The Assassin. Andrew Britton

      Al-Umari had hesitated, just for a moment, on entering the alley. Seeing the dark and the solitude, his inner caution had nearly won out, but he’d pushed forward, tired from the long walk, eager to save time. The regret came a few steps later, when he heard ungainly feet on the path to his rear. In this narrow space, Al-Umari was keenly aware of his slight stature and his privileged childhood. His hatred for the West was born of circumstance, backed up only by his native intelligence. It was his nature to develop, to fund, but never to execute. For this reason, he could not summon up the necessary indignation, which might have saved him when the hand came down on his arm.

      He pulled away slightly, but it wasn’t enough. He heard a harsh demand for money. Rashid al-Umari had a glimpse of dark eyes on the verge of panic. He felt a sudden surge of pride…Perhaps he could win this one. Before he could assert himself, though, a knife came out of nowhere. The right arm swinging around, the blade glinting in bright orange light…

      The hand holding the knife was suddenly seized from behind, then snapped back at a strange angle. Rashid could only watch in disbelief as his assailant cried out in agony. In the confusion, he had not seen anyone approach. The knife clattered into the shadows, the boy’s right leg buckling forward. He hit the ground hard, but still conscious, fighting for breath, groaning in pain.

      Al-Umari took a few uncertain steps back, staring at the man who had come to his aid. In all his years he had never seen such speed of movement. There had been no hesitation…He was a student of science. His belief lay in consideration before action; it was the foundation on which he had built himself. Violence attached to such utter conviction was alien to him.

      That he was prepared to do much worse—and on an infinitely larger scale—was, for the moment, lost on Rashid al-Umari.

      The shock, still with its hold on his senses, delayed the connection. It took him a few seconds to reconcile the face he knew with the one he now saw, as the German’s appearance had changed considerably. Hair that had once been reddish brown was now black and trimmed short, and watery blue eyes had given way to a dark shade of brown.

      “What are you doing here?” Rashid demanded. “We’re not scheduled to meet for another two days.”

      Kohl did not reply. Instead, he knelt by the wounded man and rapidly checked his pockets. Coming up with a thin leather billfold, he flipped it open and went through the contents: a frayed bus ticket, a few pounds in worn notes, and an expired identification card. This last item gave him a small measure of comfort. A trained intelligence officer might carry a forged card, but never an expired ID; it was the sort of thing to guarantee unwanted attention at a border checkpoint.

      Rashid’s assailant was starting to come around. He was still facedown, his left arm tucked under his body, his good hand clutching the fractured bones of his right wrist. Satisfied, Kohl placed his left knee in the small of the man’s back. The weight brought another small groan, but the struggling ceased.

      Kohl turned his attention to Rashid. The Iraqi was still talking, the words coming fast, his fear made plain in his pointed questions.

      “What are you going to do? He’s probably linked to Iraqi intelligence.”

      “He asked you for money.”

      “Yes,” Rashid sputtered, “but they would have paid him to make it look like a robbery. They are not stupid, you know, and they still report to the Americans—”

      “Go back to the hotel.” Kohl spoke quietly, in fluid Arabic. “Stay in the streets on your way back, and don’t go anywhere until I come for you. We have to move. I’ll make the necessary calls.”

      Rashid nodded numbly. He tried to say something else but stopped and turned instead, walking fast to the end of the alley. He did not look back.

      Once al-Umari was out of sight, Kohl turned his attention to the young man he had all but crippled. The boy was still writhing beneath his knee. A few distinct words came through on occasion, the surprisingly quiet, arrhythmic sounds of unbearable pain.

      Al-Umari, as naïve as he was, had brought up a good point. The corruption born under the former regime was still rife in the region, and the CIA, after all but developing the Iraqi National Intelligence Service themselves, had resorted to recruiting men who had not been polluted by the old guard. For the most part, they were amateurs—too young to be truly effective. It was entirely possible, though unlikely, that this man was an Iraqi spy, but it didn’t really matter; he had seen al-Umari’s face. That was all the justification Kohl needed.

      He fired a backward glance down the length of the alley. Seeing that he was alone, he slid his knee up between the man’s shoulder blades. The shift in weight brought another muffled cry, but Kohl ignored the noise as he reached down and grabbed a handful of greasy hair with his left hand. Lifting up, he slid his right arm under the boy’s head, tensed, then pulled back sharply.

      He regretted the action a split second later, when the young man’s vertebral column snapped in two places simultaneously. The sound was like a shot ringing off the damp stone walls. Aware of the uneasy silence that followed, Kohl paused only to pocket the boy’s money and ID before tossing the billfold into the shadows. Seconds later he was back in the street, where the crowd took him in as one of their own. A startled cry rose up from behind, the body discovered too soon, but Erich Kohl was already gone.