am told, and one is thought to be a German. Some are Americans. They have killed four of us and we have now killed two of them.” He didn’t bother to mention the four holy warriors that Nate Allen and Ricky Stroud had gunned down in the space of seven seconds. After all, the sons of Islam were on their way to Paradise, and there were plenty more believers to take their place. Every devout brother wanted to go forth to meet the Prophet with the blood of infidels on his hands.
    “The American CIA is getting information from the banks and shipping companies that our brothers dealt with,” Abu Qasim said. “The owners and officers who control these companies are cooperating with the American CIA. The CIA spies discreetly investigate, look for patterns and report to an officer of the CIA named Jake Grafton. He recruited these killers, names their victims and pays them. When I learned of this, I thought that if we took precautions, were careful, avoiding these companies as much as possible, Jake Grafton would have little success. I was wrong. He is a clever man and his men are competent.”
    The others nodded. Allah’s enemies had the help of the Devil, so of course they were clever, which made the glory of defeating them so much greater.
    The infidels who run these companies fancy themselves the new Crusaders,” Qasim continued, “and like the Crusaders of old will be utterly consumed by the fury of Allah.”
    “Who are they?” one of his listeners demanded. Abu Qasim gave him a name. “There are others,” he said, “but that
    name I know.” Actually he knew all the names—he had gotten them from Jean Petrou—but he didn’t want these men knowing and discussing those names. Even the walls have ears.
    “lnshallah” several said forcefully. God willing.
    “Stated simply,” Abu Qasim continued, “the problem is to kill them before they kill us. And, of course, to do it in such a way that the power of Allah is on full display to the nonbelievers.”
    “Allah akbar” his listeners muttered. Yes, indeed, God is great!

The Assassin

CHAPTER FOUR
    January
    Her name was Kerry Pocock, she was as English as tea and toast, she had a gorgeous head of long, curly, dark brown hair, a good figure and a smile to die for, and she was an MI-5—British counterintelligence— op. Oh, yes, she was married to a guy who ran a pub and had two kids. She hadn’t shown me their photos yet, for which I was grateful. Tonight she was wearing a lovely dress and a simple necklace of real pearls.
    We were sitting in a really nice restaurant in Mayfair, the hip and trendy section of London. The place