“Mehmed al-Shehhi was
found dead at 0730, local time- Istanbul,” Agent Greitens said, navigating the
power point projection on the wall.
The image on the screen showed Mehmed al-Shehhi’s face as he had left the mosque, Agent Greitens clicked forward to the next picture. In the next image al-Shehhi was lying dead on the pavement, the right half his neck slick with blood.
Agent Greitens clicked to the next image, and everyone in the room groaned from the grotesque sight. It vaguely reminded Deputy Director Burrows of when his grandson would take a multiple colors of play-dough and roll them together into a ball. What had used to be a hand, and what used to be a Glock .45, was now crushed and fused into a ball of twisted flesh and metal and fingers snapped off an inch passed the knuckle.
“Every bone in al-Shehhi’s right hand was found broken,” Agent Greitens continued, “along with the trochlea near his elbow- indicating that his arm was violently twisted…” Greitens clicked to the next image, “by this man, whom our recon team refers to as ‘Trench Coat’.”
“Are there any images of his face?” Deputy Director Burrows asked.
Greitens clicked to the next picture of Ansel, completely concealed in shemagh and trench coat.
“No,” Greitens said, “and our friends in the FBI don’t have any leads on this guy. Neither MI6 nor the French DCRI know anything about this kill. Same with the Israelis.”
Everyone in the room was silent.
“So what motivated this killing?” Admiral Harker asked, “What does this guy want?”
“Al-Shehhi has ties with Bin Laden,” Director Burrows said, “as well as with Sharif Hazaa. We think al-Shehhi was getting close to obtaining a nuclear weapon.”
“Good God,” Admiral Harker said, “How close did he get?”
Deputy Director Burrows threw a glance at Ansel’s image on the screen, then looked back to Admiral Harker, as if to say How close do you think?
“So, what, this mystery guy’s not al-Qaeda, but he wants a nuke, too?” Harker asked.
Deputy Director Burrows didn’t know what to say.
“We have drones committed to following Trench Coat’s movements,” Greitens said, “He’s left the country.”
Wants a nuke. Burrows thought. Offed an al-Qaeda operative- Left the country.
Admiral Harker leaned toward Director Burrows.
“I think we need more than drones on this guy. We need to give him his own goddamned satellite,” Harker said.
“I agree,” Director Burrows said.
“By what means has he left Turkey?” Admiral Harker asked.
“Surveillance suggests our new target has left for Lebanon via charter ship,” Greitens said as he clicked to an image of ships docked in the Bosphorus, then clicked to a close up shot of workers loading cargo into a passenger ship.
“We need to know exactly what this guy is up to,” Director Burrows said, “Round up your SEAL team surveilling this guy and follow him in Lebanon.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Admiral Harker replied.
The image on the screen still showed Turkish longshoremen loading cargo into the hold of a ship. One parcel being hauled on board stood out from among the others, as it was longer than the rest. A coffin.
* * *
Ansel sat alone in the darkest corner of the ship’s lounge, staring out the window and surveying the night sea while tracing his fingertips over the top of his wine glass. He thumbed through the beads of the Rosary in his pocket until his fingers touched the crucifix.
“Pee-yeh Yeh-sue, Dominé,” Ansel half sung, half whispered.
Ansel didn’t drink the French cabernet sauvignon that he’d ordered, he merely enjoyed smelling the wine’s rich bouquet. The one drink in the lounge that Ansel really wanted was at the bar and smelled like O Positive.
The two at the bar had been talking for an hour and a half. The woman was unmistakably Swedish by the way she spoke. Ansel was a native of Denmark, and while the Danes and Swedes spoke two different languages, they were so similar that the two peoples still understood what the other was saying.
The man took a sip of his wine and continued to speak broken German to the Swedish woman. His jaunting, salient accent- his olive colored face, everything about him seemed Italian. The man traced the tips of his fingers up the woman’s arms then touched her blond hair.
“Nico,” the woman said, blushing, “I’ll be right back”.
