Starfire. Don Pendleton

      CHAPTER SIX

      Azmit Zhuktul always found himself amazed and disgusted by the arrogance of men who willingly sold their souls for money then sought reassurances they had made the correct choice. Yes, he understood how greed knew no limits, how it was never satisfied, how there was never “enough.” The men standing in front of him, who had purchased the world they desired, needed to accept the fact they had already charted a one-way course, and that perdition wasn’t far off. There were no safety nets, no guarantees. Certainly no going back. There was only the fight to stave off the inevitable—death—and consume and conquer while there was still time. Or be consumed.

      One of the three Iraqis, Faisal al-Harqazhdi, began the squawking yet again. “You have been delivered more than a fair price to make arrangements for our safe passage to the Far East. And yet, here we all stand, while you send one of your soldiers to tell us there have been certain sudden changes in plans. Granted, we may well be safe in your country and free of the American CIA, my good Lezgi friend, but there are still many Russians in your country, as I am sure you are aware. Russians who may well be in the wrong places at the wrong time, and beyond the reach of even those who are paid to protect you. Granted, we understand how you have the director general and key staff of the Dagneft oil company at your disposal and that it appears the shipments to our Western European friends will continue as arranged. However, it is our experience that when it all looks too easy, well, quite the opposite could not be far from becoming a most frightening reality.” A pause, then, “Are you listening to me?”

      Zhuktul made them wait for his reply. They were tiresome creatures. Impatient, weak men who were too unwilling to endure a few days’ inconvenience.

      Cowards.

      He lit a hand-rolled cigarette, then swept aside the bearskin blanket to expose stark nakedness. The VIPs began clearing throats, shuffling from one Italian-loafered foot to the other, frowning away from what he knew they perceived an insult to Islamic tenets regarding modesty. Hypocrites. They paid lip service in public and to unsuspecting peers about the virtues of holiness, yet they were the first in line to get drunk, bed his whores, even snort his heroin. How could a man dare regard himself as a man, Zhuktul wondered, if he didn’t live what was truly in his heart? At least he knew he was the very definition of evil, and could willingly accept as much. If there was such a thing as Paradise, then why wait? If God, he believed, wanted man to live as a pillar of virtue, then he would have been created without lust, greed, anger and so forth in the first place. Zhuktul would concern himself with God whenever he met Him in the future. This day, there were many worlds to conquer, too much pleasure to be indulged.

      Exhaling the harsh smoke toward the mirrored ceiling, glimpsing ten-thousand-dollar suits and gold jewelry that could have rebuilt any number of cities in their war-torn country, he fished around in the rolling pool of silk pillows and furs until he found a full bottle of vodka. A quick check of the label to make sure it wasn’t the brand of paint thinner he served the troops, he uncapped the bottle and took a deep swig. One of the Ukrainian women, sleeping off the night’s orgy, suddenly reached out an arm. She was purring for something, most likely heroin to powder her nose with so she could go back to sleep, when Zhuktul slapped her arm away and stood. It was all he could manage to restrain laughter at the sight of their swarthy faces turning red. Where they were soft and flabby from their embassy parties and glad-handing various corrupt UN officials and their aides in midnight meetings, nothing short of war had chiseled his flesh into taut muscle that looked more armor than human skin. He saw them fidget and nervously glance at the sight of old bullet scars, the patches of badly healed and mottled flesh from the razor’s end of flying shrapnel. Souvenirs of the lion in the face of jackals.

      Slowly, Zhuktul tugged on his trousers, puffing away. “If you profess so much confidence in me,” he finally said, slipping into his BDU shirt then strapping himself into the shoulder-holstered 9 mm Tokarev pistol, “then why do you insist on speaking to me out of both sides of your mouth?”

      “Excuse me?”

      Zhuktul scanned their aghast expressions. He watched their shoulders tighten, one of them glancing back at the soldiers posted around the living room. Evidence of the night’s festivities was strewed, he found, end to end. Black and blond hair spilled from beneath wolf or sheepskin blankets, their women stretched out. Ashtrays overflowed with cigarette and cigar butts, empty bottles and trays of powder scattered across massive coffee tables.

      Abed Osman cleared his throat, lost his scowl first. “We did not mean to sound…disrespectful. I think at this time we would also wish to thank you for your generous hospitality these past several days.”

      Zhuktul took another pull from his bottle, dragged on his cigarette, then blew smoke over their heads. “I will accept that as your best effort for an apology.”

      “Then,” Abu Jabayt inquired quietly, “when can we expect to be on our way?”

      “Soon.”

      Zhuktul watched them look at one another, wondering who would be the first to gather enough courage to pose the question.

      Al-Harqazhdi spoke up, his voice tight with controlled anger. “My good friend, as has been pointed out when we first arrived, everything you have requested from us has been placed into your capable hands. Money, information, new and numbered and safe accounts that will funnel funds to the appropriate financiers. Any of whom will prove most helpful in advancing your cause here in the Caucasus, as well as the cause of jihad in the name of all our oppressed Islamic brothers.”

      “Bah! You who have never denied yourselves anything, you who have never fired the first shot in anger, do not insult me with such nonsense how you would care about holy war.”

      They stiffened visibly, as Jabayt pressed, “Be that as it may, we had an arrangement. Without us you would not have been able to move both your gasoline and what was smuggled out of Iraq. We groomed the contacts. We arranged safe routes for the delivery of men and matériel on both sides.”

      “I gather this is where I am to tell you four how indebted I am to you?”

      Osman stepped in to save their collective face. “We only hope that respect is mutual. However, it was our original understanding that the colonel was to be here to personally greet us, and with a jet fueled and ready to fly out at a moment’s notice.”

      Zhuktul chuckled. There was much that they didn’t know.

      Al-Harqazhdi trembled, eyes smoldering with fury. “You find our monstrous inconvenience and the potential for a threat to our safety amusing? Now, who is being insulted?”

      Zhuktul waved his cigarette, shaking his head. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please. I need a moment.” He shut his eyes, lowering his head. “Ah! The sun has not yet risen and already I fear this day giving me great pause, with a burden, I may add, that threatens to leave me feeling less than charitable.” He felt the warm glow spread, but his anger only seemed to build. He opened his eyes, ran a scathing look over their faces. “First of all, let us be clear that it was the four of you who sought out my services.”

      “No. It was originally the colonel we sent our own people to,” Osman said.

      Zhuktul felt the blood pressure drum in his ears. Their arrogance and sniveling was more than he could bear to tolerate, but he kept his composure. “So it would seem,