Ansel watched Nico watching the Swedish woman. The Italian grinned as the woman disappeared into the lounge’s lavatory. Nico reached into his jacket pocket and dropped something into the woman’s glass of Riesling. The little white tablet sank to the bottom of the glass, causing the honey colored wine to fizzle before the tablet disappeared.
Ansel stayed in his dark corner, still tracing lazy circles around his wine glass. The Swedish woman returned from the lavatory and sat down at the bar, crossing one leg over the other. Nico raised his glass of red wine in a toast, a thoughtful look on his face.
“Happy trails,” he said.
The woman clinked her glass to his and looked away from him as they both drank. Nico never took his gaze off her as they drank. Ansel watched them both.
“I think I better call it a night,” the woman said in German.
“I’ll walk you back to your cabin?” Nico said.
The woman hesitated at the offer, then merely said, “Ja.”
The two made for the swinging doors out of the lounge. The tall, elegant Swede looked like a Valkyrie next to the Italian. There must have been an eight inch height difference between the two. Nico pushed open one of the doors with his left hand as his right touched the small of her back, leading her out to the hallway.
Ansel waited for the double door to stop swinging, then got up from his chair and followed them out down the hall. Just as he’d made it through the door, Ansel saw Nico and the woman take a right down the hall. Ansel followed.
“That’s not…” the woman slurred.
Nico now had his arm around the woman’s torso, keeping her up.
“Shhh, mi amoré,” Nico said.
“Wrong way…” the woman said in Swedish.
Ansel heard a nearly inaudible laugh in the back of Nico’s throat as they’d passed a laundry cart that room service had left in the hall.
The two stopped halfway down the hall in front of one of the cabin doors. With his free hand, Nico reached into his pant pocket and retrieved his room key and opened the door. The woman in his arms was slumped in his arm. She practically sleep walked with him into the room.
Kicking the now unlocked door open, Nico carried the woman into his room and let the door close behind him as he took her to bed.
Olga stared up at the ceiling.
Nico stood over her. She was still awake, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t cry out. She couldn’t even move her eyes.
Please God, no, she thought.
At the bottom of her field of vision Olga could see Nico, a devilish grin on his face. She couldn’t see his hands. She didn’t want to see his hands.
Suddenly another face appeared next Nico’s, and her panic had arisen to even greater heights. There was a familiar, angular beauty to this man’s pale face. Ansel smiled, showing his two long canines.
Reaching with both hands from behind, Ansel grabbed Nico’s left collar bone and the back of his head. Nico’s eyes widened into two full moons as Ansel picked him up and planted his face into the cabin wall out of Olga’s sight.
Ansel’s long, slender fingers delicately grasped Nico’s shoulders from behind. Ansel leaned in and whispered into Nico’s ear:
“Happy trails,” Ansel said before biting into his neck.
Nico’s scream was almost completely muffled from inside the wall.
Olga continued staring up at the ceiling, only guessing what future horrors may be in store this night.
It wasn’t Nico. It was the new face. Wasn’t he pale before?
Ansel rested his thumb and index finger lightly on Olga’s chin. A hot, wet tear rolled down the side of her face and stained the bed sheet.
“Watch this,” Ansel said, smiling at Olga as he gently tilted her head to give her a look out the window.
* * *
Ansel whistled “Inverness March” as he pushed the laundry cart through the hallway past the other passengers’ cabins. He rounded a corner and a room service woman gave him a perturbed look as she saw him pushing a laundry cart. Ansel continued to whistle as he flashed his eyebrows at her, the corners of his lips drawing up into a repressed smile as he continued whistling.
Ansel felt a mischievous glee knowing that the room service lady couldn’t tell that the laundry cart he was pushing currently weighed an extra 165 pounds.
* * *
Time ticked by meaninglessly for Olga. She couldn’t tell if a minute had passed, or an hour. For all she knew she was stuck in an endless circle of time, looking out at the dark Mediterranean sea beneath a field of stars.
Her heart jumped as she saw Nico outside. He had an anchor chained to his feet as he sailed through the air.
Olga heard a splash, and Nico was gone.
The image on the screen showed Mehmed al-Shehhi’s face as he had left the mosque, Agent Greitens clicked forward to the next picture. In the next image al-Shehhi was lying dead on the pavement, the right half his neck slick with blood.
Agent Greitens clicked to the next image, and everyone in the room groaned from the grotesque sight. It vaguely reminded Deputy Director Burrows of when his grandson would take a multiple colors of play-dough and roll them together into a ball. What had used to be a hand, and what used to be a Glock .45, was now crushed and fused into a ball of twisted flesh and metal and fingers snapped off an inch passed the knuckle.
“Every bone in al-Shehhi’s right hand was found broken,” Agent Greitens continued, “along with the trochlea near his elbow- indicating that his arm was violently twisted…” Greitens clicked to the next image, “by this man, whom our recon team refers to as ‘Trench Coat’.”
“Are there any images of his face?” Deputy Director Burrows asked.
Greitens clicked to the next picture of Ansel, completely concealed in shemagh and trench coat.
“No,” Greitens said, “and our friends in the FBI don’t have any leads on this guy. Neither MI6 nor the French DCRI know anything about this kill. Same with the Israelis.”
Everyone in the room was silent.
“So what motivated this killing?” Admiral Harker asked, “What does this guy want?”
“Al-Shehhi has ties with Bin Laden,” Director Burrows said, “as well as with Sharif Hazaa. We think al-Shehhi was getting close to obtaining a nuclear weapon.”
“Good God,” Admiral Harker said, “How close did he get?”
Deputy Director Burrows threw a glance at Ansel’s image on the screen, then looked back to Admiral Harker, as if to say How close do you think?
“So, what, this mystery guy’s not al-Qaeda, but he wants a nuke, too?” Harker asked.
Deputy Director Burrows didn’t know what to say.
“We have drones committed to following Trench Coat’s movements,” Greitens said, “He’s left the country.”
Wants a nuke. Burrows thought. Offed an al-Qaeda operative- Left the country.
Admiral Harker leaned toward Director Burrows.
“I think we need more than drones on this guy. We need to give him his own goddamned satellite,” Harker said.
“I agree,” Director Burrows said.
“By what means has he left Turkey?” Admiral Harker asked.
“Surveillance suggests our new target has left for Lebanon via charter ship,” Greitens said as he clicked to an image of ships docked in the Bosphorus, then clicked to a close up shot of workers loading cargo into a passenger ship.
“We need to know exactly what this guy is up to,” Director Burrows said, “Round up your SEAL team surveilling this guy and follow him in Lebanon.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Admiral Harker replied.
The image on the screen still showed Turkish longshoremen loading cargo into the hold of a ship. One parcel being hauled on board stood out from among the others, as it was longer than the rest. A coffin.
* * *
Ansel sat alone in the darkest corner of the ship’s lounge, staring out the window and surveying the night sea while tracing his fingertips over the top of his wine glass. He thumbed through the beads of the Rosary in his pocket until his fingers touched the crucifix.
“Pee-yeh Yeh-sue, Dominé,” Ansel half sung, half whispered.
Ansel didn’t drink the French cabernet sauvignon that he’d ordered, he merely enjoyed smelling the wine’s rich bouquet. The one drink in the lounge that Ansel really wanted was at the bar and smelled like O Positive.
The two at the bar had been talking for an hour and a half. The woman was unmistakably Swedish by the way she spoke. Ansel was a native of Denmark, and while the Danes and Swedes spoke two different languages, they were so similar that the two peoples still understood what the other was saying.
The man took a sip of his wine and continued to speak broken German to the Swedish woman. His jaunting, salient accent- his olive colored face, everything about him seemed Italian. The man traced the tips of his fingers up the woman’s arms then touched her blond hair.
“Nico,” the woman said, blushing, “I’ll be right back”.
Ansel watched Nico watching the Swedish woman. The Italian grinned as the woman disappeared into the lounge’s lavatory. Nico reached into his jacket pocket and dropped something into the woman’s glass of Riesling. The little white tablet sank to the bottom of the glass, causing the honey colored wine to fizzle before the tablet disappeared.
Ansel stayed in his dark corner, still tracing lazy circles around his wine glass. The Swedish woman returned from the lavatory and sat down at the bar, crossing one leg over the other. Nico raised his glass of red wine in a toast, a thoughtful look on his face.
“Happy trails,” he said.
The woman clinked her glass to his and looked away from him as they both drank. Nico never took his gaze off her as they drank. Ansel watched them both.
“I think I better call it a night,” the woman said in German.
“I’ll walk you back to your cabin?” Nico said.
The woman hesitated at the offer, then merely said, “Ja.”
The two made for the swinging doors out of the lounge. The tall, elegant Swede looked like a Valkyrie next to the Italian. There must have been an eight inch height difference between the two. Nico pushed open one of the doors with his left hand as his right touched the small of her back, leading her out to the hallway.
Ansel waited for the double door to stop swinging, then got up from his chair and followed them out down the hall. Just as he’d made it through the door, Ansel saw Nico and the woman take a right down the hall. Ansel followed.
“That’s not…” the woman slurred.
Nico now had his arm around the woman’s torso, keeping her up.
“Shhh, mi amoré,” Nico said.
“Wrong way…” the woman said in Swedish.
Ansel heard a nearly inaudible laugh in the back of Nico’s throat as they’d passed a laundry cart that room service had left in the hall.
The two stopped halfway down the hall in front of one of the cabin doors. With his free hand, Nico reached into his pant pocket and retrieved his room key and opened the door. The woman in his arms was slumped in his arm. She practically sleep walked with him into the room.
Kicking the now unlocked door open, Nico carried the woman into his room and let the door close behind him as he took her to bed.
Olga stared up at the ceiling.
Nico stood over her. She was still awake, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t cry out. She couldn’t even move her eyes.
Please God, no, she thought.
At the bottom of her field of vision Olga could see Nico, a devilish grin on his face. She couldn’t see his hands. She didn’t want to see his hands.
Suddenly another face appeared next Nico’s, and her panic had arisen to even greater heights. There was a familiar, angular beauty to this man’s pale face. Ansel smiled, showing his two long canines.
Reaching with both hands from behind, Ansel grabbed Nico’s left collar bone and the back of his head. Nico’s eyes widened into two full moons as Ansel picked him up and planted his face into the cabin wall out of Olga’s sight.
Ansel’s long, slender fingers delicately grasped Nico’s shoulders from behind. Ansel leaned in and whispered into Nico’s ear:
“Happy trails,” Ansel said before biting into his neck.
Nico’s scream was almost completely muffled from inside the wall.
Olga continued staring up at the ceiling, only guessing what future horrors may be in store this night.
It wasn’t Nico. It was the new face. Wasn’t he pale before?
Ansel rested his thumb and index finger lightly on Olga’s chin. A hot, wet tear rolled down the side of her face and stained the bed sheet.
“Watch this,” Ansel said, smiling at Olga as he gently tilted her head to give her a look out the window.
* * *
Ansel whistled “Inverness March” as he pushed the laundry cart through the hallway past the other passengers’ cabins. He rounded a corner and a room service woman gave him a perturbed look as she saw him pushing a laundry cart. Ansel continued to whistle as he flashed his eyebrows at her, the corners of his lips drawing up into a repressed smile as he continued whistling.
Ansel felt a mischievous glee knowing that the room service lady couldn’t tell that the laundry cart he was pushing currently weighed an extra 165 pounds.
* * *
Time ticked by meaninglessly for Olga. She couldn’t tell if a minute had passed, or an hour. For all she knew she was stuck in an endless circle of time, looking out at the dark Mediterranean sea beneath a field of stars.
Her heart jumped as she saw Nico outside. He had an anchor chained to his feet as he sailed through the air.
Olga heard a splash, and Nico was gone.
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